Remembering Mr. Rogers, a true- life 'helper' when the world still needs one. I was putting my 4- year- old son to bed on Monday night, and scrolling through the news in the dark, finding only more darkness beyond. The horror and heartbreak of the bombing in Manchester, England were unfolding. Amid the fear and uncertainty, I saw countless instances of selflessness and unity — people welcoming strangers into their homes, taxi drivers helping families get away from the scene, family reaching out to find loved ones who haven’t answered their phones (often finding them scared but safe). Threaded throughout these messages, I saw one meme being shared and reshared. It was something Fred Rogers once said, advice for parents trying to find a way to talk about violence and tragedy with young children. The photo of him is accompanied by these words.

My mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world.”Some wonder if he really said this. Often quotes online that seem too perfect to be true are exactly that. But no, Mr. Rogers really said it. He said it often. Then I scrolled a little further and found this tweet.

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The date’s a little off. He recorded the first episode of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood on Sept. February 1. 96. 8.)But that notion of 5. And it stirred up a memory of him from long ago.

I was surprised by the reaction to that little tweet- storm story, but it was nice to see so much positivity surrounding the remembrance. The editors at EW suggested putting it all in one place …Fred Rogers was from Pittsburgh, my hometown, and I’m a member of just one generation that grew up loving this man, who taught us to be kind above all and see ourselves as special and good, no matter what the world tried to tell us to the contrary.

When I got older, I learned firsthand that Fred Rogers was the real thing. That gentle soul?

It was no act. Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood ran until 2. I lost touch with it as I got older. That’s how it goes. But in college, one day, I rediscovered it, just when I needed it.

I was having a hard time then. The future seemed hopeless. I was struggling, lonely, dealing with a lot of broken pieces within myself, and not adjusting well. I was a student at the University of Pittsburgh but felt rudderless. I wanted to be a writer but received nothing but discouragement from home.

Nevertheless, I devoted everything I had to the school paper, The Pitt News, hoping that would propel me into some kind of worthwhile career and future. It seemed just as likely that I’d fall on my face and end up nowhere. On top of that, I was grappling with a loss that I couldn’t talk about, partly because I had no one I could talk to. One span of time in winter of 1.

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I was angry, alone, unhappy. But walking out of the dorm one morning, I heard familiar music in the hallway: ♫ Won’t you be my neighbor… ♫The TV was playing in an empty common room, tuned to WQED (which was Mr. Rogers’ home station.) And there he was – the sweatered one, feeding his fish, checking in with that little trolley that rolled through the wall into the Neighborhood of Make Believe, and asking me what I do with the mad that I feel. I had lots to spare. Still do.)It feels silly to say — it felt silly then — but I stood mesmerized. His show felt like a cool hand on a hot head.

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I never sat down, but I watched the whole thing. Afterward, I left feeling … better. Several days later, I got in the elevator at the paper to ride down to the lobby of the William Pitt Union. The doors opened, and who is standing there but Mr. Rogers. For real.

I thought I was hallucinating for a moment. Watch Urban Cowboy Online on this page. But there he stood, a slim, old man in a big coat and scarf, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, a small case clasped between his hands in front of him.

I stepped aboard the elevator, staring, and he nodded at me. I nodded back. I think. Chances are, he could sense a geek- out coming. But I kept it together. Almost. We rode down in silence, and when the doors opened, he let me go out first. Thinking back, there were maybe two others in the elevator with him. University people, perhaps, seeing him out from whatever meeting they’d had.

As we stepped into the lobby, I hovered for a moment, building my courage as they parted company. And with him, how could you not wait and be polite?)Then  finally…“Mr. Rogers… I don’t mean to bother you. But I just wanted to say thanks.”He smiled patiently.

I imagine this sort of thing happened to him about every 1. Then he said: “Did you grow up as one of my television neighbors?” I felt like crying. Yeah. I did. I was his neighbor.

He opened his arms, lifting his satchel in the air, and beckoning me in. It’s good to see you again neighbor.”I got to hug Mr. Rogers, y’all! I pulled it together. Then we were walking out and making small talk. He asked if I was a student at the university, and what I was studying. I mentioned being a big fan of Johnny Costa, who was the piano player on his show.

When you get older, you learn to appreciate things like the gorgeous jazz that this old children’s TV show featured. Costa, as it turned out, would pass away just a few months later, and we talked about him as we walked, and how Mr. Rogers marveled at the speed of his improvisations on the keys. Then he opened the student union door and said goodbye.

That’s when I blurted in a kind of rambling gush that I’d stumbled on the show again recently, at a time when I truly needed it. He listened there in the doorway. When I ran out of words, I just said, “So … thanks for that. Again.”Mr. Rogers nodded.

He looked down, and let the door close again. He undid his scarf and motioned to the window, where he sat down on the ledge. This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would’ve done this. No one. He said, “Do you want to tell me what was upsetting you?”So I sat.

And I told him the truth. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the few good things I had.

I felt adrift. Brokenhearted. On top of everything else. This was just too much. I guess Pap had been my version of a “helper” in hard times, and I was still looking for him, even though I knew he was gone. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon Mr. Rogers was telling me about his grandfather — and a small boat the old man bought for him when he was a young man. Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died.

It wasn’t long, and I was still torn apart. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. Now that 2. 1 years have passed since then, I know that pain of losing someone so special shifts to the background, but never really goes away. Mr. Rogers also still missed his grandfather, still wished he was there when he needed him. You’ll never stop missing the people you love,” Mr.

Rogers told me. His grandfather had given Mr. Rogers the rowboat as a reward for something. I forget what. Grades, or graduation. Something important. Something he’d worked hard to accomplish. He didn’t have either now, his grandfather or the boat, but he had that work ethic, that knowledge and perseverance the old man encouraged with his gift. Those things never go away,” Mr.

Rogers said. I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. At the end, I just said thank you again — for about the 1. And I apologized if I made him late for wherever he was headed.

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