Mister Rogers Had No Equal

The Boston Herald

It was my son who loved Mister Rogers, not my girls. They watched him occasionally, but my boy? You couldn't pry him away from the television.  Come 5 o'clock, he was sitting on the floor, eyes glazed, gone from the world for a solid half-hour.

I never could figure it. "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood" was the siren song that called to him, not "Sunny days, sweeping the clouds away." He liked "Sesame Street," but he'd talk to me during it or wander into the kitchen, looking for something to eat.

Mister Rogers hypnotized him.

We called Mister Rogers "Robbie Rogers." Why not? We didn't know his first name. He was Mister and my boy was Robbie and the name made the boy smile.

My son even wore a Robbie Rogers sweater. It didn't start out that way. In the beginning it was just a blue cardigan. But it looked like one Mister Rogers would wear, and one day I said that. And from then on, the boy and that sweater were inseparable. My friend,Jill, still laughs when she pictures him running around barefoot and in a bathing suit on the hottest summer days, that sweater zipped all the way to his neck.

"Mister Rogers' Neighborhood" was about as far down on the shows- 1- want-to-watch chart as you could get. I liked the jumpiness of "Sesame Street,"  the quirky skits, the catchy songs, the flashy puppets and the constant noise.

My son had Bert and Ernie puppets and Big Bird coloring books and "Sesame Street" records and a Fisher-Price "Sesame Street" plastic thing he carried around. But when "Sesame Street" was over and "Mister Rogers" began, he put down his toys and a hush settled over the house and a quiet settled over him, too. The afternoon slowed and everything seemed softer and gentler. There was an end-of-the-day feeling even when the sun was still bright.

He watched "Mister Rogers" by himself before his sister was born and after, when she was still a baby. It's these years I remember most. I cooked dinner while he sat cross-legged on the blue rug in the house where we used to live.  And I peeked at him, stared sometimes. I can see him still, at two and three and four , his hair white as com, his face round and serious, his belly sticking out of his Robbie Rogers sweater.

Sometimes I would watch the show with him. But not often. You didn't have to watch a lot to see that it was always the same. The same Mister Rogers coming through the same door and saying the same words, doing the same things, taking off his jacket and putting on his sweater, taking off his shoes and  putting on his sneakers, talking to his same make-believe friends.

"How come you like Mister Rogers so much?" I asked and he would say, "Because I do,”  or just, “Because.” Now I realize  that he liked the ritual. Kids seek this. "Tell me again, Mommy.” "Read  it again.”   "Do it again.”  Over and over, you can sing the same songs and tell the same tales and children never tire of hearing them. 

When his sister came along,  she didn't sit as still during  "Mister Rogers.” She'd wander into the kitchen to be with me. 

One day my son wandered away from Mister Rogers, too. You always know when things begin. He began watching the winter he was one. But you seldom notice when things end. One day, I looked up and he wasn't wearing Robbie Rogers sweaters anymore. They were all too small. And he was too big for baby shows.

But for so many years, Mister Rogers was there. Before VCRs and DVD players and tapes and CDs, he was a calm, steady and welcome presence in a constantly changing world.

You read now in his obituaries that he was a good man off-screen, too. He was the real thing. That's what my son knew. That's what all the children knew. And that's why they watched.