I read yesterday that you died. Stomach cancer. That makes me sadder than sad. Even in the kindest people, things can turn rotten. I guess I thought you’d never die. And in a sense, you won’t. I’m sure you have enough “Neighborhoods” in the can to cover the next five or six generations of viewers.

I wish I’d written you a little sooner, like before you died. But you get busy, as I’m sure you know. In and out of doors, people to meet and greet, sweaters to change, and imaginary worlds to inhabit twenty-four seven.

I wish I’d written because I need to unload.  Because I blame you, Mister Rogers! I blame you for the scurge that is reality television! I’m sure you weren’t even thinking back in 1969 that your simple concept of showing kids how sneakers were made or the real goings-on of Make Believe would lead us to crap like Joe Millionaire or The Osbournes. How could you have foreseen your harmless daliances with Mr. McFeely would be co-opted into the framework for Elima-date?

In hind-sight, I guess you didn’t know. You were just trying to show us that we were all lovable – capable of love and being loved. Even though Lady Elaine kind of creeped me out at times because she reminded me of my second grade gym teacher, I loved your show. I loved the neighborhood. Everyone wasn’t in such a hurry all the time and they all talked real slow. And no one was a stranger, even if they were. I found that really comforting. I guess it was an early childhood version of Cheers.

Good-bye, Mister Rogers. Thanks for all the learning and the fun. I’m sorry to know that you’re not around here anymore. But the Neighborhood always will be. And I’m sure the Smithsonian is already picking through your cardigans. I just hope you were wearing your favorite one when you left. And your sneakers. It could be a long trip and you don’t want to be wearing your man clothes for that.

Sincerely,
Kelsey Flynn