Mister Rogers, Bo Lozoff, Abbigail & Me

Like the top of this site says, "There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person." And you may never really know what it is.

In the case of meeting Mister Rogers, the ripple affect has been massive. I like to think of it as a 1° change in trajectory. Over time and through space, even a one degree creates a significant angle over a flat line.

Moreover, though, he unwittingly (or was it conscious? I often wonder) connected me a whole constellation of people I might not have ever met or known: Linda Ellerbee, Amy Hollingsworth, Davy Rothbart, and Bo Lozoff.

My very first conversation with Mister Rogers, there on the back porch of The Crooked House, involved a man he called "my friend Bo." Today, I am going to be bold and call him the same.

More than a friend, though, Bo has come to be something of a mentor or advisor. We exchanged dozens of emails prior to his presiding at Abbigail and my wedding covering everything from songwriting to solitude. Prior to his arrival in South Carolina, I told Abbi I was more nervous about Bo than almost anything else. I hold him in very high regard. He is a deep, thoughtful, wise man. I feel very young and silly standing next to him.

Fortunately, then, one of my fondest memories of that wonderful weekend is sitting across from him on the front porch of my cottage just a few hours before our wedding ceremony. Here's what I wrote on benjaminwagner.com:

In just three hours Abbi and I were to exchange vows beneath a three hundred-year-old live oak on the edge of the Pocotaligo River.

I was driving myself to lunch through a full-on monsoon. My Jeep was kicking up a speedboat's wake through the pond-sized puddles. The windshield wipers were completely overwhelmed by the downpour.

'This,' I thought, 'sucks.'

Three hours later, I was locked inside the front bathroom at The Inn at Brays Island reciting my vows aloud to the mirror.
"I promise..."

Christofer and Sibby were queued just outside the door. James -- who'd facilitated all three of our conversions from a rookie half- to the more classic full-Windsor, stood alongside Bo Lozoff, our officiant.

"It's gonna be fine, dude," my brother said.

I wasn't worried, really. Not about whether or not I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Abbi, or whether we'd nail the scripting, staging or blocking.

Still, I was wound like a top, all short breaths, nervous prattle and heavy palpitations. Like before a rock show. Which -- let's face it -- Abbi and my wedding was: three bands, two tents, open bar, a light show.

It's easy enough, one discovers, to be swept up in such things -- portraits, poses, place settings -- at such an affair. It's easy enough, one discovers, to focus on the celebration but miss the ceremony. And while everything and everyone unwittingly conspired to that end, Abbi and I were aided and abetted by our self-described "Depth Protector," Bo.

***

My cell phone began chirping at 8:16. Sibby was sawing logs in the adjacent twin bed as I tried in vain to rest (sleep, I'd decided after an hour of tossing and turning, was a lost cause). I read Bo's name on the display and began worrying (more succinctly, I was already worrying; I just began worrying about something new).

Was he pulling out? Had he fallen ill? Food poisoning? Fever? Ethical dilemma?

I left the call unanswered and went for a walk along the edge of the property. The tide was out, leaving narrow, muddy shallows through the deep green reeds. On the lawn beneath the great tree that would act as our alter, a flock of white egrets picked at the soil.

I walked through the thicket to the dock as Abbi and I had two nights prior when -- in a moment of rare and wondrous synchronicity -- a pod of dolphins swam past. I sat there on the edge of the dock a while taking in the river's slow bend through South Carolina Low Country.

The sky was bruised purple and deep blue. The river was gray like lead. I reminded myself that my worrying would not affect the weather, and then continued worrying about it.

It's difficult even now with nearly three week's distance, to characterize what I was feeling, but I'll try.

I felt serious. Grave. Pensive. I was trying to slow down time, to take in every glance, wink and smile, plus every note of soil, sand and salt on the air. I was trying to let this most massive transition settle in, to understand the spiritual ramifications of the day. Moreover, I was discerning -- more tangibly than ever -- what the rest of my life might feel like.

Walking back towards my cottage, I spotted Abbi's father racing off to his tee time. I heard women's laughter, then turned to see Abbi -- from whom I'd been quarantined the night prior -- and her girlfriends trot off on their "Bride's 10k." I smiled for the first time all morning, went back to my room, and listened to my voicemail.

"Benjamin," Bo said in his raspy, Johnny Cash baritone, "I've been up since 430 thinking about you, and Abbi, and the ceremony, and I realized that we just didn't spend enough time together yesterday. There are a few more things I think are important to discuss without anyone around."

I called him back, expressed my enthusiasm for his intent (wisely deferring to my wife-to-be for the timing), and then pulled on my running shoes.

While the ladies kept to the road, I set off along the river. Everything around me was green and gray, wet with a light morning fog. A hawk circled overhead. A blue heron stood motionless in the shallows. Tiny stone crabs scurried clear of the muddy path before me. In the absence of my iPod's raucous report, I listened to my breath, my heartbeat, and the thump of my feet on the earth.

I hadn't planned to run alone; I'd hoped to run with my groomsmen. This was not to be, though, so I relished the solitude and reflection.

Later, as Bo and I sat on the front porch facing one another in rocking chairs, I was grateful for the quiet in my soul.

"I was reflecting on Abbi and your vows," Bo said, "And I'm not sure they're explicit enough about your commitment to one another."

"Yours are beautiful and lofty and poetic and very personal, which is great. But Ben, as I just told Abbi, love is not always beautiful and poetic. It can be querulous and difficult and you may want to give up on it."

I watched Bo closely weighing his every word.

"In our culture, there are plenty of voices that might say, 'Do what's best for you.'

He paused.

"But we don't wear a ring on our finger to show our commitment to. A job, or to a place, or to anything except our commitment to one another."

I looked to my vows, some 300, oft-edited, well-pruned words. They began with a quote from Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters To A Young Poet ("There is nothing happier than work. And love, because it is the extreme happiness, can be nothing else but work.") -- my attempt to reflect my understanding of the work a life-long commitment might demand. Save for the phrases, "for all time" and "all of the days of our lives" though, they lacked the explicit language of foreverness.

"Yunno, Bo, the bulk of my spiritual and psychological work -- and the reason I waited so long and weighed this committment so thoroughly -- has been all about work and commitment and longevity. I want to be explicit," I said, "100%."

"This is "'Til death do us part' stuff, for sure."

Off To See The Wizard...

I'm not entirely sure anyone out there is following the progress of this film as it unfolds, but I like to think that someday -- when it's all shot, edited, scored, released, and lauded -- a whole bunch of people will find all of the things I wrote here and rediscover it in retrospect.

So... welcome! Here's the latest.

I'm getting married in South Carolina in nine days, then disappearing for two weeks to a series of atolls in the Indian Ocean. Bo Lozoff -- of who I learned on the back porch of The Rogers' Nantucket home -- is presiding, which is pretty awesome. And I hope that he'll be asking everyone to spend a minute remembering everyone that "loved them into being,"just as Mister Rogers used to.

Prior to departing, though, I have some producing to do. Because Chris is taking the first half of December off to begin editing. We're aiming to have the film cut and scored for the Nantucket Film Festival's March deadline. prior to our December edit, we're planing on two more shoots.

1) 826 Brooklyn: Months ago, my friend Kristan Flynn suggested I change my focus from Garrison Keillor and Bill Moyers to more loca, more approachable examples of "deep and simple." Enter 826, David Eggers' youth literacy organization. There we hope to interview 826 publicist and Mister Rogers fan, Jen Snow, organizer Sarah Vowell, as well as some kids and volunteers.

2) Pittsburgh: Davy Rothbart, Nicki Gottlieb, and I are road tripping to Pittsburgh in November to meet Mr. McFeely and tour the "Mister Rogers Neighborhhod" exhibit at the Children's Museum of Pittsburgh. There, we'll interview all of the above, and stop through Latrobe, Mister Rogers' birth place.

I like to think of it as some sort of "Wizard of Oz" ending to this great journey. Except -- I'm pretty sure about this one -- there is no Wizard. The Wizard is us.

None of it's definite, yet, but confidence is high; I'm pretty sure that we we have help from above.

It's Christmas Time (There's No Need To Be Afraid)

Band Aid's "Do They Know It's Christmas" was the right song at the right time.

I was a newly-minted teenager when Bob Geldof and Ultravox's Midge Ure rounded up Paul Young, Phil Collins, Sting, Bono et all to record the first-and-definitive benefit single on behalf of African famine relief.

MTV was a nascent entity then too. It amplified and super-saturated my already Rolling Stone-distorted perception of rocknroll. Here was an awkward and flawed (they all did, after all, spend sufficient time on the couch -- allbeit at The Ritz in Ibiza -- smoking cigarettes and discussing their childhoods) group of singers being celebrated for the flaws and their singing! I had flaws. And I sang!

Moreover, my worldview was changing. At thirteen, I was allowed to take the bus to King of Prussia Mall or the train to Ardmore Square.

It was at a record store there that -- lulled into blissful consumer submission by the all-star music video played on near-repeat -- that I joyfully laid down my allowance for the vinyl 45.

As a song, Ure's four minute Anglo-centric plea for empathy is an odd one. There is no refrain, per say, just a galloping synth beat adorned with tubular bells building towards a rousing, repetative finish.

Didn't matter to me; I held constant vigile for the video, scampering into our mustard-colored TV room as soon as I heard those clanging bells.

Fast forward: December 23, 2006. I'm in my home studio brainstorming my annual online holiday single. 'Hmm,' I thought, '"Do They Know It's Christmas" made for a genius encore at The Nadas' Silent Night benefit concert in last year. Maybe I should call all of my New York City friends to record a version of our own.'

My watch read 11:23 pm. Christmas was mere hours away. Much as Casey, Chris or Jeff have my back,' I thought, 'There's no way I'll get 'em out on Christmas Eve.'

And so it is that I rallied some fifteen or so local singer/songwriters/musicians to record our version this weekend. The "Family Records Holiday" aggregates the idea behind "A Very Special Christmas" and "Do They Know It's Christmas." Fifteen local singer/songwriter/bands have contributed one holiday track each, and plus our version of the Band Aid single. A music video will do online pre-press for a December release and performance. The entire thing will benefit 826NYC, a youth literacy program.

Chris Abad, Casey Shea, Tony Maceli, Ryan Vaughn and I met up at Travis Harrison's Serious Business Studios in the heart of SoHo (Spring & Lafayette) as a hard rain began to fall Saturday morning. A few hours and many cups of coffee later, we had our basic track (drums, bass, acoustic guitar and scratch vocals). Langhorn Stoneburner Shea and Hot Rocks hostess Jenny Piston showed up with DV cams to begin shooting the music video. Casey -- due to depart for London with the rest of Sundown, laid down his vocal. "It's Christmas time," he sang perfectly in one take, "There's no need to be afraid."

And we were off.

Attorney's guitarist John Wlaysewski showed up with his bandmate William Ryan George and nailed a nuanced-but-powerful guitar part. The Wakey! Wakey! frontman Mike Grubbs showed up and -- between bites of veggie burger and fries -- nailed the now-famous, completely memorable hook. Less than six hours in, the basic recording was done. We left the studio two hours ahead of schedule as disk fell on Manhattan.

I spent the bulk of Sunday morning watching the video over and over on You Tube trying to assign the right parts to the right people (knowing already that a) Casey had already played the part of Paul Young, and I was laying claim to Bono's big line). Travis, Chris, and I re-assembled at noon. The chorus, as it were, began to trickle in one by one: Wynn Walent, Tarrah Reynolds, Kailen Garrity, Seth Kallen, Jeff Jacobson, Misty Boyce, William Ryan George and John Wlaysewski (The Attorneys), George & Jess Jezel (El Jezel), Wes Verhoeven (Undisputed Heavyweights), plus Mike and Gene Adam (Wakey! Wakey!). We rehearsed along with the track a half-dozen times, then began knocking out individual parts.

Later that afternoon, as we stood crowded around a single, omni-directional Neumann microphone drinking 20 ounce Budweisers, I laughed at Chris and Jenny (who have been staunch supporters from the start). "We did it!" I mouthed silently between "Feed the world!" and "Let them know it's Christmas time!!!"

We did it.

And it sounds totally freakin' bad ass.

Wait 'til you hear it.

Just like a thirteen-year-old in a dusty record store, you'll believe in blind optimism all over again.

There Goes The Neighborhood

So Davy Rothbart's "There Goes The Neighborhood Tour" was in New York Friday Night. So Chris, Abbi and I met up after work, and headed down to the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater on 26th Street.

I'd texted Davy earlier in the afternoon to call off the shoot. We were gonna' do a bot of meet and greet, but decided that -- since we're going to Pittsburgh together in November -- we could hold the thought 'til then.

The event was sold out. We were surrounded by thirtysomething literate-types as we waited in line near next to Gristede's.

"These are our people, man!" I told Chris. "If we can get these people in every town, we're golden!"

The venue was kinda' sketchy: dusty, black walls, exposed plumbing, rockity theater seats. I loved it. It felt vital, collegiate, like there was nothing to lose.

I coaxed Abbi and Chris into the front row. There was no stage, per say, just 3/4 of a rectanglular space without seats. So our feet were basically on stage. When the lights went down, we never fully faded into theatrical blackness; our reactions would be part of the show.

Davy walked in from the wings, unloaded a thicket of Xeroxed pages onto a pair of barstools, and began reading.

Davy and his brother, Peter, put on a hilarious show. It's basically a rock 'n roll reading that happens to be comedic. Found Magazine is, well, a magazine full of found objects: love letters, receipts, photos. Many of which are humorous, especially out of context. Peter brings the music, like his boy band send-up based on an actual love note, "Booty Don't Stop."

Davy also happens to be a marketing genius. He effortlessly weaves his mailing list and promotions for upcoming shows, back issues of the magazine, books, and CDs into his shtick. The amazing thing is that the whole thing feels so earnest and real, not commercial.

At the end of the show, as Davy was thanking a few people, he mentioned his buddy, "This American Life" producer Alex Bloomberg, and congratulated him on his recent marriage. Then he looked at me and said, "And thanks to Benjamin Wagner who's about to get married." That little gesture made me feel pretty special. Later, when someone told me that This American Life host Ira Glass seated behind Abbi, Chris and me, I exclaimed to Abbi, "Ira Glass knows my name." Which, as ridiculous as it sounds, is kinda' the beauty of this whole Mister Rogers-inspired journey of mine.

Later that night, I met Davy at The Park, a scene club on 18th & Tenth. I thought I was meeting him and a few friends. I walked into a table of twenty. Davy -- bless his heart -- introduced me as "The deepest guy I know." I pulled up a chair between a Pakistani journalist and Random House designer. I talked about God, Britney Spears, and "The Secret Lives of People in Love." Like I said to Chris, these are our people: the ones who burn for conversation, substance, solutions. The ones who want to change the world.

Well after midnight, I peeled off as Davy's friends tumbled out of the club towards its next destination. In the few minutes there as the party dispersed on the street, a fellow reveler told me, "Oh yeah, Mister Rogers used to come into the country store I worked at during summers."

"Bartlett Farms," I said.

"Yeah," she replied.

'He still up there connecting us,' I thought from the backseat, smiling all the way up Tenth Avenue.

Nantucket '07: Time After Time

I woke up just after sunrise this morning.

Stepping into the living room I was gob smacked by the sea shining through the picture window. The only sound in our cottage, Watcha Dune, was the ticking of the old novelty clock on the wall that reads, "Who Cares."

I grabbed the DV and began shooting right away. Soon enough, I was on the beach, the tripod wedged level in the sand. A seal was splashing around in the waves a few hundred feet off shore.

I turned the camera towards the waves zooming in on the slow-rolling water there before it crested and capped and broke. Then I turned northwest and shot the sunlight sparkling on the waves as they lapped onto the shore.

Everything around me had a pulse. Everything around me beat the rhythem of time. I stood there, my toes in the water, and thought to myself 'This is why Mister Rogers loved it here.'

Increments of time feel both more minute and more infinate here.

The island changes with each passing season: inlets deepen, sandbars grow and homes fall into the sea. Someday, perhaps, it will all wash away.

It is the steady march of time. Unlike Times Square, Copley Plaza or Piccadilly Circus, where the horns and the sirens and the lights and the crush of the hawkers, barkers and hustlers, is relentlessly distracting. Each wave, each soaring gull, each blade of grass blowing in the wind, actually means something.

Slow.

Down.

* * *

I am eatting bluberry pie for breakfast now. Because I can.

Nantucket '07: A Thousand Hues

Christofer pursuaded me to bring the HDDV to Nantucket this weekend to shoot b-roll for the film on account of the fact that he wouldn't be joining Abbi and me at my mother's.

He and Ethan came by my office Friday at noon as I scurried around tying up loose ends. MTV's Video Music Awards are next weekend. I'm flying to Las Vegas straight from Nantucket.

I walked Ethan around the floor, showing him off like a proud uncle.

In the newsroom, my colleague, Tim Kash was reading the news. He invited Ethan on set, and encouraged him to read Teleprompter. Ethan just smiled when he saw himself on the monitor.

He was quiet, except to tell me my office was too small ("I would need a bigger room," he said) and that we needed to find a bigger window through which to look at the river.

The car service called at 12:30. Chris and Ethan walked me downstairs and through Times Square. I gave him a hug, and headed off, waving to him through the crowd.

I pecked away at my Blackberry as we crept up Sixth Avenue towards Abbi's office, and I wondered to myself if all of this seemed normal to Ethan: working three hundred feet in the air in jeans, sneakers and a sport coat at a major media company, newsrooms, DV cams, Times Square, and car services.

As I wondered, I looked up and spotted my first boss in New York City, a guy named Brian Donlon who hired me to launch Lifetime Television's first web site was back in 1995. He did a double take, but I didn't say anything. I just smiled and thought, "Wow, you've come a long way."

Three hours later, our jet landed in Nantucket. Where New York City had been warm and sunny, ACK was cold and rainy.

Since then, the sky has cleared. The wind has picked up. And the ocean has changed a thousand hues.

I've left the strum and dirge of the city behind, and grabbed some beautiful b-roll of Madaket Harbor, Millie's Bridge, and the sunset over Smith's Point.

I feel blessed, and grateful, and wish Mister Rogers were here so I could tell him all about it.

Announcing"A Family Records Holiday"

I'm not sure I've told this story here.

I met Mister Rogers on my 30th birthday: September 4, 2001. The World Trade Center fell exactly one week later. I was just about to release a new CD,"Crash Site," but -- inspired in no small part by his ethos -- I repaired to the studio to record a benefit CD instead. I sent him a copy prior to the September 25th release, and invited him to come to the show. He didn't make it, but when I got home, there was a message on my answering machine from him saying that he'd tried to reach me at the Mercury Lounge, but I was already on stage.

Seven years later, I'm at it again. And once again, Mister Rogers is the inspiration.

I just sent a dozen emails to some of New York City's finest singer/songwriters and bands. It read (in part)

I first met Mister Rogers in 2001. It's a long story. In short, he encouraged me to make the world the better place any way I knew how. Now, I don't have a ton of skills: I sing, I write, and I make records. Which is why I'm emailing you now.

I'm gathering a group of NYC singer/songwriters and rock bands to put together a holiday benefit CD. My pal, Wes Verhoeve, will release the album on his Family Records imprint. "A Family Records Holiday" will collect a dozen holiday songs, and culminate with a cover of "Do They Know It's Christmas."

Which is where you come in. We want you to record your favorite holiday song -- or write and record a new one -- and then donate the recording to this cause. Then, on September 22-23, we'll gather at Travis Harrison's Serious Business Studios in Brooklyn to record our own version of "Do They Know It's Christmas." We'll shoot and edit a video, and perform together at a righteous release party in December under the guidance of Mr. Verhoeve plus the assistance of our pal, Hot Rocks' Jenny Piston.

The entire project will benefit New York Cares.

Until this morning, I had two weekends free between now and the New York City Marathon (November 4). Now I have one: the one before I get married. Which is just fine with me.

Like I just said to Wes: It feels good to do good.

Revenge Of The Bookeaters

826NYC's benefit, Revenge Of The Bookeaters, was Sunday night at The Beacon Theater.

I came to the event via Jen Snow who, in addition to having one of the great names of all time, is 826NYC's publicist. We've connected over email (in fact, she's one of the articulate supporters excerpted here) and, as I've mentioned, plan to work together on the doc.

It was a star-studded affair, in a literary, Brooklyn-esque kinda' way: Demitri Martin hosted; Broken Social Scene, Spoon's Britt Daniel, New Pornographer AC Newman, My Morning Jacket's Jim James, and Feist performed.

The entire night was kind of scrappy and lo-fi in an endearing way. The performances were mostly uneven, but well-intentioned, and well worth it. 826, founded in 2002 by memoirist David Eggers, is a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting students ages 6-18 with their creative and expository writing skills, and to helping teachers inspire their students to write.

As a creative writing major and thus-far failed writer, applaud their efforts vigorously. Moreover, I hope to amplify those efforts in some small way.

Jim James, as it ends up, was terrific and inspiring. I've been listening to "Gideon" on repeat ever since.

The whole thing was pretty excellent, pretty impressive, and super inspiring.

One our way out, I turned to my buddy Wes and said, "I want our project to be this big."

More on that later...

"Today's Man" (Or, "Thank God For Mister Rogers")

Holy moly! I totally forgot to tell you this story, didn't I?

You'll recall that Davy Rothbart invited me to join him, David Newell (aka Mr. McFeely) and Mister Rogers' uber-fan (and subject of the documentary, "Today's Man") Nicky Gottlieb in Pittsburgh in November. Well, the plot thickens.

Well, my buddy Ron emailed me last week, and he CC'd his college dorm mate, "Today's Man" director Lizzie Gottlieb.

Lizzie, meet my friend-made-on-the-internet, singer/songwriter, MTV-News-Online-executive, documentary-about-Mister Rogers-filmmaker, fellow Midwesterner, triathlete, about-to-be-newlywed, all around Renaissance Man, nicest man in NYC, Benjamin Wagner.

I'll tell you what, Mister Rogers is smiling down on this whole connected thing, huh?

Anyway, I ordered Lizzie's documentary just as soon as Davy emailed me about it, and it arrived tonight. I just finished watching it.

It's a terrific film: compassionate, intelligent, and empathic.

Nicky Gottlieb is a young man struggling to leave the comfort and safety of his parents' home and find his place in the world. While he can calculate the square root of any number in the blink of an eye, he has trouble reading the simplest of facial expressions, making social interaction difficult. At the age of 21, he is diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome, a high-functioning form of autism. This loving portrait by his filmmaker sister is both a personal exploration of one family's journey and a broader effort to understand this mysterious disorder.

There's a point in the film when Nicky, who loves television and adores Mister Rogers, says, "The world would be a much crazier place without Mister Rogers." In fact, Lizzie told me she considered calling the doc, "Thank God For Mister Rogers."

The more I've learned about the whole thing, the more it feels fated. The film, as it ends up, premiered at the Nantucket Film Festival -- as Christofer and I hope to.

More than our connections, though, the film moved me because it's well done, and it's done with heart. It's a very personal story, one that sets the bar pretty high on our little project.

Summer's Gone: A Quick Story About Disappointment And Empathy

I was searching for a Mister Rogers quote just now when I traipsed across this one:

When I was in college, I went to New York to talk to a songwriter I admired very much. I took him four or five songs I'd written and thought he'd introduce me to Tin Pan Alley and it would be the beginning of my career. After I played him my songs, he said, "You have very nice songs. Come back when you have a barrelfull."
A barrelfull of songs! That would mean hundreds of songs. I can still remember the disappointment I felt as I traveled all that way back to college. Nevertheless, that man's counsel was more inspired than I'd realized. It took me years to understand that. And so, after the initial disappointment, I got to work; and through the years, one by one, I have written a barrelfull.

In fact, the barrel's overflowing now, and I can tell you, the more I wrote, the better the songs became, and the more those songs revealed what was in me.

First, I love the image of Fred Rogers in college. It is often difficult to imagine him as anything less than fully-formed, or fully self-actualized.

Second, I never knew he dreamt of being an honest-to-goodness songwriter. I love that. I mean, I obviously know we shared music in common. That's why, on that first afternoon we spent together in Nantucket, I brought my guitar (which is in my hands in my favorite photo of us).

I played him "Summer's Gone," which was a new song of mine then, and is kind of a sad thing to play ("Summer's gone away / Everything left to decay / There is nothing you can say / To make it last") on Labor Day Weekend for a man who'd recently retired and (as it would end up) would be gone (physically, anyway) in a year and a half.

Later, in his study overlooking Madaket Sound, he played "It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood," then sang "Happy Birthday" to me.

Still, I never knew Mister Rogers aspired to Tin Pan Alley, much as I moved to New York dreaming of a record deal. And I never knew he'd suffered any sort of disappointment (of course he did, but you know what I mean). I love that -- in retrospect -- his life's work seemed charted in advance. In the moment, though, he suffered the same uncertainty and discovery as we all do.

Moreover, though, I appreciate the empathy inherent to his story. Empathy -- the capacity to understand, be aware, and sensitive to the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another person without having the feelings, thoughts -- isn't in easy to come by in our culture. Nor is it easy to learn. Mister Rogers had it in spades. By sharing his own disappointment here, he demonstrates that he understands ours. I admire that. And aspire to it.