I used to live in Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, the year I lived in the Shadyside area of Pittsburgh. If you live outside the U.S., you may not recognize the significance of Fred Rogers and his Neighborhood, but his beloved children’s show of that name ran for more than thirty years, and even today stands as a sort of cultural shorthand for all that is good and wholesome. Having grown up watching the show, it tickled me pink to find myself with a similar physical address as the man himself, though we never ran in the same circles. He lived in a graceful historic mansion, and I was crazy about my old apartment building, not opulent, but aged enough to be on the historic register. That was plenty good for me, and when I happened to pass Mr. Rogers’ house, it was nice to think “howdy” and wish him well. Next door to the Rogers’ home there was a palatial burned out hull that looked as though it may have once been a sister house, possibly designed by the same architect, or one who worked in a similar architectural style. When I first saw it, the debris from the fire was all still there, so I assumed the tragedy to be recent, but in the year that passed, nothing shifted, no cleanup or repair, or demolition, so it could have been that way long before I arrived. I was always curious about the demise of such a grand old lady, and whether there was anything going on behind the scenes to determine her future. Given the opportunity to speak to Mr. Rogers, I probably would not have asked about his show, but about his neighbors and what had happened to their home.

There’s a good chance you’ve heard of Mr. Rogers’ “Helpers” story because he told it more than once, and it has since gained a life of its own. He said that when he saw frightening television reports as a child, “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 comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers—so many caring people in the world.”

Last week I mentioned that we lost our home in the Teton Dam Disaster, and it has been rolling marbles through my mind ever since. But I don’t think I can tell you about the flood unless I talk a little about what we lost, to give you an idea what you’re looking at. We didn’t lose a mansion, we’ll get that out of the way right up front. My parents bought our house in Rexburg, Idaho for all of $8000, land and everything, if that gives you any idea of the work it needed. Not long after closing the sale, two of my aunts walked in to find my dad knocking plaster off the wall with a tennis racket, muttering with every whack exactly what he thought of that particular occupation. My grandfather came over with his toolbelt and all his saws. Read More