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Walt tried immersing himself in an old interest: model trains. "Just a hobby to get my mind off my problems," he said, but he felt trapped and rule bound even in leisure. Tellingly, Walt wrote to a fellow railroad buff who had constructed a model railroad big enough to straddle and ride in his yard, "I envy you for having the courage to do what you want."

Caught between the false choice of perfection or failure, paralyzed by both his self-imposed standards and bank-imposed budget, Walt withdrew into himself. The Disney brand might have centered on happiness and community, but Walt increasingly found himself lonely and isolated, mostly through his own making. When presented with a formal dinner invitation, he would RSVP "NO!" in red crayon, underlined for emphasis. Amid the frenetic activity at the studio, Walt would slouch in his chair and complain, "It gets lonely around here. I just want to talk to somebody." When lent a listening ear, however, he would ruminate aloud about his childhood hardships, and when it was his conversation partner's turn to talk, he would leave them hanging: "Gotta get goin'!"

The world Walt Disney had created—one of fantasy, innocence, and wish-upon-a-star fulfillment of dreams—stood in stark contrast to the world he lived in, where it was too precarious to loosen his grip, enjoy a genuine interest, or be a friend instead of a taskmaster. A New York Times reporter who visited the studios noted, "I came away feeling sad" to find that the brilliant man who had delighted the world's imagination was now deflated, intransigent, craving approval but desperately lonely, and avoiding his problems by procrastinating with toy trains.

The popcorn machine was filled with too many kernels. As the cameras rolled on the television show The Children's Corner, the lid bounced open and the newly popped popcorn exploded over the sides. After filming wrapped, the show's cocreator, thirty-three-year-old Fred Rogers, said, "Now we have to do that again."

The show's star, a bubbly young woman named Josie Carey, was mystified. "Why? That was fun! The kids will love it." But Rogers was concerned that for younger children, the runaway popping and the ensuing mess could be disturbing. Carey threw up her hands. He was so particular, so exacting. To Carey, the popcorn spilling everywhere was exciting—it was exactly what made TV entertaining.

But Fred Rogers hadn't gotten into TV to be entertaining. According to biographer Maxwell King, Rogers's mission on TV was "to make it better, to make it more appropriate and educational for young children. The slapstick, pie-in-the-face quality of early television was just what he wanted to change." Rogers had high standards, deep commitment, yet also a clear-eyed vision. He paid attention to the details—he saw things and thought of nuances nobody else did.

In 1961, the head of children's television at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation thought these traits made Fred Rogers the right person to lead a quiet revolution in children's education. "I've seen you talk with kids," said the executive. "I want you to look into the lens, and just pretend that's a child."

And so began the show that would come to be called Mister Rogers Neighborhood. Over thirty-one seasons and 895 episodes, the world would witness Rogers trade a blazer and dress shoes for his cardigan and sneakers at the start of every show, a comforting, reliable signature. 

Each episode underwent intense care and deliberation. Excellence was the only acceptable standard. Every script went through multiple levels of review—Rogers himself, the show's producers, and Rogers's mentor and consultant, Dr. Margaret McFarland, a child psychologist at the University of Pittsburgh.

Once, in the middle of shooting an episode, Rogers felt the script was not quite right, even after all the usual layers of input. So he did the unthinkable. He stopped production, left a highly paid, mostly unionized crew twiddling their thumbs on set, and walked down to the university campus to consult with Dr. McFarland. After about an hour, he came back, and the show rolled. But the incident was pure Rogers. If it was for the kids, it had to be right.

With such exacting standards, one might think that Rogers would be difficult, an unreasonable autocrat, or at least deadly boring. But Fred Rogers wasn't any of those things. Instead, he magically merged high standards with flexibility, responsibility with creativity. An ordained Presbyterian minister, he devoted himself to service, seamlessly combining rectitude with approachability and humility.

Rogers's mentor at the Pittsburgh Theological Seminary, the chain-smoking Dr. William Orr, taught Rogers the principle of "guided drift": staying the course of one's principles while embracing the flow of life. Uphold your integrity but take chances. Be open to change and serendipity rather than being confined by a rigid set of rules.