The actor Andy Griffith passed away this past Tuesday. He was 86. And he will be missed.
Now, a lot of people will remember Andy Griffith in his role of a salt-and-pepper-haired folksy defense lawyer named Matlock. Others might automatically think of him as a “Broadway star,” “movie actor” or even “gospel singer” when his name comes up. But for me, well, I can only hear that name and envision good ol’ Sheriff Andy Taylor.
Now, I know it’s never fair to buttonhole an actor like that. I mean, Mr. Griffith didn’t really live in Mayberry, as he did in The Andy Griffith Show. Don Knotts wasn’t actually his faithful, goofy deputy. And Ron Howard certainly has grown well beyond that freckled button nose and a crop of cowlicky red hair. But, sorry, that’s who they are to me.
I hear a bouncing whistley tune when I think of them (probably the most iconic and well-recognized TV theme ever). I see a barefoot kid skipping a stone down at the local fishin’ hole, a pole notched on his shoulder. Then I remember a town full of lovable quirky folk and a series of downhome, simple to understand, and flat-out decent stories that always seemed to have a great fatherly lesson mixed in with the knee-slapping humor. And that’s all inextricably connected to one Andy Griffith.
He was a TV dad who could always see you through. And I think he was part of what makes the ’60s feel like a nostalgic place that you’d love to go back and visit—even though, in truth, it was something of a tumultuous time with political upheavals, moral struggles and Vietnam protests. But, of course, none of those problems were in Mayberry. From my kids-eye point of view, The Andy Griffith Show wasn’t just good TV. It was good, funny and kind of comforting TV. And I wonder if there are many, if any, shows that kids would say that about today.
So, there’s my salute to Mr. Griffith. I know he was probably many things. And certainly much more than just a small town TV sheriff. But the sun-kissed and smiling image of Andy and the good folks of Mayberry cannot, and never shall be, changed, updated or pried out of the neuron networks of my brain. They’re all like a perfectly balanced set that have been bronzed into my memory. And they sit nestled there under the heading of “Youthful Good Things”—along with the taste of my mother’s rice pudding, the sight of my dog Rusty romping with doggy glee through a golden field, and the feel of my feet in a cool fishin’ hole on a hot summer’s day.
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