I believe you

     Growing up in the 70s and 80s with two working parents, I was just like the rest of my Generation X latchkey cohort...

     ...raised on a lot of television. The afternoons were the golden age of syndication. Mainly sitcoms, from All In The Family to M*A*S*H* to Hogan's Heroes and more.

     Oh, that crazy Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz! (Where is my sarcasm font when I need it?)

    And there was always  The Andy Griffith Show. The black and white one, before it was flooded with too-sharp flooded-out garish color. The halcyon days when the scriptwriting was topnotch.

    I seem to have picked up a lot of ideas from The Andy Griffith Show. Despite marketing which primarily cast it as a comedy, laugh track and all, it was a keen character study of small-town or rural life and community. In interactions between the principal cast. it sketched an accurate portrayal of both character and situation, and regularly imparted astounding wisdom to viewers.

    Which brings me to the episode in which Andy faces evidence that son Opie's fanciful flights of imagination--encouraged by Andy, even--have given way to a series of bald-faced lies. 

    This is the first episode of the third season, titled "Mr. McBeevee." After an intro that established that not only does Opie show a vivid imagination in riding his imaginary horse Blackie, and a sidebar in which they sucker Barney into their make-believe, the show pivots to a more serious situation.

    To wit--Opie, visiting his father the sheriff in his office, turns down a request to help take out the office trash because he has to hurry back to his new friend. He describes this new friend fancifully.

    His new friend, "Mr. McBeevee," walks around in the treetops. He wears a shiny silver hat, and he jingles when he walks. 

    Blows smoke out of his ears. Has 12 extra hands in a toolbelt around his waist.

    So...a perfect set-up. Andy and Opie just a few hours ago were playacting an adventure in which Opie galloped an imaginary stallion around the backyard. Barney, sore at being reeled into the scenario, grumbled that Andy ought not to encourage his son in creating such fiction: 

        " I just don't think you ought to let the boy get started in that direction."

    Seemingly, just a few hours later, Opie is at it again. Making up a friend who is unbelievable, and selling this new fantasy to his father as well.

      So is Andy culpable in this extension of tall tales? What is the boundary between imaginary play and reality? How does a child learn one of our most important maxims--always tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth--without having his spirit crushed?

    The plot unfolds over the course of the day, and the tension between father and son grows to the critical scene that evening at bedtime.

    Andy sits stiffly and uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, and tells Opie that the time has come to tell the truth and "stop the playactin'." If he admits that he made up Mr. McBeevee, then he will be forgiven.

    "But if you don't, then somethin' else is gonna happen.

    I believe you know what I mean, don't you?"

    The choice is brutal--recant, or suffer a whipping. 

    Opie struggles to say the words. Struggles to save his backside.

    Can't do it.

    The regret and sorrow on Opie's face is so powerful that I just broke out with goosebumps and shivers down my spine recalling it. Just now.

    Opie looks at the floor, stands his ground. Says no, Mr. McBeevee is real.

    Then---

    "Don't you believe me, Paw? Don't you?"

    The eyes of a young boy, clear and innocent, but mouth wrinkled with worry that he has lost his beloved father's trust. Ron Howard--Ronnie, then--was 7 or 8 years old, maybe. A glorious Emmy-worthy bit of acting.

    A heartbeat separated the response from his father. Emotions war on Andy's face, his brow clouded with grim purpose. Then finally, the stern knife-edged lines wrinkling his forehead smoothed into repose and clarity. 

    They say that "I love you" are the three most powerful words we have, but so are these that Sheriff Taylor says to his son:

    I believe you.

    Downstairs, the ever-present Barney and Aunt Bee want to know if Opie came clean. If he confessed to lies or if he took his whipping. To their puzzlement that neither happened, that Andy told him he believed him, Andy replies that even though Opie's narrative about his new friend seems unbelievable, he realizes that he has also asked his son to believe in some things that must have been similarly impossible.

    "I guess it's a time like this when you're asked to believe somethin' that just don't seem possible...

    That's the moment that decides whether you got faith in somebody or not."

    Cue a sputtering Barney. Of course. He is just like us, the best representation of our failures and foibles and fears. Asks if Andy REALLY believes in Mr. McBeevee.

    Nope, Andy shakes his head, still grounded in objective reality.

    "But I do believe in Opie."

    

    Today, that would be a mic drop moment.

     Actors exit stage left. 

    Audience leaps to their feet in rapturous thunderous cataclysms of applause. 

    Roses tossed upon the stage and all that. Emmys or Oscars or what have you.

    However, this was the early '60s, and the laugh track went on and on. A neat wrap-up as Andy finally meets--in the woods--coming down from a tree--Mr. McBeevee. 

    A phone lineman.

     With a silver shiny hat. Who jingles as he walks. Has extra hands--tools--in his belt. With sleight-of-hand tricks where he seems to blow smoke from his ears. Relieved and reassured in his faith, Sheriff Taylor pumps Mr. McBeevee's hand in a vigorous handshake. Roll to credits...

    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    So why did this hit me so hard that I gasped with the ragged effort of holding in great sobbing tears, even as the laugh track indicated I should be guffawing or at least chortling?

    This kernel about faith versus doubt goes to the heart of human experience. Shakespearean or Biblical. 

    How about this?  Faith in someone else is at its most powerful when it triumphs over our stubborn suspicion. That is why there is such a visceral reaction when Andy believes in his son, in his honesty and his truthfulness. 

    Belief is not a feeling, but an action. Andy moved himself to belief, struggled mightily with himself in front of us in our own living room. Overcame overwhelming doubt with unshakable faith.

    Here is a parallel:

    Thomas, the dour skeptical apostle, did not believe in the resurrected Christ until he jabbed his fingers into the wounds. To which Jesus gently but drolly observed that Thomas believed now that he saw, but more blessed are those who believe without seeing.

    Just like Andy Taylor did.

    One of my favorite quotes attributed to St. Francis is this one:

    "Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary-use words."

    

    

Unwrap A Smile

    I know it's not just me.

    I know that almost everyone bears deep childhood memories of holidays and food and family lore that grow beyond their empirical meaning until they become wellsprings of identity and remembrance.

    Seeing Christmas lights wrapped tightly around light poles as you drive downtown. 

    Scented balsam fir candles.

    The ecstatic boom of fireworks in a dark winter night, or over a beach on Independence Day.

    Memories of comfort and pangs of nostalgia may energize your emotions.

    For me, I am always sent into nostalgia and reverie by the humble Star Crunch....

   Typically, Grandmother Harrington would cook fifteen or so dishes for our Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners. She would also put out innumerable homemade treats and sweets, and stock the kitchen with Cokes and snacks alike. Like any good Southern grandma, she was partial to anything from Little Debbie. Nutty Buddies. Oatmeal Creme Pies. Star Crunch. 

    If you have never had one, a Star Crunch is puffed rice covered in chocolate and caramel. Nicely crisp, not too sweet. The story has it that they were marketed right after the Apollo 11 moon landing as a Moon Crunch, then the name was changed and they were later added to the permanent menu.

        

       I have always felt very fortunate to have had grandmothers--3 of them, actually--in my life until my mid-40s. Even after growing up and starting a family of my own, I made a lot of trips to visit with my own kids along. So they were introduced to the family traditions, the family lore. 

    When Grandmother Harrington sold her house and moved into an assisted living complex, we continued to visit. Most of the times, we would take her to her favorite local restaurant, Buck's Dairy Quick. One of those old converted Dairy Queen-style cafes turned into a hamburger steak and chicken finger joint. 

    She always wanted a hamburger steak made from ground sirloin instead of ground beef, with diced onions mashed into the meat and fried along with it. Well done. "Don't be afraid to burn it" she would always say. We would spend a couple of hours hanging out at the table "visiting" after the meal, me and her and the kids. Thinking back on it, I am really proud of  Pam, Andrew, and Sarah for actually spending the time talking to her instead of running around the place. A lot of kids don't give a rip for hanging out with family, but mine sure did.

    When we would get back to her tiny little room, she would always pack us snacks to go.

    In her top dresser drawer she kept a ready supply of Star Crunch cookies.

    It seems they served them every night with dinner, and she always saved hers and squirreled them away in her room.

    For later. 

    Or for company. 

    Growing up in subsistence-farming Alabama during the Great Depression, Grandmother had learned to always put something back for later. 

    Growing up in an atmosphere rich in hospitality, of covered-dish suppers at church and visits from family that could come at any time, she always put something back to share with someone that dropped by.

    She would load us down--sometimes 8 or 9 of those little cakes. Press them on us. 

    "You have to have something to eat in the car on the way home."

    You know how it goes. You know what grandparents say. 

    

    I absolutely marvel at the discipline and the forethought she showed by such a simple act. Alone as a widow for almost 40 years, she excelled at being a great hostess and providing any food we could ever desire. Even selling her house and moving into a room the size of a hotel suite did not make her throw in the towel. 

    Instead, she continued to find a way to do what she did best, to provide for us. 

    When people get up and speak at funerals, they often talk of great deeds and stories from down the years. But as often as not, it may be the almost-unnoticed but inspiringly consequential small moves that give an eternal and lasting testimony of personality. 

    Of character.

    Of love.

    Not only am I fortunate to have been born into a family that loves each other so well, but I am unutterably blessed to have been shown how to live life.

      So, I feel like I need to add a box of Star Crunch to this week's grocery list....keep them in the pantry when the kids come calling...