Andy Griffith

I was having lunch with a friend the other day and learned something that absolutely mortified me. He laid his confession there on the table and I was so shocked that I just stared at him for a few seconds. Had a low budget fiction author been describing my reaction they would have used words like aghast and stupefied; there’s just no way to prepare yourself for hearing somethings.  

My friend, who has been on this earth for 30 years, most of them spent below the Mason-Dixon Line, has never seen an episode of Andy Griffith.  

At first I felt betrayed, but after the news had time to really register I mostly just felt sad for him. How could his parents have neglected him in such a way?  

He’s never heard of Horatio, the half-a-boy; never had it explained to him that Shakespeare’s Lord Capulet and Lord Montague could have saved the expense of a double funeral by paying for a cheap wedding.  

He’s never laughed as Barney exclaims that he hates when Andy is intentionally obtuse and he’s never celebrated the litany of holidays for which the Morrison sisters would supply their elixir.  

Imagine not knowing who Aunt Bee is.  What kind of life would that be?  

I told him that every Beagle my uncles ever had was named after an Andy Griffith character and he looked at me like I was a part of some kind of cult. Maybe I am.  

I’ve known there were folks less fortunate than I but I never dreamed it could be this bad. 

I’m not quite sure what the next steps are really. An intervention seems reasonable, but I’m worried he may be too far gone at this point. I’m tempted to tie him to a chair and force feed him a few episodes until he relents, but I fear that may be a bit extreme.

I may get him converted at some point. I do have him listening to a playlist of country music, so progress has been made; all hope is not lost, even if we have a long way to go.