Our theme for the month of October is “This Day in History.”
On October 3rd, 1960, the first episode of The Andy Griffith Show aired on CBS. The sitcom featured its namesake as Andy Taylor, a small town sheriff in the fictional town of Mayberry, North Carolina. In each episode, Andy serves as counselor, judge, and problem-solver for the loveable cast of neighbors, in addition to providing fatherly guidance to his son Opie. The episodes are wholesome, genuinely funny, and charming, like some kind of back-porch-parable.
For me, Andy Griffith was always synonymous with bedtime quiet, after the dishes were done and the lights were off and my siblings and I had brushed teeth and said prayers. When we still lived in the parsonage, Nathan and I would sometimes sneak out of our rooms and lay under the old ice box where we could just barely see the TV in the living room. From our hiding spot we would listen to the easy rhythm of small town dialogue and watch the black and white images with increasingly heavy eyelids. Andy Griffith on the TV meant that the day was done, the house was quiet, and all was well in Mayberry.
Even when we moved to the big house on the hill, Andy Griffith remained. And some nights at college, when I was very homesick, I would play an episode or two on my laptop just for some familiarity. As soon as I heard that telltale whistle and watched Opie and Andy walk towards the fishing hole, the soothing of nostalgia would ease me towards rest.
Maybe I loved the show so much because Mayberry felt like an idealized version of the small town I grew up in. My dad, the small town pastor was our very own Andy-like protagonist: always with the solution or the steadying word or the sage advice. The problems might have been more complicated than those faced in the neat thirty-minute episodes, but the common-sense approach fueled by grace and generosity felt easy to apply even in very real contexts. This was so apparent to our family that dad often referenced episodes in his Sunday sermons.
When you watch an episode of Andy Griffith, you know there will be a problem, and you know that the problem will come to some kind of resolution. That certainty makes for restful watching, but also gives us a powerful narrative pattern to use in our own lives. The thematic arcs of our experiences tend to be so long and twisted that we sometimes lose track of the once overwhelming problems that resolved, sometimes quietly, over time. We move so quickly from one issue to the next that we scarcely notice when a point of tension or stress has been relieved. By compressing the timeline, we can more clearly see the positive arc. This is the gift that good stories have always given.
In a time when anticipatory grief and suffering are the ways of the world, it may seem naive to believe that Mayberry is more reality than dream. I am finding, however, that a hopeful belief in a benevolent universe is more than escapism, it is the only path to true bravery. When we face uncertainty or possibility or the swell of change, a belief in gently tipped scales, in the sloping towards joy is the best way to move towards all that awaits. The stories of Andy, Opie, Barney and Aunt Bee remind me what that kind of steady hope looks like, and keep me laughing after the dishes are done and the kitchen lights are off.
Ansley Kelly (’16) makes her home in Rochester, NY, where she delights in short, sweet summers spent sailing and long winters spent skiing at her favorite mountain. Between outdoor adventures, you can find her buying books more quickly than she can read them and indulging in mid-morning naps. She works for Wegmans Food Markets where she finds purpose and joy in feeding her community and the wider world.
Keep hope alive, Ansley! Thanks for this fine expression of faith.
We watch MASH and Andy Griffin still.