Thel, you're the cats

Some thoughts from a trip to Mayberry (AKA Mt. Airy, NC) last week:

Jack stands in for 'ol Barn
with the Thelma Lou of our memories

Jack loves The Andy Griffith Show, as does his dad. He especially loves Barney and Gomer, names still woven into American television pop culture.

The living cast members have grown scarce, and Thelma Lou is one. Of course, her real name is Betty Lynn, but who would call her that.

She is forever Thelma Lou, Barney’s girl.

The very sweet Thelma Lou of today

As we were entering The Andy Griffith Museum, Thelma Lou had just arrived for her autographing session in a wheelchair. Her handler turned her around and we were the first people she saw. After a few small pleasantries, she said to Jack, “I’m Barney’s girlfriend.”

It was a great moment, which felt almost private.

Thelma Lou, Barney’s girl.

Time moves on, and Thelma Lou doesn't really physically resemble the Thelma Lou of those 26 priceless episodes in which she appeared. Or at least all that much. But she could not have been nicer, and she spent as much time with each person as they wanted. To sign, to pose, to laugh, to reminisce.

I told her how grateful I am for the show, saying that it’s nice to know there is something the whole family can watch.

I will always remember her physically as Barney’s girl.

But I also won’t forget how she, at 87 years old, thrilled Jack with kind words, several autographs and a hug.

Which I think will also stay with him for a long, long time.

So catch me if you can, I'm goin' back

I don’t watch many movies these days, with the exception of some Marx Brothers, Disney classics, "Lassie" or a Don Knotts box set with my kids.

But last night I stumbled on a movie I had heard about but had never seen: “I Never Sang For My Father.”

It’s an emotion-driven piece from 1970 that will resonate with anyone who ever had to make tough decisions regarding an aging parent. Or had to deal with the details of making funeral arrangements for a parent – which, I guess at some point is almost everyone.

Watching Gene Hackman as the son caught in the crossfire of dealing with father Melvyn Douglas’s declining health amidst ongoing and increasing expectations was fascinating, and more importantly, real. It was hard to watch, yet I couldn’t turn it off.

It brought back the increasingly blurry, but never disappearing, memories of touring a nursing home and ultimately helping to choose a casket. Excruciating then, excruciating now.

The movie end with the lines: "Death ends a life. But it does not end a relationship." So very true, and from that relationship comes a lifetime of influence and memories that never go away.

Recently, the kids and I went through my boxes of old photos and mementos. They saw pictures of my mom and dad along with snapshots of me at their ages, which did not interest them all that much. My memories are obviously not important to them now, and rightly so. At the moment, their memories are mostly good and hopefully focused on the times we have spent together.

I would do anything to keep it that way.