Life is a series of black-and-white decisions
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- October 5, 2024
- 550
These, in chronological order, are my favorite 10 episodes of “The Andy Griffith Show”:
—“The Christmas Story” (Dec. 19, 1960).
—“The Pickle Story” (Dec. 18, 1961).
—“The Manicurist” (Jan. 22, 1962).
—“Mr. McBeevee” (Oct. 1, 1962).
—“The Mayberry Band” (Nov. 19, 1962).
—“The Bed Jacket” (Dec. 17, 1962).
—“Man in a Hurry” (Jan. 14, 1963).
—“Opie the Birdman” (Sept. 30, 1963).
—“Citizen’s Arrest” (Dec. 16, 1963).
—“Goober Takes a Car Apart” (Jan. 11, 1965).
What they have in common, aside from brilliant writing and wonderful acting, is they were all aired in black and white.
This, of course, was the way things were back when I was a kid, so by the time most shows began being telecast “in living color” a few years later, I was already accustomed to doing without.
Could Dad have afforded a color set? No doubt. He was, after all, a college professor, but he just didn’t trust the new-age technology. As I recall, his bedrock complaint revolved around the fact that a viewer could turn a baseball outfield blue and make the sky green, all by twisting and turning the hue and tint dials upon any impulse.
This, of course, could be chalked up to the fact that he and my mother were trying to raise three children who had been born within 40 months of each other, meaning we had power in numbers.
His suspicions were well founded because in the years before remote control, we’d forced him to use a matchbook to hold a channel, since the main selector had been stripped by our overuse.
The first time I experienced color television — to the best of my sometimes-suspect memory — was around Christmas 1964. I was 9, which means my sister was a year younger and our little brother was two years behind. We were living in the downstairs apartment of an up-and-down duplex, and the couple that occupied the second story invited us up to watch “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
We were dazzled by the animation, which was unlike anything we’d seen outside a movie theater. It couldn’t have been better.
Dad never did succumb to our repeated pleadings to invest in a color television, which was in keeping with his internal compass.
“Everything in moderation,” he preached in his scholarly voice.
I’ve often wondered since those prehistoric Dewey Days what might have happened had my father been exposed to the moment when Dorothy steps out of the farmhouse and into the Land of Oz.
It’s become a touchstone of modern cinema, the way the screen blossoms from sepia blandness into brilliance, prompting Judy Garland to say, “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” It just might have blown (and changed) Dad’s mind.
Beginning with the 1965 season, then, “The Andy Griffith Show” followed the medium’s trend toward inevitability and started airing every episode in color. We didn’t know this in our house, of course, but in the years that have passed, it’s become a matter of fact that from then until the show’s demise, something was lost.
Call it the show’s soul, its innocence, its essence, its magic.
Not that there weren’t a couple of notable exceptions, especially one titled “The Ball Game,” which first aired Oct. 3, 1966.
In it, Andy is asked to umpire a contest between Mayberry and Mount Pilot, a key game that involves Opie. The sheriff wants no part of the request, since the conflict of interest is so obvious, but the pestering townspeople won’t take no for an answer, which forces him to grudgingly get involved, a move he knows is stupid.
Of course, he makes the crucial “out” call at home plate, resulting in a massive backlash from Mayberry partisans. They threaten him, call him names, besmirch his reputation and pretty much shun him.
It falls to Howard Sprague, writing for the local newspaper, to hold up a mirror for his friends and neighbors to see the error of their ways. I don’t have his article in front of me, but as I recall, his honest reporting shames the townsfolk into admitting their mistake.
Which brings us to Pete Rose.
Baseball’s all-time hit leader died Monday at the age of 83.
Predictably, his death has reignited a decades-old debate, one that revolves around whether or not he should be in the Hall of Fame after having been banned from the game for betting on baseball while managing the Cincinnati Reds, something he lied about and denied for many years before finally admitting his guilt in a book.
At the time of his banishment, I wrote an unsigned editorial applauding commissioner Bart Giamatti’s unpopular decision.
Ever since I’ve maintained my belief that, in Giamatti’s memorable phrase, Pete Rose “stained the game of baseball.”
I’m reminded of what Andy Taylor said after Opie apologized for having killed a bird with his slingshot, orphaning three little ones.
“That won’t bring that bird to life,” he says, imparting a lesson that Pete Rose didn’t really learn until it was far, far too late. “Being sorry is not the magic word that makes everything right again.”
It’s always, always a good idea to live by Andy’s words of wisdom.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to find him on Facebook, where Mayberry epitomizes North Carolina’s charm.