First off, Goobie isn’t named after Goober–in any way, shape or form. His nickname has to do with a peanut butter craving while his mama was pregnant. He doesn’t understand why his nickname is Goobie, just like he doesn’t understand why we spent some of the afternoon on the 4th of July, lying in bed together watching “The Andy Griffith Show”. He’s only ten months old. Other than Elmo on Sesame Street, he doesn’t really understand much about television. He will, though, when he’s older. My father and I watched Andy Griffith together for years and it’s been my favorite show for a long time now. I love what it stood for. I loved the characters. I loved the sentiment. Mostly, though, I loved the man–Andy Griffith–Sheriff Taylor. I even live in Danville, Indiana, home of “The Mayberry Cafe” which, as far as I know, is the world’s only restaurant that exists solely to pay tribute to the television show from the 60s that set the standard for wholesome television for generations.
Little Goobie turns his head when he hears the whistling at the end of the show and I’m sure he doesn’t notice the tiny puddle of moisture in the corner of my eye as the credits roll, I miss my dad and soak in the overwhelming joy of a 10-month-old son sitting on your chest while you watch re-runs of a no-longer-living-legend.
Rest in Peace, Sheriff.
Andrew Samuel “Andy” Griffith (June 1, 1926 – July 3, 2012)