Like many, Andy Griffith has died.
Mom’s dad, Abuelito, joined the many last month. He died at 97.
Abuelito was very Renaissance. He trained for the priesthood. He worked as a publicist. He toiled as a poet. He relaxed with his secretary. Until my aunts walked in.
Abuelito enjoyed asking me- “¿M’ija, es cierto que en los Estados Unidos hay calles de un güey?”
Now that he’s gone, and the people of his Jaliscan village, Villa Guerrero, plan on naming a street in his honor, somebody must show them what I believe to be the superior tribute.
Otherwise, it will be the
To honor Andy Griffith’s most famous television role, and since I happen to be staying in an Iowan village reminiscent of Mayberry, I plan on strolling from stoop to stoop, checking to see whether or not people still feel safe enough to keep their doors unlocked.
If neighborhood watch shoos me, I’ll remind them of how foolish the people of Bethlehem must have felt after another bedraggled Myriam attempted to crawl into a hayloft there.
Behold, my Midwestern Bethlehem’s two marquees:
We are staying with TJ’s parents. Her father, who calls me kid, saved his garden’s first crop of vegetables for me, since I’m from California, and foolish enough to eat those. To assist TJ with a comedic bit she performs about being attacked by an elderly, road-enraged Texan, he bought her a cane. He explained to her that this cane was probably used to herd hogs when they get out of line, kind of like Myriam, and he demonstrated how she ought to incorporate it into her act.
I want to incorporate it into mine.
I’m altering my wardrobe in order to fit in with the community.
I feel safe stowing my luggage beside a crossbow.