I Miss Mayberry

In honor of Valentine's Day, here's my musings on fictional TV characters from my growing up years who formed my idea of what men should be like.

SHERIFF ANDY TAYLOR (The Andy Griffith Show)

Andy is just about the perfect man. He's usually the smartest person in the room, but you never, ever get the sense that he's laughing at others behind their backs. He never looks down at, or talks down to, them. He never points out how bright he is (because, frankly, the more often someone says it, the less often it's true.) He's very, very good at what he does, but quick to listen to others and ask for help without being patronizing.

He's an amazing dad, not too indulgent, too strict, too distant or too smothering. He depends on Aunt Bee without being helpless. He allows Barney the autonomy he needs, and encourages others to accept him as an authority figure, but it's always clear that Andy is the boss. He lets Barney (and for that matter, Opie) experience the consequences of his mistakes, but steps in before irreparable damage is done.

After the work day is over, he sits on his porch playing his guitar and singing. He says hello to everyone as they pass by, and he means it.

I rarely fantasized about being married to rock stars, but I frequently thought about how perfect it would be to be married to Andy Taylor.

DOCTOR LEONARD "BONES" MCCOY (Star Trek)

Kirk was admirable, and Spock was amazing. I watched both to glean insight into the kind of character traits I wanted to have (keep the loyalty, insight and powers of observation; skip the promiscuity), but the one that I wanted to get the girl, especially if the girl was me, was McCoy.

He wasn't, and never aspired to be, in a command position, but he never felt overlooked, second best or relegated to lower status. He was good at his job and convinced of its value, but also valued the work of others. He was a rule follower, but when the rules conflicted with his moral code he was not conflicted himself; that choice was easy.

He enjoyed the wonder and majesty of the universe, but never quite trusted the machines that took him there. I could completely relate to his distrust of the transporters.

If you didn't know him, some of his conversation would lead you to believe that he was a bigot, but he wasn't. If his best friend had had an artificial leg, he would have called him "Gimpy" or "Stumpy," and made comments about him being less than a complete man. It was his way of blowing off steam; politically incorrect, but not malicious.

COLONEL SHERMAN T. POTTER (M*A*S*H)

I love Harry Morgan, but I was so completely prepared to truly dislike Col. Potter. Losing Henry Blake was so painful. Over 30 years later, I still cry every time I watch his final episode and hear Radar say, "There were no survivors." It would seem that anyone would be better than Frank, but I was still not prepared to give the new guy a fair shake. "He's regular Army!" I complained to my mother. "He'll ruin everything!"

Instead, I quickly adored Potter. By the end of his very first episode I was thinking, "This guy is OK." Soon, he was a cherished friend. I missed him, as I missed them all, when the series ended.

Sensible, unflappable, plain spoken, a lover of horses and a talented surgeon, Potter was a stabilizing center of the storm. He knew when to cut through the b.s. and when to tolerate or even encourage it. He loved his country and had chosen to be career Army, but he hated war and its destruction. He loved his wife and kids, and couldn't wait until he was home barbequeing in his back yard.

So many times, couples focus on falling in love, not being in love. If you're lucky, you end up old and gray haired together. Colonel Potter gave me a glimpse of a man, and a life, at that age that looked very appealing. And who wouldn't love a man who said, "Horse hockey!"

BJ HUNNICUTT (M*A*S*H)

BJ made the best of circumstances he never asked for. His rebellion was usually quiet and never for its own sake, but spoke volumes. His pink shirt said more, and said it more eloquently, than words would have. He knew that silliness did not necessarily equate to frivolousness. He didn't worry too much about how others perceived his work or how he stood in the hierarchy - he did his best work because it was the right thing to do, not because someone might be looking or because he might be promoted.

His love for his family was as much a part of him as his right arm. He didn't have to constantly tell you it was there; he didn't have to work at it. It just was.

He wasn't perfect. He drank too much, and once cheated on his wife. He didn't do either of those things because he was self indulgent or felt entitled; he did them because he was in almost unbearable pain.

He was funny - not spotlight grabbing, "look at me" funny, but "share this with me, let's all enjoy ourselves" funny.

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All of us grow up looking at people we know, the TV we watch, the movies we see and the books we read, and we form opinions about life and people. My life is better because these fictional men touched it.

What Are You Wearing?

The other shoppers kept looking sideways at me as I advised my daughter on clothes today. "Neon colors," I'd say, looking through racks of blouses. "Shoulder pads." "A blouse with a big, floppy bow at the neck," (to which she replied, "Oh, NO!") Looking through skirts, I advised, "Think denim with lots of lace and shiny things. (Slightly puzzled, my 24 year old queried, "Like bedazzled?") The most surreal moment came in the shoe department. My daughter wondered aloud whether she should buy a pair of high heeled, pointed toed sandals made of gold snakeskin, and my reply was, "If you can imagine Madonna wearing it, you're probably safe." There's a sentence I never imagined myself uttering.

We were shopping at Goodwill, trying to find an outfit for the 80s themed party my daughter's attending this weekend. I'd pull dresses off of the rack and say, "This is very 80s," or, "Look for those big, puffy sleeves that you hate." After about half an hour, my daughter said to me, "So, what I'm hearing is, find the most hideous clothes that you can."

I'd contemplated loaning her my wedding gown, but I don't think it would fit her. Besides, a wedding gown would probably be wildly out of place at a party.

Later, standing in front of the costume jewelry at WalMart, she'd asked, "Is this 80s?" and, "What about these?" "It's hard to remember," I told her. "I was never fashionable."

She laughed out loud - "Great, Mom, great," but I wasn't kidding.

In 1980, I was graduating from junior high. By 1990, I had a high school diploma, a husband, a mortgage (on the second home we'd ever bought), and two preschoolers, who would turn 3 and 4 that year. Never, in all that time (or any other), was I dressed fashionably.

Trying to think back, so I could help my daughter choose, I was mostly thinking about movies. What, besides the prom dress, did Molly Ringwald wear in "Pretty in Pink" - or was that the 90s? What did Madonna wear in "Desperately Seeking Susan?" All I could recall were fingerless gloves and some kind of big, mesh bow in her hair. What constituted the New Wave look? I tried to remember the fashionable kids in high school.

When my kids were born, we got keepsake "Baby's First Year" calendars, the kind where you put stickers to commemorate rolling over, visits to grandparents and the like. At the top of each month were places to put things like the baby's family tree, headlines and other records. One month had a headline that said something like, "What Was Popular." Some of it I could fairly easily fill out - "President of the U.S.," "Hit Songs" - but the line for "Popular Fashions" stumped me. I had to really think, and then wing it. For my daughter born in 1987, I wrote "acid washed denim." Even as I wrote it, I pictured her asking me, years later, what made acid washed different from any other denim, and me fumbling. "It looks kind of faded, but not like regular fading from wear..."

I wore jeans and T-shirts, which became knit pants and T-shirts. I never had Big Hair. I may never have been fashionable, but I'm recognizable, and not embarrassed by my old photos. Or my current ones. Maybe I'm just oblivious, but if I am, I'm OK with that.

My daughter has wondered aloud at the wisdom of throwing a party where "we all look like crap." Hey, kid, it's a theme - go with it!

She settled on a neon plaid madras shirt with a turqouoise top underneath, leggings under a very short, ruffled skirt, black tennis shoes, turquoise feather earrings, plastic bangles, blue eyeshadow and a ponytail sprouting out of the side of her head. She'll look amazingly authentic - and without puffy sleeves. Now, if I can only talk her into some big shoulder pads...