Don was a small man ... but everything else about him was large: his mind, his expressions. Don was special. There's nobody like him. I loved him very much. We had a long and wonderful life together.
I call her my giant begonia. Wing span one meter plus. Jolly green leaves veined in deep salmon. Every time I get near her with pruning implements, I see she's given birth to more pale bloom babies at the furthest reaches of her solar plexus; I leave her to nurse her young.
It started out innocent enough one spring when Barbara, my botanically gifted neighbor, plunked a pot stand of flagrant foliage on my porch like so much ripe squash. I carted the monstrosity up to my tree house, left it for dead. Goddess knows, the tooth fairy must have shed some star dust on the grand dame. She thrived in my abandon, thrust her downy petals into summer's watch. A wistful Barbara told me the lady had never blessed her former mistress thus in all the years they'd lived together. I began to understand the allure of the unlikely lover.
Don Knotts died last week. He was the hyper inflated underling, least likely to thrive, late bloomer cast on the shores of a sit com unaware of its destiny: to unfurl the pink extravagance of this comedic hero. Barney Fife transformed Mayberry into the best vaudeville stage TV itself might conjure. Perfect chemistry on a summer's night, fans held a flutter, laughter caught high in the rafters of somebody's chicken barn eight miles south.
My parents, especially Mom, loved the Andy Griffith Show. When I was too little for sit coms, I drifted off to the sound of laughter downstairs. Deputy Fife, blustery, insecure, homely, endearing fool that he was, held my mother spellbound and neighing in the palms of his gigantically scrawny hands.
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