Columns

Dear Savannah:

Wow, big day today. Little emotional around the house. Lots of lumps in throats, nervous smiles and anxious rushing around.

You probably think the first day of kindergarten is all about you, but, well, it’s not. It’s all about everything.

Because just like when your older brothers and sisters took this first small step on a seemingly endless walk along the path to education, it is overwhelming for those of us who love you and want that walk to be nothing but a dance through a rose garden.

In the eight awful days since God summoned angel Andy Griffith to the top of Mount Pilot and told him his baritone was needed among the heavenly hosts, I have read perhaps 10,000 words, watched about six hours of episodes, introduced a neophyte to What It Was Was Football and immersed in countless Internet comments about how this sole and soulful if sadly unacclaimed actor possibly could have risen to be an icon for two generations.

There is a sesne today that I shouldn’t be here. I should be in the suburbs of Denver, helping to lay to rest a man who in many ways made me whatever success I have been in this world, a man I call friend.
Just a week ago, Tom Patterson lay quietly in an ICU in California, tubes and machines breathing for him. Breathing long had been Tom’s downfall, brought on by a 15-year battle with a lung-eating disease called scleroderma.

They lounged beneath awnings that were erected under a shade tree in the front yard and at tables, chairs, benches and even a swing spaced along an L-shaped front porch. They squeezed into folding chairs at tables, found occasional seats along walls, surrounded card tables pushed together in the family room and even stood and sat in spots around the perimeter of the kitchen and on playground equipment in the back yard.