What the Full House Cast's Real-Life Friendships Teach Us About Loyalty

I've always believed that a friendship worth keeping requires more than occasionally telling somebody you miss them.

You have to make an effort.

You have to remember that the other person has a life, too. You have to show up sometimes, even when there's nothing in it for you.

And if you've known someone for forty years, I'd certainly hope you have a few things to laugh about.

That's what caught my attention when I read about the recent Full House cast reunion.

Jodie Sweetin and Andrea Barber were talking about their friendship, the years they've known one another, and the ridiculous inside jokes that still make them laugh.

Nearly forty years after they first worked together as children, they're still finding reasons to enjoy each other's company.

Now that's a friendship with some mileage on it.

The Full House Cast Reunites Nearly 40 Years Later

Full House premiered in September 1987 and introduced viewers to the Tanner family.

Bob Saget played Danny Tanner, a widowed father raising three daughters with help from his brother-in-law Jesse and his friend Joey.

Jodie Sweetin played Stephanie Tanner, while Andrea Barber played Kimmy Gibbler, the Tanner family's wonderfully irritating next-door neighbor.

Kimmy could be loud, intrusive, and completely oblivious to the fact that not everyone wanted her company every minute of the day.

In other words, she was excellent sitcom material.

But outside the fictional Tanner household, Sweetin and Barber developed a friendship that continued long after the original show ended in 1995.

They worked together again on Fuller House, which ran from 2016 to 2020, and later began hosting the How Rude, Tanneritos! rewatch podcast.

On October 18, 2026, they reunited with several castmates at '90s Con, where they reflected on the bonds that had lasted well beyond their childhood television careers.

Sweetin described the chaos of getting everyone together and the strange, funny feeling of being part of a group with so much shared history.

Barber talked about their inside jokes, including the way they can laugh at things nobody else finds particularly funny.

I understand that.

Sometimes all it takes is one look from someone who knows you well.

Everybody else wonders what's so funny.

You and your friend are practically falling out of your chairs.

And explaining the joke would only ruin it.

Growing Up Together Doesn't Guarantee Staying Friends

I think there's an important distinction between having known someone for a long time and actually maintaining a friendship.

Plenty of people have childhood friends they haven't spoken to in decades.

There's nothing necessarily wrong with that. People move, grow apart, change interests, and develop different priorities.

But the length of a relationship doesn't automatically tell us how strong it is.

A person you met two years ago might be more dependable than someone you've known since kindergarten.

I don't measure friendship simply by how far back it goes.

I measure it by how people treat one another.

Do they keep their word?

Can they be trusted with something private?

Are they willing to listen?

Do they make an effort to stay connected?

And when things become difficult, do they disappear until life becomes entertaining again?

Those questions tell me much more about friendship than the number of years two people have known each other.

What I appreciate about Sweetin and Barber's story is that their relationship didn't end with the television series that brought them together.

They found ways to continue it.

A Real Friendship Needs More Than Nostalgia

I've always enjoyed revisiting old television shows, but nostalgia can only take you so far.

Remembering the good old days is lovely.

Living entirely in them?

Not so much.

The same goes for friendship.

You can spend hours remembering what you did together at thirteen, but if you have no interest in who your friend is today, something is missing.

People change.

They get married, have children, change careers, experience disappointments, and develop interests they didn't have when they were younger.

A good friendship makes room for that.

It doesn't demand that everyone remain exactly as they were forty years ago.

I explored a similar idea in my article about Joe Cruz's departure from Chicago Fire. When someone's circumstances change, the people who genuinely care about him don't suddenly forget he exists. Friendships shouldn't depend entirely on keeping the same job, routine, or lifestyle.

Sweetin and Barber didn't simply attend a reunion, remember their childhood, and go home.

They've continued working together, including revisiting their television history through a podcast.

That doesn't mean every friendship needs a joint business venture.

Good grief, no.

Some friends are better off never sharing a checking account, let alone a business.

But it does show that a relationship can evolve instead of remaining stuck in the past.

And I like that.

Good Friends Don't Have to Agree About Everything

Here's where I get a little old-fashioned.

I don't believe friendship requires agreeing with every opinion somebody has.

If I had to limit myself to people who agreed with me about everything, I'd probably spend an awful lot of time talking to myself.

And even then, I might change my mind about something and start an argument.

I have strong beliefs. I don't hide them.

But I can appreciate somebody's humor, kindness, honesty, and character without expecting her to share every one of my opinions.

What I do expect is basic respect.

Don't lie to me.

Don't betray my confidence.

Don't make promises you have no intention of keeping.

And don't pretend we're friends when you only remember I exist because you need something.

Disagreement is one thing.

Disrespect is another.

A friendship that can't survive a difference of opinion may not have been especially strong in the first place.

But that doesn't mean anyone is obligated to remain close to a person who repeatedly behaves badly.

Loyalty shouldn't become an excuse for tolerating mistreatment.

Sometimes Friendship Is About Laughing Together

I love that Sweetin and Barber talked about laughing at inside jokes nobody else understands.

Because friendship doesn't always have to involve serious conversations, emotional confessions, or helping someone through a crisis.

Sometimes you just need someone who appreciates your sense of humor.

Someone who remembers the ridiculous things you did when you were younger.

Someone who can remind you of an embarrassing moment without making you feel humiliated.

Or someone who understands exactly why you find something funny when everyone else is staring at you.

Humor can make ordinary time together enjoyable.

And I don't think we give that enough credit.

Not every conversation needs to be meaningful.

Sometimes a good laugh is enough.

I developed much of my own sense of humor from television, and I still appreciate people who can recognize the absurdity of a situation without turning every little thing into a crisis.

If you can laugh at yourself, even better.

That's a quality I admire in a person.

And I suspect it's part of what keeps many long friendships enjoyable.

How I'd Keep an Old Friendship Alive

You don't need to organize a reunion or start a podcast to maintain a friendship.

I'd begin with something much simpler.

Get in touch without needing anything.

Send a message because you were thinking about the person.

"I saw something today that reminded me of you. How have you been?"

If a friend has an important event coming up, remember it.

If she mentioned something she's worried about, ask how it went.

If you've both been busy, make an effort to arrange a conversation rather than waiting indefinitely for the other person to do it.

And when you're together, give the person your attention.

Don't spend the entire visit staring at your phone.

Don't make every conversation about yourself.

And please, for the love of common sense, don't ask someone a question only to interrupt the answer halfway through.

You'd think listening would be an obvious part of friendship.

Apparently not always.

I also believe in respecting people's time.

A friend shouldn't have to be available every minute of the day to prove she cares about you.

People have responsibilities, families, work, and sometimes simply need time to themselves.

A good friend understands that.

You Can Be Loyal Without Being a Doormat

I think this is an important point.

Friendship shouldn't be a competition to see who can put up with the most nonsense.

If someone repeatedly lies, borrows money without returning it, shares your private business, or ignores every boundary you establish, you don't have to accept that behavior in the name of loyalty.

Being a mensch includes treating yourself with some dignity, too.

A good friend can make mistakes.

We all do.

But a good friend should also be willing to admit those mistakes and make things right.

That's the kind of friendship I'd want to keep for forty years.

Not one where somebody constantly behaves badly and expects a lifetime exemption from consequences because you've known each other since childhood.

History can be valuable.

It isn't a free pass.

What the Full House Friendships Remind Me Of

When Full House first aired, the premise was built around people coming together to help raise a family.

The characters weren't always related by blood, but they shared responsibilities, disagreements, laughter, and the ordinary chaos of living under one roof.

The real-life friendships among some of the performers give that familiar television idea another dimension.

The cast members grew older. Their careers and lives changed. The original show ended.

And some of those relationships continued.

I wouldn't pretend every cast member is equally close to every other one. That's not something an audience can know from a reunion photograph.

But the friendship Sweetin and Barber describe is something they've maintained over many years.

And I think that's worth appreciating.

Because friendship isn't simply about being there when the circumstances bring you together.

It's about deciding that the other person is worth making room for after those circumstances change.

If someone has been a good friend to you, don't wait forty years for a reunion to let her know you appreciate her.

Make the effort now.

Call. Write. Remember. Listen. Laugh together.

And when you promise to stay in touch, actually do it.

That's not complicated.

It's just being a decent human being.

Or, as I prefer to call it, being a mensch.

Sources and Further Reading

People — Jodie Sweetin and Andrea Barber Reflect on Their Friendship

TV Insider — Full House Cast Reunites at '90s Con 2026

Joe Cruz's Chicago Fire Goodbye: What Loyalty Looks Like When Life Changes

I've always believed loyalty is easy to talk about when everything is going well.

It's when somebody's life takes an unexpected turn that you find out who actually means it.

A person loses a job. Someone gets hurt. A longtime coworker can no longer do what he's always done. Suddenly the relationship isn't quite as convenient as it used to be.

That's when people start showing their true colors.

And as Chicago Fire prepares to say goodbye to Joe Cruz in its 300th episode, I think there's a lesson worth discussing about friendship, loyalty, and how we treat people when their circumstances change.

Not every lesson has to come from a 1960s sitcom.

Sometimes modern television gets it right, too.

Chicago Fire Reaches 300 Episodes With a Difficult Goodbye

Chicago Fire premiered in 2012, introducing audiences to the firefighters, rescue squad, and paramedics of Firehouse 51.

One of those characters was Joe Cruz, played by Joe Miñoso.

Over the years, Cruz has become an important part of the show's story. Viewers have watched him navigate dangerous calls, friendships, personal losses, marriage, fatherhood, and the responsibilities that come with a demanding career.

His friendship with Kelly Severide has also been a recurring part of the series.

But the show's fifteenth season has brought a major change.

Following a serious injury, Cruz has been dealing with the possibility that his future may look very different from the life he's known.

The milestone 300th episode, titled "Three Hundred," is scheduled to air November 4, 2026, and will serve as Miñoso's departure as a series regular.

As I write this, the episode hasn't aired, so I'm not going to pretend I know exactly how his farewell unfolds.

What we do know is that the show's producers have emphasized family and friendship as central themes.

And I think that's a fitting direction for a character whose story has been so connected to the people around him.

Who Are You When You Can No Longer Do What You've Always Done?

There's something about losing the ability to do a familiar job that people don't always understand.

For some, a career is simply how they pay the bills.

For others, it's tied to their identity, routine, friendships, and sense of purpose.

When that changes, the person doesn't suddenly stop being valuable.

But sometimes the people around him forget that.

I have very little patience for the idea that someone matters only as long as he's useful.

You can admire a person's hard work without reducing his entire worth to his job.

You can respect a firefighter without believing his value disappears when he can no longer fight fires.

And you can appreciate a longtime coworker without treating him like an old piece of office equipment that's ready to be replaced.

That's where loyalty comes in.

Not blind loyalty.

Not agreeing with everything someone does or making excuses for terrible behavior.

I mean remembering that someone is still a human being when the circumstances that brought you together begin to change.

Joe Miñoso Has Spent Years Growing Alongside Cruz

In an October 30 interview with TV Insider, Joe Miñoso reflected on what playing Cruz has meant to him.

He spoke about the friendships formed during years of working on Chicago Fire and the many stages of life his character has experienced.

He also explained that leaving the role is bittersweet.

Understandably so.

Imagine spending approximately fifteen years working with many of the same people, sharing long days, celebrating milestones, and helping tell stories that become part of viewers' lives.

Then one day, the routine changes.

Even when there's a good reason for leaving, that doesn't mean the relationships disappear.

Miñoso has said he remains connected with cast and crew members, and he's expected to return behind the camera to direct an episode.

I like that.

Sometimes leaving a particular role doesn't mean leaving the people who became important to you.

And sometimes the next chapter of someone's life deserves just as much encouragement as the previous one.

Don't Wait Until Someone Leaves to Appreciate Him

Here's one thing I wish more people would learn.

If somebody has been dependable, helpful, hardworking, or loyal, tell him while he's still around.

Don't save all your kind words for a retirement party.

Don't wait until someone quits before announcing what an enormous contribution she made.

And don't spend years treating a person like he's replaceable, then deliver a touching speech about how much he'll be missed.

I've always found that rather backwards.

If you appreciate somebody, act like it.

That's something I was reminded of when I read what John Ritter's co-stars recently said about him. Years after his death, they still remember the kindness and encouragement he showed them. Apparently, a few thoughtful words can leave quite an impression.

At work, that might mean giving a colleague credit for helping you solve a problem.

At home, it might mean thanking someone for taking care of an ordinary responsibility that usually goes unnoticed.

In a friendship, it might mean checking in without waiting until you need a favor.

None of that requires a grand gesture.

Just consideration.

You know, that old-fashioned concept that seems to create so much difficulty for some people.

What I'd Do When Someone's Life Changes

Suppose a longtime coworker is leaving after years of working together.

Instead of making the entire conversation about how inconvenient his departure will be for everyone else, I'd tell him what I appreciated.

Something specific.

"You've always been somebody I could count on. I appreciated how willing you were to help when things got difficult."

That's better than a generic farewell card signed by twenty people who barely looked up from their desks.

Or imagine a friend has to give up an activity you used to enjoy together.

Maybe you always went hiking, worked on projects, or met somewhere that no longer works for that person.

You have a choice.

You can allow the friendship to disappear because the old routine is gone.

Or you can find another way to spend time together.

"We can't do what we used to, but I'd still like to get together. What would work for you?"

You don't need to take over someone's life or treat him as helpless.

You just need to remember that friendship isn't supposed to depend entirely on convenience.

And I'd add one more rule.

Don't make promises you won't keep.

If you tell someone you'll stay in touch, make an effort to do it.

An occasional honest conversation means more than a dramatic declaration of lifelong friendship followed by complete silence.

Being Part of a Team Should Mean Something

Television dramas love describing coworkers as family.

Sometimes that works beautifully.

Other times, I think we should be careful.

A workplace isn't automatically a family simply because someone in management announces that it is.

Real loyalty requires behavior, not slogans.

It means treating people fairly, respecting their contributions, and remembering that their lives don't revolve entirely around the job.

And it means understanding that people sometimes have to move on.

A good colleague doesn't have to work beside you forever to deserve your respect.

A person who retires, changes careers, or faces an unexpected limitation hasn't somehow erased everything he contributed before.

You can be sad about a departure while still supporting the person who's leaving.

That's the kind of loyalty I admire.

What I'll Be Watching for in Cruz's Farewell

When Chicago Fire reaches its 300th episode, I'm interested in more than whether Cruz gets an emotional send-off.

I'll be interested in how the story treats him.

Does it recognize the person he's become beyond his job?

Does it show the value of the relationships he's built?

And does it leave room for the idea that someone's life can change without making everything that came before meaningless?

Those are the questions that interest me.

I don't need every television story to end happily.

Real life certainly doesn't.

But I do appreciate stories that remember people deserve dignity when life gets difficult.

Joe Cruz's departure offers an opportunity to examine that idea.

And if there's one lesson I'd like viewers to take away, it's this:

Loyalty isn't proven by how loudly you call someone family. It's proven by how you treat that person when the old arrangements no longer suit you.

That's something worth remembering long after the firehouse doors close.

And to me, that's part of being a mensch.

Sources and Further Reading

Entertainment Weekly — Chicago Fire Prepares for Joe Cruz's Farewell

TV Insider — Joe Miñoso Discusses Leaving Chicago Fire

Give Me My Remote — NBC's 300th Episode Preview

Why Three's Company Still Makes Us Laugh: The Trouble With Jumping to Conclusions

If the people on Three's Company had simply asked a few questions and waited for the answers, half the episodes would've been over before the first commercial.

Somebody overheard a conversation. Somebody misunderstood what was happening. Somebody immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.

And instead of clearing things up, everyone proceeded to make a complete ass of themselves.

I loved that kind of television comedy.

There's something wonderfully ridiculous about watching people become so convinced they know what's happening that they refuse to consider any other explanation.

Of course, it's considerably less entertaining when you're dealing with someone like that in real life.

And that's what makes Three's Company such a good show to revisit.

Three's Company Is Approaching Its 50th Anniversary

Three's Company premiered on ABC on March 15, 1977, introducing audiences to Jack Tripper, Janet Wood, and Chrissy Snow.

John Ritter, Joyce DeWitt, and Suzanne Somers helped turn an apartment full of misunderstandings into one of the best-known sitcoms of its era.

The show ran for eight seasons, ending in 1984.

On November 2, 2026, the John Ritter Foundation for Aortic Health held a special event at Joe's Pub in New York City to begin celebrating the show's approaching 50th anniversary.

The evening included a staged reading of a classic Three's Company episode, bringing the show's comedy back to an audience while supporting a cause associated with Ritter's legacy.

I think it's rather nice that a television show people watched for laughs can still bring people together for something worthwhile nearly fifty years after its premiere.

But what interests me most is why the comedy worked so well in the first place.

Nobody Ever Seemed to Ask the Obvious Question

The basic formula of Three's Company was remarkably simple.

Someone misunderstood something.

Then, instead of asking for clarification, the characters spent the next twenty minutes making everything worse.

Jack would panic. Janet would become exasperated. Chrissy might misunderstand the explanation. Mr. Roper or Mr. Furley would develop an entirely different idea about what was happening.

By the time the truth finally came out, everybody had worked himself into a state over something that frequently wasn't happening at all.

It was funny because the audience usually knew more than the characters.

We could see the mistake.

We knew what somebody should have asked.

And we watched the characters avoid doing the one sensible thing that would've solved the problem.

Sound familiar?

I've encountered enough misunderstandings in everyday life to know that people don't need a television script to behave this way.

Someone hears half a conversation and assumes the rest.

Someone sees two people talking and decides they must be discussing him.

Someone gets an unexpected answer and immediately invents an explanation rather than asking what the other person meant.

Then comes the argument.

And half the time, the argument is about something nobody actually said.

Assumptions Can Make a Fool Out of Anyone

I'm a firm believer in asking people what they mean.

Not because I think everyone deserves a fifteen-minute interrogation, but because I'd rather understand what's happening than waste an afternoon being angry about something I've imagined.

If a friend says she's busy and can't get together, I'd rather ask whether another day works than immediately assume she's avoiding me.

If someone makes a comment that sounds insulting, I might ask what he meant before deciding he intended to be rude.

And if I overhear part of a conversation, I try to remember that I've heard exactly that: part of a conversation.

Not the whole thing.

Now, I'm not saying we should ignore obvious behavior or pretend people never lie.

I'm saying there's a difference between having evidence and having a suspicion.

Three's Company made an entire television career out of showing what happens when people can't tell the difference.

And John Ritter's reactions made the foolishness even funnier.

Jack Tripper Had a Talent for Making Things Worse

Jack was a decent enough fellow underneath all the chaos, but he wasn't exactly a master of straightforward communication.

He could come up with an elaborate excuse in less time than it would've taken him to explain the truth.

One small misunderstanding became two.

Then three.

Before long, Jack was falling over the furniture, trying to remember which story he'd told to which person, and wondering how he'd gotten himself into another mess.

Here's my old-fashioned opinion.

If you have to invent three explanations to defend the first explanation, there's a good chance you've made a bad decision.

And if you're lying to avoid a little embarrassment, you may end up with a whole lot more embarrassment than you started with.

I think that's a useful lesson for children and adults alike.

Tell the truth when you can.

Explain yourself clearly.

And don't complicate an ordinary situation just because you're worried about how someone might react.

That doesn't mean sharing private information with everyone who asks. People have a right to their privacy.

But privacy and elaborate dishonesty aren't the same thing.

How I'd Handle a Real-Life Three's Company Moment

Let's say a family member hears you talking about moving some furniture and assumes you're planning to throw out something that belongs to her.

She becomes upset.

You become irritated because you weren't planning to throw anything away.

And now you're arguing about an imaginary furniture disposal operation.

Instead of spending twenty minutes defending yourself against something you never intended to do, I'd try this:

"That's not what I said. I was talking about moving the furniture, not getting rid of it. Can we please make sure we're talking about the same thing?"

Or suppose your spouse tells you he has plans for Saturday, and you assume he deliberately scheduled something without considering you.

Ask.

"What did you have planned? I thought we were doing something together."

Perhaps he forgot. Perhaps you misunderstood. Perhaps he really was inconsiderate.

But at least you'll be dealing with the actual situation rather than an imaginary one.

And if you're the person who jumped to conclusions, admit it.

"I misunderstood what you meant. I should've asked before getting upset."

There.

An entire episode of unnecessary arguing avoided.

Jack Tripper would be unemployed.

Being Funny and Being Considerate Aren't Opposites

One of the things I appreciate about Three's Company is how willing its performers were to look ridiculous.

John Ritter's physical comedy was extraordinary, and the chemistry among the cast helped turn ordinary misunderstandings into memorable television.

Joyce DeWitt recently recalled how much trust she and Ritter shared while performing those scenes.

That trust apparently extended beyond their performances. In my article about John Ritter's kindness, I look at what DeWitt and his other co-stars remember about working with him, including the encouragement he gave younger actors.

Trust is easy to overlook when we're laughing at people falling over one another.

But it takes cooperation to make that kind of comedy work.

You need to pay attention to the other person.

You need to know your part.

And you need to care whether your fellow performer is comfortable and safe doing what you're doing.

Those are pretty useful habits outside a television studio, too.

I don't believe being considerate means being boring.

You can have strong opinions. You can tease someone affectionately. You can laugh at life's absurdities.

But you should also know when a joke has gone too far, when you've misunderstood someone, and when it's time to stop talking and listen.

The Lesson That Still Holds Up

I don't think every old sitcom needs to contain some grand moral message.

Sometimes people just want to laugh.

I certainly do.

But when I look back at Three's Company, I see a lesson that applies to practically every generation.

Stop treating your assumptions as facts.

Ask a question.

Listen to the answer.

And when you realize you've made a fool of yourself, have enough character to admit it.

That doesn't mean we'll never misunderstand another person again.

We're human beings. Misunderstandings are practically guaranteed.

But we don't have to turn every misunderstanding into a crisis.

Nearly fifty years after Jack Tripper first began getting himself into ridiculous situations, I think the show's central joke remains wonderfully familiar.

People make life harder than it needs to be.

And sometimes the smartest thing you can do is ask one simple question before opening your mouth to announce what you think you know.

Being a mensch includes giving people a fair chance to explain themselves.

Besides, I'd rather laugh at Jack Tripper's misunderstandings than spend my own afternoon living through one.

Sources and Further Reading

The John Ritter Foundation — Three's Company Anniversary Celebration

FOX 5 New York — Three's Company Anniversary Event

People — Joyce DeWitt Remembers John Ritter

John Ritter's Kindness Was No Act: What His TV Co-Stars Still Remember

I've always believed you can learn a lot about someone by listening to what other people say about them when they're no longer around.

Not how much money they made. Not how famous they became. Not how many awards they collected.

How they treated people.

And when I read what Joyce DeWitt and Amy Davidson recently said about John Ritter, I found myself thinking that his greatest talent might not have been making people laugh.

It might have been making people feel good about themselves.

Now, I don't expect television stars to be saints. Being funny on television doesn't automatically make someone a wonderful human being. Some people can be perfectly charming in front of an audience and absolutely miserable to deal with the minute the cameras stop rolling.

But the memories Ritter's colleagues have been sharing tell a rather different story.

And I think there's something we can all learn from them.

Joyce DeWitt Remembers the Man Behind Jack Tripper

On November 3, 2026, People published an interview with Joyce DeWitt, who played Janet Wood opposite Ritter's Jack Tripper on Three's Company.

DeWitt had attended a celebration of the sitcom's approaching 50th anniversary in New York the previous evening.

She recalled how naturally she and Ritter worked together from the moment they met. Their physical comedy depended on trust. When one actor stumbled, lunged, or threw himself into some ridiculous situation, the other had to know what was coming.

You can't have someone falling all over the furniture while his fellow actors wonder whether he's about to land on them.

Well, you can, but I doubt you'd keep the same cast for very long.

DeWitt described the "absolute trust" they shared and remembered Ritter as someone who wanted everyone included in the fun.

She also admired his willingness to look ridiculous if it would get a laugh.

That's one of the things I appreciate about good comedy.

You can't be overly impressed with yourself and still be willing to look like a complete fool.

And John Ritter was exceptionally good at looking like a fool.

Jack Tripper Was Funny Because John Ritter Wasn't Afraid to Be Silly

Think about Jack Tripper for a minute.

The man could turn answering a telephone, opening a door, or walking into the wrong room into a physical comedy routine.

He'd misunderstand something, panic, invent an explanation, and then spend the rest of the episode making the situation ten times worse.

Half the time, a simple honest conversation would've solved everything.

But where's the sitcom in that?

What made Ritter so entertaining was his willingness to commit to the foolishness. He didn't play Jack as someone who knew he was funny. Jack generally thought he was being terribly clever while everything around him fell apart.

There's a difference.

An actor who spends all his time trying to look cool doesn't have much room for that kind of comedy.

And in ordinary life, people who are constantly protecting their dignity can be exhausting.

I don't mean anyone should turn himself into the neighborhood clown.

But there's something refreshing about a person who can laugh at himself without worrying that doing so will somehow diminish his importance.

That willingness to look ridiculous is one reason Three's Company still makes me laugh. I've also written about why Jack Tripper's misunderstandings were so funny and what they taught us about jumping to conclusions.

A little humility goes a long way.

Especially when it's accompanied by good manners.

What John Ritter Said to a Nervous Young Actress

Another recent interview tells us even more about how Ritter treated people.

Amy Davidson, who played his daughter Kerry on 8 Simple Rules, recalled her first table read with him.

Davidson was nervous. She had an emotional scene to perform, and she was sitting beside a television star with years of experience.

Rather than make her feel intimidated, Ritter quietly reached for her hand beneath the table and encouraged her.

He told her she was talented.

And here's the remarkable part.

More than twenty years after Ritter's death in 2003, Davidson still remembers that moment. She told Entertainment Weekly that his words continue to reassure her when she doubts herself.

Think about that.

A few seconds of kindness from someone with more experience stayed with another person for decades.

Ritter probably didn't realize how important that moment would become to her.

Most people don't.

We go through life saying things to one another without always knowing which words will stick.

Unfortunately, that works both ways.

A careless insult can follow someone for years.

So can a sincere compliment.

You Don't Need to Be Famous to Make Someone Feel Valued

I have a pretty simple philosophy about this.

If somebody does something well, tell them.

If a young person is nervous about trying something new, encourage them.

If someone works hard, acknowledge the effort.

And if you're in a position of authority, don't use that position to make everyone beneath you feel small.

It costs absolutely nothing to be decent.

I know, I know. Apparently that's a radical concept in some circles.

But I've never understood people who believe they have to withhold compliments to maintain their authority.

A boss doesn't become less important because he praises an employee. A parent doesn't lose control because she acknowledges her child's effort. An experienced professional doesn't diminish his accomplishments by encouraging someone who's just starting out.

Quite the opposite.

Imagine being the person who makes someone feel more capable rather than more insecure.

That's a reputation worth having.

And you don't need a television career to earn it.

What I'd Actually Do in Everyday Life

Suppose someone you work with has just given a presentation and seems nervous about how it went.

You could say, "Good job," and walk away.

Nothing wrong with that.

But I'd rather be specific.

"You explained that really clearly. I could tell you put a lot of thought into it."

Or imagine a child who's worked hard on something but doesn't think it's good enough.

Instead of automatically telling the child everything he does is wonderful, point out something real.

"I noticed how much effort you put into that. You didn't give up when it got difficult."

There's no reason to make up praise. Children and adults alike deserve honesty.

But when there's something genuinely worth recognizing, why keep it to yourself?

And here's another habit I'd encourage: compliment people when they aren't in the room.

If a coworker deserves credit, give it to her. If somebody went out of his way to help, mention it. If a friend did something thoughtful, don't act as though it was nothing.

Being a mensch isn't only about avoiding bad behavior.

It's also about noticing good behavior.

The Kind of Legacy That Impresses Me

John Ritter died in September 2003 at just 54 years old.

He left behind a television career that included Three's Company, 8 Simple Rules, and many other performances.

His family also established the John Ritter Foundation for Aortic Health, which continues working to raise awareness of aortic disease and support affected families.

That's an important part of the legacy surrounding his name.

But what struck me about these recent interviews was something much smaller and more personal.

Joyce DeWitt remembers the trust they shared.

Amy Davidson remembers a few encouraging words.

Kaley Cuoco, who also worked with Ritter on 8 Simple Rules, has spoken about the support and humor he brought to the set.

Different people. Different memories.

But a common thread runs through them.

He made people feel comfortable, supported, and included.

I can't claim to know everything about a man I never met. None of us can.

But I can admire the behavior his colleagues describe.

And I can take something useful from it.

If you want people to remember you fondly, start with the way you treat them today.

Not when there's an audience. Not when somebody important is watching. Not because you expect something in return.

Just because it's the decent thing to do.

John Ritter spent years making audiences laugh. Judging by the memories his colleagues still carry, he also knew how to make people feel valued.

That's the sort of thing I call being a mensch.

Sources and Further Reading

People — Joyce DeWitt Remembers Working With John Ritter

Entertainment Weekly — Amy Davidson Recalls John Ritter's Encouragement

The John Ritter Foundation for Aortic Health

How to Teach Children Responsibility Without Shaming Them

I've always believed children should be held accountable for their behavior. If they break something, hurt somebody, lie, or disregard a rule, there should be consequences.

Call me old-fashioned, but I don't think teaching children right from wrong has gone out of style.

What I don't believe in is humiliating a child to make a point.

There's a difference between teaching a child that something he did was wrong and making him feel like there's something wrong with him. And frankly, I've seen enough adults who can't admit their own mistakes to know that simply making someone feel terrible doesn't necessarily teach responsibility.

So how do you correct a child without humiliating him? How do you make consequences meaningful without turning discipline into a battle of wills?

I think the answer begins with something The Andy Griffith Show understood more than sixty years ago.

What Andy Taylor Taught Opie About Responsibility

One of my favorite episodes of The Andy Griffith Show is "Opie the Birdman," which originally aired in 1963.

Opie accidentally kills a mother bird with his slingshot, leaving three baby birds behind. He's devastated when he realizes what he's done.

Andy doesn't pretend it was nothing. He makes sure Opie understands the seriousness of the situation.

But the most important part of the story isn't Opie's guilt.

It's what happens afterward.

Opie takes responsibility for caring for the orphaned birds. He feeds them, watches over them, and eventually learns to let them go when they're ready.

He doesn't get to undo his mistake. Nobody does.

But he gets an opportunity to do something good in response to it.

I wrote about this in my earlier article, "Andy Taylor Was Right: Why 'Opie the Birdman' Still Teaches Kids Responsibility."

What I appreciate about Andy's approach is that he expects something of his son. Opie isn't excused simply because he's young or because he didn't mean to cause harm.

But we can take the larger lesson without copying every disciplinary choice Andy made. A child doesn't need to be overwhelmed with guilt to learn accountability.

He needs to understand what happened, why it was wrong, and what he can reasonably do about it.

That's what I want children to learn.

Start by Finding Out What Actually Happened

Let's say your child breaks something that belongs to a neighbor.

Maybe he was playing ball where he shouldn't have been. Maybe you already warned him about being careless.

You're irritated. Understandably so.

But before you start delivering a speech about irresponsibility, find out exactly what happened.

I'd begin with something like:

"I see that Mrs. Johnson's flowerpot is broken. Tell me what happened."

Then I'd listen.

Not interrupt. Not finish the child's sentences. Not decide halfway through that I already know the whole story.

If the child ignored a clear warning, that's important. If another child caused the damage, that's important too.

There's no sense punishing someone for something he didn't do.

I admired Andy Taylor's parenting in "Opie the Birdman," but in another episode, "Opie's Charity," Andy jumps to conclusions about his son's generosity without asking enough questions.

He ends up looking pretty foolish.

It's a good reminder that being the parent doesn't automatically mean you're right.

And you can't teach fairness by being unfair.

Correct the Behavior, Not the Child's Character

This is where I think some adults make a terrible mistake.

They stop talking about what the child did and start attacking who the child is.

"You're so irresponsible."

"You're nothing but trouble."

"Why can't you be more like your sister?"

What exactly is the child supposed to learn from that?

I'd rather say:

"You were told not to play ball near the neighbor's flowers. You ignored that rule, and now something is broken. That was careless, and you need to help make it right."

See the difference?

I'm not pretending the behavior was acceptable. I'm explaining precisely what was wrong.

The child is responsible for a decision, not condemned as a person.

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends discipline that teaches appropriate behavior through clear limits and expectations rather than humiliation, threats, or physical punishment.

That makes sense to me.

You don't have to convince a child he's worthless to teach him that he made a bad decision.

Give Children a Way to Make Things Right

Now we get to the part I consider most important.

What happens after the child admits what he did?

I don't believe a quick "sorry" should automatically end the conversation.

An apology is appropriate, but if someone has been hurt or something has been damaged, there may be more to do.

In our broken-flowerpot example, I'd have the child participate in making things right.

Perhaps he could apologize to the neighbor, help clean up the mess safely, or contribute an age-appropriate amount toward replacing the pot.

I'd tell him:

"You can't change what happened, but you can take responsibility for it. Let's figure out how you're going to make this right."

Notice that I'm not asking a six-year-old to pay for an expensive replacement out of money he doesn't have.

Consequences need to make sense for the child's age, abilities, and the circumstances.

If a young child spills something because he was fooling around, he can help clean it up.

If an older child borrows something without permission and damages it, he can participate in repairing or replacing it.

If a child says something cruel to a friend, he can apologize, listen to how the friend feels, and learn how to behave differently.

Of course, not every mistake can be repaired. Sometimes the harm is permanent. In those situations, the lesson becomes accepting responsibility, offering whatever amends are possible, and working to prevent the same mistake.

The point isn't to make the child miserable.

It's to teach him that his choices affect other people.

Make the Consequence Fit the Mistake

I've never understood punishments that have absolutely nothing to do with what happened.

A child breaks a neighbor's flowerpot, so you cancel his birthday party three months from now?

How does that teach him to respect somebody else's property?

I'd much rather choose a reasonable consequence connected to the behavior.

If the problem was playing ball in an unsafe place, the child might temporarily lose permission to play there until he demonstrates that he understands the rule.

If the problem was refusing to put away something he was warned about, access to that item might be temporarily restricted.

The CDC's parenting guidance explains that consequences work best when children understand the connection between their behavior and what follows. It also emphasizes following through consistently.

And that's another thing I believe strongly.

Don't threaten consequences you have no intention of enforcing.

If you tell a child the bicycle will be put away for the afternoon if he continues riding somewhere dangerous, follow through when necessary.

Otherwise, what have you taught him?

That rules are merely suggestions and that persistence eventually wears down the person enforcing them.

Children are remarkably good at figuring that out.

Consequences should also be reasonable and proportionate. Taking away food, affection, basic necessities, or a child's sense of security isn't an appropriate way to teach responsibility.

The goal is to teach, not intimidate.

Don't Turn an Apology Into a Public Performance

I believe children should learn to apologize.

I also believe an apology means very little when it's delivered under threat while an audience watches.

Imagine a parent dragging a child in front of everyone and demanding that he apologize while he's crying and embarrassed.

The child may say the words, but what has he actually learned?

That he's sorry?

Or that he needs to say whatever will make the humiliation stop?

I'd rather help the child understand what he's apologizing for and give him a chance to speak sincerely.

For example:

"You hurt your friend's feelings when you made fun of his drawing. What could you say to let him know you understand why that was wrong?"

If the child doesn't know what to say, help him find the words.

A reasonable apology might be:

"I'm sorry I made fun of your drawing. That was mean, and I shouldn't have said it."

No elaborate speech required.

And no demanding that the other child immediately forgive him, either.

An apology doesn't entitle anyone to forgiveness on demand.

That's a lesson some adults still haven't learned.

Let the Child Try Again

One thing I wouldn't want is for a child's mistake to follow him around forever.

If he breaks a rule, accepts the consequence, makes reasonable amends, and demonstrates better behavior, there should be an opportunity to move forward.

Otherwise, what's his incentive to improve?

Suppose a child loses bicycle privileges because he repeatedly rides somewhere dangerous.

Before returning the bicycle, I'd explain the rule clearly and ask him to repeat it in his own words.

"Where are you allowed to ride? What will you do when you reach the corner?"

Once he understands the expectation, give him another opportunity to follow it.

And when he does, acknowledge it.

Not with an elaborate reward ceremony.

Just something straightforward:

"I noticed you stayed where we agreed today. That's exactly what I expected. Thank you."

I don't believe children need a prize for every ordinary responsibility. But recognizing improvement is different from bribing a child to behave.

Children should know when they've done something right, too.

What If Your Child Refuses to Take Responsibility?

This is where I'd be firm.

A child who refuses to admit what happened doesn't get to escape a reasonable consequence simply by denying responsibility.

But I also wouldn't turn the situation into an endless interrogation.

If I knew the facts, I'd state them calmly.

"I know the rule was broken. You don't have to agree with me right now, but the consequence still applies. When you're ready, we can talk about how to put this right."

Then I'd follow through.

No shouting match. No insults. No chasing the child from room to room demanding an admission.

And I'd be careful not to confuse a child who's frightened, overwhelmed, or struggling to explain himself with one who's deliberately refusing responsibility.

A calm conversation later may accomplish more than a confrontation while everyone is upset.

I don't believe parents need to win every argument.

They need to teach their children how to make better decisions.

Those aren't always the same thing.

Parents Need to Take Responsibility, Too

Now here's the part some adults aren't going to like.

You can't spend your days demanding honesty, respect, and accountability from children while refusing to demonstrate those things yourself.

If you accuse your child of something he didn't do, apologize.

If you lose your temper and say something cruel, own it.

If you make a promise you can't keep, explain why.

I'd have no problem telling a child:

"I was wrong about what happened, and I shouldn't have accused you. I'm sorry."

That doesn't make the child the boss.

It makes the adult accountable.

Children learn quite a bit by watching how adults handle mistakes.

If the parent always has an excuse, why shouldn't the child?

If the parent breaks promises, why should the child take promises seriously?

And if the parent never apologizes, why should the child believe apologies are important?

This is one of the reasons I've always appreciated Andy Taylor. He could be stubborn and make mistakes, but he was capable of recognizing when he'd misjudged a situation.

I'd take that over a parent who insists he's right simply because he's older.

Raising a Mensch Starts With Ordinary Things

When I talk about raising a mensch, I'm not talking about raising a perfect child.

I'm talking about raising someone who understands that other people count.

Someone who respects other people's belongings, keeps promises, admits mistakes, and recognizes that being sorry doesn't automatically undo the consequences of bad behavior.

Someone who knows that responsibility isn't a punishment.

It's part of becoming a decent human being.

And I don't believe those lessons require elaborate parenting systems or endless lectures.

Sometimes they begin with a simple conversation:

"What happened? What should you have done differently? How can you make this right?"

Three questions.

Then listen to the answers, choose a fair consequence when one is needed, and give the child an opportunity to do better.

That's something parents can actually practice the next time a child makes a mistake.

I still believe children need rules, boundaries, guidance, and adults who are willing to say no.

But I also believe a child should come away from discipline knowing what he did wrong and what he can do differently—not wondering whether he's a terrible person.

Andy Taylor helped Opie become responsible for the birds he'd left without a mother.

We can't all be Andy Taylor, and real life doesn't wrap everything up neatly before the closing credits.

But we can teach children that mistakes have consequences, that other people deserve consideration, and that making things right takes more than a few well-chosen words.

That's how I'd teach responsibility. Not by humiliating a child, but by expecting him to behave like the decent person he's learning to become.

And if we're going to expect that from children, we'd better be willing to practice it ourselves.

Sources and Further Reading

• The Andy Griffith Show — "Opie the Birdman," Season 4, Episode 1 (Paramount+)

• American Academy of Pediatrics — Effective Discipline to Raise Healthy Children

• CDC — Tips for Using Consequences

What Norman Lear's TV Shows Taught Me About Being a Mensch

If Norman Lear had ever been a guest at my dinner table, I have a feeling we would've argued about a few things.

I also suspect he would've enjoyed every minute of it.

After all, this was the man who helped give us Archie Bunker, George Jefferson, Maude Findlay, and some of the loudest, most opinionated characters in television history.

And thank goodness for that.

I grew up watching All in the Family, Good Times, The Jeffersons, and other shows associated with Norman Lear. They helped shape my sense of humor, introduced me to different perspectives, and taught me quite a bit about human nature.

I didn't agree with everything those characters said. I certainly wouldn't agree with everything Norman Lear believed.

But I don't have to agree with somebody to appreciate what they've taught me.

That's something I wish more people understood.

Norman Lear Wasn't Afraid to Make People Uncomfortable

Before All in the Family premiered on January 12, 1971, television families generally weren't having the kinds of arguments that would become regular occurrences in the Bunker household.

There were certainly disagreements on older sitcoms, but Lear was willing to bring subjects into American living rooms that many television producers would rather have avoided.

Prejudice. Money. Class. Marriage. Politics. The generation gap.

And he did it with comedy.

Not polite little jokes that everybody could chuckle at without getting upset. Real arguments, with characters who were stubborn, outspoken, unreasonable, and sometimes completely full of themselves.

In other words, he wrote about people.

All in the Family was adapted from the British sitcom Till Death Us Do Part, but Lear also drew inspiration from his own family, including his relationship with his father.

That might explain why the Bunkers felt so familiar.

Most of us have known an Archie Bunker. Some of us have lived with one. And if we're being truthful, most of us have probably had an Archie moment ourselves.

You know the kind. You're absolutely convinced you're right, you won't let anybody finish a sentence, and by the time you realize you might have been mistaken, you've already made such a production out of it that admitting defeat feels impossible.

Archie practically turned that into an art form.

Archie Bunker Wasn't Always Wrong, and Mike Stivic Wasn't Always Right

Here's where I probably differ from some people who write about All in the Family.

I don't believe every argument should be judged according to which character represents the supposedly enlightened point of view.

Archie was frequently prejudiced, stubborn, and downright insulting. He had an extraordinary talent for saying something offensive and then acting bewildered when somebody objected.

But Mike Stivic could be an arrogant pain in the ass himself.

Mike was educated, outspoken, and convinced that his beliefs made him more reasonable than his father-in-law. Yet he could be condescending, self-righteous, and remarkably unwilling to recognize his own shortcomings.

So we had two men who disagreed about practically everything while sharing one very annoying habit.

Neither could stand being wrong.

And poor Edith was frequently caught in the middle.

I've always believed having strong opinions is perfectly fine. I have plenty of them myself. But there's a difference between standing by your principles and treating everyone who disagrees with you like an idiot.

Archie often crossed that line.

So did Mike.

And that's one of the things I appreciate about their arguments. You could recognize the foolishness on both sides without pretending their individual beliefs or behavior were identical.

Being educated doesn't automatically make you considerate. Being older doesn't automatically make you wise. And being absolutely certain of something doesn't make it true.

I don't care which side of the dinner table you're sitting on.

Bad manners are still bad manners.

Edith Bunker Understood Something the Men Didn't

I've always had a soft spot for Edith Bunker.

Archie frequently treated her as though she didn't have a thought worth listening to. He dismissed her questions, interrupted her, and made fun of her intelligence.

Yet Edith often demonstrated more genuine understanding of people than the men who considered themselves so much smarter.

She wasn't always sophisticated, and she certainly wasn't perfect. But she had compassion.

She recognized that people had feelings. She understood that kindness could accomplish something an argument couldn't. And she didn't need to win every conversation to feel good about herself.

Now, I don't believe being a mensch means allowing people to walk all over you. Edith could have stood up for herself more often, and I would've been cheering her on.

But her gentleness was not the same thing as stupidity.

That's an important distinction.

Some people mistake a quiet personality for a weak character. Others assume the loudest person in the room must be the strongest.

I've seen enough of human behavior to know that's nonsense.

Sometimes the person speaking the least is the only one who's actually listening.

Good Times Showed Me That Money and Character Aren't the Same Thing

Another Norman Lear-associated show that stayed with me was Good Times.

James and Florida Evans didn't have much money. Their family faced unemployment, financial hardship, and all sorts of problems that couldn't be solved by wishing them away.

But what I remember most is the family's determination to maintain its dignity.

James worked hard, worried about providing for his family, and sometimes allowed his pride or frustration to get the better of him.

Florida tried to hold everyone together while dealing with problems that would've exhausted just about anybody.

The children had their own personalities, ambitions, and questionable decisions.

And through it all, there was humor.

That's something I appreciated even when I was younger.

The Evans family didn't have the nicest apartment or the easiest life, but their circumstances didn't determine their worth.

I've never believed having money makes someone better than anybody else.

Nor do I believe struggling financially makes someone less respectable.

What matters to me is how people behave.

Do they keep their word? Do they work honestly when they're able? Do they treat others with dignity? Do they take responsibility for themselves and their families?

Those things tell me far more about a person's character than the size of their home or bank account.

And I think Good Times gave viewers plenty of opportunities to consider that.

George Jefferson Proved You Can Move Up Without Growing Up

Then there was George Jefferson.

Oh, George.

Here was a man who achieved financial success, built a business, and moved his family into a beautiful Manhattan apartment.

And somehow, with all that success, he still managed to behave like a complete jackass on a regular basis.

I loved watching him.

George was ambitious, hardworking, proud, and determined to succeed. Those are qualities I can respect.

But he was also arrogant, argumentative, and occasionally so impressed with himself that you wondered how Louise put up with him.

He could look down on other people while being furious whenever he felt somebody looked down on him.

Talk about a contradiction.

That's one of the things I find so interesting about human behavior.

People can recognize unfair treatment when they're receiving it while remaining completely oblivious to the way they treat somebody else.

George wanted respect.

Fair enough.

But respect isn't something you get to demand while treating everyone around you like they're beneath you.

Louise frequently had to remind him of that.

And once again, television gave us a wife who often had more common sense than the husband doing all the shouting.

I'm beginning to notice a pattern here.

The Man Behind the Shows Had His Own Convictions

Norman Lear was born in 1922 and grew up in a Jewish family.

His childhood included some difficult experiences. His father went to prison when Lear was nine, and Lear later spoke about hearing antisemitic broadcasts by Father Charles Coughlin.

Those experiences helped shape his awareness of prejudice and his interest in the way people treat one another.

He went on to serve in the Army Air Forces during World War II before building his remarkable career in entertainment.

Lear was also politically outspoken. He supported causes he believed in and eventually helped establish People for the American Way.

I don't share every position he held, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.

I'm an old-school woman with my own beliefs about morals, family, manners, personal responsibility, and the way people ought to conduct themselves.

I don't automatically embrace something because it's fashionable, modern, or presented as progress.

But I can respect someone who believes strongly in something and is willing to put his name behind it.

And I can appreciate a writer who understood that disagreement makes for interesting television.

What I especially admire is that Lear didn't seem afraid of allowing his characters to be flawed.

Archie could be wrong. Mike could be obnoxious. George could be hypocritical. Maude could be overbearing.

These weren't people designed to win a popularity contest every week.

They were people whose faults gave audiences something to argue about.

And occasionally, they taught us something about our own.

Norman Lear Didn't Write Every Word Himself

There's another part of Lear's television legacy that deserves attention.

He didn't create all those shows single-handedly, and he certainly didn't write every episode.

Television is collaborative. Writers, producers, actors, directors, and countless others contribute to what eventually appears on the screen.

For example, Good Times was created by Eric Monte and Mike Evans, with Lear developing the series. The Jeffersons was created by Don Nicholl, Michael Ross, and Bernie West, with Lear also credited for development.

Those distinctions deserve recognition.

I believe in giving people credit for their work, whether they're household names or people whose names appear at the end of the credits while everybody's getting up to find a snack.

Lear deserves enormous credit for helping bring these programs to television.

So do the people who worked with him.

And since this website is supposed to be about decency and responsibility, giving credit where it's due seems like a pretty good place to practice what I preach.

What Norman Lear Understood About Humor

I think one of Lear's greatest strengths was understanding that people are often funniest when they're taking themselves far too seriously.

Archie never seemed to realize how ridiculous he sounded.

George Jefferson could be so consumed with proving his importance that he completely missed the point of a situation.

Mike Stivic could spend an entire argument explaining how reasonable he was while becoming increasingly unreasonable.

And the audience got to watch it all unfold.

I love that kind of humor.

I don't need a character to trip over a chair or have something dumped on his head to make me laugh. Sometimes all he has to do is open his mouth.

And sometimes the funniest part isn't what a character says.

It's the look on somebody else's face while they're saying it.

Lear's shows understood the comedy in hypocrisy, vanity, stubbornness, and ordinary human foolishness.

I suppose that's one reason they've stayed with me.

The fashions have changed. The furniture looks dated. Some of the conversations belong unmistakably to another era.

But people still argue about money, marriage, parenting, respect, and who's right.

And some people still can't admit they're wrong even when the evidence is practically sitting on their lap.

Did Norman Lear Teach Us to Be Better People?

I don't think television can make somebody decent simply by showing them a character behaving badly.

People have to decide what to take from a story.

Some viewers may watch Archie Bunker and recognize the damage caused by prejudice. Others may focus on his frustrations, his fears, or his occasional moments of tenderness.

A good character can provoke different reactions.

What I admire about Lear's best work is that it gave audiences something to think about after the laughter stopped.

You might finish an episode feeling sympathy for someone you hadn't understood before.

You might realize a character you usually agree with had behaved terribly.

Or you might discover that the supposedly foolish person in the room had more common sense than everybody else.

That's television doing something useful.

It's the same reason I appreciate shows like The Andy Griffith Show. In "Opie's Charity," Andy Taylor gets so caught up in his assumptions about his son that he forgets to listen. The writers allow a respected father to be wrong and learn from it.

Lear's characters didn't always learn so gracefully.

Usually there was more shouting involved.

But the principle is familiar: Nobody should be above having their behavior questioned.

Not a parent. Not a boss. Not a wealthy businessman. Not an educated person. And certainly not somebody who thinks being right gives them permission to behave badly.

What I'd Say to Norman Lear Today

Norman Lear died on December 5, 2023, at the age of 101.

He left behind an extraordinary television legacy.

If I could sit down with him, I'd probably thank him for the laughter first.

Then I'd tell him how much I appreciated the characters he helped bring into our living rooms.

I'd tell him that his shows taught me to question people's behavior, recognize hypocrisy, appreciate different perspectives, and develop a sense of humor about the ridiculous things human beings do.

I'd also tell him where I disagreed.

And I wouldn't apologize for having my own convictions.

I have a feeling he could've handled that.

I don't believe being a mensch means agreeing with everybody, changing your beliefs to avoid controversy, or keeping quiet when you think something is wrong.

I believe it means being honest, having principles, treating people decently, and understanding that you don't have to win every argument to have character.

Norman Lear gave us decades of television characters who struggled with those very things.

Some succeeded. Some failed miserably.

And we laughed at all of them.

I may not have agreed with everything Norman Lear believed, but he helped teach me something I still believe today: You can have strong convictions without forgetting that the person across the table is a human being.

Even when that person is Archie Bunker.

Sources and Further Reading

Norman Lear — Television Academy Interviews

Norman Lear — Official Biography and Legacy

Norman Lear: Just Another Version of You — PBS American Masters

Good Times — Paley Center Episode Credits

The Jeffersons — Paley Center Episode Credits

Andy Taylor Got It Wrong: What "Opie's Charity" Teaches Parents About Listening

I have a great deal of respect for Andy Taylor as a father. He usually had more patience and common sense than half the people in Mayberry put together. But there were times when even Andy needed somebody to straighten him out.

And in "Opie's Charity," that somebody was Aunt Bee.

I've always believed children need guidance, discipline, and parents who aren't afraid to correct them. I also believe parents have an obligation to find out what actually happened before deciding their child deserves a lecture.

Being the adult doesn't automatically make you right.

This episode of The Andy Griffith Show is one of my favorite reminders that sometimes the person doing all the talking is the one who needs to shut up and listen.

Three Pennies and One Very Embarrassed Father

The trouble begins when Annabelle Silby, who's helping organize a charity drive for underprivileged children in Mayberry, tells Andy that Opie donated a whopping three cents.

Three pennies.

Andy is mortified.

Other children have contributed considerably more, and Andy can't understand why his own son would be so stingy. After all, Opie has money saved in his piggy bank. He certainly isn't starving or going without necessities.

When Andy confronts him, Opie explains that he's saving his money to buy something for a girl named Charlotte.

Well, that doesn't exactly improve Andy's mood.

He assumes Opie would rather spend his savings impressing a little girlfriend than help children who are less fortunate.

And once Andy reaches that conclusion, there's apparently no talking him out of it.

Opie tries to explain himself, but Andy has already decided what kind of behavior he's dealing with.

He's raising a selfish child, and he's embarrassed about it.

Except there's one little problem.

Andy doesn't know the whole story.

Sometimes Parents Are So Busy Teaching That They Forget to Listen

In "Opie the Birdman," I admired Andy for teaching Opie to take responsibility for his mistake. But in that episode, Opie was the one who needed correcting. In "Opie's Charity," the tables are turned, and Andy is the one who needs to learn a lesson.

I can't stand it when adults do this.

They ask a child a question, get an answer they don't like, and immediately launch into a speech without bothering to find out what the child actually meant.

The adult does the talking. The child does the listening. And everybody is supposed to consider the matter settled because the grown-up has spoken.

Andy isn't trying to be cruel. He wants Opie to grow up generous, considerate, and willing to help people who need it.

Those are values I wholeheartedly support.

But Andy makes a mistake that changes the entire conversation. He confuses what he assumes about Opie's intentions with what he actually knows.

He sees three pennies and decides his son lacks generosity.

He hears about Charlotte and decides Opie is wasting money on a girl.

He never stops to ask the obvious question.

What are you saving the money for?

Instead, he delivers a lecture about charity, selfishness, and responsibility.

At one point, he even sends Opie upstairs and threatens to withhold supper until the boy agrees to contribute more.

Now, I'm old-school about discipline, but I don't believe withholding a child's meal is the way to settle a disagreement over a donation.

And I certainly don't believe a parent should be punishing a child for motives he hasn't bothered to understand.

Aunt Bee Knows Exactly What's Wrong

Thank goodness for Aunt Bee.

While Andy is carrying on about Opie's supposed selfishness, Aunt Bee recognizes something her nephew has completely overlooked.

Andy is becoming more concerned with what other people think of him than with understanding his own child.

He's the sheriff. He's a respected member of the community. He's involved in the charity drive.

And now people are going to think his son is cheap.

Heaven forbid.

Aunt Bee reminds Andy that he knows what kind of boy Opie is. One small donation shouldn't suddenly erase everything he knows about his son's character.

She's absolutely right.

I think this is one of the biggest mistakes people make when judging others. They take one action, one mistake, or one piece of information and build an entire story around it.

Then they treat that story as fact.

And once they've decided they're right, good luck getting a word in.

The funny thing is that the episode also involves Annabelle Silby's extraordinary efforts to preserve her reputation. She's allowed the town to believe her husband died rather than admit he left her.

Andy can recognize the foolishness of Annabelle's pride, but he's slower to recognize his own.

That's some pretty clever writing.

And it gives Aunt Bee an excellent opportunity to remind him that being worried about appearances isn't the same as being worried about doing what's right.

The Truth About Charlotte's Coat

Eventually, Andy discovers what Opie has actually been saving his money for.

Charlotte needs a new winter coat.

Her old one is worn out, and her mother can't afford to replace it.

So Opie has been saving his money to buy her one.

Not candy. Not toys. Not some frivolous little present to impress a girl.

A coat.

For a child whose family can't afford one.

Let that sink in.

Andy has been lecturing Opie about helping underprivileged children while Opie has quietly been trying to help an underprivileged child.

And he isn't doing it because somebody came around with a collection box.

He's doing it because he knows Charlotte, sees what she needs, and wants to help.

If that isn't generosity, I'd like to know what is.

When Andy wonders why Opie didn't explain himself earlier, his son gives him the simplest answer imaginable:

"You never asked me."

Four words.

And suddenly all of Andy's speeches about charity don't sound quite so impressive.

The best part is that Andy knows he's been wrong. When Opie asks what's for supper, Andy jokes that he's going to have crow.

At least the man knows when it's time to eat a little humble pie.

Teaching Generosity Shouldn't Become a Competition

There's another lesson in this episode that I think deserves attention.

I'm all for teaching children to give to charity. I believe they should learn that other people have needs, that helping someone is a good thing, and that generosity shouldn't depend on whether there's something in it for them.

But when did charitable giving become a competition over who contributes the most?

Three cents might seem like nothing to an adult, but the amount alone doesn't tell us how generous someone is.

One person might donate a hundred dollars without giving it a second thought. Someone else might give five dollars that they had to work hard to save.

Does that automatically make the first person more generous?

I don't think so.

And I don't believe children should be taught that the most important thing about giving is making sure everybody sees how much they contributed.

That's not the lesson I'd want a child taking away from a charity drive.

I'd rather see a child notice that another child needs a winter coat and decide to do something about it.

Opie wasn't trying to win anyone's approval.

He wasn't waiting for applause.

He simply wanted Charlotte to have something she needed.

Now that's the kind of generosity worth encouraging.

What Andy Taylor Should Have Done Differently

Here's where I stand.

Andy was right to want his son to understand charity and responsibility.

He was wrong to assume that a small donation meant Opie was selfish.

And he was wrong to let his embarrassment influence the way he treated his child.

If I were in Andy's position, I'd want to know why Opie had contributed so little before making any judgments.

I'd ask what he was saving for. I'd listen to his explanation. Then, if there really were a problem with his attitude, we'd talk about it.

That's not being permissive.

That's being fair.

I don't believe children should get away with everything simply because they're children. But I also don't believe adults should get away with being unreasonable simply because they're adults.

Parents set an example through their own behavior.

If we want children to be honest, we should be willing to hear the truth.

If we want them to be fair, we should treat them fairly.

And if we want them to admit their mistakes, we ought to demonstrate that we can admit ours.

Andy eventually recognizes that he misjudged Opie, which is one reason I continue to admire him despite his mistakes.

A good parent doesn't have to be right every single time.

But a good parent should have enough humility to recognize when they're wrong.

Being a Mensch Means Doing Good Without Needing Credit

What I love most about "Opie's Charity" is the contrast between Andy's idea of generosity and what Opie is actually doing.

Andy is concerned about the amount his son donated to an organized charity drive.

Opie is concerned about a girl who needs a coat.

Both involve helping people, but only one of them has become tangled up in pride, appearances, and what the neighbors might think.

I've always believed that being a mensch means doing something decent because someone needs help, not because you want everybody to admire you for doing it.

And sometimes the smallest, quietest gesture tells us more about a person's character than the grandest public display.

That's what Opie understood, even if he couldn't have explained it in those words.

Andy thought he was raising a selfish little boy.

It turned out he was raising exactly the kind of child he wanted Opie to become.

He just needed to stop lecturing long enough to notice.

And that's the lesson I'd like parents to remember.

Before you decide your child needs correcting, make sure you've listened long enough to know what you're correcting.

You might discover that the kid has something to teach you.

Episode discussed: "Opie's Charity," The Andy Griffith Show, Season 1, Episode 8. Originally aired November 28, 1960.