Once upon a time I was a boy who lived in a house with a small Black and White television set. We didn’t have a remote or any sort of recording device. Yes, I know that it sounds primitive. Imagine a home without a VCR/DVD, TIVO, Cable/Satellite or home computer.
In the Jurassic era of television you didn’t have the luxury of renting movies or television shows. If you had to use the bathroom you did your best to hold it until the end of the show. If you were a sports fan and you didn’t want to miss the big game you had two choices. Throw a fit so that your parents/wife would let you stay home or bring your trusted portable radio with the white earbud to the party.
Back in those days the networks were run by mysterious, superbeings who would magically beam shows to your living room. Once a year you’d get the opportunity to make some popcorn and watch beloved shows like the Wizard of Oz or Rikki Tikki Tavi.
Unless you were The Shmata Queen in which case you were doomed to live beneath blackened skies and snow covered plains. Every day you’d pray that the river wouldn’t burst into flames and that the Browns wouldn’t lose because if they did it was your fault.
My favorite spot in the house was in front of the little B/W TV in the kitchen. Nobody argued with me about what to watch – they’d go into the family room to watch on the “big TV.” And I could watch all the M*A*S*H reruns I wanted! That TV introduced me to John Belushi (and the rest of the original SNL crew) and Monty Python. The fact that the picture was fuzzy and crappy was ok by me!
The best part of the old days was when Dad would climb up on the roof to mess with the antenna, calling out through the open window: “How’s the reception?”
“Great, Dad. Just stay up there!”