We lived in a typical ranch-style house built in the late 1960s, purchased somewhere about 1967ish.
At the far end of the "family room" sat one of the room's main focal points. A light-colored wooden-framed box on short spindled legs. The smooth curved glass screen was gray. Two dial knobs on the right side -- one for UHF and the other VHF.
I remember the bright sunny day when my Father installed a new television antenna on the back side of the house. This five-year-old sat wondering what was going on. Within moments of connection, we had new television channels, bringing us up to maybe six channels. One channel came all of the way out of Indianapolis. The first show we watched on this new and exciting channel -- old reruns of The Little Rascals. The sepia-toned shorts lasted no more that ten to fifteen minutes.
This was my Father's window to the world.
Surrounding that wooden box were two floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Eventually, they would be expanded around the corner of the room with an even wider bookcase. All stained and well-constructed. All packed with books, overflowing into stacks on the floor.
Hardbacks, paperbacks, cheap dime-store novels, old, new. Danielle Steele, Erma Bombeck, Frances Parkington Keyes, Ian Fleming, Helen MacInness, Dorothy Gilman, Mary Stewart. Gone with the Wind, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Odessa File. Nancy Drew, Little Women, Black Beauty. Anyone who liked books from the 50s through the 80s would have loved it.
This was my Mother's library to the imagination.
Sometimes there would be arguments.
Often heard from my Father. "Why don't you get rid of all those books?" My Mother's response -- the wave of her right hand in the air as if shooing away a fly. She also had her way of tormenting him -- repeats of "Murder, She Wrote" and "Matlock." She knew ever episode by heart. All for the sake of tormenting... Maybe teasing would be a better term.
Regardless, the wall of entertainment was where it all began for me. Coming of age to find the path of to be a writer. A combination of the visual arts and the literary. Never to be forgotten.
Of course, now I have my own wall of entertainment. I think I'll watch an episode of "Murder, She Wrote." For old times...
CSM
At the far end of the "family room" sat one of the room's main focal points. A light-colored wooden-framed box on short spindled legs. The smooth curved glass screen was gray. Two dial knobs on the right side -- one for UHF and the other VHF.
I remember the bright sunny day when my Father installed a new television antenna on the back side of the house. This five-year-old sat wondering what was going on. Within moments of connection, we had new television channels, bringing us up to maybe six channels. One channel came all of the way out of Indianapolis. The first show we watched on this new and exciting channel -- old reruns of The Little Rascals. The sepia-toned shorts lasted no more that ten to fifteen minutes.
This was my Father's window to the world.
Surrounding that wooden box were two floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Eventually, they would be expanded around the corner of the room with an even wider bookcase. All stained and well-constructed. All packed with books, overflowing into stacks on the floor.
Hardbacks, paperbacks, cheap dime-store novels, old, new. Danielle Steele, Erma Bombeck, Frances Parkington Keyes, Ian Fleming, Helen MacInness, Dorothy Gilman, Mary Stewart. Gone with the Wind, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Odessa File. Nancy Drew, Little Women, Black Beauty. Anyone who liked books from the 50s through the 80s would have loved it.
This was my Mother's library to the imagination.
Sometimes there would be arguments.
Often heard from my Father. "Why don't you get rid of all those books?" My Mother's response -- the wave of her right hand in the air as if shooing away a fly. She also had her way of tormenting him -- repeats of "Murder, She Wrote" and "Matlock." She knew ever episode by heart. All for the sake of tormenting... Maybe teasing would be a better term.
Regardless, the wall of entertainment was where it all began for me. Coming of age to find the path of to be a writer. A combination of the visual arts and the literary. Never to be forgotten.
Of course, now I have my own wall of entertainment. I think I'll watch an episode of "Murder, She Wrote." For old times...
CSM
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