A few years after I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to our small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to come live with us.
The stranger was quickly accepted by the family, and was around from then on. As I grew up, I never questioned his place in our family because, in my mind, he always had his special niche.
My parents were wonderful teachers. Mom taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to be obedient and loving. But the stranger. Oh! he was the storyteller and he kept us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mysteries and comedies.
While Dad ruled our family with basic moral convictions, the stranger never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home, not from us, our friends or any visitors. Our long time stranger, however, got away with four-letter words that burned my ears and made my Dad squirm and my mother blush. My Dad didn’t permit the irresponsible use of alcohol but our stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly, sex recreation and pipes distinguished. He never stopped talking about sex and dirty politics. His comments were often blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing. I know now that my early concepts about relationships were influenced strongly by this stranger in the family. Time and time again, he opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked, and was never asked to leave.
More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved in with our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first. Still, if you could walk into my parents’ den today, you would still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him and watch him draw his pictures.
His name? Well, we just call him TV.