A few months before I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to our
town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting
newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was
quickly accepted and was around to welcome me into the world a few
months later.

As I grew up, we never questioned his place in the family. In my young
mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors:
Mom taught me the word of God, and Dad taught me to obey it. But the
stranger, he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours
on end with adventures, mysteries and comedies.

If I wanted to know anything about politics, history or science, he
always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and even
seemed able to predict the future! He took my family to the first major
league ball game. He made us laugh, and he made us cry. The stranger
never stopped talking, but Dad didn't seem to mind.

Sometimes, Mom would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing
each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to her room
and read her books (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to
leave.)

Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but 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 longtime visitor, however, got away with
four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my
mother blush.

My Dad was a non-drinker who didn't permit alcohol in the home, not even
for cooking. But the stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular
basis.

He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly and pipes distinguished. He
talked freely (much too freely!) about sex. His comments were sometimes
blatant, sometimes suggestive, and occasionally embarrassing.

I now know that my early concepts about relationships were influenced
strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my
parents, yet he was seldom rebuked...and 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 were to walk into my parent's den today, you
would still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to
listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures. His name?...

We just call him, "TV."

--
Skipper