Bob Kaz

It’s the 50′s and something is happening in our house. Mom is cleaning, dusting, and sweeping. Something is up and I can’t quite figure out what it is. No freeloader relatives are scheduled in from Chicago, Detroit, or New York.

Mom now is moving furniture around. She leaves a six-foot space empty in one corner. Did crazy Uncle Ralph who lives in the attic die? Naa. This little kid is stumped! Then I hear the words “the truck is here.” Out front the local furniture store truck pulls up. The driver yells to my Mom. “Hey lady where ya want da television.” Holy smoke we got a TV. Wow! Fantastic! What’s a television? I soon find out.

The delivery guys are not happy to find out that the empty spot is located on the second floor of our flat up a narrow stairway with a five-watt bulb lighting the way. Whatever it is it is huge. It barely makes it up the steps rubbing the banister as the delivery guys grumble. It brushes every door frame as it is gently moved to its reserved space in our parlor. The parlor that featured our radio and genuine imitation linoleum that was supposed to fool people into thinking we had wall-to-wall rugs even though the linoleum was two feet short all around and it smelled of rubber. Our blonde furniture was facing the open area. For many years I searched the virgin forests seeking to see an uncut blonde tree. Never found it!

They unpacked the television and it swallowed up half the room. It had to be six-foot across and three-foot deep and four-foot high. A monster! Whatever it was it was beautiful. My first TV. It was a work of art. The front had four panels or doors. One panel hid a record player that swung out. The other panel had a speaker. And one door was for storage. Then the door of doors. My Dad told us not to even think about opening the last panel. He had this look of a possessed mad scientist. He approached slowly with his hand trembling. He touched the door and slowly pulled the door open. The open door revealed a ten-inch television screen. My Dad euphorically collapsed. He now proclaims that he can die if God wishes.

The next step is to plug this gift from God into the wall. My Dad informs all that only he is qualified to do this. He grabs the cord and proceeds to place its end into the wall in a way that he only knows. He now reaches for the “on” switch and turns it. It crackles and a test pattern appears after a two-minute warm up. I see a smile and a slight tear of joy in the corner of his eye, one not unlike the one seen at the birth of his first child. He is speechless and we respect his special moment by staring at this series of black and white lines and circles in silence for ten minutes. He breaks the silence by proclaiming it the most beautiful sight he has ever seen and we live near Niagara Falls.

As the weeks go by we learn that this invention has its flaws. At different times the picture rolls, it shrinks, and sometimes just disappears. We call the local TV repair man so often we refer to him as Uncle Dick. At five bucks a call my Dad realizes he is going broke and decides he can do what Uncle Dick does. The next time the picture falters my Dad decides to fix it himself. My Mother declares him insane and tells him that he will kill himself. He proceeds to unplug the set and take off the back protective covering. Within one minute we hear a scream and we see Dad flying through the air landing against the nearest wall. His hair is smoldering and he tells Mom he is OK and asks what’s burning in the house. Uncle Dick is back that evening.

We also learn that placement of the indoor antenna called “rabbit ears” is important. So he has me standing on the set, behind the set, and sometimes on the porch. He also heard that aluminum foil will increase reception. I could be seen at times on our porch holding the antenna with one leg up and my arm waving while being enveloped in aluminum foil.

After all this effort to get a picture we are treated to local news programming, Charlie Chan movies, and late night bowling. In a short time Howdy Doody adorns the screen every early evening. Little by little new shows like Milton Berle and I Love Lucy and Bishop Sheen rule the airways.

I look back at those great early years and that ten-inch screen and watching Uncle Miltie and wonder if TV wasn’t better and more fun back then. I wonder for about one second because that ten-inch screen sucked and Uncle Miltie scared me and I love my sixty-inch LCD flat-screen, color TV with 500 channels, Surround Sound, TIVO, DVDs, and remote control.