The Stranger
A few months
before I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to
our small Tennessee 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,
I never questioned his place in my 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 me
laugh, and he made me 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 long-time
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
teetotaler 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 generally
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.
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