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. 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
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 our friends, any visitors or us. 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 parents'
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.
We just call him TV.
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