I Was A Television Remote Control

I was born near the tail end of the era of the “Baby Boomers.” Life was practically idyllic then. There were only three networks; four, if you lived close to Canada; five, if you were close enough to the Channel 50 broadcast tower. We could go outside and play, confident that we would be safe roaming the streets all hours of the day and night. American Graffiti was a way of life, not a movie. It was also a time for new wonders. The greatest, of course, was the invention of the television remote control. (www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/remotectl.htm).

What made the remote so great? The freedom it represented. No more did Dad or the kids have get out of their chairs to change channels or turn up the volume or turn the damn thing on or off. If he was comfortable, having a remote meant he didn’t have to endanger his peaceful existence of pizza on his lap, a beer on the side table, chips at his left elbow, and his right arm and hand free to wallop any child who would dare to interrupt Dad while he spent quality time with his favorite sports team.

Not everyone could afford a remote control television, or were too cheap to buy something you didn’t need, not when you had kids: thus, my place in life. I was one of “those” kids. Being the youngest of two children, it was my job to let my brother tell me what to do with the television controls. Here’s a fairly typical command situation. Doug does all the talking.

Change it.
Change it.
Wait.
Change it.
Go back.
Change it.
Turn it up a little.
Go back one more.
Seen it.
Change it.
Change it.
WAIT!
Seen it.
Change it.
Etc.

Sometimes just to be mean or rude or both, Doug would make me stand there by the t.v. for eons—maybe ten minutes or until Mom got tired of listening to me whine about wanting to watch t.v. too. Worse yet, if I complained too much, Mom would punish both of us for “fighting.” I was not “fighting,” thank you. I was whining. There’s a big difference. When we were both punished, sent to our rooms for a couple hours, Doug would administer his own form of justice, a punch in the arm for being such a baby and wouldn’t shut up like he said.( http://www.preventchildabuse.org/index.shtml We get along a whole lot better now.)

For some reason, I didn’t mind being a human remote control for my father—probably because I worshiped the ground he walked on. My father. Oh, my father. Dad was 6’6” tall and was covered with fur (hair). When Mom trimmed his hair, she had to trim his eyebrows too. He had to shave twice a day, sometimes three. He wore a size 15 shoe. My father was also one of the most gentle men I have had the privilege of knowing. I was also fortunate because my father was a commercial printer and worked at home in his print shop. Dad worked long and hard at his caft. Thus, when it was the end of the day and he was tired, changing the channel for him was th elast I could do t make him happy.

(www.printingmuseum.org.au/Equipment.htm). [FYI: I know how to run about half the machinary found at the Web site. Running a linotype is not easy, even if you are just hitting the correct letters in order to cast a line in lead. Of all the machinary shown, I was never allowed to use the smelter when it came time to make new pegs.)

Okay. Fine. I whined about changing the channel for him, too, but as long or as annoying as I did with my brother. Here’s a fairly typical command situation. Dad did most of the talking, but sometimes he asked what I thought about a program.

What channel is that?
Turn it, please.
Shonda.
Shoooooooooon-duhhhhhhhhhh!
Hey! I’m talking to you.
Yes, I can see it’s Barbie.
Now change the channel.
Shonda.
Shonda!
SHONDA!
Will you please change the channel?
Thank you.
Turn it down now.
No. We are not going to watch the Brady Bunch.
Why are you crying?
You want to see Marcia get hit by the football? (http://www.bradybunchshrine.com/)
Fine.
Whatever.
Bev! (my mother) Where’s the Journal?

Not all sessions went like that with Dad. There were some days I didn’t mind rotating the channel selector time after time after time after time after time. At least when I whined with my dad and my mother couldn’t stand it anymore, she’d let Dad handle the punishment. Most of the time he made me change the channel and tell me to “shut up.” And don’t think that he said “shut up” in a mean and nasty way. It came out more as a mild rebuke, like we were both in the secret that Dad had done as Mom the Shrew had insisted. (Even I knew my father loved me more than my mother because my mother was always bossing him around and he hated that kind of thing. But that's another soon-to-come blog entry.)

Besides changing the channel, I also learned the secrets of the vertical and horizontal holds. For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, get back into your time machine and check out the late 60s at any store that sells televisions. I can’t say that I was the best “keeper of the holds,” but I got to do the job a lot, especially with my brother. Here’s a fairly typical command situation when Doug did all the talking.

It’s skipping now.
I can’t see it very good.
You must have changed the resolution thingy again.
Go back to what you had a minute ago.
Can’t you do anything right?

Here’s a fairly typical command situation when Dad did the talking.
Shonda, Go fix the t.v.
Put your Barbies down and come help Daddy.
No, Barbie doesn’t want to live in the television.
No, Francie doesn’t want to be on t.v.
Shonda, please fix the television for Daddy.
Yes, that’s better.
Shonda, if you put Barbie (http://www.barbiecollector.com/) down you won’t get another shock like that again.
Sweetheart, if Barbie gets too close to some parts of the t.v., she’s going to melt and then Ken won’t have a date for the wedding.
Thank you, Shonda.
Now go play.
Take Barbie with you.
No. I don’t think Ken would really like to wear Barbie’s wedding gown. Because it won’t fit him.
Honey, Ken is a boy and boys don’t wear dresses.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Breeching_(boys))
(http://www.manbehindthedoll.com/)
What?
Yes, Jesus wore what looks like a dress, but it’s not really a dress.
You’ll understand when you get older.
Now go play.

Did we ever switch to a real remote control for the t.v? We sure did—about the time I started taking classes at Mott.