A few years after I was born, my Dad met a stranger

who was new to our small 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 from then on.

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 good

from evil, and Dad taught me to obey. 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 the kitchen for peace and quiet.

(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 didn't permit the liberal use of alcohol. 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 could 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.

His name? . . .

Please scroll down :P

We just call him,

"TV.."

He has a
younger
sister
now.

We call her

"Computer."

=p