Wonderful World

Sunday night in the 60's meant “Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color". Of course in our house it was “The Wonderful World of Black and White”. The only color TV that I was aware of was the one my cousins had. These were the cousins, like pretty much all of my cousins, that I only saw maybe once a year, and that was if we happened to be visiting my grandparents at the same time. So I had never actually been to their house and seen this alleged TV. I only knew of it because my oldest sister, Karen, occasionally babysat for them and would later comment on the glories of this amazing device. These stories had the added benefit of driving home the inferiority of not only our TV, but by extension, the people watching it (i.e.: me).

But even in black and white, that show was a big deal to me. Every week there would be something different on. Maybe a comedy, maybe a drama. All in that Disney style. It was made even better because usually the whole family would crowd into Mom and Dad's room and watch it together. It felt like an event. It was a little like being at the movies, except more comfortable.

There were plenty of good shows: "Kilroy", which seemed to be a favorite of Karen's, "Thomasina", which also seemed to be a favorite of Karen's. And plenty more. One of the best, in my opinion, was “The Scarecrow of Romney Marsh”. I remember being both fascinated and totally creeped out by it. "Scarecrow" starred Patrick Magoohan, who is still one of my all time favorites. This was serialized over at least a couple of weeks... and kept me up for several weeks more.

But for all the fond memories of the shows I watched, I think my strongest memory is of the show I didn't watch.

When I was little, my bedroom was a converted walk-through dressing room that stood between the upstairs hall and Mom and Dad's room. All that separated my room from theirs was a French door, usually open, but with a shade on their side for the times that the door would close.  This didn't happen often but when it did, the message was clear:  Keep. Out.  This arrangement seemed to work out pretty well, at least for me. Back then, privacy wasn't my first priority, which was good, since I had none. It also made it handy for when Dad would frequently have to come in and comfort me at bedtime. The problem was, I would often worry and dwell on things right before bedtime (as opposed to pretty much all the time now). It would get to the point where I would be too overwhelmed and scared to go to bed. Dad called them"bad thoughts". Now I just call it "life". This was a frustrating experience for both of us.

Anyway, one Sunday night, Disney comes on and we all crowded into Mom and Dad's room. On this particular night, they were playing the story of Davy Crockett. The show must have been pretty uneventful, and I only say this because I don't remember much about it. What I do remember is that it was continued to the following week. No big deal. Not for me anyway but it was for Dad. He knew the story of Davy Crockett and he knew that things didn't end well for Davy. This meant that if I watched it next Sunday, it wasn't going to end well for me, which also meant it wasn't going to end well for Dad either.

So next Sunday night rolls around and it became obvious that something bad was going to happen. And it did. We all piled into Mom and Dad's room, everyone but me. It was announced that I was not going to be able to watch it that night. Dad's clear message was that this was somehow for the greater good. I was shut out. Dad and the rest of the family disappeared behind the French door and down went the shade.

For the next hour, my imagination was kept in check only by my growing resentment. I practiced my scowl, arching my eyebrows and squinting my eyes. People would know, in no uncertain terms, that I was not a happy camper. All I could hear from the next room were the muffled sounds of the TV. And every time the TV quieted down, I made sure to look as disgruntled as possible, just in case someone was coming to the door. No one did. I practiced my scowl to perfection.

Finally, I heard the TV switch off and I jumped up on my bed, perching myself like some angry gargoyle. The door swung open and everybody filed out, right through my room. My scowl went unnoticed. Dad came out last and he had some bad news to tell me. No, it wasn't about Davy. Not exactly anyway. It was about the show. It seems that while the story of Davy at the Alamo was indeed a multi-part episode, the final episode wouldn't be until next week. Sorry about that, but I wouldn't be able to watch it next week either. I would have a full week to develop my resentment  into a passive-aggressive performance art piece (I was fantastic, by the way).

I'm sure if I surfed around today, I could find a clip of this show. But somehow, I feel like if I watched it now, it would be like I was letting everyone off the hook. And I'm not quite prepared to do that just yet.