My house was built in the late 1920s. It’s a classic old brick bungalow, and I wouldn’t want to live in anything else. Hopefully that’s how all people feel about their home, because life is too short and too cruel to live in the kind of a place that you don’t like.
Like just about all of us now, I was raised in the television age. Each night, after supper was eaten and the table cleared away, my family would settle in around the TV for 3 hours until bedtime. We didn’t go out and see movies, or take bike rides, or explore nature, or anything like that. Instead, it was always “What’s gonna happen in Hazzard county this time?,” or “What plan can the A-Team pull off next?” That was my reality, and, as a predictable result, I now avoid watching TV as much as I can.
Not that I’m a “kill your television type.” I enjoy watching sports on TV, and an occasional news story or weather update, but not too much more than that. Television for me is like butter: small doses of it are fine, but too much of it can’t be a good thing.
I thought about television as I was sitting in my living room this morning. When they built my house, nobody had a television. The people who first lived here might have thought you were crazy if you tried to explain it to them. And they certainly didn’t build their houses and apartments with a television in mind.
It just seems wrong, then, to put a modern item like a television into my retro living room. Most of the houses around here have done it, though, and I have no quarrel with those that do. But my TV is in a downstairs bedroom, conveniently located next to the living room. It’s the best of both: I can watch a little bit of TV, without stepping on the kind of room that looks like it should be pictured in a catalog somewhere.
Perhaps one day I will finally kill my television, and free up that downstairs bedroom for something else. Maybe I’ll even have a requiem for my childhood brain melter in the living room of my bungalow. That would surely be worth watching on television.