Dad was the consummate do-it-yourselfer, not because he was driven by a sense of self accomplishment, but simply because he couldn’t afford to hire repairs done. During the 1950’s, whenever an appliance broke (and they all broke), he’d figure a way to fix it or do without. He even taught himself to repair those old, vacuum tube, black and white TVs. I don’t believe we ever owned a new TV.
As a milkman, he got first shot at everyone’s cast offs—my first bicycle, for instance. Then I remember the evening we borrowed the neighbor’s truck and hauled home a really sorry looking swing set and convinced us it would make a great back yard gym. If I remember correctly, it was responsible for at least one broken arm and two tetanus shots. But occasionally he’d score a TV set.
We’d all gather ‘round and hold our breath while he conducted the “smoke test.” He’d wince as he plugged it in while mom shuffled us back like a gaggle of goslings threatened by a rabid dog. Barring any fireworks, he’d run it through its paces, slapping the side of the console with one hand while carefully wobbling the tuner with the other. I remember his Norman Rockwell-like, 6’ 3” angular body, bent past center at the waist, knees locked and feet slid out wider than his shoulders, his ear against the speaker as he mumbled to himself. If the TV showed the least whisper of life, he’d dive to the rear, remove the particle-board back cover and begin tapping its tubes like a dentist probing for a cavity.
“Marvin, you be careful, that thing says Danger High Voltage…you’ll get killed back there!” Mom worried aloud as she tightened her arms around her brood.
Sometimes we had as many as three TV’s stacked on top of one another in our living room. The stack of TVs sat out into the room, never against the wall, because the picture would go berserk on a regular basis, flipping top to bottom and side to side, and Dad would have to wedge himself behind the tower of tuners to fix it. Peering out from behind as one of us held a mirror at just the right angle, he readjusted the horizontal and vertical hold. For over a year we used one TV for sound and alternated between the other two for the best picture. Looking back I realize how crazy it was; but then, we thought our Dad was a genius!
Even when we had a picture it was so dim that the slightest sunlight easily overpowered its ghostly image. On Saturday mornings we threw a blanket over the TV and ourselves to watch cartoons. When you have three, sometimes four, brothers, each juggling a teeming bowl of Cheerios hunched under one blanket there’s more cartoon action off screen than on.
Dad was a can-do kinda guy, perhaps because he was a Marine. Drafted during WWII, he left his young bride and tiny sons to serve our country, like so many men and women before him. They say life was simpler back then, but sacrificial service in our nation’s military wasn’t simple then and is certainly not simple today.
Dad is gone now, as are most of those with whom he served. On this Memorial Day weekend, I hope you’ll pause with me to remember the tremendous sacrifice so many have made and so many continue to make to provide our simple freedoms. Thank you for your service!
I pray for God’s blessing on our nation and upon you, my friends.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.