The Stranger
A few years after I was born, my father met a stranger who was new to our small town. From the beginning, my father 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. My father taught me to obey and my mother taught me good from evil, but the stranger, he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, comedies, and mysteries. If I wanted to know anything about history, politics, or science, he always knew the answers. He knew about the past, understood the present, and even seemed to be able to predict the future.
He took my family to cricket and football. He made me cry and made me laugh. The stranger never stopped talking, but my father did not seem to mind. Sometimes, my mother 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 my mother ever prayed for the stranger to leave.
My father ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the stranger never felt obligated to honour them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home, not from us, our friends, or any visitors. However, the stranger got away with four letter words that burned my ears, made my father squirm, and my mother blush.
My father did not permit the liberal use of alcohol. However, 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. If you walk into my parents' room 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? We just call him, 'TV.'
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