Collected Childhood

Thru a whimsical gaze, my father would recite a story to me from his childhood in a tone like he was reading it from a book.  From far away he would recount a time when the only television in the neighborhood was down the street, and on a Saturday afternoon, you could, for a nickel, watch television all day, provided you brought your own chair.

He'd tell this to lead in to a story he likes to tell often.

One unlucky saturday, my father and the rest of the Gunz' young ones had set out on their saturday mid-morning trek, chairs in hand.  My father probably remembers it as 5 miles, up hill, both ways, barefoot.  Disappointment struck our travelers as the neighborhood nickelodeon had found itself packed tight.  Too tight in fact.  So the clan made the trek home.

5 Miles... Uphill... Shoeless... Glass broken and scattered... Sulfur Burning...

Or at least, probably how he remembers it.

His father, the model he took after, saw them sadly making the long arduous journey back up the street, chairs and nickels in hand, making a pact on how they would have to all get up earlier next week to secure their spots.  He saw this and decided that that type of disappointment was too much to bear, watching his children climb back up the glass tainted, sulfur burned hill.

So he ordered a television.  It was a lot of money, but it's the ultimate babysitter.

And this story, and the 200 thousand times my father has told it to me, are the only reason I can come up with that explains why he always has at least 5 televisions in the house.  So he won't have to climb that damned hill again.

Love you, Dad.