We didn’t have a television when I was young. There was no epic phenomenon that caused our old black & white to die. (At least not that time.) The picture tube just faded and the joy of sitting under a tent of blankets watching the screen roll, faded too. Soon, listening and imagining was not enough and the T.V. went the way of the radio; the guts became parts[1] and the rest of it became a lovely planter.
At that point, there was even more incentive to visit Grams and Gramps, or at least their television. Their house was just around the corner, so from a toddling age, I’d go “over home”. Spontaneous visitors were always welcome.
As I think back, even the television was boring at Grandma’s. The topic on 60 Minutes was never as exciting as the issues being debated right in front of me by the aunts and uncles. Six of the seven siblings lived close by and I shared time with thirty-four cousins.
On rare occasion, my long-distance aunt visited, and pandemonium ensued. Family would spill out of the T.V. room, and up two steps into the kitchen. I could sneak in by the stove, sit cross-legged between two cousins, and soak it all in. Everybody came early, stayed late and talked as fast as they could.
The rules for engagement were shoes off at the door, first-come first-serve, for leftover Sunday dessert and as far as the discussions went, no holds barred. Any topic was fair game and at times, things got pretty heated. I remember the 5’2” aunt jumping up, hands in knife position, to defend karate vs. boxing to the 6’ 2”, 220 lb. uncle. Ah, those were the good old days.
The debate topic was open; religion, the economy, world events, race and social issues. The topic had to be interesting—they added the controversy. No debate ever died due to lack of opposition, for somebody always took the conflicting view. Questionable sources weren’t questioned, supposition flourished, conjecture abounded, and ignorance was no deterrent! The goal was to explore every issue and express an opinion.
I remember Grandpa as the silent referee. He sat listening and nodded once in a while. Grandma, for the most part, spoke only to give advice on dishing the ice cream. They didn’t interject often, but when they did, we all listened.
Because it happened in the walls of safe familial surroundings, nothing was ever held back. Whoever was insulted would go home, think about it, assess the validity of the argument and be expected to write off feelings as inconsequential.
To hubby@worn.out
Honey, in my family, no apologies are offered or expected, everyone has to forgive, forget and move on. I get a clean, fresh slate. This is why, sweetheart, I write off most of your contradictory opinions as misunderstandings or ignorance.
You’re #1 T.
As the cousins and I matured, it was a privilege to join the conversation and have our own input. We were granted no special reprieve. Whoever dared enter the conversation was open to criticism. We were still family and there was no quarter given.
If you weren’t careful, you became the topic of the day. More than once, girls were asked flat out what was wrong with them that they weren’t married yet. The boys were remanded for being lazy or unkempt—a heavy-handed attempt to show concern.
After going home in tears, we processed and went back, full of should’a-said’s and witty comebacks—but not until we cleaned up, got a job, or got married. When the in-laws joined the bunch, they were tested. Those who could take it stayed and the great-grand babies came, as did advice on parenting, and life.
Those evenings by the woodstove—stoked by the heat of debate—taught me that discussion is good. I also gained a healthy mistrust for absolutes. There are true sides to every story that may become untrue tomorrow.
The tradition continues. At “home” the debate centers at the kitchen table. It gets pretty heated, but the table can take it. Mom can’t. She’s not Grandma. She barely tolerates the dissemblance of nine siblings sitting, standing, and grazing around the kitchen table, debating life and interjecting our opinions, but she dishes out great ice cream and it makes me nostalgic just thinking about it.
Reality Bite: The only proven statistic is that any statistic can be disproven.[2]
[1] Which were interchangeable back then.
[2] One thing I’m sure of, I didn’t learn that quote in college stat class.
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