Channel Changers

In the early '70s, a new color TV was bought to replace the old black and white TV in our family room. The remote control was still a few years away from being the ubiquitous accessory it is now and the 19" Zenith required manual labor to cycle through all 13 channels available. For us kids, this was acceptable: we knew the channels and programs that we wanted and usually left the dial alone.

Dad, on the other hand, was a channel-surfer. He had his favorite shows, for sure, but had little tolerance for a pause in action or commercial breaks. He certainly was not a couch potato; he worked long, hard hours and after dinner, with most of us kids off doing homework or getting ready for bed, he could get an hour or so to unwind in front of the tube. He had is chair: an upholstered recliner with a commanding view of the TV. Armed with a 16-ounce mug filled with beer and a dish of nuts at his side, he'd be ready for an evening of heavy channel rotation. Getting up to change the channels was always an issue, but Dad was resourceful. At one point or another, all of us kids had been employed as his own personal remote control. It'd usually start with one of us coming in to see what he was watching. "Tim, before you sit down would you change the channel?" I'd obediently flip the dial to the next channel then turn to head to the couch. "Wait," he'd say, apparently displeased with the current channel's offering, and would point his index finger at the TV, giving it a single, swift rotation. Translation: next channel, please. And with each rotation of his finger I'd advance to another channel. My breaking point was usually one full rotation through all the channels, then I'd protest and he'd let me go. Later, while searching for a snack in the kitchen, I'd hear Dad say, "Lucy, would you change the channel?"

Eventually, the Zenith started having pains of old age and began to flash to black and white. Dad found a good remedy: bang on the top of it until it went back to color. Again, he found the service of his children to be helpful. When available, he'd employ whoever was in close proximity to wander over and bang on the TV when needed. From our beds late at night we'd hear Dad's footsteps in the living room, a few loud bangs, then footsteps back to his chair.

After the Zenith lived a good 10 years or so it was succeeded by a new TV, complete with remote and our channel-changing duties were officially retired. The rotating index finger was replaced with "Has anyone seen the clicker?"