“Arguing” by Marg Heidebrecht

 

Given the abundance of electronic devices in their 21^st century lives, my grandchildren struggle to make sense of a long-ago argument. I try again.

My older sisters wanted to watch The Wizard of Oz. The rooftop antenna picked up the broadcast of this Oscar-winning film from a station in Buffalo, New York. Through the magic of radio waves and alternating currents, the movie appeared on our living room TV, a heavy piece of furniture that weighed as much as I did.

Even with the volume dialed to its lowest setting, I could hear the screeching of the wicked witch from the kitchen where I was sprinkling cinnamon sugar onto a piece of buttered toast. Even after running upstairs and burying my head under a feather pillow, an itchy blanket, and a chenille bedspread, I could hear the flapping of the flying monkeys’ wings.

Had I been older than seven, I would’ve done what I do now when panic sets in – gone for a brisk evening walk.

“Turn it off,” I sobbed. My mother did and my sisters were furious. It was not possible to slam the swinging door that separated the living room from the kitchen, but they shoved it with such force that it took several minutes for the hinged panel to stop squeaking, to settle back down. It took the siblings much longer.

Questions followed this explanation. Didn’t you have noise-cancelling headphones? Couldn’t your sisters watch it later? Why didn’t you watch something else in a different room?

No, no, and we only had one screen. I resist any mention of the second screen, the portable one; it was stored behind out-of-season jackets and set up on a wobbly base whenever my father wanted to display pictures from a special event or recent vacation. 

He removed twenty-four slides from a yellow Kodachrome box, deposited them upside down and backwards into a projector; incomprehensible to these youngsters and archaic now to me with 6,893 images tucked inside my pocket on a phone.

In spite of the Oz debacle, there were advantages to living with one TV and four channels. We learned to defend our preferences and tolerate each other’s choices. Library books and embroidery projects remained options if the polka music on Lawrence Welk or Lassie’s search for yet another child in danger became unbearable.

Since I was not an early riser, I have no recollection of when the broadcast day began; but when weekend babysitting boosted my bank account, I learned that stations signed off at 11 p.m. with coloured bars and a series of beeps, leaving an unwelcome gap until the party-going parents returned.

In an attempt to stay awake, I grabbed another handful of salt & vinegar chips, counted the cars that drove down Sterling Street, and waited for a set of headlights to turn into the driveway of #73 so I could go home.

When my own kids were teens, the video store provided small bags of popcorn along with thousands of films. With one VCR and a mom who checked the language and violence ratings on the box, there were heated debates beside the checkout counter. More than once, we left empty-handed.

In hindsight, the supervision and wisdom required in that era was simple. The only web we knew was the kind made by spiders in hard-to-reach corners of the attic. The world-wide variety had not yet been spun; nor our attention held hostage in its sticky threads.

Today my grandchildren point to the 42” flat screen in our living room; it sits on an end table between a plaid sofa and a seldom-used window; an attempt to safeguard it should an excess of sugar and a deficit of outdoor play result in a game of indoor tag.

“Do you ever watch it?” A reasonable question.

“Yes, but not when we have visitors.” An honest answer.

“Do you have a favourite show?”

Petticoat Junction in the ‘60s, Cheers in the ‘80s, ER in the ‘00s; but with the availability of several dozen streaming services, it’s hard enough to decide what to watch after the dishes are done let alone choose a favourite. This is not the time to tell these bright young minds that Grandpa and Bubba sometimes prefer to re-watch familiar whodunits and that the endings always come as a surprise.

The tech broligarchs are busy implementing the restrictions ordered by the leader of the free world; they have not noticed that the rules at Grandma’s house remain unchanged: 1. Eat food at the table. 2. One piece of bubble gum per visit. 3. No screens.

My rationale?

1. The mess. 2. The dentist. 3. My time with them is limited, they have screens everywhere else, and it’s a slip ‘n slide tumble from ten minutes of Paw Patrol to hours on YouTube. Compromise versus dopamine is a rigged competition; I’m opting out of the match.

It is not lost on me that I’m considering the prevalence of screens while staring at one; I prefer the cut and paste features of Microsoft Word to typewriters and bottles of correction fluid.

This is an example of the inconsistency that comes with aging. We embrace online booking and transit apps that simplify life; we criticize the disruption of AI and Meta while lining up for senior discounts.

But our forebearers kept candles after the invention of light bulbs; thanks to them we can make wishes over birthday cakes and set a romantic tone in any room.

Perhaps, a hundred years from now, someone will unearth my board games, my craft supplies, my muddy boots. Will they be confused or amused by this stash of relics? Better, I suppose, than being overwhelmed with head-shaking regret.

Marg Heidebrecht lives and writes in Dundas, Ontario. Her first book of essays, In the Shade: Friendship, Loss, and the Bruce Trail (here) was shortlisted for the 2020 Hamilton Arts Council Literary Awards. Her essay, “Invasions,” won a creative nonfiction prize in the 2022 Hamilton Arts & Letters contest and is included in her 2024 book, Mosaic through East-Facing Glass: A Collection of Personal Essays (here). 

She’s also published several opinion pieces and many letters to the editor in The Globe and Mail and The Hamilton Spectator. 

Visit Marg at:
https://intheshade2019.blogspot.com/
https://www.instagram.com/intheshade2019/?hl=en

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