Back in 1963, when I was ten years old.
We’d crowd around our television. Westerns were the mold.
My father’s non negotiating rule was, “Get chores done!
Make sure that every animal is fed ‘fore you have fun.”
Only when the cows were milked and every horse had hay,
could we settle down to supper. We’d be calling it a day.
We were tickled silly with only one black and white TV.
A television for each room would later come to be.
Each Saturday was Gunsmoke. Our weekly family TV show.
And Sundays were Bonanza. Grandma’s crush was Little Joe.
We chomped down bowls of popcorn mother popped in cooking oil.
She added butter melted on the stove atop tinfoil.
When sitting next to Grandma you weren’t embarrassed by TV.
You didn’t have to scrutinize. They all were rated G.
There was no TV cussing or the need to raise your brows.
The only cussing Grandma heard was when we milked the cows.
Our families shared a closeness watching TV shows at night.
The coyote versus roadrunner caused laughter’s pure delight.
Sixty years have passed and TV ain’t the same today.
The color and the stereo, first rate in every way.
You never need to sit up close to get a perfect view.
You could prob’ly see the picture from the street while driving through.
To buy a television is by far less cash today.
But the content it delivers is so harsh in every way.
Now sitting next to Grandma might just be a big mistake.
You’d hope she wore her earplugs and at best not stay awake.
The choice is in the hundreds from Netflix to any plan.
I still prefer old westerns. I’ll forever be a fan.
The other day I asked my grandson, “Ever watch John Wayne?”
He said, “I’d rather take a punch to help dull up my brain.”
Of course, I took exception so I sat him down by me.
Then found my favorite western for the two of us to see.
