The Stranger

 A few years after I was born, my dad met a
 stranger who was new to our small town. From the
 beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting
 newcomer and soon invited him to live with our
 family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was
 around from then on.

 As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my
 family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My
 parents were complementary instructors: Mum taught
 me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey. But
 the stranger ..... he was our storyteller. He would
 keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures,
 mysteries, and comedies. If I wanted to know
 anything about politics, history or science, he
 always knew the answers about the past, understood
 the present and even seemed able to predict the
 future!

 He took my family to the football and cricket games. He
 made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger
 never stopped talking, but Dad didn't seem to mind.

 Sometimes, Mum would get up quietly while the rest
 of us were shushing each other to listen to what he
 had to say, and she would go to the kitchen for
 peace and quiet. (I wonder now if she ever prayed
 for the stranger to leave.)

 Dad ruled our household with certain moral
 convictions, but the stranger never felt obligated
 to honour them. Profanity, for example, was not
 allowed in our home ... not from us, our friends or
 any visitors. Our longtime visitor, however, got
 away with four-letter words that burned my ears and
 made my dad squirm and my mother blush.

 My dad didn't permit the liberal use of alcohol.
 But the stranger encouraged us to try it on a
 regular basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars
 manly, and pipes distinguished. He talked freely
 (much too freely) about sex. His comments were
 sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and
 generally embarrassing.

 I now know that my early concepts about
 relationships were influenced strongly by the
 stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of
 my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked ... And NEVER
 asked to leave.

 More than fifty years have passed since the
 stranger moved in with our family. He has blended
 right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was
 at first. If you could walk into my parents' den
 today, you would still find him sitting over in his
 corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk
 and watch him draw his pictures.

 His name?

 We just call him 'TV.'