My father, who was born in the early years of the Great Depression, was never able to truly keep up with the times. I always thought that he yearned for the simpler, less complicated days of yesteryear. He simply had no use for any of the electronic gadgets of the 1970's and 80's. His philosophy was very basic. "The more crap like that they put on a car these days, the more headaches you have," he would say time and time again. He uttered those words after looking at the neighbor's new car or perhaps after an ad that bragged about the new technology offered on the latest Ford sedan. We were the last humans to own a car with automatic windows as far as I know. In fact, we were the last humans to own ANYTHING automatic as far as I know.
Vehicles weren't the only advances my dad shied away from. In 1976, my parents took the huge leap and bought a parcel of land and built a new home. I still remember the first night in our new abode. My dad was exceedingly anxious to try out one of the two new showers. The old home they had rented prior to our move was equipped with only one claw foot bathtub, which offered nothing resembling a shower. "I can't wait to try out the new shower!" dad said, after coming in from raking the rock filled area around our new home. "I'm filthy and a good, hot shower is going to really hit the spot," he continued, while digging through a box looking for a towel.
It should be noted that my father was accustomed to the typical faucet, which consisted of one valve for hot water, and one valve for cold water. The faucets in the new house consisted of the more modern water mixer, which only required one lever. This apparatus required the user to turn the handle clockwise with the water becoming warmer as the lever continued it's journey around the little dial which was color coded blue for cold to red for hot. Dad didn't get it. In his excitement, he neglected to close the hall bathroom door, and as we passed by, we could see our nude father attempting to master the new faucet. Apparently, he wasn't aware that the user must also flip a little level on the spigot to reroute the water to the overhead shower head. I'd never seen my dad dance, but 140 degree water up to his ankles made him look like a very awkward and very naked Fred Astaire. So, the water came on, the water went off. The water went on, the water went off. He still didn't realize that he was in complete control of the water temperature based on how far he turned the handle. Finally, in his frustration, he yelled for my mom. "Carolyn, this shower ain't working right. I can't get anything but boiling water! I knew they screwed the plumbing up in this house!" he barked, as my mom scurried to the rescue.
"I think if you just turn the handle to the halfway mark, it will be fine," she said, as my father surveyed his reddened feet and ankles.
"I hate this modern junk. Why can't they just leave well enough alone?!!" he answered, with a towel wrapped around his waist.
Once again the shower commenced. Almost immediately, a cloud of steam and a barrage of language unfit for this story filled the hallway. Apparently, my mother's instructions on how to operate the shower had gone unheeded and my dad was proceeding to cook himself once again. He had somehow managed to reroute the water to the shower head, but had repeated his mistake from earlier and blasted himself with boiling hot water. At some point in his very brief shower, he had managed to lather himself with a bar of soap.
In my seven years I had never seen a more pitiful, yet hilarious sight. Dad had excited the still running shower, with soap suds slowly sliding off his body, while slipping and sliding across the ceramic tile floor. Finally, he steadied himself by grabbing the towel bar with one hand and holding firmly to the sink vanity. By that time, he had created such a spectacle, that the whole family stood, snickering in the hallway just out of his sight. I'm not sure if he ever finished his shower, but he did eventually learn to operate the new mixer.
Another technological advance my dad didn't immediately warm up to is the remote control. When our old and worn out dial television finally went on the electronics heaven, my mother arrived home one evening with a brand new model from Montgomery Ward. "Now, this is a very expensive TV, so lets be careful," she said to my older brother and I. We were in charge of carrying everything and to my amazement, she let us carry our latest purchase into the house.
We removed the television from the box, and noticed that sure enough, there was a remote control. "Why are you putting the remote in your pocket?" I asked Jarrett, who surely had some sinister plan up his sleeve.
"We're going to have a little fun with dad later," he answered, with a twinkle in his eye.
With the new TV in it's place and the cable hooked up, we plugged it in and pushed the power button. A beautiful and colorful picture appeared on the screen. Promptly, dad switched the channel to the evening news, which was our cue to disappear for at least a half an hour.
We allowed dad to spend a few blissful minutes with his new TV when my older brother's plan was hatched. "Watch this," he said, as he aimed the shiny remote toward the television from the safety of the hallway, which kept us out of sight. He squeezed the volume button and in an instant, it sounded as if dad was making an effort to let the rest of our town enjoy the news with him. We could barely hear his old rocking chair creak as he rose to lower the volume. Once again, he eased back into the comfort of his rocker.
We gave him a minute or so and switched the channel. One minute he was watching Walter Cronkite deliver the news, and the next, he was watching a rerun of Gun Smoke. "What the he..." he said, rising once again to switch the channel back to the news.
Again, we let him enjoy the news for a few minutes and then we simply switched the television off. Silence dominated the house for a few seconds and then he spoke, "Carolyn!!! Come in here! This blasted TV is already on the blink! It keeps going to a different channel and the volume changes by itself! Now, it's cut off and I haven't even toughed it! I knew we should have taken the old one to Mr. Fitzgerald!"
Mr. Fitzgerald was an older fellow who operated a small television repair shop out of his basement. He generally would take a customer's television and keep it for a month, and then call to tell them there was nothing he could do and they should buy a new one.
"What on Earth is wrong with the TV? It's brand new!" mom answered, while wondering why her two mischievous sons were snickering in the hallway.
Mom let dad in on our little secret, but not before allowing us a few more minutes of fun. Dad came to actually appreciate the remote control, but a new microwave was on the horizon.
For the sake of keeping this story fairly brief, let me just say that dad had a rather rocky start with the joys of microwave cooking. Three strips of bacon will surely turn into tiny, rectangular charcoal briquettes if allowed to cook for say, fifteen minutes.
My father continues to loathe modern advances, but now he's heading for eighty-one-years-old. I guess it doesn't matter, and I often wonder if it is he who is living the better life.
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