Return to TV

I remember the good old days when Dad went outside and turned the rusty antenna pole so he could maybe kinda sorta watch the Superbowl. “Is it clear, yet?” he’d yell over the sound of the thunder and the pouring rain.

“Turn it a little bit more!” I’d yell. “No, wait! Do what you just did a second ago, I saw something!”

The tiny, ancient rabbit-eared TV in the basement had the best reception. Couldn’t see the ball, but you could see some pixelated blobs running around.

And don’t knock Daniel Tiger ‘til you try it. That show saved my life.

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