Who Knifed Huckleberry Hound?
CIRCA 1962
In 1962, I was a cartoon-addicted seven year old. My sister, three years my junior, shared my love of cartoons, resulting in household harmony and peace for three hours every Saturday morning. Mom loved cartoons too, because she could sleep late, or at least until Woody Woodpecker’s staccato giggle jarred her from peaceful slumber in the 9:00 hour.
The three local TV stations competed for local childrens’ attention (as well as a portion of their parents’ discretionary income) every Saturday by presenting the powerhouse cartoon stars of the time- Bugs Bunny and the gang from Loony Tunes, Yogi Bear and pals from Hanna Barbera and Terrytune’s Heckle and Jeckle. The 8:00 to 11:00 AM time slot was a cornucopia of animated childhood entertainment across all three channels, doled out in half hour time blocks.
My little sister and I created our own TV tray breakfast buffet each Saturday, the 6:00 AM Farm Report droning in the background. Our goal was to be in front of the Emerson console TV by 7:00 AM for the first black and white cartoon episode of the day.
The TV trays, one laden with Blue Bonnet-smeared Wonder Bread toasted to golden goodness (“Everything’s Better With Blue Bonnet On It!” proclaimed the incessant TV commercials) also boasted peanut butter, apple butter, Grandma Lee’s apricot preserves and a shaker of cinnamon and sugar
The other TV tray supported a variety of cereal-based sugar bombs that featured Sugar Smacks, Sugar Pops and Shredded Wheat. The shingle-sized Shredded Wheat biscuits were a buffet staple because you could spoon a ton of sugar over them, making them both cereal and dessert. Just add whole milk for a diabetes-inducing delight!
The weekly Saturday Morning Cartoon Fest was the Punchbowl.
Dad was the occasional guest turd.
Our living room was generally adult-free on Saturday mornings. However, we occasionally would find Dad lying face down on the couch, knees on the floor, looking as if he fell asleep during a Friday night prayer. Sometimes he had enough time to remove both shoes, sometimes he only got one off before he succumbed to prayer.
We did have a grasp on the fact that, when he was “asleep” in this manner, he did not enjoy loud cartoon soundtracks or youthful horseplay as much as his children did. This became clear one Saturday morning when an unusually loud Heckle and Jeckle episode roused dear old dad from his unconscious contemplation.
It turned out that H & J’s shrill argument about ownership of a hot, toasty ear of corn pierced his veil of unconsciousness like a red hot poker. When veil-piercing events such as this occurred, harsh words were directed at us at a high volume, followed by his stormy retreat into the master bedroom. There, Dad would continue his tirade about “those ungrateful little a#*hole kids”, waking Mom up before Woody Woodpecker had a chance.
Mom was as unimpressed with him as he was with us on these early Saturday mornings. She would share a few trite observations with him regarding his appearance, aroma and lack of consideration for anyone except himself. She would then vacate the bedroom in a huff, emphasizing her irritation with a solid door slam.
Mom was unaware that she had appearance, aroma and selfishness issues similar to those of Dear Old Dad. As she stomped her way to the kitchen (she had mastered credible stomping in scuffy slippers) in search of a Salem and a tepid cup of Sanka, there was a remarkable trail of vitriol and sour vodka breath in her wake.
We learned over time that, when Dad was engaging in his Saturday morning couch meditation, we could tug the TV to an angle pointing away from him, lower the volume and sit close enough to the screen that it would guarantee blindness before we hit high school. Most of the time that was enough to allow us to enjoy our Saturday Cartoon-Fest and sweet treat buffet without retribution.
One Saturday, our Parental Anger Prevention efforts fell short. We had angled the TV and reduced the volume to the point that a mouse fart would have drowned out the dialogue. The unintentional consequence of this minor repositioning was that the TV reception suffered. We got pretty good at adjusting the rabbit ears to offset most of the loss, but a kid can only do so much.
This fine Saturday morning we had, quiet as mice wearing marshmallow slippers, stepped over and around Sleeping Drunky, set up the buffet, angled the TV, poured our cereal and settled in to a new episode of Huckleberry Hound when the picture started rolling.
Fixing the problem without a spotter in the room was a pain in the ass, as you had to get behind the TV to twist the appropriate control and then step back around front to inspect the results. I usually did the adjusting and then looked over the top of the console at my sister for a thumbs up or down. The process was efficient and quiet enough not to awaken Sleeping Drunky from his Jim Beam meditation.
This time I cranked the vertical knob with confidence, having become a seasoned pro in vertical hold adjustment. I looked to Sis for validation of my greatness, but she was focused on changing the outfit on her new Twist N Turn Barbie.
I hissed at her to get her attention. In my post-game analysis later that afternoon, I concluded that my hiss had been over-enthusiastic, as it not only got her attention but also awakened Sleeping Drunky.
Hearing a grunt and a thud, I looked over to see that Dad had rolled onto the floor and was using the coffee table to lever himself up, his dull, bleary eyes locked on me as I tried to blend into the wallpaper. Stepping away from the TV in horror, I was relieved that his eyes did not track my retreat but remained focused on the slow roll that Huckleberry Hound continued to perform on the screen.
The sound of Dad’s trademark smoker’s wheeze overpowered the soundtrack of Huck and friends while distributing his whisky-scented, ashtray halitosis throughout the small living room.
A bit unsteady on his feet, saying not a word, Dad navigated around the coffee table, setting sail for the kitchen, tilting to one side as if fighting a quartering wind. Sis and I were frozen in place, willing ourselves to invisibility. We heard the silverware shift and clatter as the drawer was yanked open, followed by a grunt of satisfaction.
Time slowed to a crawl as Dad reentered the living room. Gripped in his right hand was one of the Shell steak knives that we had been awarded free with a fill-up (collect the entire set!).
We had collected all eight steak knives and were now two fill-ups away from earning a serrated Chef’s knife. Adding this next level incentive to our cutlery stable was a definite priority, as it could cut both tomatoes and tin cans!
We knew that the steak knife Dad was ham-fisting could cut porkchops and hamburgers, but were hoping that it was unsuitable for use on children.
Throwing invisibility to the wind, we scrambled to the far side of the dining room table, putting as much distance between the freebie Shell cutlery and ourselves as we could. From where we were sheltering, we had a clear shot to the backdoor and the safety of the backyard.
Dad paid zero attention to our strategic position changes. Both he and Huckleberry Hound were still a trifle unsteady when Dad reached behind the TV with the steak knife and proved that it was capable of cutting an electrical cord in addition to its normal animal flesh related duties. Without so much as a spark, the cord parted and the TV screen went dead, stealing Huckleberry Hound from our plane of existence.
Having completed this impromptu cutlery demo, Dad tossed the knife onto the fireplace hearth, sending it clattering across the tile and into a stack of Presto Logs. Squatting in front of the now-dark Emerson console, he wrapped his arms around it in a bear hug and executed a technically perfect power lift.
Dad swiveled his head around to where I was still trying to attain invisibility, his eyes meeting mine and locking in with an almost palpable click. He then spoke, making an even-toned, polite request/demand.
“Open the front door and stand back.”
He, as Cobra, had spoken. I, as Mouse, obeyed, hoping that I was exhibiting the appropriate amount of hustle and devotion to the assigned task.
Yanking open the front door, I leaped aside, the fresh morning air wafting past and into the room. Dad and Emerson stepped through the front door and weaved their conjoined way across the porch to the steps.
As soon as Dad and Emerson were out of the house, my sister and I leaped onto the couch and peered out from behind the nicotine-yellowed sheers.
Dad paused on the porch and surveyed his surroundings, finding no neighbors in view and a clear path down the three concrete steps to the sidewalk. Leaning backward so as to avoid going headfirst off the porch, he negotiated the three steps down to the sidewalk without so much as a wobble.
Stepping over the petunias bordering the sidewalk and onto the lawn, he squatted and released his bear hug with Emerson still about six inches above terra firma. Achieving touchdown, Emerson’s legs burrowed into the overgrown lawn. Struggling upright, Dad took a deep breath, rolled his neck, flexed his shoulders and headed for the front porch.
We took this as our cue to be somewhere else as quickly as possible. Launching ourselves from the couch, we were out the back door, through the back yard and endeavoring to be specks in the distance before Dad could make it through the front door.
The Road Runner would have been proud.
We walked the railroad tracks over to Grandma’s house to finish up what was left of our abbreviated Cartoon Fest. Strolling home afterwards, still a block or so from home, we could see a small knot of neighbors clustered on the street in front of our house. As we closed the distance, we could hear them sharing with one another an admiration of our unusual landscaping feature.
Mom was on the front porch, squinting through the smoke of a mostly inhaled Salem, which was doubling as a pointer as she offered Dad direction and encouragement to get the goddam TV back into the goddam house right goddam now.
I hoped there was some Shredded Wheat left.
