Bob Bridge
Change is inevitable. Some is positive; some … not so much.
One thing is certain, constantly complaining about cultural shifts constitutes a woeful waste of time. Still, it is hard not to notice.
Each generation covets its own pleasures and proclivities. As a child I cherished fresh air, playing sports with my friends, and harvesting supper at my favorite fishing hole.
Electronics and high-tech gizmos?
We weren’t prehistoric, but certainly primitive. The Bridges owned a black-and-white television featuring three channels. Soap operas dominated morning programming, and that was hardly my cup of tea.
However, on rainy Saturday mornings I was a captive of the “boob tube.“ I sprawled on the living room floor, fervently focused on show after show until the sunshine stole me away.
Cartoons?
Too goofy for the son of a realist.
Sure, Mickey was the indisputable mouse of the moment. And, Donald Duck, a bumbling bear named Yogi, and Bugs Bunny were occupying the airwaves as well.
In retrospect, I always imagined Fred Flintstone would feel right at home here in the Limestone Capital of the World.
Sorry, I digress.
My entertainment menu for rain-soaked Saturdays offered a menagerie motif of sorts. The prominent performers were two hounds and a couple of horses: Lassie, Rin-Tin-Tin, Fury and Flicka.
Usually, the plots revolved around a moral issue often punctuated by a daring rescue.
My evening viewing consisted of “The Andy Griffith Show” and “Little House on the Prairie“ with an occasional episode of “Gunsmoke” and “Bonanza” sprinkled in.
Oh, the lessons I learned.
An odd, out-of-touch, nerdy sentimentalist?
Mea culpa.
Bob Bridge welcomes comments at 812–276–9646 or bbbbbridge@gmail.com.