𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝𝑦 𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝𝑦 𝐶ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝐶ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝 and 𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑈𝐹𝑂

Kids these days have no idea what little we got by with for electronic entertainment when we were their age. They have the world at their fingertips. We had Channel 4, 5, and 13. And the luckier ones had 2, if they were really lucky. Or the radio. You only heard your favorite song if it came on the radio or you put on an LP or single.

Mornings on the Bowes Farm were punctuated by Dad's continued summons of, "Danny!" from downstairs. I was snuggled down as deep in my little bed as I could be. A lifelong insomniac, no matter what time I went to bed, I only started to fall asleep around 4AM. Maybe 5. When 7:20 rolled around, it came way too soon. I hated the night because it was so interminable. Everyone else was asleep, but there I was staring at the ceiling. Or the clock. No deep sleep was ever mine. I never knew what it was.

Dad's call intensified: "DANNY! The bus'll soon be here! DANNY!" The school bus arrived at twenty to eight. Who the heck's idea was that, anyway?

"DAN-NEEE! The bus is coming! DAN-NEE!" My vague and very short version of sleep coming to a rude ending, I extremely reluctantly rolled my eyes part way open... and dozed off again. The fuzzy gray camping blanket with its blue and white stripe across the top was warm under my chin and it knew my name... "DAN-NEEE! Get up Danny! You'll miss the bus! DAN-𝑁𝐸𝐸𝐸!"

It happened that way every morning. Why that stupid school didn't just blow up and be done with it was beyond me. I knew I would be in trouble if I didn't get up, so I cast off the scant two to three and a half hours light sleep I got and dragged myself out of bed and got dressed as I half fell down the stairs. It wasn't as warm in the rest of the house as it was in my snug little bed and I deeply resented that.

Coming into the kitchen, the familiar tune of 𝐶𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝐺𝑎𝑠 was playing on the radio on end of the counter facing towards Tabbert's. I should say, 'rasping'. That radio was absolutely awful and I hated it beyond words. It was a tan coloured plastic Philco Ford radio and it only did two things well: sit there turned off, or turn anything it managed to half tune in into static and snaps and pops and crackles. Kind of like what they say about 2 cycle Detroit Diesels: "They turn fuel fuel into noise; lots of it." Anyway, it was the Rice Crispies of radios and then some. As I came awake, mostly due to that thing assaulting my senses, somebody would rasp something half comprehensibly out about the weather, and then it was 𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝𝑦 𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝𝑦 𝐶ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝐶ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝.

"𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑚𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒 (𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑚𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒)

𝐿𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦, 𝐷𝑜𝑛? (𝐿𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦, 𝐷𝑜𝑛?)"

That was CHOV 1350 radio. Pembroke's premier station. I guess Pembroke's only station. The violence of the snaps and pops continued, defying my continued hopes that that stupid radio would finally give in to one of them and blow up too.

"𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑚𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒? (𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑚𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒?)

𝐹𝑎𝑟, 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦..."

If it wasn't for the sheer explosive energy of the staccato delivery of that radio, I would have drifted back off and been Far, far away too.

"𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑝𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒 (𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑝𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒)

𝐿𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦, 𝐷𝑜𝑛? (𝐿𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦, 𝐷𝑜𝑛?)

𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑝𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒? (𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑝𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒?)

𝐹𝑎𝑟, 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦

𝐹𝑎𝑟, 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦-𝑎𝑦-𝑎𝑦-𝑎𝑦-𝑎𝑦..."

Snap, crackle, pop, ad finitum...

I imagine now it was a loose connection to the speaker that caused all the added sound effects, but that thing just sucked all around regardless. Mom inexplicably loved that radio. I hated it like my worst enemy.

"𝐿𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑚𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑔

𝑂𝑜ℎ 𝑤𝑒, 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝𝑦, 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝𝑦, 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝, 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝

𝑊𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑢𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑚𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒

𝑂𝑜ℎ 𝑤𝑒, 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝𝑦, 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝𝑦, 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝, 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝

𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝𝑦, 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝𝑦, 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝, 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑝..."

Snap, crackle, explosion...

Mom would sit there between the counter and the stove on her chrome and black kitchen stool with that fold up bottom step, eating her toast and sipping her coffee, the window looking up the Queens Line at her back, completely fine with the static and artillery bombardment right next to her.

My real guess is that maybe Mom didn't love it so much as she was terrified of change. It took until I was old enough, and I mean my late teens, to finally convince Dad to ignore her refusals, and buy a new radio. We got a shiny new Motomaster push button radio, and it was absolutely 𝑔𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 after all the years of the machine gun and field cannon auditory assault of that cursed box of brittle plastic. It was clear as a bell and nailed every station it could pull in. It added nothing of its own to anything vocal or instrumental. What a 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑓 after all those years of acoustic abuse.

The thing that surprises me the most is, for how much I hated the thing, I can't remember what manner of destruction I meted out on it in triumphant celebration. My three guesses are I put it on the big concrete back step of the house and jumped all over it with both feet, or I took the sledge hammer to it, or I threw it in the burn barrel and burnt it. Maybe Number One and Number Three or Number Two and Number Three. I feel so cheated that I can't remember! You're supposed to be able not only to relish revenge, but to savour it afterwards as well. I'm sure I relished it, but you have to be able to recall it to savour it and I just can't. That sure sucks the wind out of my sails of Victory.

If the mornings were an assault on my auditory senses, Friday evenings were the same on my visual ones. Friday evening, for you Americans so uninitiated, was 𝐻𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦 𝑁𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼𝑛 𝐶𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑑𝑎. Good grief I dreaded that. Dad would bundle me up out of a perfectly warm house on a cold Queens Line night and take me with him to Uncle Gordon's over on the Kerr Line. Him and Uncle Gordon would watch the game together and comment on the skill and style of the players, and the right or wrong of the call of the referee.

Uncle Gordon and Aunt Kathryn had a big wooden console colour TV. Ours was a smaller black and white one. I don't know if Dad went there because of the colour TV, or because Uncle Gordon wouldn't venture out at night, but I suspect the latter. I'll explain the former later, if that makes any sense.

Aunt Kathryn would go to bed or upstairs to do something else, and it was just the three of us.

I didn't regard colour TV as the luxury most people did. It was orange. Everything was orange. People were orange, cars were orange, and buildings were orange. I don't remember the colour of the sky or grass or trees, but I expect they were a long spectral piece off as well. There were three small rotary tint adjustment knobs on the back: Red, Green, and Blue. Well, 'Red' was actually Orange, and people looked extremely strange in Green or Blue, so Orange it was. Everything was orange.

I suppose that wouldn't have been so bad except for the fact that a lot of colour TV's in those days added another element to your viewing experience, and that was ghosting. Everyone on TV had a half figure orange ghost of themselves following them around everywhere they went. 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑢𝑠 𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑏𝑦 𝑀𝐷, 𝐹𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝐶𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑛, 𝐼𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒... they all had an orange ghost of them shadowing their every move. Take that and make it 10 hockey players scurrying and darting to and fro around far below the camera on the ice and I was out. It just made my eyes burn trying to keep up to them, so I would grab a children's book out of Uncle Gordon and Aunt Kathryn's well-stocked bookcase at the bottom of the stairs and settle down on the couch in the kitchen to read it. Drowsiness from the late hour and reading and the coziness of their small house would take over and I would doze off.

Uncle Gordon would sit in his rocking chair, rocking away as he did, and Dad sat on the couch with its back to the stairs. Sometimes they were on the edge of their seats.

During commercials they would help themselves to tea and apples and cheese or whatever baked treat Aunt Kathryn had made and left out for them. I usually scored a chocolate bar out of the evening and I was very content with that and a kid's picture book. Then I drifted off as the game raged on.

"𝐻𝐸 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑂𝑇𝑆! 𝐻𝐸 𝑆𝐶𝑂𝑅𝑅𝑅𝐸𝑆!" would periodically disturb my altered state. I would languidly think, "Who cares?", and drift back off.

Eventually the game was over. I don't know what team they cheered for. I don't know if it was even the same one. But they took it seriously and were glued to the screen right through except for the commercials when everyone was told to buy a Mercury Bobcat "𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑡!" And Quasar Colour TV commercials with that ringing '𝑃𝐼𝑁𝐺!' sound that was supposedly the signature of a real quasar in space. There was also some commercial we were inundated with that had something to do with Quartz... Oh yeah: Timex and Pulsar Quartz watches. Quartz was all the rage in those days of everything becoming Solid State.

Finally the closing theme would be playing, maybe after overtime, and I would feel Dad's huge, gentle hands sitting my limp form up and pulling my jacket and boots and mitts on me. To help me with the atmosphere for writing this, I looked up '𝐻𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦 𝑁𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼𝑛 𝐶𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑑𝑎 Theme Song 1970' on Youtube, and closed my eyes, and I was right back there with Dad and Uncle Gordon as a little tyke in that modest little house on a cold Ottawa Valley winter's night over 50 years ago, and the tears welled up in my eyes... Some glorious day I will be with them both again, all in the arms of our wonderful Saviour. Some wonderful, wonderful day. No more parting or sorrow. See you soon, Dad...

The 𝐻𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦 𝑁𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼𝑛 𝐶𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑑𝑎 theme played out with all its Big Band brass horns and triumphant vibe, then we would hear "𝐻𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦 𝑁𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼𝑛 𝐶𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑑𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝐹𝑜𝑟𝑑/𝐿𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑛/𝑀𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑟!" while Dad finished getting me dressed for the trip home. Right after that it would be out to the absolutely rude, abrupt, cold winter night - with the first strong hint of it being Uncle Gordon's enclosed front porch, which transferred every last degree of winter's temporal rage and power right to you minus the wind - then outside into some of that wind in their semi-protected yard, and into an ice cold car that didn't seem much more eager for the trip back home than I was. It was by that point the same as Uncle Gordon's front porch: An ice cold wind break and not much more.

I would sit there in the frozen car, on the cold-hardened vinyl seat, as miserable as Calvin waiting for the school bus on a rainy day, as we slid and slithered along on Acre's Sideroad home. The gully near the Kerr Line was the real challenge, then it was the wind-blown drifting of the open part alongside Gordon Oattes's farm and onto the Queens Line and home. On a really bad night, we would go up to Kohlsmith Road and home because the gully on Acre's Road might be too much in the deep snow. You sure didn't want to get stuck or pulled off the road on a blizzardy Valley night.

The lighted dial of our 1956 Meteor's radio would dance and go in and out of focus before my drowsy eyes as my head bobbed to the icy ruts and potholes and washboard in the road. I don't even remember what that radio sounded like because I can't recall it ever being turned on. Our later 1965 Rambler 770 Classic's car radio was ten times more clear than the radio at home but we almost never turned it on either. The only sound turning on the car radio was the smooth click of the knob. The explosive sound of turning on the radio on the kitchen counter was like having a mortar land in the living room.

We would finally get home, then Dad would undress me and put my groggy little Gus into bed and I would be awake again for most of the night. At least I could sleep in Saturday morning.

As I already mentioned, our home TV was just a black and white unit. What I liked about it was it was clear. The picture was just black, white, and whatever shades in between, but it was crisp and clear. No ghosting. The Flintstones were vivid on that TV. Not overly colourful, mind you, but defined and precise. Unlike the kitchen radio, the sound was clear as well. It was just the slim choice of channels. We got 4, 5, and 13; CJOH TV. 4 and 5 were usually the same, so it was just which one came in better, which was typically 5. That narrowed it down to really two channels. When Cory moved in practically right across the road, they got the vaunted Channel 2; Global. That was where all the best shows and especially cartoons were. Our side of the road: Nothing. Zip. Their side of the road: Channel 2 in all its glory. It just didn't seem fair. Or even possible.

Of course, a major factor for Cory's folks getting Channel 2 was the wispy, wiry antenna on their roof. It was always bent and crooked from the Queens Line West wind and their high, steep roof being too dangerous to be on without proper equipment to straighten it, but it brought in Channel 2. Stewart's up the road had a full installation of a tower and an electric antenna rotator. I don't know what all channels they got but it sure was cool when Brian and Cory and I were standing outside and we heard a whirring sound and looked up and saw it rotating far above against the pitch black night sky, and Brian said, "Dad's changing the channel on the TV." In stark contrast to that, we had rabbit ears on our living room TV. Those things were so fussy it wasn't funny. You had to be eating a ham sandwich thinking about Tuesday and wearing three socks whilst posed like a Grecian model as someone else hiccupped to the tune of 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑦 𝐷𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑦 to get them to lock onto the right station. Just to be clear it had to be you yourself thinking about Tuesday, not your ham sandwich thinking about Tuesday. If you hiccuped yourself that messed it up altogether and you were back to Square One.

Okay, I may have been exaggerating a bit there; A tuna sandwich would suffice... up until 5:30. Sometimes we wrapped tinfoil around the antennas to help hold the station. You had to get creative with wabbit ears to extract maximum performance and satisfaction out of them.

Cory's family had a colour TV, and it was way better than Uncle Gordon's, with a much crisper image and far less colour saturation. After school I'd complete my chores and dash over and we'd park ourselves crosslegged on the soft carpet in front of the TV and watch 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑓𝑠 and 𝐿𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑦 𝑇𝑢𝑛𝑒𝑠 in the most modern version of high definition then available. Great times. The best things in life are truly free. I was with my bestest buddy watching the bestest cartoons, maybe munching down a bowl of cereal, and the world really just doesn't have much better to offer than that.

To be a kid again with Cory on the Queens Line just the way we were would be the greatest thing. We had the most awesome childhood together you could ever ask for. I'm not kidding.

At home as I got a little older, Dad and Mom bought me my own little black and white TV for my room. I think it had a 10 inch screen. It was a tidy little unit with its own built in fold away antenna and it was every bit as good as our TV in the living room. Maybe better. I'll get to that.

It wasn't until I was working that we had a colour TV ourselves. I remember being so miffed when our black and white TV finally blew up and I thought we'd be getting a colour one like Cory's family had. I don't think I can adequately convey how disappointed and frustrated I was when I came home from Opeongo High School one day and found out Dad had bought a used black and white one at George's TV & Appliances! I don't think it was at all being like Mom being afraid of change. I think it was because his only real colour TV experience was with Uncle Gordon and Aunt Kathryn's ghosty orange unit and he wanted a clearer picture. So black and white it was when everyone else had colour. Oh well.

My little bedroom TV got something that the downstairs TV didn't get very well: UHF (Ultra High Frequency). I could get Channel 24 (TV Ontario) clearly on my little guy. I got to watch 𝐷𝑜𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑆𝑛𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑠 (I'll admit that was a little immature and silly for me but I liked it), 𝐷𝑜𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑊ℎ𝑜, and 𝑆𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑁𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑀𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑠 on that little fella. I have to say I thought the British were a little shy on their imagination of aliens with their 'Daleks' on 𝐷𝑜𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑊ℎ𝑜. Overgrown vacuum cleaners that couldn't even manage a couple of stairs didn't seem like much of a foe to my way of thinking. Sidestepping a charging ram, as easy as it is, would be more difficult than dealing with a Dalek. I guess you get what you pay for. Everyone on the show seemed to be scared of them, but even if you were caught in the same room with one all you really had to do was stand behind it to defeat it. It could only point its mind and death ray forwards. You really stood more chance of getting killed by a milking machine than a Dalek.

So that was basically it for electronic entertainment when I was a kid, other than stereos. A one channel plastic radio that I wished would dissolve into a smoldering puddle, Channel 4, 5, or 13 on the black and white TV in the living room, or 4, 5, 13, and 24 on my little black and white TV in my room when I was older. Or Channel 30 and 40, which were French, and therefore pointless. Oh yeah, speaking of pointless: Channel 9, which I forgot until now. We could get that on either TV, but that was the VHF French channel, therefore utterly useless as well. I often wished I could trade Channel 9 reception for Channel 2.

We also had stereos or just record players, but that was about it in my developing years. The smartphones all kids are inseparably attached to today wouldn't have even been science fiction then. Don't forget Captain Kirk had to radio the Enterprise to avail himself of any information regarding an alien environment or lifeform. Even Picard and Riker had to do that, far in the future from us at this time. Now kids literally hold all knowledge in the palm of their hand. Not that they use it, but they have it. Such electronic convenience was unimaginable when I was watching 𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑈𝐹𝑂, completely enthralled with the whole theme and thinking Casky Swaim was by far the coolest dude on TV in his portrayal of Staff Sergeant Harry Fitz. Cool way beyond the Fonz or 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑥 𝑀𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝐷𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑟 𝑀𝑎𝑛. That was only once a week, and some intense and almost desperate rabbit ear gymnastics preceded it to make sure we would get it when it came on.

Times sure have changed. It's still hard to believe if I feel in the mood for 𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑈𝐹𝑂, I can just look up any episode I want on YouTube at any time and watch it. It kinda takes some of the thrill out of it - but not all! And, speaking of that, I just might.