Think back to 1947 when television first came on the scene, I remember that our neighbors in the apartment house next door were the first to get a TV set. It was fantastic. Just imagine being able to open your door, go next door and gaze into that huge nine-inch screen. Right next door. Imagine!

In the afternoon we saw Howdy Doody and Foodini. In the evenings we saw Uncle Milty and watched the wrestling matches. Even the station breaks were exciting in those days.

Also in those days, the custom was to turn off every light in the house and let the television just glare, while the two households just sat, transfixed by the bluish haze of twinkling lights.

But there was one problem with our neighbor's apartment - the master of the TV set, the house and everything else in it was 5-year-old Bobby.

Little Bobby had quite a voice. You have not seen anything until you have seen nine people cowering in the dark on the edge of their seats waiting for the next screech out of that little mouth. Even a dental drill at high pitch speed with its marvelous vibrations is nothing compared to the high frequency shriek of a frenzied 5-year-old.

Often I have said to myself, "That's it! I've had it. Get out of here. Who does that little son of a gun think he is? The nerve! Pushing older people around. Telling them where to sit. Demanding this channel and that channel. I have to get out of here. Leave!"

All I had to do was walk over one door. I would be in my own house, my own room. I would just turn on the radio... but there would be no magic pictures. Just voices.

So I had thought to myself.

Okay - maybe it wasn't so bad after all. I could just sit. Let Bobby carry on. It was his house. If he wanted to watch Howdy Doody and I wanted to watch the ballgame, well, you know, what did I know? Perhaps there was more socially redeeming content in Howdy Doody than in a ballgame.

To be continued next week...