#*@% !!!

I received this email the other day. Read it; then we'll "chat."

A few months before I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to our small Tennessee town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was around to welcome me into the world a few months later.

As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mom taught me the word of God, and Dad taught me to obey it. But the stranger, he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mysteries and comedies.

If I wanted to know anything about politics, history or science, he always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and even seemed able to predict the future! He took my family to the first major league ball game. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger never stopped talking, but Dad didn't seem to mind.

Sometimes, Mom would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to her room and read her books (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to leave.)

Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the stranger never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home... not from us, our friends or any visitors. Our longtime visitor, however, got away with four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush.

My Dad was a teetotaler who didn't permit alcohol in the home, not even for cooking. But the stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (much too freely!)about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing.

I now know that my early concepts about relationships were influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked... and NEVER asked to leave. More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved in with our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first. Still, if you were to walk into my parent's den today, you would still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures. His name?....

We just call him, "TV."

OK, so this is not a tv debate. We totally watch too much at our house. I know it, I've confessed it, but I'm not ready to repent yet. I know way too much about Suite Life, Hannah Montana, Drake & Josh and High School Musical than I should or ever wanted to at this stage in my life, mainly because the kids' shows are better and cleaner to watch than anything else. But I've also learned a lot about "flipping" houses and decorating on a stingy, I mean meager budget, which I think is going to come in handy very soon. (that's another post...stay tuned)

My point is that it's easy to change the channel when someone is expressing their opinion with "colorful" language that you don't want to hear, and you certainly don't want your kids to hear (or repeat), but what about real life? What if someone decides to exhibit their colorful, though apparently limited, vocabulary in front of your children? What then? Do you call them on it? Do you ignore it, and then explain to your kids that "it's not nice to speak that way and if I ever hear you say anything like that, I will a) wash your mouth out with soap (that seems to be an old-time favorite) or b) sew your lips together with stuff from Dad's tackle box."

Really, what do you do? This is not a rhetorical question, people. I'm really asking.

Oh, about the tv thing...I'm feeling convicted. As much as we all love to read, maybe we'll have another tv "fast" and just read or play a game together. Sounds like a good idea to me.