Aubergine Bovine

My family had one of the first television sets in our neighborhood. My father purchased it on a Saturday with the understanding that it would be installed and working properly by the start of the Arthur Godfrey Show on the following Monday evening. There was also an understanding, mostly on his part, that having a television would not interrupt the normal routine of our lives. “Preparation for bedtime is still at 8:30 with ‘lights out’’ at 9.”

In those days, the stations that sent television signals via a very tall tower on top of some respectable mountain were not so powerful nor plentiful, so each residence had to have their own antenna perched “searchingly” into the air. Installing a television set meant creating some type of signal receiving tower alongside a window of the room where the big console with the “tiny” screen would reside. It was much more complicated than placing a box from Best Buy inside the luggage compartment of your Honda. (Neither of which – Best Buy or Honda - existed in those days. Luggage compartments did exist but on Chevrolets, Fords, Oldsmobiles, and Buicks. There were also Plymouths, Dodges, DeSotos, and a couple of Packards in our town. Lucille Brown drove an older black Cadillac.)

While the Japanese had aggressively attacked our Navy, they and the Chinese had yet to go after our home entertainment business, so televisions were made by Philco, Magnavox, Zenith, and RCA. There were three networks, CBS, NBC, and ABC. There was no such thing as “cable” and PBS along with the National Endowment had yet to spark the ire of the conservatives. There was no “remote control” to lose in the cushions of the sofa. Programs were found by turning a large round knob located prominently on the front of a large bulky wooden box. In time, a small booklet called TV Guide hit the market to help you know what to expect.

The television day lasted from about 6 a.m. until around 11 p.m. You could gain an extra couple of hours if you were bored enough to watch the “test pattern” that was broadcast before and after the close of regular programming. The beginning and end of regular programming was always “announced” by the playing of the National Anthem, and yes, most people stood up in the darkness or the dawning.

I am not working on a history of the late forties and early fifties here. I am merely attempting to set the stage for the events that transpired on the first night of television at our house.

Monday evening television was dominated by two very popular shows: Arthur Godfrey and “I Love Lucy.” Both lasted only 30 minutes, so there were other shows that have escaped my memory. I do recall the news with Douglas Edwards. It was sponsored by Oldsmobile Automobiles and featured a “rocket” blasting off – a metaphor for the power of their engine. (Our local Oldsmobile dealer featured a large red rocket attached to the hood ornament of their 88 model. They almost lost a sale when they attempted to remove the “advertising gimmick” from the vehicle following its purchase. The new owner insisted it was a part of what he had paid for. He proudly rode about town with the curiosity for years.)

Back to “television Monday.”

During dinner, which we hurried so as to not miss any of the precious television time, my Dad again reminded us of our family commitment to a normal evening routine despite the “one-eyed” monster that now sat in our living room. This meant that once Lucy had been caught tricking Ricky and received the “now Lucy” reprimand, we would turn the set off and prepare for bed.

My Dad laughed his curious way at everything Arthur Godfrey said. My mother commented that she also could play the ukulele. (I knew she played a great piano, but was not aware of her ability on the uke.) Lucy, Ricky, Fred, and Ethel kept us all in stitches until 8:30.

Then it happened.

The television was “clicked” off.

My mother gave us a look when my father’s back was turned which said, “don’t complain, things may improve.”

As soon as my father was deep into his sonorous snoring, we were all reassembled in front of the big box and deep into a sitcom that featured Stu Erwin. It is probably prophetic that the show was called, “Trouble With Father.” (You do the math!) Anyway, in this first “not supposed to be watched episode,” the younger daughter played by Sheila James, was involved in detective intrigue. In the course of the show, she leaves a cryptic message – the intended recipient I forget – which reads, “the frost is on the pumpkin! Run, little girl, run!”

Because seeing the show was a direct violation of my father’s “Television Rules,” the Erwin daughter’s message became the code phrase within our family to keep something a secret from Dad.

Anytime, in the years following that fateful Monday night breach, that someone was about to reveal something to my Dad that another did not wish to be known, you would hear, “the frost is on the pumpkin.” Yes, even in the middle of July.

When my sister was about to reveal that I had put a dent in the back fender of the pickup truck. I voiced so that she could hear; “the frost is on the pumpkin.” The same happened from her end of the dinner table when I almost spilled the beans that she, as Treasurer, had cleaned out the coffers of her school club.

We had many other code words. Someone not so bright was “a bubble off plumb.” Even in college, when a guy was dating a very plain girl, she would be referred to as a “woman of rare beauty.” A response of “really?” for my crowd was the ultimate mark of total boredom with a topic of conversation. (Did I hear someone say "really?")

So why am I thinking about code words”

My grandchildren in Dallas love a restaurant called “The Purple Cow.” It is bright, noisy, kid-friendly, and serves great burgers and fries. However, because of their young age, to mention the possibility of a lunch or dinner at their favorite spot, elicits an immediate impatience to go. So, in order to avoid triggering their wails of want, and because “P-U-R-P-L-E C-O-W” takes so much longer to convey, my daughter recently mentioned they may have lunch with friends at the Aubergine Bovine.

It took me a second, but then I burst into laughter. Thankfully, I knew Robert Harling’s play or the color of the cow would have been lost on me. “Now tell me, Bob, would you call this color grape or aubergine?”

Many years removed from the first Monday of television, my father was driving me to Birmingham to catch yet another flight back to Chicago. For whatever reason, I decided to come clean with our long-used code.

“Dad, there is a code that we use when we don’t want you to know about something that has happened.”

“Do you mean, ‘the frost is on the pumpkin?’” he replied with a wink.