This story of The Stranger could be all of our stories. Sad, but true.
Many years ago when I was a child, my dad met a stranger who was new to our small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger quickly accepted and has been around from then on.
As I grew up, I never questioned his presence with my family. In my young mind, we had a special place just for him.
My parents were complementary instructors: Mom taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey. But the stranger – he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with tales of adventure, mysteries, and even hilarious times. As I grew older, 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 our first major league baseball game. He made me laugh, and he made my 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 in order to listen to what he had to say. She would go into the kitchen for peace and quiet. I wondered 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 long-time visitor, however, got away with four-letters words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush.
My dad didn’t permit the use of alcohol, but the stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly, and pipes distinguished. The stranger talked much too freely about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, often suggestive, and generally embarrassing. I know that my early concepts about relationships were adversely influenced by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked – and was never asked to leave.
More than 65 years have passed since the stranger moved in with our family. He has blended right in, and yet, he is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first. Still, if you could walk into my parent’s living room today, you would still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk.
His name? We simply refer to him by his initials – TV. Oh, and now he has a wife – we call her Computer. And their children? They’re all called Cellphones.
How could a stranger that destroys moral convictions and degrades the upright be allowed to stay, and worse, freely bring several of his friends along? This stranger and his entire family now live at my home, too. And I wonder, How did we let this happen?