Grandma's Network

"Who was she," he asked, "the wife?"

Uh huh, I affirmed.

"She was good too," he conceded. Then, another overlong groan made its way through the wall; his cue to high-tail it from the smallish living room to the even smaller bedroom.

She had been at it all night, splitting the focus of my world between the Academy Awards and the inconceivable prospect that she might soon die - so inconceivable that the broadcast took on an even greater significance than usual for me; it was a portal through which I could escape, something I could stay focused on to distract me from the ugly reality that lurked just beyond the wall that was over my shoulder.

There was some murmuring from her dutiful son, another award for Network, then more murmuring. A commercial for Chrysler, and finally, silence, permitting my uncle to re enter the room, just as the Awards were ramping up again.

"It's a great movie," he said, endorsing what was looking like a Network sweep, "It's shame that they won't let you see it." Due to a gabby Faye Dunaway atop a lucky William Holden, the film was restricted to fourteen years olds. "The message it has about the today's generation and television..."

Another groan. Off he went.

A tacky musical number, a staple of the Awards in those days, began - so bad and uninteresting that try as I might, I could not keep my mind off the now even more audible pain my grandmother was going through.

I was in her charge in those years, not wanting to live with my mother due to her new husband, not able to live with my father as he was between jobs. It was we two in that undersized apartment, with only whoever appeared on TV, in tonight's case, the world's biggest stars, as occasional company.

Tonight, though, after the stomach pains and the groaning started, another guest arrived: my uncle - where was my father? - whom I had been urged to call just before the Oscars, when all the trouble started.

By evening's end, a surprise knockout by <i>Rocky<./i>, the exclamations of pain from within my grandmother had ceased, replaced by a fitful snoring. My uncle was gone, and I was left to turn off the television and put myself to bed.

She was going to live, and tomorrow, Tuesday, though I would be sleepy, would be just another day.

How had I gotten through this ridiculous and trying evening?

"Today's generation and television..."