December 2011 • words and images

Relics: Turning the TV antenna

Posted on December 28, 2011 by dlschirfApril 8, 2023

No matter what kind of home entertainment setup you have, it probably features a clear cable or satellite picture, even if it’s not digital or high definition, and a remote control that means having to get up only for the necessities (input and output).

In the 1960s and 1970s chez Schirf, I didn’t grow up with the crisp lines and vibrant colors that Comcast delivers today to my high-definition box and 32-inch TV. To capture the available TV signals broadcast by stations in Western New York and Ontario, Canada, we used a TV antenna.

I don’t know about anyone else’s TV antenna, but ours needed nearly constant adjustment, which depended on the station we were watching. In good weather, the three major network stations in Buffalo (ABC, CBS, and NBC) came in clearly most of the time, while the local UHF stations and those across the way in Ontario were marred by visual “snow” and aural static. Depending on weather and other conditions, it might not be watchable.

That’s where turning the antenna came in.

On Saturday afternoons at 1 p.m., my dad watched wrestling broadcast by a Kitchener, Ontario station. That meant that, at some time before 1, after lunch and washing the dishes, one of us would be dispatched to turn the antenna, while some else stood near the TV and the window to call out directions: “No, getting worse . . . turn the other way . . . keep going . . . no, too far . . . back . . . that’s good . . . there!”

The antenna was at the top of a long pole set into a pipe in the ground, which I’m sure was my dad’s do-it-yourself setup. The pole was tall, the hole had widened over the years, and the antenna made the whole thing a little top heavy, especially if there was a wind. It was heavy and hard to turn, and had to be turned slowly. I remember standing outside in the weather, fighting the wind. Of course, the same wind could sometimes turn the antenna enough to make the picture snowy, and sometimes the picture would alternate between bad and worse as the wind rocked the antenna. The picture might be bad but tolerable if the program on was one you really wanted to watch. When it was unwatchable, it was time to find an alternative channel or turn off the TV — there was no Internet to turn to.

In the early 1990s, Chicago Cable TV mistakenly cut off my cable. To my surprise, Walgreens still sold rabbit ears with a UHF loop, so I bought a pair. My apartment was at the end of a courtyard, which may have been why they didn’t work very well. I kept them until I moved in 2003, when I tossed many non-necessities. I’m not sure how they’d connect to the flat-screen LG TV I bought in July 2010.

TV antenna are still sold; the FCC provides a guide to “Antennas and Digital Television.” When I’ve traveled through small towns and rural areas, I’ve seen some antennas, although they are outnumbered by satellite dishes. I spotted these two on the return trip from Kankakee River State Park, although I’m guessing that no one has to go out to turn them and that no one has to stand inside by the window calling out directions about picture quality. And that, like the rest of us, these residents are continuing the time-honored tradition of complaining that “there’s nothing good on TV.” Whether you have eight channels or 800, there’s only so much “reality” you can take.

TV antennas, Kankakee, Illinois, 2010 — Tv antennas in 2010, Kankakee, Illinois

I’d settle for curling in Canada.

On the day after Christmas, four of us set out for Benezette, Pennsylvania, in the heart of Pennsylvania elk country. It’s an impoverished small town, where a “Hunters Welcome” banner takes the place of the “Bikers Welcome” message common in parts of Illinois and Wisconsin. The houses and other establishments are nestled on steep hillsides, in some cases precariously, or so it looks. A few places are owned by candidates for the “Hoarders” TV show, with disintegrating lumber, parts, and trash strewn everywhere.

We discovered the most interesting part of town as we were leaving — a small enclave that lies beyond a wide, expensive-looking modern bridge culminating in a narrow dirt road, like a Pennsylvania version of the “bridge to nowhere.” Beyond the bridge are houses at various stages of upkeep, but the most surprising feature was a railroad line or spur running parallel to the hillside with dozens of rusting cars frozen in time where they’d been left. To the locals, this may not seem unusual, but to me the combination of the oversized bridge, the dirt access road, and the little neighborhood clustered around the abandoned rail line and cars seemed surreal, like the perfect setting for a vaguely disturbing movie. Summer sunshine and greenery would make it only the more haunting.

When my cousin and his wife had visited Benezette before, part of the elk herd had been lounging about in town, including at the tavern with the “Hunters Welcome” sign. We’d seen some in some fields off to the side and some at a picnic area near or in town. We passed through and came to the Elk Country Visitor Center, which looks like a fairly new building and features a gift shop, discovery room, and elk mounted at various stages of life, including a couple that were still spotted. Outside the trees, like most of those on all the private property we’d passed, were protected; the dirt had been disturbed by many hooves; and “biscuits” were piled in several places. Despite the evidence of previous visits by elk, not one was to be seen here.

While driving around, we found a herd of up to 75 in a field near a building maybe a half mile off — too far to get a good look at without binoculars or a camera with a zoom lens. Still, it was beautiful to watch their shapes moving about or lying down against the setting sun.

We spotted one or two in the bushes alongside the road, but the one that came down toward a break in the fence couldn’t make up her mind to cross. Finally, she retreated slowly.

After checking out the Benezette bridge to nowhere, we passed the picnic grounds again, where more elk and more cars had congregated. Like others, I got out of the car to take photos, but the elk, intent on grazing, ignored all of us and our car doors until a clueless woman broke the relative quiet by screeching, “Oh, look at the baby!” (the “baby” being at least half grown). As a group, the elk spooked a bit, trotting away from her — and toward me as I snapped happily away, a lot closer than the recommended minimum of 30 yards. I was disappointed only not to get a photo of an elk lying under the “Hunters Welcome” sign.

I had no idea I’d have an opportunity to see elk during this vacation, so it was a great thrill. You can find out more about Pennsylvania’s wapiti here.

Jellies at John G. Shedd Aquarium

The news seller (1980s)

Posted on December 11, 2011 by dlschirfFebruary 5, 2023

There’s an old man who sells newspapers from a little shelter downtown. He’s there every weekday during the 5 p.m. rush hour, shivering in the cold or sweating under the sun. His eyes are sunken; his cheeks are hollow. He looks neither healthy nor happy. Lonely, silent, melancholy.

Half-sitting on the bench on which the newspapers are folded, he used to quietly wait for a passerby to buy a paper. When someone did (and this seemed rare), he would slowly hand him the paper, accept the coin, and quietly say, “Thank you.” But even a sale did not lift the burden from his slightly stooped shoulders, and his sad, withdrawn expression never changed.

Later, he seemed to realise that he had to compete with the more aggressive young newsboys, whose harsh cries of “Final Times — final Tribune” disturbed the already busy air. He too would say, “Tribune — Times,” but his voice was quiet and hesitant like a whisper, as though he did not think his new boldness would boost sales. He seemed to hold some small hope it would.

He is still there, in the same shelter. The same harassed executives brush by him. The same complaining assistants still hurry past him. Few stop to buy the paper; fewer still exchange a kind word. None wonder about the old man: his past, his present, his future, his end. As for him, he still looks blankly past the parade passing by; still waits for the few who might purchase a paper.

Still waits.

Top 10 reasons Commander Riker walks with his head tilted

Posted on December 8, 2011 by dlschirfMay 7, 2020

From the home office in a dingy basement on Centauri Prime:

10. He’s keeping an eye on the z-axis in case a warbird materializes above.

9. He’s hoping he’ll be the first to spot a dropped bar of gold-pressed latinum.

8. He lost his favorite marked poker deck.

7. He’s practiced the Kama Sutra on one too many aliens.

6. Wesley keeps telling him, “Whoa, Commander, the horse is out of the barn!”

5. He’s measuring Troi’s cup size.

4. He’s trying to see up Troi’s dress.

3. Worf ripped his head off, and Crusher reattached it.

2. He’s surreptitiously measuring Picard’s captain’s chair.

And the #1 reason Riker walks with his head tilted:

1. He’s trying to make his hair fall out because he heard only bald guys get to command the Enterprise.

1951’s Scrooge: A tale for our times?

Posted on December 7, 2011 by dlschirfJune 9, 2020

For people raised on Christmas movies like Scrooged and the live-action The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, or holiday releases like Happy Feet 2, Alastair Sim likely isn’t a familiar name or face. The Scottish actor, however, gave one of his best and better-known performances in a classic 1951 film that should appeal to both the Goth/emo generation and the Occupy Wall Street crowd — as Ebenezer Scrooge in Scrooge.

Directed by Brian Desmond Hurst, Scrooge isn’t the simple tale the Charles Dickens story has become in popular culture, with characters who can be played as easily by cartoon mice as by human actors. The world of Sim’s Scrooge is dark, creaky, and grim in the best tradition of monochrome film, with even a few film noir touches of interspersed light and darkness.

At Christmas, the world of the better-off poor (represented by Bob Cratchett, played by Mervyn Johns) seems bright and merry, dependent as it is on the little they receive from “men of business” like Scrooge. By contrast, Scrooge’s house is a nightmare of cavernous space dominated by dust, disturbing sounds, and impossible shadows. Even his door knocker appears to be possessed — and that’s before Jacob Marley’s face appears on it. If a bad bit of potato or cheese didn’t inspire Scrooge’s ghastly visions, the lonely austerity of his house might.

The story follows the standard plot, but Sim’s performance, those of the supporting characters like the undertaker and the housekeeper, and bright visuals of happier times and places contrasted with the stark reality of poverty and death keep the film moving. Sound is important; when Marley directs Scrooge to look upon the tormented, the music and sound work more effectively on the nerves than the visual. The pointing skeletal finger of the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come dominates the screen in a horrifying way — Scrooge and the viewer are compelled to look. The most haunting scene, however, is that of “this boy and this girl,” Ignorance and Want, emaciated, sickly urchins with deeply shadowed eyes who look like Death itself.

When most film versions of A Christmas Carol have come out, the huge divide between Victorian capitalists and the workers who supported their wealth seemed like distant history. Today for many, it looks more like history repeating itself.

Washington Irving on the gift of the poet

Posted on December 7, 2011 by dlschirfJanuary 7, 2023

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singular gift of the poet; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the very face of nature; to give to things and places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this “working-day world” into a perfect fairy land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. . . . I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow.
Washington Irving, “Stratford-on-Avon”

Book review: The Rapture of Canaan

Posted on December 3, 2011 by dlschirfDecember 17, 2018

The Rapture of Canaan by Sheri Reynolds. Highly recommended.

In The Rapture of Canaan, Sheri Reynolds creates two memorable characters, each of whom in turn creates God in his/her own image.

The first is Grandpa Herman Langston. After surviving a war that his companions didn’t and then losing his infant son, Herman founds his own “brand” of Christianity, The Church of Fire and Brimstone and God’s Almighty Baptizing Wind. Herman’s church is based on sin, suffering, and punishment — punishing everyone around for his sin of survival. When his granddaughter falls asleep and forgets to say prayers, she is put to bed with cockle burrs and sandspurs. When a member of the congregation imbibes, he must spend a night in his own grave. When the same man fornicates with a girl outside the church (a “backslidden Holiness” named Corinthian), he is starved and imprisoned in a cellar for 40 days — mostly to hide the severity of the punishment Herman has inflicted upon him.

Herman reserves the worst punishment of all for his own wife, who as a child lied to try to hide her mother’s murder of her father. Periodically, Herman trots out Leila’s decades-old transgression as much to punish her as to educate the flock. Recognising that the past is the past, and wise enough to know that God has forgiven her, Leila loves the man, or what he once was, and his strength too much to protest. His needs outweigh hers.

For Herman, religion is control. He decides what is acceptable and what is not; for example, the women must never cut their hair. He decides who and what is punished, and how. He decides what happens to any fines collected. In Herman’s world, the sinner gives up all control to God — the God in Herman’s image.

Lest the reader think that Herman is free from temptation and sin, the other memorable character, granddaughter Ninah Huff, carefully notes all the monetary punishments that are imposed on the members of the community but that never seem to be returned for its common good.

If Herman’s God is a vengeful, controlling one, Ninah’s God is loving and understanding. Ninah and her cousin by marriage, James, are at a dangerous times in their lives, when adolescents discover how powerless punishment can be against the power of passion and love. Unfortunately, James is torn by Herman’s God and by the Jesus he claims speaks through Ninah when they make love.

Ninah, however, continues the questioning they had begun about what it means to love God and one another, and what it means to be a Christian in a world where good people like her Hindu friend from school are non-believers. Is it about seeing a miracle messiah in Ninah and James’ baby Canaan, born with the skin of his hands bonding them in seemingly endless prayer? Or is it about seeing God as love, the love that drives Ninah to brutally cut Canaan’s hands apart so that he can be free to be a sinful and real human being?

Through her affection for James, Ninah discovers the love of God in her own heart. Her God is, by definition, beyond control. James and Ninah can’t and don’t control their natural feelings and urges. Ninah begins to understand the perpetual school truant, Corinthian, whose lack of control is expressed in an exuberant, “Whee, Jesus!”

Eventually, Herman starts to lose control over the community. Some of the congregation, his own family, stop attending services. Ninah starts twisting Pammy’s hair into forbidden French braids. Ninah cuts off her own hair and is followed by several of the women, young and old. When a stroke incapacitates him physically and mentally, Herman’s grip on the community is finally lost, enabling Ninah to take the final step of setting Canaan’s hands free.

Blood is the recurring theme of The Rapture of Canaan — the blood Leila’s mother shed when she killed her husband and the symbolic blood red Leila colours her paper dolls; the blood of menstruation that Ninah hides from everyone, even Leila (Nanna); the blood of James’ first deer kill that baptizes both him and Ninah; the blood of the mare that hemorrhages to death while giving birth; the blood that Canaan must sacrifice as Ninah transforms him from messiah to ordinary baby, conceived and born in the sin of love.

As Nanna recounts stories and Ninah weaves stories into rugs made from “rags and lies, rope and hair, fabric and love,” Reynolds captures the poetry of prose. “I weave in lies, and I weave in love, and in the end, it’s hard to know if one keeps me warmer than the other,” Ninah begins. She sees The Church of Fire and Brimstone and God’s Almighty Baptizing Wind’s community “like an island. Like an island sinking from the weight of fearful hearts.” Ninah says of James, “He brushed my back off each time, and his hands felt like a remedy to all the badness I’d ever known.” She spends her pregnancy making baby clothes. When she sees Canaan’s joined hands in church, she thinks for a moment, “I might have sewn him together by accident when I was making all those baby clothes.”

Poetic, thought provoking, and compelling, The Rapture of Canaan should make you question your own beliefs and where they originated — in the fear of man or in the love of God.

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Monthly Archives: December 2011