Whenever talk would turn to programs anyone had enjoyed through the array of internet-based “channels,” she’d be sort of left out. “I can’t stream,” she’d say.

Now she can, and in high style. Between rounds of refreshments, she invited us into the den to see the new television. It is indeed a fine one. There was a football game on, and it appeared that we were watching through a window with the game unfolding on the other side of the wall. We all marveled at the resolution of the screen, and even more impressive was the remote control, which was a work of art in itself – a sleek revolutionary design with perhaps six buttons instead of the usual 60.

We huddled around this specimen of innovation in such a way that I was reminded of a story I’d heard from the family of a successful Marianna merchant. I’d been dispatched to our company’s Jackson County newspaper to fill in one afternoon, and was assigned to write a news obituary for the merchant, who’d recently died. I knew nothing about the man, his business, or the community. I even had trouble finding the family home, as I didn’t know the town and GPS navigation was still a government secret.

I sat with the grieving family a good while so they could get used to me being there and get comfortable enough to be candid. Eventually, someone started telling about the advent of television, and how the merchant had set up one of the gizmos in the front window of his store on the town square, and how people would sit outside for hours staring into the storefront, mesmerized by the limited programming on the small black-and-white screen.

One day, a farming family from out in the country rolled up to the store and purchased one of the new inventions. It was a big deal; television was a rarity in individual homes at the time. The father of the bunch asked what was necessary to make it work.

“You just plug it into the wall and turn it on,” the staff told him. They loaded the set into the truck and the family headed back to the country. The next Saturday, the family returned with the TV set in the back of the truck. The patriarch came inside and told the staff he wanted to return the device. “It doesn’t work,” he said. “I did exactly what you told me, and it won’t turn on.”

Puzzled, the merchant decided to return with the family to the farm to see what the trouble might be. When he got inside and was shown where the television had been set up, he identified the problem right away. The wallpaper looked like it had been attacked by a rattlesnake, with numerous pairs of small holes. They’d “plugged it into the wall” as instructed, but the old farmhouse was not wired for electricity.

After I left college, many years passed before I even owned a television set. I’d spent enough time in front of the boob tube as a kid to last a lifetime, and I couldn’t see the point. It’s not hereditary; when my mother returned to Dothan after the death of my father, she brought five television sets with her and had them set up in virtually every room in her new house, and at least one television was on around the clock.

I wound up as a television owner unintentionally. A colleague needed some cash to float him until payday, and offered me a small television for $50. He’d lost the remote control, so I offered him $30 and told him if he found it, I’d pay him $20 for it. I bought it to help him out, not because I wanted a TV, so it sat unused until I acquired a VCR and a Blockbuster Video card.

Now we have two televisions, although we still don’t watch much on the regular channels. We stream shows like Ted Lasso, Luther, Grantchester, Poldark, Gilmore Girls, Paris Murders, New Amsterdam, and countless others. And I may one day try to find access to shows I’ve never seen, if for no other reason than to fill in the gaps in my cultural history. Perhaps I can stream Friends, Seinfeld, and How I Met Your Mother. And if I’m lucky, I may find Perry Mason and Gomer Pyle USMC.

As for our friend with new streaming capability, we eagerly await her recommendations for our to-be-watched list.