Television is such an integral part of our life now that is almost impossible to conceive of a time when it was only a side light, even for those of us old enough to remember. When I was in the early grades of elementary school, late afternoon programming was all local with the shows virtually indistinguishable from the commercials.
The Merry Milk Man and Meadow Gold Milk on KBOI, channel 2 went head to head with Sheriff Spud and his Ore-Ida Tater Tots on KIDO, channel 7. There was no channel 6 and would not be for more than 10 years. My gang of third graders formed the core of the Merry Milk Man’s following. This was Jimmy Henngelar’s decision and the rest of us went along because his family owned the only television set.
One afternoon the Merry Milk Man announced that he would be coming to Weiser the next month to see all his little Meadow Golders. We were speechless. No one really famous had ever come to Weiser to give a show for us. Bing Crosby, Phil Harris and Gary Cooper came regularly to hunt pheasant, but they didn’t mean much to us, whose movie going was confined to Saturday afternoon B Westerns.
In less than three years, the Merry Milk Man had achieved name recognition in his own market area equal to that of Bing Crosby. An early indication of what the penetrating power of television would do to the entertainment industry.
When the big Saturday finally arrived, every kid under 12 – and a large number of older ones willing to risk embarrassment to see a real celebrity – were packed into the East Side School gymnasium. We were all pressed up against the stage where the Merry Milk Man would walk. Jimmy was leading the cheers.
When the Merry Milk Man finally appeared everyone stomped and cheered like crazy, but soon a very perceptible pall seemed to fall over the gym. I honestly don’t remember what he did to entertain us for the next hour, but whatever it was, it did not live up to the anticipation. Even as the initial accolade was fading, a collective sigh of “so what” stole over the audience.
Much of the act consisted of telling overeager kids not to lean onto the stage. As the performance proceeded, his merriness faded and towards the end the Milk Man was quite testy indeed. At one point he brought a well-polished shoe down on Jimmy’s fingers. The mashed fingers were painful, but what really hurt was the malevolent little smile that accompanied the transgression – no mistake about it, this was no accident.
Henceforth, the Henngelar’s television was tuned to Sheriff Spud and four o’clock every afternoon and we were all Li’l Taters. It wasn’t really the Merry Milk Man’s fault. Like everyone, he was an ordinary person who could hardly be expected to live up to the image television had given him.
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