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Columnist Bob Bridge


Change is inevitable. Some is positive; some … not so much.

One thing is certain, constantly complaining about cultural shifts constitutes a woeful waste of time. Still, it is hard not to notice.

Each generation covets its own pleasures and proclivities. As a child I cherished fresh air, playing sports with my friends, and harvesting supper at my favorite fishing hole.

Electronics and high-tech gizmos?


We weren’t prehistoric, but certainly primitive. The Bridges owned a black-and-white television featuring three channels. Soap operas dominated morning programming, and that was hardly my cup of tea.

However, on rainy Saturday mornings I was a captive of the “boob tube.“ I sprawled on the living room floor, fervently focused on show after show until the sunshine stole me away.


No, too goofy for the son of a realist.

Sure, Mickey was the indisputable mouse of the moment. And, Donald Duck, a bumbling bear named Yogi, and Bugs Bunny were occupying the airwaves as well.

In retrospect, I imagine Fred Flintstone would feel right at home here in the Limestone Capital of the World.

Sorry, I digress.

My entertainment menu for rain-soaked Saturdays offered a menagerie motif of sorts. The prominent performers were two hounds and a couple of horses: Lassie, Rin-Tin-Tin, Fury and Flicka.

Usually, the plots revolved around a moral issue often punctuated by a daring rescue.

My evening viewing consisted of “The Andy Griffith Show” and “Little House on the Prairie,” with an occasional episode of “Gunsmoke” and “Bonanza” sprinkled in.

Oh, the lessons I learned.

Yes, I genuinely cherished my childhood entertainment.

A nerdy sentimentalist?

As Popeye proclaimed: “I am what I am!”

Bob Bridge welcomes comments at 812–276–9646 or

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