PIPE FITTER ON THE ROOF
By Dan Miller
September 24, 2007
Peeking through the Venetian blinds, I could see a vertical pipe about 15 inches high.
And, wouldn't you know it, that old pipe carried a flood of memories.
It happened last week while visiting Georgia, accompanied by my daughter Darcy.
We happened to drive by the house where I grew up.
A "for sale" sign was out front.... and I couldn't resist stopping.
As we walked along the sidewalk taking pictures, the young lady who lives there suddenly appeared on the front porch and invited us to come inside.
She said the house has been on the market since last October, and that whenever she spots someone looking, she invites them in.
I explained that it was my home growing up, and we weren't really looking to buy.... still, she insisted that we take a tour.
Practically every square foot of that house stirred up its own recollection.
There was my father's work space in the basement.... the little nook where our phone was placed.... the fireplace in the living room.... the gate in the backyard.... the tiny closet in the upstairs hallway.... my old bedroom.... and there, through the window of my bedroom I could see, mounted in the concrete on the roof of the back porch, the pipe sticking up.
More than 50 years ago, I helped my father attach that pipe to the concrete.
My parents had just purchased their first TV set, and since there was no TV station yet in Augusta -- we had to receive broadcast signals from cities that already had stations.... places like Atlanta, Charlotte, Charleston and even Jacksonville.
Zack (my father) came up with a quick, effective and extremely cheap way to receive those distant signals.
He bought a tall pole.... mounted a directional antenna on top of it.... and fitted the pole (on a ball bearing of some sort) into that base pipe in the photo.
When it was time for evening TV viewing, my father would crawl out through that window, slowly turn the pole, aiming the antenna toward distant television signals.
One of us kids would be assigned to stand on the stairs [next photo] and relay [yell] the message that came [was yelled] from someone downstairs watching for a clear picture to appear on the screen.
That was our nightly ritual, and might be repeated several times during any given evening of viewing.
As I became more experienced, it generally became my job to crawl through the window and actually turn the antenna pole.
To make things easier, Zack put little ink marks on the concrete to indicate the proper direction for each city.
After only a few months into this nightly rite, Zack simplified the whole process in a way only he would come up with.
He attached some sort of washing machine motor, with little cables and pullies, to the pole.
Downstairs he placed a jerry-rigged "remote" [basically, and on/off switch] next to the TV set, so we could sit and watch the screen while the motorized antenna rotated back and forth, seeking out the strongest signal.
Somehow, it usually worked.
Last week I stood there, looking through the window at that rusty pipe, and thought about my father, and what a clever man he was.
And about how -- even with digital recording, and satellites, and high-definition, and 500 channels -- watching television will never again be as exciting and fulfilling.
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