Turn off the tube, tune into life

I believe, with therapy, we will make a full recovery.

My oldest son, Scott, who is annoyingly saint-like with his vegetarian diet and exercise regime, didn't even notice the idiot box had been decommissioned. He was out saving whales or Zen meditating under Rutledge Falls.

Oh, wait, come to think of it, my saintly 18-year-old was actually doing public service to pay off his speeding ticket ...

The 16-year-old, Ben, didn't notice either. It was the final week before his play opened and he was living at South Jackson Community Center. If I have to hear "The Basketball Song" from "High School Musical" one more time, I'm suing Disney for pain and suffering.

The 9-year-old, Buzz, noticed. Oh, boy, did he notice. He was deep into SpongeBob withdrawal by the time I got home, which progressed into I'mboreditis and Theresnothingtodo Syndrome.

The most severe case of TV-lessness shock was my husband. Our routine is -- sadly -- like that of far too many people. We come home, we eat supper, we plug our brains into the wall and let Madison Avenue, Ryan Seacrest and that really annoying OxiClean guy tell us what is wrong with our lives.

When I came in that night, he was sitting in front of the television, staring at the darkened screen with this sad, puzzled expression on his face, kind of the like the dog on the RCA logo, listening to his master's voice on the phonograph.

Except for Monday nights, with "Bones," "House," "The Closer" and "Saving Grace," TV bores me. As soon as my double dose of "Jeopardy!" is over, I go do puzzles or surf the net. But I had to take pity on my husband. There were at least three hours left before bedtime and I didn't know if I could stand watching him like this. When he started reminding me of those kids painted on black velvet with the huge, sad eyes, I made him get up.

"Let's take a walk."

"A W-w-w-w ..." he tried to force the unfamiliar word out.

"A walk," I said. "Where you put one foot in front of the other and transport your body down the road."

Actually this all may be a slight exaggeration. Since his triple bypass surgery last year, my husband walks a lot, usually out in the country near Normandy Lake. But in the 2 1/2 years we've been in our very nice, quiet neighborhood, we've only joined the other dusk strollers once or twice.

It was sort of surreal. I hear this strange buzzing in the trees. I thought my tinnitus was getting worse until he said something about the cicadas. Oh, right -- the outdoor world has its own soundtrack.

After that, I could hear the frogs, the tiny peepers and the big bullfrogs chiming in. On that quiet stroll, we realized there were other sounds in our neighborhood besides the endless Pomeranian chorus from across the street or muffler-less SUV next door.

It was nice.

A teenager drove by and waved. We didn't know him and were kind of puzzled.

"Oh, I know," I said. "It's like when we go driving in the country (back in the days when that didn't require a second mortgage), we always wave at the old people out walking."

There was a long pause as that sank in.

"We're those old people, aren't we?" I asked.

The teen passed us again, the other way, returning from whatever errand on which he'd been sent. I could see the Chipper Jones bobble-head doll on his dashboard vibrating like a Chihuahua on speed to the thumping base of the Flaming Lips and thought about what he was missing -- crickets and cicadas and frogs.

I never participated in the National TV Turnoff Week before -- but I think we're going to do it the next time it comes around.

Especially if I forget to pay the cable bill again.

-- Mary Reeves is a staff writer for the Times-Gazette. She can be reached at (931) 684-1200, ext. 215, or by e-mail at mreeves@t-g.com. This column is scheduled to appear every Wednesday.