If you were a kid in Iowa in the 1960s, cartoons weren’t this magical all-day buffet. There were no choices. No DVR or VCR. You got what you got. Couple channels. Maybe three if things were going your way.
The weather could mess it up. So could wind. Half the time you were standing there messing with rabbit ears like you were cracking a safe. Especially if you were trying to pull in that one UHF channel from Rockford. Or Minneapolis.
And
when something finally came in—maybe a little fuzzy. You watched it. Didn’t
matter what it was.
