Crushin’ on John Boy
My daughter recently discovered the “Little House on the Prairie” television series, having been encouraged to watch it because of my own obsession with the show. I didn’t watch it during its first run in the 1970s because I was too cool for that; my discovery came two decades later as a way to pass time on the treadmill while my little ones napped.
But Grace found the Ingalls family and was hooked. And having run through seven seasons of that, she was ready for some more nostalgic binge watching. In offering a suggestion, I was reminded just how long it’s been since my childhood, and how for young people, the 1970s are a strange and ancient land.
“The Waltons,” I told Grace. “It’s about a mountain family in Virginia during the Great Depression.” I went on to tell her the stories are told through the perspective of the eldest son, John Boy, who wants to be a writer.
“Sounds wholesome,” Grace said. And then she said something that reminded me of the enormous cultural gap between her generation and mine.
“Oh, yeah,” Grace said, “Is that the show that has the bright colors, and it starts with people in the boxes on the screen, like on the Zoom call?”
Wait, what?
“Do you mean ‘The Brady Bunch?’ I said, laughing out loud. Did she think that John Boy and Jim Bob and Grandpa were members of the Brady family?
I got her up to speed about “The Brady Bunch,” the show that meant nobody my age went anywhere but in front of the TV on Friday nights. How the woman with three daughters married a man with three sons and they lived in a way-cool house with a wacky maid named Alice. The girls were the same age as my sisters and me, and they were goals for us: long, swingy hair and flippy mini skirts. The boys, of course, were cute and nice and were nothing like the real boys in our lives.
“And after that show we would watch “The Partridge Family,” I said, telling her how the family was a band led by a mother played by Shirley Jones.
“Who’s that?” Grace asked. I conceded that when I was 25, a star like, say, June Allyson, probably meant nothing to me, either.
I told Grace about Laurie Partridge, the eldest daughter, and how she had the same high forehead that I had.
“One day a girl at school told me I looked like Laurie Partridge,” I said, “and that compliment carried me a long way. In seventh-grade biology class, I would admire my reflection in the glass doors of the book cabinet and think about that.”
Both of those shows were poorly scripted and probably badly acted; the laugh tracks were intrusive and jokes weren’t funny, but they were worth a look.
“Just to get an idea of what was important to me when I was 10 and 11,” I told her.
It’s been almost 50 years since all these shows were part of our lives. Had I reached back 50 years when I was 25, the ancient cultural land didn’t have television yet, but radio and movie stars were strangers to me.
“Check out the Bradys sometime,” I told Grace. “You’ll probably get tired of it after an episode or two. And then go look for the Waltons family.”
I told her that show has staying power, even though it’s old.
“And I had a crush on John Boy,” I said. Grace just laughed.