I grew up without a television.
That’s only partially true, actually. For the first five years of my life, we had one, before my mother cast it out declaring, ‘TV is the playground of the devil!’ I have faint memories of fights with my sister Laura on which show we would watch – I wanted to watch Zorro carve his signature Z into the backsides of Spanish soldiers, while she had a propensity for Little House on the Prairie.
She won often. At least three nights a week, I was subjected to imagining life in the late 19th century as a farmer in Walnut Grove rather than as a wealthy, clever-thinking, freelancing, crime-fighting-bandito in the Spanish colonial era of California.