A few months before I was born, my dad met a stranger who was new to our small Tennessee town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer, and soon invited him to live with our family.

The stranger was quickly accepted and was around to welcome me into the world a few months later. As I grew up, I never questioned his place in our family. In my young mind, each member had a special niche. My brother, Bill, five years my senior, was my example. Fran, my younger sister, gave me the opportunity to play "big brother" and develop the art of teasing. My parents were complimentary instructors, Mom taught me to love the Word of God, and Dad taught me to obey it. And the Stranger was our storyteller. He would weave the most fascinating tales.

Adventures, mysteries, and comedies were daily conversations. He could hold out whole family spell-bound for hours each evening. If I wanted to know about politics, history, or science, he knew it all. He knew about the past, understood the present, and seemingly could predict the future. The pictures he could draw were so life like that I would often laugh or cry as I watched.

He was like a friend to the whole family. He took Dad, Bill and me to our first major league baseball game. He was always encouraging us to see movies and even made arrangements to introduce us to several movie stars. My brother and I were deeply impressed by John Wayne in particular. The Stranger was an incessant talker. Dad didn't seem to mind, but sometimes Mom would quietly get up, while the rest of us were enthralled with one of the Stranger's stories of faraway places, go to her room, read her Bible and pray.

I wonder now if she ever prayed that the stranger would leave. You see, my Dad rules over our household with certain moral convictions, but the Stranger never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in out house, not from us, our friends, out adults.

Our longtime visitor, however, used occasional four letter words that burned my ears and made Dad squirm. To my knowledge, the Stranger was never confronted. My Dad was a teetotaler who didn't permit alcohol in his home, not even for cooking, but the stranger felt we needed exposure and enlightened us to other ways of life. He offered us beer and other alcoholic beverages often. He made cigarettes look tasty, cigars manly, and pipes distinguished.

The Stranger talked freely, probably much too freely, about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing. I know now that my early concepts of the man/woman relationship were influenced by the Stranger. As I look back, I believe it was the grace of God that the Stranger did not influence us more. Time after time he opposed the values of my parents. Yet he was seldom rebuked and never asked to leave. More than thirty years have passed since the Stranger moved in with the young family on Morningside Drive. He is not nearly so intriguing to my Dad as he was in those early years. But if I were to walk into my parents' den today, you would still see him sitting over by the corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures.

His name? We always just called him TV.