Wednesday
4:30 Channel 5 WNBQ Leave It to Beaver—Comedy
Beaver Cleaver and his pal Larry Mondello ditch class for a day of fun and mischief. A lighthearted look at childhood hijinks and 1950s family values through the wide-eyed wonder of young “Beaver” Cleaver.
In the hamlet of Stillmere-upon-Figwort, young Theobald “Beaver” Clæver, second son of Goodman Wyllyam and Dame Heneretta of the House of Clæver, didst conspire with his rotund and ever-ravenous companion, Laurence of Mondell, to shirk the scholarly duties set upon them by Magister Grimblestick of the village pedagogue hall.
“Prithee, Beafer,” quoth Laurence, his jerkin smeared with yesterday’s goose drippings, “what say thee to fleeing yon lessons of Latin declensions and seeking the fabled mud pits of Widow Glumph’s pasture?”
“By Saint Cuthbert’s socks Laurence,” spake Beaver, “thou readest my thoughts as though they were writ upon a church door!”
Thus they did abscond ere the rooster crowed thrice, carrying naught but a crust of rye, two stale sugared plums, and a wooden knight figurine Beaver had carved from an old privy plank. They leapt hedges and trespassed through Lord Fiddlewit’s turnip field, sparking the wrath of his goose-herd, Old Barty, who hurled a gnarled stick and three profane oaths after them.
By midmorn, the lads were waist-deep in muck, flinging clods and debating the merits of growing a beard like Sir Kenelm the Unshorn. “Tis the mark of a man,” Beaver claimed. “My father saith I may sprout one by Michaelmas, if I rub my chin with boar grease.”
Yet joy turned swiftly to dread when Dame Heneretta, clad in her fearsome thwacking smock, did appear bearing the Rod of Enlightenment: an old goose feather duster repurposed for correctional ceremonies. “Theobald Clæver! Dost think thy mind may grow fat on mud and mischief?”
Chastened, yet wiser, the boys returned to the schoolhouse, their punishment being a day’s copying of psalms and two turnip-and-ink sandwiches. Thus ended their brief rebellion, and Beaver swore henceforth to attend his lessons. At least until next Tuesday.
Friday
7:00 Channel 8 KABC The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet—Comedy
Ricky is caught stealing a kiss from his girlfriend by her father. A wholesome look at the real-life Nelson family, the show follows Ozzie, Harriet, and their sons David and Ricky as they navigate the everyday quirks of suburban American life.
In the hamlet of Osebert-upon-Hearthstone, there dwelt a curious kin: Osebert the Weaver, his goodwife Harlota, and their two sprightly sons, Davenric and Ricgard. Though bound not by lord nor liege, they bore the burdens of suburban toil. Davenric did hammer pegs into wooden scroll-holders for the parchment shoppe, whilst Ricgard, a minstrel-in-training, fancied himself a bard of the court, though his lute was oft replaced with a broom when mischief found him.
Twas on the Eve of St. Chastity’s Vigil that young Ricgard did commit a most scandalous trespass: stealing a maiden’s kiss ‘neath the elderberry tree. The maid, fair Gwendolyn of Broadbottom Lane, did not protest. Aye, she leaned in like a duckling toward crumbs. But lo! Her father, Ser Hegbold the Tanner, did spy the smooch from yonder hedge and bellowed like a bull denied his slop.
Ricgard, catching wind of approaching doom, scampered home with all haste. Inside his hearth-warmed cottage, he did confess to his mother. “I kissed her, Mum,” quoth he, sheepish. “but only on the cheek. Well, and maybe also her lips, and just a bit below the…”
“Enough!” cried Harlota. “Hide boy! Fetch Father!”
Osebert returned from the market with a jar of pickled beets and a solution. “We shall present Ricgard to Ser Hegbold wrapped in a sackcloth of penitence, with a dowry of smoked mutton and a promise of honest courting.”
Thus peace was brokered, as was customary in such matters. And henceforth, Ricgard kissed no maid without prayer, permission, and at least two chaperones.
Monday
9:30 Channel 11 WPIX The Honeymooners—Comedy
Ralph Kramden and Ed Norton lose all of their money gambling and have to admit it to their wives. A sharp-tongued, working-class comedy featuring bus driver Ralph Kramden and his wife Alice, constantly caught between love, frustration, and Ralph’s get-rich-quick dreams.
In the Year of the Wagered Goose, under a slivered moon and with but three farthings to rub betwixt them, Sir Rauf of Crambedon and his ever-loyal squire, Edwy of Nortswyck, did return from the annual Tourney of Dice and Misfortune held at the back alley of Ye Olde Tilter’s Mug.
“By St. Dunstan’s hangnail,” quoth Edwy, jingling his empty purse, “we hath been robbed!”
“Robbed?” snorted Sir Rauf, whose girth was second only to his pride. “Nay, we invested in the sport of kings, except the kings seem to have fled with our coin.”
The two, shame-faced and soot-smudged, crept into their shared hovel of spousal wrath, a humble two-room timbered keep behind the dung yard. Their ladies, the formidable Mistress Alizabethe and Dame Tilda—daughters of milkmaids and mouths like barbed scripture—awaited.
“Well met, gamblers of ill repute,” hissed Alizabethe, arms folded like a crossbow cocked. “What treasure bring ye from yon dice pit? Another cart of turnips pledged to the blacksmith?”
“Dearest wife,” stammered Sir Rauf, “we hath only lost that which was never truly ours.”
“Aye,” added Edwy, “twas but our hopes, our dreams, and thy dowry goat.”
After much verbal flogging, the matter was settled in the traditional manner: Sir Rauf was assigned to dung-scooping duty for a fortnight, whilst Edwy was made to mend the privy trench in sackcloth and silence.
Thus ended the Quest for Quick Fortune, with no riches won, but many lessons scrawled on the ledger of life, in spousal ink.
Thursday
6:00 Channel 3 WRAL The Andy Griffith Show—Comedy
Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry can’t decide whether or not to hire the inept Barney Fife. Set in the sleepy town of Mayberry, this beloved sitcom featured the calm wisdom of Sheriff Taylor as he gently kept the peace while raising his young son Opie.
In the shire of Mayberria, nestled ‘twixt the goat paths and gossip vines of the Northern Hollow, lived one Sir Andric the Mild, Keeper of the Peace and master of both fiddle and fairness. Though he wielded no sword—only a look that could calm a riot of mead-fueled yokels—he ruled with a gentle hand and an eyebrow most commanding.
Now, it came to pass one misty forenoon, whilst the chickens scratched their solemn devotions and the tanner’s boy tripped o’er his own feet, that Sir Andric received petition from one Barnabas the Fief, his cousin thrice removed and once reinstated, who sought employ as Deputy of the Watch. Alas, Barnabas, though noble of heart, did blunder more oft than the goose in mating season.
“Sir Andric,” quoth Barnabas, “I hath studied the scroll of civil code most diligently and only lit it aflame the once.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Andric, dry as a monk’s pantry. “and yet thou did chase yon thief into thy own privy, locking thyself within and surrendering thy sword to a goat.”
“A misstep,” said Barnabas, puffing with pride. “but no goats were harmed, save mine dignity.”
For many days the matter stirred like a pot of turnip stew. The blacksmith’s wife placed wagers. The fishmonger composed a ballad.
At last, Sir Andric called a moot beneath the old linden tree.
“Very well,” he proclaimed, “Barnabas shall serve for one fortnight’s trial, and if no villagers perish nor pigs abscond, he may keep the badge.”
Thus was born the most precarious age of peace Mayberria e’er did know, marked by missing pies, excessive horn-blowing, and the most heavily documented goose theft in recorded parish history.
Tuesday
8:30 Channel 2 WCBS The Dick Van Dyke Show—Comedy
Rob Petrie dreads having to tell Laura that he just blew $3,000 on a pair of golf clubs. This clever, behind-the-scenes look at a TV comedy writer’s life balanced sharp workplace antics with zany family fun with Rob and Laura Petrie.
In the shire of New Rochelle-upon-Market-Hollow, there dwelt a most curious scribbler of jest and folly named Robbé of Petrisham, whose days were spent in quill-work for the royal minstrels of the Great Hall of Varietie, and whose nights were fraught with the noble perils of marriage. His goodwife, Lady Lauranna of Petrisham, mistress of the hearth, steward of the linen press, and wielder of a glare that could wither a goose at twenty paces, was as shrewd in sense as she was light of foot.
Twas upon a sullen Michaelmas morn that Robbé, possessed by the devil of leisure, did barter three thousand groats. Nay, not for a new ox, nor a decent thatching of the roof, but for enchanted clubs of golfen make, forged in the foreign forges of Taylor Made. “They’re smithed for precision, milady,” quoth he, as if that were balm for an empty coinbox.
Lady Lauranna’s eyes did narrow to dagger-slits. “Three thousand groats for shepherds’ cudgels?” she asked, arms folded, brows ascendant. “and shall we next dine on boiled shoe-leather with a side of regret?”
Robbé, knowing full well the cost of her displeasure—three nights in the hayloft with only a vole for company—did kneel and reply, “Sweetheart of mine, think ye not of the coin, but of mine honour upon the links!”
She sighed long, then fetched the household abacus. “Very well,” said she, “but thy next tunic shall be stitched of flour sack, and thy bathwater shared with the goose.”
Thus did they settle their quarrel, as all Petries do, in jest, barter, and grudging affection, under the eternal shadow of the chamber pot economy.
Sunday
7:30 Channel 4 KNBC Father Knows Best—Comedy
Jim Anderson confronts his teen-age son, Bud, after finding a used condom in the back seat of their family station wagon. Father Knows Best portrays the calm, guiding hand of Jim Anderson as he leads his all-American family through everyday problems with patience and a pipe.
In the thatch-roofed hall of House Andersoune, where the rushes lie thick with soot and the mutton stew doth bubble in its clay pot, a curious relic was found upon the straw-littered back plank of the family’s ox-cart: a sheepskin sheath, coiled and tied, bearing the distinct mark of courtship not sanctioned by holy writ. Lord James of Andersoune, a merchant of middling means and venerable brow, did call forth his youngest son, Bartholomeus (called “Budde” by his kin), to answer for the find.
“Come hither, Budde,” quoth he, stem of face yet pipe in hand. “I hath come upon a strange bladder-skin, cast with carelessness upon the oaken bench of our coach. Speak true, boy. Is this thy doing?”
Budde shifted like a lad whose breeches were alight. “Father, mayhap ‘tis not mine, but one lent me by good Geoffrey, who claimeth it was gifted him by the apothecary’s cousin’s groom.”
“Doth it reek of falsehood and musk?” asked Lord James. “Aye, so it seemeth. Know ye not the risks of unblessed dalliance? For whosoever lieth with impunity may yet gain pox, heir, or eternal shame, in equal measure.”
Lady Margaret, ever the peaceweaver, didst enter with a bucket of rinsewater and a sigh. “Mayhap the boy needs not a flogging, but a schooling. Send him to Brother Eadric, who teacheth the sacred scrolls of chastity and vegetable trade.”
And so, with lessons learned and sheep bladders henceforth buried deep, the matter passed into memory, as all strange findings in carts must do.
Saturday
5:00 Channel 10 KTVU Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C.—Comedy
A gentle, guileless gas station attendant Gomer Pyle joins the Marines, where his sweet nature baffles his gruff drill sergeant and the rigid military world. He organizes a bowling league during the grueling 13-week boot camp, complete with matching uniform shirts.
In the shire of Camp Pendletonia, where the salt air of the coast met the iron scent of freshly hammered discipline, there arrived a most curious recruit by name of Goodman Gomer of Pylestone. A gentle-hearted dolt from the gas-lit hamlet of Mayberrie-upon-Tankard, Goodman Gomer knew naught of swords nor stratagems, but possessed, by Saint Cuthbert’s breeches, an uncanny knack for striking down pins with a leather ball on waxed timber. “Sergeantus! Mightn’t we form a league of bowlers?” quoth he, all toothsome grin and guileless gaze.
Sergeantus Cartern, a knight-tempered taskmaster clad in the livery of eternal frustration, did sputter mightily. “League? In thine first fortnight o’ spear-drill? Dost jest, sirrah?”
“Nay, m’lord sergeant,” said Gomer, with eyes innocent as unchurned milk. “Tis for unit morale—and I didst sew matching tunics with thine visage ‘pon the breast.”
What followed was naught less than a holy farce. Each Thursdae after vespers, the soldiers—once grim of countenance and sore of foot did gather in yon mess hall turned alley, hurling balls at painted pins, cheering oaths like “Strike me thrice and call me Corporal!” whilst sipping weak barley brew. Even Cartern, grim sentinel of order, was seen—verily, witnessed!—cradling the house ball named “Ol’ Glory” and muttering, “For the glory of House Platoon!”
Thus did Goodman Gomer turn a barracks of beasts into a brotherhood of bowlers. And lo, amidst toil, tedium, and tactical tedium, there rolled the mirth of men who’d found their aim not in warcraft, but in wooden pins and laughter.
