So I've been showing the two youngest—the Golden Weasel and the Brawn—an episode or two of M*A*S*H most weekdays. We started with the very first episode and have watched all but a few episodes per season—there are over 250 episodes, so skipping a few of the relatively weaker or more purely prurient or those which have not aged terribly well (and hoo boy do some of even the finest episodes have bits that have not aged well) doesn't seem like too great a crime. In this way, they're getting quite an education: they're learning some history (about the Korean War, which they'd never heard), and basic concepts such as triage, and military rank, and even some basic medical terminology. (Who knew that this was where I became familiar with the term "plasma"?)
They're also learning—or have now learned—how to watch a long-form episodic series which, to the surprise of me and Top Management, is actually something one learns to do, and is not necessarily innate; we grew up watching sitcoms from the time we were aware, pretty much, and perhaps even the occasional soap opera, so learned without realizing it. (The only time I ever watched soaps was when I was home sick from school, with the result that the sight or sound or even mention of a soap opera will sometimes make me feel slightly ill—yes, really.)
That this is a learned thing is something we'd discovered with our oldest kids, but it was really driven home just how powerful long-form narratives can be—not exactly a revelation to either of us—when we watched the end of the third season, which as all should know, features one of the most shocking deaths in television history. We expected it to take them by surprise. We were not prepared for the fact that they were absolutely devastated. The Brawn was nearly inconsolable—"how could they do that?!" he said. "He was a main character!"—while the Weasel just went up to her room and laid on her bed, staring at the ceiling without speaking for half an hour.
So we recently began the fifth season, a two-parter that has the unit bugging out. Colonel Potter finds what he believes is a suitable new location—there's only one small problem, and that's the house of ill repute which is smack dab in the middle, packed to the gills with ladies of the night and a madam who runs the place.
"And that," I said to Top Management, as soon as it was over, "is how your two youngest became acquainted with the term and concept of a brothel."
She just looked at me for a moment, then nodded. "You're really doing a great job with this homeschooling thing," she said.
Comments