About Bud Herron
Bud Herron is an occasional columnist for HSJ Online. He may be reached by email at budherron@gmail.com
The world came to Hope one sultry August Day in 1950. It was in a brown cardboard box about the size of a casket and came down Seminary Street, sticking out of the trunk of my Dad's aging Plymouth.

Inside the box was a 10-inch, Arvin television, perched atop a mahogany cabinet. It was the second television in the history of mankind to arrive in the town of Hope. And there it was, headed for the living room of our little two-bedroom house at the corner of Seminary and Union.

Dad was a production worker on the "television line" at Arvin Industries and had been helping assemble the revolutionary devices since 1948 - more than a year before Indiana even had a television station.

We all knew Dad would have to have one, even though his hourly wage could not support such a purchase. He was a "techno-junkie" half a century before the word was coined.

The day it arrived was among the two or three most exciting moments of my life (just slightly behind my wedding night and the day I won a Harley-Davidson motorcycle in the philharmonic raffle).

Neighbors filled our living room and those unable to find a place to stand pressed their noses to the screen door and windows. Dad, assisted by my Uncle Louie, began the installation process at about 10 a.m.

About 7 p.m., Dad made the final trip down the ladder from the roof, where he had installed an antenna pointed toward Indianapolis. (In my memory, the antenna was just slightly shorter than the Hope water tower.)

He attached the antenna wire to the back of the television and turned the power knob. The little screen hummed and slowly began to brighten. My sisters and I - sprawled out on the couch from the exhaustion of the just completed nine-hour drama - sat straight up in anxious anticipation.

"What kind of an exotic show will appear, all the way from distant, mysterious Indianapolis?" we wondered.

In a few seconds, wavy lines were dancing back and forth as Dad twisted a row of knobs one way and then the other in a desperate attempt to create a picture. Suddenly we could see something, although we weren't sure what it was because the image was flipping rapidly, top to bottom.

Finally the flipping stopped and there on the tiny screen was a flapping American flag. A voice said, "We are now ending our broadcast day. Ladies and gentlemen, our national anthem."

"Everybody on your feet," Dad shouted.

The whole bone-weary family arose at his instruction. We stood with our hands over our hearts and sang as "The Star Spangled Banner" blared from the television. Our neighbors stood stiffly on the porch, peered through the windows and joined us.

The next morning at 6 a.m. I was up watching a glowing "test pattern," showing the head of an Indian with the words "One Moment Please" printed across the top.

Life in our home would never be the same and Hope, Ind. would never be the same. The world had arrived.