The Channel Changer, 1967 Edition

Back in 1967, in our living room with green shag carpet and a rabbit-eared RCA the size of a washing machine, we didn’t have a television remote control. We had me, and I was state-of-the-art.

Whenever Dad wanted to watch something different—and mind you, there were only three channels and half the time one was showing a test pattern—he’d holler, “Change it to Channel 6,” and there I went, dutiful as a church usher, click-clack-clicking the mechanical dial like I was decoding a safe.

If I close my eyes, I can still hear that CHUNK CHUNK CHUNK sound as the tuner moved from one station to the next. The dial had authority.

None of the silent, infrared button-mashing nonsense. Nope, you felt it when you changed the channel.

Your fingers had to work for it—turning that big chrome knob that took both dexterity and a bit of elbow grease. You’d hear a little buzz as the vacuum tubes adjusted themselves like they were waking up from a nap.

And God help you if you turned it too fast—you’d get a scolding about “wearin’ the thing out” like you were driving the TV too hard.

It wasn’t just changing channels either. Volume? That was me, too.

“A little louder!” Dad would say, usually once settled with a cup of coffee and the sports section of the Times-Standard. I’d twist the knob just a touch.

“Too much!” he’d snap. “Back it off!” I’d inch it back like I was cracking a safe. I tell you, remote controls didn’t have anything on my finesse.

And don’t get me started on fine-tuning. That was an art form.

Sometimes the picture would get all wiggly, as if trying to do the hula hoop. That’s when I’d have to adjust the horizontal hold, vertical hold, or my favorite percussive adjustment, which is to say, a sharp whack on the side of the set. Not too hard—you didn’t want to anger it, just enough to jog the vacuum tubes back into alignment.

If things got super fuzzy, you’d have to mess with the antenna. Ours had a coat hanger jammed in it, and a wad of tinfoil that made it look like we were trying to pick up signals from Sputnik.

Someone—usually me—would stand on one foot, lean slightly left, hold the antenna in the air, and not move. I’d be frozen there like a living lightning rod until Dad said, “Perfect! Now don’t move!”

I’d hold that pose for the entire Ed Sullivan Show while my left foot went numb.

But you know what? I didn’t mind.

We thought it was normal. Nobody complained about not having a remote—we didn’t know what we were missing.

Years later, when I finally saw one of those early remote controls—a Zenith Space Command from the 60s—I laughed out loud. It looked like a garage door opener and sounded like a dog whistle.

Sure, it could change the channel, but could it understand when Dad said, “Go back, not that far, just one click”? Could it sense the exact volume level Mom liked during As the World Turns?

Nope. It didn’t have the heart, the intuition, or the uncoordinated grace of a seven-year-old boy on Saturday night duty. So yeah, I’ve got a rare photo of a 1967 television remote control.

It’s me, and I was cordless, voice-activated, highly responsive, and only needed the occasional sandwich to recharge.