It’s Sunday afternoon. It’s hot and humid. You can smell the sea on a faint breeze that barely manages to rattle the leaves on the trees, which have been scorched and hardened by the sun. It is one of those vegetating Sunday afternoons when you silently salute the inventor of the television remote control, recalling a time when you served that functionality yourself.

I am within the confines of an air-conditioned room in a medieval house adjacent to a thirteenth-century chapel with an inner rose-clad courtyard and underground passageway. Bailiffscourt could be no further away from South Africa than my thoughts at that very moment.
It all changes in an instant when the television comes ‘live’ and I hear an all-too-familiar tune – one that could only be ingrained in your mind if you are 40 years of age or older. I know what you are thinking: “His photo might be a bit dated.”

The theme song brought back memories of when the only indoor escapism on offer on Sunday afternoons took the form of two programmes. The first programme was Ter wille van Oorlewing, which was dubbed from the British series, The World of Survival. As far as I can recall, this was hardly inspirational viewing. The second programme was marginally more cheerful, depending on your demeanour. This too was dubbed and, as far as I can recall, available in simulcast, just to spread the ‘cheer’ equally. Simulcast, you would recall, was that innovative technology where, initially, you had to place a radio (‘wireless’, according to my grandfather; if you have to ask why, you are too young) on top of the television set. In later years, it was a built-in facility. Yes, the radio was built into the television. It was considered a feature.

The second programme was called The Waltons. One day, when my sands of time are trickling at dangerously low levels, I would no doubt pray to have those hours of watching The Waltons returned.

So, here I am, on a Sunday, having a Waltons reunion of sorts. Similar to the macabre fascination that some people have with rubbernecking and pausing when they are at an accident site, I find myself watching The Waltons. But, to my credit, I endure only a few minutes before continuing my channel jumping, convincing myself that the dubbed version was better. Even John-Boy sounded different. His voice was squeakier than in the original.

The next day, as we ready for our departure, I hear on the very same television that Oscar Goldman has passed away at 91 years of age. Again, if you have to ask who he is, you are way too young. I remember many a Saturday brunch time, the days when television had only one channel and on offer was Die Man van Staal. It was dubbed from The Six Million Dollar Man. I am at a loss to explain the translated title.

Oscar Goldman (Richard Anderson) was the handler of both The Six Million Dollar Man and The Bionic Woman. I remember the opening sequence of The Six Million Dollar Man vividly, when Steve Austin (Lee Majors) shouts to the control room as his fighter plane is about to crash: “Flight.com, I can’t hold her! She’s breaking up! She’s break . . . “ What you might not know, and what I did not know before conducting some research, was that the communication in the opening credits is based on communication prior to the M2-F2 crash that occurred on May 10, 1967. Test pilot Bruce Peterson’s aircraft hit the ground at about 402 k/h. What you also might not know is that Peterson survived this fatal accident, but later lost an eye, owing to an infection.

In the opening sequence, a narrator identifies “Steve Austin, astronaut, [a] man barely alive”, with Oscar Goldman interjecting: “Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to make the world’s first bionic man. Steve Austin will be that man. Better than he was before. Better . . . stronger . . . faster.”

I still recall how the trees used to sway uncontrollably when Steve Austin ran past them. This is seemingly explained by the wind that he generates when running at excessive speed. The more plausible explanation is that the film is run at an excessively high speed to create the illusion.

As my thoughts linger on the television programmes of yesteryear, the TV abruptly returns to The Waltons, which, would you believe it, is still running on television to this day. You want to venture when the series pilot was aired? The Homecoming: A Christmas Story was broadcast on December 19, 1971. The thirty-fourth- best series of all time ran for ten years. Three television movie sequels followed in 1982, and three more in the 1990s.

I will leave you as only The Waltons could. As the episode draws to a close, with the night descending on Walton’s Mountain (yes, that was the mountain’s name), the camera would show the lights going out room by room. And, as the lights went out, with the day’s inevitable crisis resolved, the family would banter for a moment about it and finally: Good night, John-Boy. Good night, Elizabeth. Good night, Daddy. Good night, Son. Good night, Mama. Good night, Mary Ellen. Good night, Jim Bob.

And then the house would be in darkness. And, as I too conclude, Mary Hopkin’s 1968 song, Those Were The Days, resonates “Those were the days my friend; We thought they’d never end; We’d sing and dance forever and a day; We’d live the life we choose; We’d fight and never lose; For we were young and sure to have our way . . .”