Blowing Out the Candles with Sheriff John (and company)

Put another candle on my birthday cake . . .

Yes, my birthday is coming soon, and it practically coincides with news of the death of “Sheriff John” Rovick, at the ripe old age of 93. Any kid who grew up in L.A. in the 1950s remembers Sheriff John. He was the TV guy -- the one with the badge, the khaki uniform, and the big white hat -- who led us in the pledge of allegiance and helped us celebrate our birthdays with a song about being “another year old today.”

Then there was “Engineer Bill” Stulla (who recently died at age 97). He wore overalls and a striped railroad cap, and led us in a milk-drinking game called “Red Light, Green Light.” I also remember Tom Hatten (born in 1927 and still going strong), who wore a sailor cap and bell bottoms, and knew how to draw. Not to mention the rather creepy Chucko the Birthday Clown. (Chucko lived into his 86th year. Something about being a TV kiddie-show host seems to have prepared these guys to live practically forever.) All of them showed cartoons (Hatten had a monopoly on Popeye the Sailor Man), and all were fixtures on local TV stations eager to cater to an audience of young Baby Boomers.

Television was a novelty then, and we kids would have watched anything, including test patterns. (Remember those?) But the stations won over our parents by filling their programming with lots of pro-social messages. Along with cartoons, we got lessons in manners, citizenship, and the work ethic. Those sheriffs and engineers and sailors had us all subliminally convinced that one day we too would be defined by our professions.

Even more than the cartoons, I think what we liked best was the opportunity to participate in the TV experience. Several of the shows welcomed local kids onstage. (I got to walk through Bill Stulla’s “Castle of Dreams.”) And there was nothing quite like hearing your very own birthday announced on the air. I don't know what show was involved, but I distinctly remember the year I was told over the airwaves to look behind the TV cabinet in my living room for a special birthday gift. Lo and behold, I found a recording of Harry Babbitt singing “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic” –- would wonders never cease?

Looking back, I realize that these programs combined the miracle of television with an appeal that was local, and thus seemed intimate. Yes, there was national kids’ programming too, but it mostly came later. Mr. Rogers didn’t hang out in his TV neighborhood until the late Sixties, and Sesame Street didn’t begin revolutionizing children’s television until 1969. The big change for my own generation came in 1955, with the arrival of those peppy lily-white youngsters who sang and tapdanced their hearts out on The Mickey Mouse Club. We all loved those kids. Hell, we wanted to BE those kids. But they never announced our birthdays on the air the way Sheriff John did.

Today I’m struck by the fact that, in a world grown ever more impersonal, we’re all desperate for intimacy. Look at the success of Facebook, where your friends (and your Facebook “friends”) are notified of your birthday weeks in advance, and respond by sending you cheery messages. Then there’s radio: I suspect part of what people love about A Prairie Home Companion is its homey feeling. When Garrison Keillor broadcasts the studio audience’s folksy announcements of birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations, we’re all part of one big community. In this day and age, isn’t that how we want to feel?