This was never a secret. From the time we first got our DVD player in 2003 (behind the times, I know, don't laugh) I started buying the Little House on the Prairie TV series on DVD.
We own every season now, and rewatch them only when my partner is forced inactive due to illness. I loved Little House. Mostly Pa, with his air of transgenderedness, (again- hairless chest, not girly, but with a coiffed 'do, close to gay but not enough. If I blurred my eyes, the perfect butch). I loved the lingering looks between Ma and Mrs. Olsen, or Ma and the new neighbor, or Ma and the lone female African-American cast member.
We had an above ground pool growing up in our split-level suburban enclave, and my mother hated the heat. She loathed to sweat in any form, and kept the house at a cool 68 degrees. We would go outside for an early swim, then come traipsing back in with wet towels in tow to sprawl out across the maroon carpet and watch TBS's 11am rerun of Little House.
As all good wasteful bratty suburban youths, we were more than adept at being cynical, masters of the art of making fun. My family loves to make fun. We could make fun of anybody, anywhere back then. My younger sis and I would spend a solid hour laughing our ass off at the Little House crew. Nothing was off limits, and my developing homo mind knew no boundaries.
Whether it was Laura's teeth, or the fact that Lindsay and Sidney while cute couldn't act for sh*t, watching Pa's face crestfallen as they singlehandedly screwed up emotional moments and refused to carry the torch. The giant Victorian dollhouse that sat in a field, starring as a wealthy woman's home Pa might be having an affair with, a blind school, and finally burning to the ground. Don't get me started on Pa's burly buddies who were always lurking by the 70s barn.
Almost every day we were in tears, rolling around, eating Ritz crackers from the box. To this day the combo of crumbs, wet towels, and fields of flowers mean one thing.
We were cruel, spotting wigs askew, fake snow, and unrealistic expectations a mile away. Our cynicism isn't something some may look fondly back on, my partner finds it disgusting since she grew up in farm country completely kind and sincere, but I still try to explain. Our mockery was out of love. It was the only sincerity to bond over. In a loud household, it was expected. We were simply exceeding expectations, as we always tried to do.
Popping in a new disc of Little House today, I will still tease and taunt, but the maliciousness has left replaced with an admiring longing to live in the Little House world. Not the real Little House World of back breaking labor, but the gentle town where little sheds on dirt piles are transformed into loving homes.
My partner (although this may be hotly denied) gets in on the act, showing me the proper way to be entertained by the program's hokey moments. We've even discovered how to laugh at the contemporary Little House, The L Word, where ridiculous things happen at the drop of a hat and characters disappear and reappear by the creator's will.
I wish I'd gone into TV Show Owning.
image courtesy of amazon.com
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