Those days they've come and gone

My parents used to watch Mitch Miller regularly. Maybe not as often as Lawrence Welk, but Miller was enough of a presence in our house that my brother tried to get me to go downstairs when I was 5 or 6 and say "Bitch" Miller in hopes of getting a rise out of our parents.

A rise because of 1) the obvious, and 2) it might be an affront to the man and his music.

Miller died yesterday, and his brand of corn made Welk's almost look progressive. I guess it wasn't surprising one of his show's sponsors was Libby's.

I think we had the "Yellow Rose of Texas" record, and I can still see rows of singers and the bouncing ball helping us all to sing along.

I'm not sure if my parents were deeply enamored of Miller's art, or if they saw "Sing Along with Mitch" as sort of an anchor against the tidal wave of the Beatles and their ilk.

I didn't pay much attention to Miller's professed hatred of rock and roll. Otherwise, I might have felt some disdain when I literally bumped into him on a New York City street a dozen or so years ago. He gave me a pleasant smile and hello, which I returned.

Instead, I remembered a time of sitting in the living room with my mom and dad, watching a show with a premise that today is almost unthinkable.