My sainted grandmother, whose memory I reconstruct in a thousand unrealistic ways, turned on the televisions in her apartment first thing each morning and off last thing at night. This seemed counterintuitive in a woman famous for focusing all her attention on the child in front of her. But she liked voices in the background.
We would sit at the table in her fragrant kitchen chatting, while weeping women vied for a crown, a dishwasher, and the distinction of most miserable life. In one direction, we could hear the portable set on a countertop next to the refrigerator; in the other direction, there was the mahogany living room console. Sometimes the soundtracks were slightly out of sync. It didn't bother us, because we weren't really listening. We weren't watching, either.
