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Apr. 1st, 2015 09:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scarfmanThis morning’s Netflix M*A*S*H was White Gold, which means Abyssinia Henry tomorrow I think. That was original broadcast order, and I think it’s what I’ve seen in tv syndication. I remember original broadcast order because the day White Gold first broadcast I was having a bad day at school saved only by the anticipation of M*A*S*H on tv that evening, which was then soured because a friend showed me the People magazine article that spoiled Henry’s death the next week. The whole reason I had got so fond of M*A*S*H was that I thought Henry Blake was the character most like me out of all fiction.
When Abyssina Henry aired the next week I watched it, as I did most of my tv watching in those days, with my sister. Then I went back to my room for a half hour or an hour because that’s what I always did on Tuesday while there was nothing on that we watched, and my sister (I found out later) went to my mom, naturally very upset, and told her what had happened to Henry. My mother was concerned for me and only learned later that I had known beforehand. She asked me why I hadn’t told my sister what was going to happen, but I hadn’t wanted to spoil it for her as it was spoiled for me. Which, it occurs to me today, rather disproves retroactively any concern anyone might have had that adolescent me couldn’t tell the difference between story characters and real people.
When Abyssina Henry aired the next week I watched it, as I did most of my tv watching in those days, with my sister. Then I went back to my room for a half hour or an hour because that’s what I always did on Tuesday while there was nothing on that we watched, and my sister (I found out later) went to my mom, naturally very upset, and told her what had happened to Henry. My mother was concerned for me and only learned later that I had known beforehand. She asked me why I hadn’t told my sister what was going to happen, but I hadn’t wanted to spoil it for her as it was spoiled for me. Which, it occurs to me today, rather disproves retroactively any concern anyone might have had that adolescent me couldn’t tell the difference between story characters and real people.
