The outside of the attraction resembled a roomy, ranch-style house—the ultimate dream home for the mid-century family. Planter boxes with yellow daisies hung below every window. A basketball hoop was mounted above an aluminum garage door. You could almost hear the sound of a dribbling basketball, and the laughter of Billy and Biff enjoying a little one-on-one.
Rusty wagon wheels leaned against a wrought iron mail box, with Used-to-Be TV stenciled on the side of it. Being a new Theme Farm attraction, I expected to see huge crowds clamoring to get inside, but there was hardly anyone in line. All the better for me. I was anxious to get to the heart of the attraction: chatting with a fellow curiosity seeker in 1963!
I ambled up the red brick walkway to the front door—and the magical world beyond it.
Once inside, I followed the other visitors through an exact re-creation of a typical, suburban household of that era. The living room decor included a flagstone fireplace, a Mediterranean-style coffee table, and comfy chairs with crocheted, doily arm covers. Maple end tables sat on either side of a green sofa. On one table stood a lamp in the shape of a genie bottle, with the biggest lamp shade I’ve ever seen. On the other was a circular, tobacco pipe rack—the exclusive property of the man-of-the-house.
Family photos in brass frames sat on top of a spinet piano. Sheet music was propped up on a music stand above the keys, with titles like “Puff, the Magic Dragon,” “Blue Velvet,” and “Chim Chim Cher-ee.”
A console TV in the corner ran news footage that underscored the optimism of the times: John Glenn orbiting the Earth in his Friendship 7 spacecraft; President Kennedy playing touch football on the White House lawn; smiling people lined up to join the Peace Corps.
All the while, easy-listening music of that decade played softly in the background. Bossa nova melodies with lush string arrangements made me yearn for that stress-free lifestyle. Oddly, the music would periodically be interrupted by the voice of a TV show director, calling out shots to his cameramen:
“Standby. Ready camera two. Take two!”
The tour continued past a wood-paneled rumpus room, with a pool table and Tiki bar. A transistor radio in a teenager’s bedroom played pop tunes of the day, like “Fingertips” by Stevie Wonder and “Surfin’ USA” by the Beach Boys.
Then came the housewife’s domain: the kitchen. The round eyes of a wall-mounted Kit-cat clock followed me as I entered. The down-home scent of biscuits in the oven, and bacon in a frying pan filled the air. I couldn’t help taking a deep whiff of that mouth-watering aroma. On a breakfast table sat a portable black and white TV, with metal rabbit ears sprouting out the top. It played classic TV commercials. One showed a husband scolding his wife for making bad-tasting coffee. Another featured virile cowboys on horseback, promoting the manliness of smoking cigarettes.
The director’s voice was heard again:
“Push in on camera three. Cue talent.”
Finally, I was ushered into an oversized garage. Hula hoops, croquet sets, and shuffle board pucks were mounted to the walls. Rows of theater seats faced a large, plate-glass window, with video monitors on each side. Behind the glass was a TV studio control booth. Engineers stared at a wall of black and white TV screens, while seated at a broadcast control console.
The TV crew were all animatronic, human figures.
The director’s voice could still be heard calling out instructions.
“Fade in graphics.”
A title card faded up onto the audience monitors: Welcome to Used-to-Be TV.
I found a seat, which wasn’t hard to do, considering the small group that had come in with me. As the lights dimmed, our robotic director, wearing an intercom headset, swiveled around in his chair to face us.
“Welcome, couch potatoes,” he said. “As you can see, I’m in the middle of directing a TV show. The lights are on and the cameras are in focus. The only thing missing is the action—and that’s where you come in!”
“Roll film.”
The monitors showed a brief presentation to prepare us for what we were about to experience:
You enter a giant movie set of a suburban residential street, typical of the early 1960s. There you will find four quaint, little cottages. Select one and go inside. Sit down on the couch, and a TV in front of you will come on automatically. The pictures you see will be from video cameras in various locations. One might be in a TV studio. Another might be a surveillance camera. The people, places, and things you see may look a bit out of date, but you’re not watching a videotape. The images are live from 1963! At the same time, cameras in your room will be transmitting your image to those same locations in the past. All you have to do is watch and relax. Talk to people you see, if you like. They will be able to hear and see you.
“Cut to booth.”
“It’s an experience you will not soon forget,” said the director. “Savor the fashions of that bygone era. Marvel at the discoveries of fifty years ago. Make friends. But there is one limitation you need to be aware of. Here is someone to tell you about it.”
“Roll tape.”
The monitors switched to a cartoon. An animated character hopped onto the screen. It was a vacuum tube, like the ones that used to power old-time radios, but with a cartoon face, arms, and hands.
“Hello, time-travelers,” said the bubbly character, in a high-pitched voice. “I’m Vaccy, the vacuum tube.”
The scene cut to the inside of a Used-to-Be TV cottage, as Vaccy bounced on to the couch.
“While we all want you to have a good time,” he said, “there’s always a risk that revealing too much about the present might change things in the past. So, whenever you’re about to say something that might alter history, you’ll hear this:”
A short burst of a bleeping tone sounded.
“Let me show you how it works.”
A city street scene appeared on the cottage TV. A man in the background had just purchased a hot dog from a street vendor. Happy New Year 1963 was painted on the side of the vendor’s cart.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Vaccy, addressing the screen.
The man was about to take the first bite of his lunch, when he turned toward the animated character. He came closer.
“You talkin’ to me?” he said, his face now filling the screen.
“Yes,” said Vaccy, “and I have something to tell you. I am speaking to you from the year (bleep), and (bleep) is the first (bleep) president of the United States.”
“What’s that ya say?” said the confused man.
“People in our time talk on (bleep) phones, and surf the inter(bleep).”
Vaccy then turned to the audience. “See folks? No harm, no foul.” He turned back to our man-in-the-street. “So long, average person from the past.”
“Hey!” said the man. “What’s this all a—”
“Cut!”
The screen went black.
“That’s all there is to it,” said the director. “And now, Theme Farm invites you to step into the amazing world of . . . Used-to-Be TV.”
Dramatic music swelled as an automatic garage door opened onto a huge sound stage. There was the charming, suburban neighborhood the director had told us about. Movie lights simulated a time of day just after sunset. Sound effects of chirping crickets made it feel like I was really outdoors. Street lamps illuminated the four cottages, each with lush front lawns, bordered by neatly-trimmed hedges. The smell of fresh-cut grass brought back memories of the city park adventures of my youth.
Only a handful of people were on the street, most of them coming out of the cottages. None were going in. I strolled up to the bay window of the first cottage, and cupped my eyes with my hands to see inside. It was vacant.
I knocked on the front door, then slowly stepped inside. “Anybody home?” I called out, just to be courteous, then locked the door behind me. I was in a cozy living room, surrounded by early 1960s furniture. The soft light of a hanging swag lamp lit up a sunburst clock on a wall, covered in retro-pattern wallpaper.
It was eerily quiet.
A plaid couch in the middle of the room faced a vintage black and white TV. I sidestepped the coffee table and sat down on the couch. As the TV came on, the screen displayed an old-style TV test pattern, with the words Please Stand By. I adjusted the couch pillows to get comfortable, and waited to see what would happen next.
The flickering pattern faded out. A black and white image popped up an instant later. I was watching the video signal from a camera outside a TV store, aimed down a city sidewalk. A sign off to one side read See yourself on TV! Passersby could see their faces on a TV in the store’s display window—a clever ruse to draw people inside. I watched with amazement as average folks, dressed in their ‘60s attire, paraded up and down the street. City busses and classic cars drove by in the background. But no street sounds were coming out of the TV. I checked to make sure the volume was turned up.
A lady with a shopping bag stopped and looked into the camera. “Hello!” I said to her, waving my hand. But the woman just wiped her nose with a handkerchief and walked away. Evidently, she had seen herself in the store window TV, and not me.
I moved on to the cottage next door. The TV came on and showed the view of a security camera at a used car lot. The camera was at a high angle, like it was mounted to the roof of the sales office. Customers milled about, kicking tires and slamming car doors.
I definitely wasn’t going to meet anyone here.
The TV in the next cottage only showed the words College Media Studies, superimposed over another test pattern. Just for the heck of it, I waited to see if something else would happen.
Nothing did.
No wonder there were no lines for this attraction. For sure, spying on a world fifty years in the past was fascinating, but not being able to interact with anyone made it hard to stay put.
I tried the last cottage, hoping I would find someone to talk to. This time I saw the inside of a security office, most likely in a commercial building of some kind. The back wall was covered in white, acoustical tiles. A row of video monitors showed images from surveillance cameras around the premises: an empty parking lot, deserted hallways, an idle, factory assembly line. The only thing moving was the second hand on a large wall clock.
In the center of the frame sat an empty office chair.
A minute or two rolled by.
“Hello?” I said faintly.
Nothing.
The sunburst clock in the cottage had read 12:20 when I first came in. Now it read 12:45—the same hour showing on the clock in 1963. Staring at the static screen all that time had exhausted my patience.
I got up and started to leave, when I noticed a shadow move across the back wall of the security office. I rushed back to the couch.
“Is there someone there?” I shouted.
The shadow entered the frame again. It was the silhouette of a man.
“Hey!” I cried. “Over here!”
The man-shadow turned left and right, as if having heard a voice—my voice.
“I’m right here,” I said. “Sit down in the chair so I can see you.”
But the man just scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders. Then the shadow walked out of frame.
I waited to see if the dark phantom would reappear, but after another ten minutes, it looked like that was all I was going to get.
Wow! Did I just have a close encounter with someone in 1963? The very idea had my head spinning. I couldn’t just leave it at that. Maybe if I came back the same time tomorrow, I thought, the man would return as well. It was worth a try, and with a little luck, I might just experience a real face-to-face encounter.