Nostalgia. There it is, listed in the medical dictionary among the diseases. It comes just before nostomania and nostophobia. The word “nostalgia” is a combination of “nostos” meaning a return home, and “algos” meaning pain. Literally “nostalgia” means homesickness.

There’s more than a little irony here. Nostalgia begins as a word describing a painful condition and winds up referring to a warm and pleasant recollection. Usually, nostalgia, as we use the word today, is attached to a time in life which, if not painful when we lived it, was probably felt to be mundane. In hindsight, the past often takes on a comforting glow. According to Don Larson, the columnist, “Nostalgia is a file that removes the rough edges from the good old days.”

Let’s not pause here to debate whether nostalgia is, as a rule, a good thing. Let’s be bold and dive into the nostalgia pool and see how we feel when we come up.

In June 1956, the world was in the process of being taken over by a new technology — television. There were still thousands of homes in America that didn’t have TVs, but the number was shrinking as sets were becoming more and more affordable. There was still a good deal of apprehension about buying televisions as repairs were very mysterious.

Most every father I knew back then was capable of making repairs when the family car needed fixing. Radios were easy to repair as these were powered by tubes that were easily removed and replaced. TVs were different. The brave souls who purchased sets early frequently complained about unreliable reception and inconsistent performance. Repositioning “rabbit ears” on top of the sets was a constant exercise if viewers were to secure and hold a decent picture. Always lurking just beyond the picture was the danger that you’d need to call the dreaded “TV repair man.” These shamans would show up when summoned carrying tool boxes with magical instruments that members of the public couldn’t buy and wouldn’t know how to use. We’d stand around wringing our hands while they worked their electronic magic and hope to goodness we’d have enough to pay when the time came.

On Tuesday nights, millions of families all over America perched with eager anticipation around their TVs waiting for “The Texaco Star Theater,” or, as we called it, the Milton Berle show. Urban legend has it that, in Detroit, between 9:00 and 9:05 on Tuesday nights, the city’s reservoir levels dropped because people wouldn’t go to the bathroom until The Texaco Star Theater went off the air.

Back then, in blue collar homes, musical variety was limited. We all knew about The Grand Ole Opry. This venerable radio program was one of the staples of family entertainment before television arrived on the scene. We knew about hymns because we sang these every Sunday morning, Sunday evening and Wednesday night. Our grandparents might, from time to time, sing some old timey mountain ballads that usually involved murders and hangings. We knew about love songs because our parents had record players that could vary speeds between 33 rpm for albums and 45 rpm for singles. Then, of course there were theme songs from our favorite radio and TV shows and snappy jingles attached to the better selling products.

Then, on Tuesday, June 5, 1956, there was a major quake in the entertainment world. Elvis Presley left his guitar backstage and strode onto the Texaco Star Theater — and attacked. No love songs, hymns or lyric ballads here. He accused the whole world of being “…nothin’ but a hound dog.” He fidgeted with the mic stand as a gunslinger might nervously thumb the hammer of a six gun. He pointed accusingly at the audience as if daring them to talk back. He gyrated back and forth in front of his back-up musicians as if it was the music and not the singer that had control of his movements. He sang “ain’t” again and again, and nobody had the nerve to correct him. Everybody watching knew they were witnessing a challenge of some kind, and deep down, we knew we would be expected to choose a side. We were just unclear what it all meant at the time.

Through the miracle of modern tele-technology, you can see that revolutionary performance today. Even now, viewers can get a sense of the charisma and defiance that exploded on our little black and white screens that night. You know, if nostalgia is a disease, you can keep your antibiotic.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.