OUR TOWNS; GRASS-ROOTS JULIA CHILDS AND HENNY YOUNGMANS
''Hi, hello everybody, ladies and jerks, welcome to the 'Josh Cagan Show.' Sorry I'm so breathless today, but I just flew in from California, and, boy, are my arms tired. Let's talk about my school. Take the school cafeteria - please.''
O.K., so he's no Henny Youngman, but this round, emotive 12-year-old with large lidded eyes is part of a lineup of local unpaid personalities who have helped make a tiny cable station here a compelling reminder of what television used to be.
''It's like the old TV,'' said Cheryl Fine, co-manager of WHC-TV. ''It's not slick. It's not polished. You never know what's going to happen next. You get sucked into it.''
These are the backwaters of broadcasting, mostly volunteer and nonprofit - community or public access, as it is called in the trade - estimated at 1,100 stations nationwide.
George C. Stoney, a professor of film and television at New York University and an authority on public-access channels, describes the stations as ''activist television,'' a blend of the amateur hour and public service, sports and religion, comedy and polemics.
In the hands of the unpaid and untutored, the tube can become a window on a community, often reflecting its tastes, its sense of humor and its social concerns.
Here, however, the serious aside, the window is often on the alter ego.
''Hi, and welcome to the program, I'm Pat Seremet. Tonight, we're going to be talking with Linda Walsh. Just six months ago, Linda Walsh was just another drab West Hartford housewife with three children, a husband and a part-time job. Now, she is a model for a prestigious modeling agency. Now, Lana Turner was discovered at Schwab's. Were you at Cedric's pharmacy or CVS when you got discovered?''
O.K., so she's no Erma Bombeck, but she is a 37-year-old freelance writer with an inexhaustible wit who conducts interview programs and is having a lot of fun.
''To be a volunteer television star,'' she said off camera, ''is much easier than giving blood or baking brownies for the P.T.A. or writing in a baby book.''
Mrs. Seremet's public persona is that of the outsider, the slightly zany, often acerbic wag who does not like to fall into line. ''West Hartford is a very sedate place, very conformist,'' she said deadpan. ''Take my kids, for example, they aren't very athletic. They're into the refreshments instead of the game.''
Then there is young Joshua Cagan, the Uncle Milty of the seventh grade. He explains his comic origins thus:
''I was 3 or 4 years old, and I was at my grandmother's. I was trying to feed her toy poodle a bone, but he wouldn't eat it. I picked up the bone, put it in my mouth and ate it. Everyone laughed. They thought it was uproarious.''
And so he heard his calling. Now, he says: ''I'm dying to make the big time. I'm just waiting for some big- shot producer who will turn to his assistant and say, 'Sam, I've got to have that kid.' I want to get a spot on the David Letterman or Johnny Carson show. If I'm really desperate, I'll even take 'The Love Boat.' ''
The impresario of WHC is Muriel Fleischmann, executive director of the station. Mrs. Fleischmann, a tireless promoter and good shepherd to her volunteers, aims to take full advantage of the free, innovative and experimental nature of ''narrowcasting,'' as cable televison is often called.
She recruits her volunteer stars wherever she can find them. ''I go to parties, she said, and I say, 'Did you ever think of being on TV?' ''
One of her first discoveries was close at hand. ''When I started, I said to myself, 'Where am I going to get programming?' My husband said, 'I've always wanted to make a show.' So he decided he wanted to talk about wines and made a show called 'West Hartford Wine Party.' ''
Now the talent comes from all quarters.
''Good evening, I'm Mary Sondergeld, and I would like to introduce you to Kevin Sullivan, our Mayor. In my hand is a green balloon that Kevin Sullivan gave me at a candidates' meeting. They do say that politicians have a lot of hot air.
''We're going to have a program throughout your reign as Mayor. That's not a very nice way to say that, but we want to really find out, behind all that big black mustache and that lovely hair, what are you really like?''
The technique may be rough, but the interest is genuine. Mary Sondergeld, a teacher and former president of the League of Women Voters here, is an addict of local politics.
''I love it,'' she said. ''I probably could run for local council, but this is more fun. You live vicariously.''
You also, apparently, escape. ''When I'm on TV,'' she said, ''I'm not someone's mother, I'm not someone's teacher. I'm just Mary Sondergeld.''
Finally, there is the suburban Julia Child.
''Hi, I'm Lola Janis. Today I'm going to make some coffee cake. It reminds me when I say 'coffee cake' of that commercial where the man says, 'What is hamburger, anyway, ground ham? No, it's ground steak.' So, coffee cake is not made out of coffee.''
A little joke, says Mrs. Janis, a 76- year-old retired professor of nutrition who, with her white hair and her credentials as a grandmother, evokes a certain hearthlike warmth and coziness on the air.
But this is no timid woman.
''I wish I could get into commercial TV,'' she said. ''A lot of men in the control room tell me I'm better than Julia Child and better looking. I like watching myself. I sit there and say, 'I'm pretty good.' Someday, I'm going to make it.''
WHC-TV is on the air. No hot-combed heads of hair, no wardrobe coordinators and no honeyed voices oozing through the night.
''Hi, hello everybody, ladies and jerks, welcome to the 'Josh Cagan Show.' Sorry I'm so breathless today, but I just flew in from California, and, boy, are my arms tired. Let's talk about my school. Take the school cafeteria - please.''
O.K., so he's no Henny Youngman, but this round, emotive 12-year-old with large lidded eyes is part of a lineup of local unpaid personalities who have helped make a tiny cable station here a compelling reminder of what television used to be.
''It's like the old TV,'' said Cheryl Fine, co-manager of WHC-TV. ''It's not slick. It's not polished. You never know what's going to happen next. You get sucked into it.''
These are the backwaters of broadcasting, mostly volunteer and nonprofit - community or public access, as it is called in the trade - estimated at 1,100 stations nationwide.
George C. Stoney, a professor of film and television at New York University and an authority on public-access channels, describes the stations as ''activist television,'' a blend of the amateur hour and public service, sports and religion, comedy and polemics.
In the hands of the unpaid and untutored, the tube can become a window on a community, often reflecting its tastes, its sense of humor and its social concerns.
Here, however, the serious aside, the window is often on the alter ego.
''Hi, and welcome to the program, I'm Pat Seremet. Tonight, we're going to be talking with Linda Walsh. Just six months ago, Linda Walsh was just another drab West Hartford housewife with three children, a husband and a part-time job. Now, she is a model for a prestigious modeling agency. Now, Lana Turner was discovered at Schwab's. Were you at Cedric's pharmacy or CVS when you got discovered?''
O.K., so she's no Erma Bombeck, but she is a 37-year-old freelance writer with an inexhaustible wit who conducts interview programs and is having a lot of fun.
''To be a volunteer television star,'' she said off camera, ''is much easier than giving blood or baking brownies for the P.T.A. or writing in a baby book.''
Mrs. Seremet's public persona is that of the outsider, the slightly zany, often acerbic wag who does not like to fall into line. ''West Hartford is a very sedate place, very conformist,'' she said deadpan. ''Take my kids, for example, they aren't very athletic. They're into the refreshments instead of the game.''
Then there is young Joshua Cagan, the Uncle Milty of the seventh grade. He explains his comic origins thus:
''I was 3 or 4 years old, and I was at my grandmother's. I was trying to feed her toy poodle a bone, but he wouldn't eat it. I picked up the bone, put it in my mouth and ate it. Everyone laughed. They thought it was uproarious.''
And so he heard his calling. Now, he says: ''I'm dying to make the big time. I'm just waiting for some big- shot producer who will turn to his assistant and say, 'Sam, I've got to have that kid.' I want to get a spot on the David Letterman or Johnny Carson show. If I'm really desperate, I'll even take 'The Love Boat.' ''
The impresario of WHC is Muriel Fleischmann, executive director of the station. Mrs. Fleischmann, a tireless promoter and good shepherd to her volunteers, aims to take full advantage of the free, innovative and experimental nature of ''narrowcasting,'' as cable televison is often called.
She recruits her volunteer stars wherever she can find them. ''I go to parties, she said, and I say, 'Did you ever think of being on TV?' ''
One of her first discoveries was close at hand. ''When I started, I said to myself, 'Where am I going to get programming?' My husband said, 'I've always wanted to make a show.' So he decided he wanted to talk about wines and made a show called 'West Hartford Wine Party.' ''
Now the talent comes from all quarters.
''Good evening, I'm Mary Sondergeld, and I would like to introduce you to Kevin Sullivan, our Mayor. In my hand is a green balloon that Kevin Sullivan gave me at a candidates' meeting. They do say that politicians have a lot of hot air.
''We're going to have a program throughout your reign as Mayor. That's not a very nice way to say that, but we want to really find out, behind all that big black mustache and that lovely hair, what are you really like?''
The technique may be rough, but the interest is genuine. Mary Sondergeld, a teacher and former president of the League of Women Voters here, is an addict of local politics.
''I love it,'' she said. ''I probably could run for local council, but this is more fun. You live vicariously.''
You also, apparently, escape. ''When I'm on TV,'' she said, ''I'm not someone's mother, I'm not someone's teacher. I'm just Mary Sondergeld.''
Finally, there is the suburban Julia Child.
''Hi, I'm Lola Janis. Today I'm going to make some coffee cake. It reminds me when I say 'coffee cake' of that commercial where the man says, 'What is hamburger, anyway, ground ham? No, it's ground steak.' So, coffee cake is not made out of coffee.''
A little joke, says Mrs. Janis, a 76- year-old retired professor of nutrition who, with her white hair and her credentials as a grandmother, evokes a certain hearthlike warmth and coziness on the air.
But this is no timid woman.
''I wish I could get into commercial TV,'' she said. ''A lot of men in the control room tell me I'm better than Julia Child and better looking. I like watching myself. I sit there and say, 'I'm pretty good.' Someday, I'm going to make it.''
