I was born during an episode of M*A*S*H.
The doctor who delivered me was watching it in the lounge when my mom was in labor. I was a breech baby (I’ve always been difficult, I guess), but the doctor didn’t want to miss his show, and waiting until the commercial break to deliver me. By then, I had done a back flip on my own and headed south, and he arrived just in time to catch me, pass me off to one of the nurses, and get back to the lounge to watch the rest of the episode.
When the hospital bill came, my mom refused to pay for me.
Anyway, I always loved M*A*S*H. My grandmother was an army nurse in World War II, which is how she met my grandfather. His plane was shot down over France just before D Day.
Grandma owned the entire series on VHS, and when dementia took hold of her late in her life, her M*A*S*H tapes were familiar and comforting.
I’m pretty sure I’ve seen every episode, and I love Colonel Potter, nearly as much as I love Hawkeye Pierce and BJ Honeycut.
How sad.
To all Harry Morgans, RIP.

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