then a lowly studio hand, would later write and produce for three of the most acclaimed children’s shows in television history: Captain Kangaroo , Sesame Street, and The Electric Company . He said many times that he learned a lot about what not to do on television from watching Buffalo Bob Smith.
NBC also was home to network television’s first series targeted—and marketed—to preschoolers. Its history reads like a cautionary tale about advertising’s corruptive influence on even the best-intentioned efforts of using television to teach.
One day in 1952 an arts editor at the New York Times answered the phone, only to hear a strange admission from Jules Herbuveaux, program director at NBC Television. “We’ve got a new show over here that’s either the worst show we ever pitched up or the best,” he said. “Right now, I just don’t know.” 13
Days earlier, without any promotion or advance notice, the network added a children’s show to its midmorning lineup, one that was initially produced at NBC’s affiliate station in Chicago, WNBQ. On the occasion of its first day on the network, a cranky cameraman offered his sour assessment of the proceedings. “Where did they come up with this one?” he groused. Over on camera two, his buddy cracked, “This old gal won’t last out the week—if that long.” 14
Though out of earshot, that old gal could decipher every word. Not only was Dr. Frances Horwich an accomplished educator, she also was a master lip-reader, a skill honed over twenty years in the classroom. And, like most teachers, she had grown eyes in the back of her head. Nothing got past her.
Within a matter of weeks, Dr. Horwich—as Miss Frances—would become a household name in the twenty-one major markets where the program aired. Miss Frances opened the show by ringing a handbell, like a teacher summoning students to a little red schoolhouse. That prompted the three-year-old-daughter of producer Reinald Werrenrath Jr. to suggest the title Ding Dong School . It stuck.
Billed as the “Nursery School of the Air,” Ding Dong School was just that, a busy twenty-five minutes of stories and activities for three- to five-year-olds. The final five minutes of the half-hour show were directed to parents, after the children were dispatched to go find them. Miss Frances would then recap what the children had learned that day, like a teacher on back-to-school night.
NBC began receiving sacks of mail from pleased parents, sometimes as many as a thousand letters a day. New York Times writer Larry Wolters marveled at the phenomenon. “It’s the only program NBC has ever devised that wins practically a hundred percent acclaim. . . . [Miss Frances] brings [children] a wide variety of experiences, through action, scenes, and events, which most mothers seem to be just too busy to give the youngsters.” 15
Dr. Horwich, chairman of the Education Department at Chicago’s Roosevelt College, accomplished nothing less than inventing interactive children’s television, five decades before Blue’s Clues . Not surprisingly, her method combined equal parts show and tell. During activity segments, she would ask children to join along as she cut construction paper into five puzzle pieces or planted radish seeds in a Dixie Cup or made a doll from pipe cleaners and a shoehorn. The demonstrations moved at a child’s pace, and Miss Frances paused frequently to encourage and question viewers, addressing them as if they were seated right in front of her, which, in a sense, they were.
At times, Miss Frances would even carry on as if the children were actually answering her. She would open a Monday broadcast: “How was your weekend? Did you go for a ride in the car? Oh! You went to see grandmother.” Then, with a little gasp of surprise, she’d say, “Your cousin Billy was there! And his sister Susie?” To the adult ear, it was fruitcake nutty, but kids by the thousands began talking back to their sets.
The show’s
NBC also was home to network television’s first series targeted—and marketed—to preschoolers. Its history reads like a cautionary tale about advertising’s corruptive influence on even the best-intentioned efforts of using television to teach.
One day in 1952 an arts editor at the New York Times answered the phone, only to hear a strange admission from Jules Herbuveaux, program director at NBC Television. “We’ve got a new show over here that’s either the worst show we ever pitched up or the best,” he said. “Right now, I just don’t know.” 13
Days earlier, without any promotion or advance notice, the network added a children’s show to its midmorning lineup, one that was initially produced at NBC’s affiliate station in Chicago, WNBQ. On the occasion of its first day on the network, a cranky cameraman offered his sour assessment of the proceedings. “Where did they come up with this one?” he groused. Over on camera two, his buddy cracked, “This old gal won’t last out the week—if that long.” 14
Though out of earshot, that old gal could decipher every word. Not only was Dr. Frances Horwich an accomplished educator, she also was a master lip-reader, a skill honed over twenty years in the classroom. And, like most teachers, she had grown eyes in the back of her head. Nothing got past her.
Within a matter of weeks, Dr. Horwich—as Miss Frances—would become a household name in the twenty-one major markets where the program aired. Miss Frances opened the show by ringing a handbell, like a teacher summoning students to a little red schoolhouse. That prompted the three-year-old-daughter of producer Reinald Werrenrath Jr. to suggest the title Ding Dong School . It stuck.
Billed as the “Nursery School of the Air,” Ding Dong School was just that, a busy twenty-five minutes of stories and activities for three- to five-year-olds. The final five minutes of the half-hour show were directed to parents, after the children were dispatched to go find them. Miss Frances would then recap what the children had learned that day, like a teacher on back-to-school night.
NBC began receiving sacks of mail from pleased parents, sometimes as many as a thousand letters a day. New York Times writer Larry Wolters marveled at the phenomenon. “It’s the only program NBC has ever devised that wins practically a hundred percent acclaim. . . . [Miss Frances] brings [children] a wide variety of experiences, through action, scenes, and events, which most mothers seem to be just too busy to give the youngsters.” 15
Dr. Horwich, chairman of the Education Department at Chicago’s Roosevelt College, accomplished nothing less than inventing interactive children’s television, five decades before Blue’s Clues . Not surprisingly, her method combined equal parts show and tell. During activity segments, she would ask children to join along as she cut construction paper into five puzzle pieces or planted radish seeds in a Dixie Cup or made a doll from pipe cleaners and a shoehorn. The demonstrations moved at a child’s pace, and Miss Frances paused frequently to encourage and question viewers, addressing them as if they were seated right in front of her, which, in a sense, they were.
At times, Miss Frances would even carry on as if the children were actually answering her. She would open a Monday broadcast: “How was your weekend? Did you go for a ride in the car? Oh! You went to see grandmother.” Then, with a little gasp of surprise, she’d say, “Your cousin Billy was there! And his sister Susie?” To the adult ear, it was fruitcake nutty, but kids by the thousands began talking back to their sets.
The show’s
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