Growing up in New Zealand in the 1950s and 60s, things were nothing like they are today.
There was no television or, for that matter, very much else to stimulate the senses. A new music sheet for the piano in our household was seen as something of a highlight. The other high point of the week was on Monday nights when Life with Dexter, a long running family serial was broadcast, which saw the family gathered around the valve radio.
Church on Sundays was obligatory, not to go was seen as a venial sin, which had to be confessed to at the monthly confessional with the priest behind a curtain at St Marys. It seemed strange because you always knew who the priest was anyway, but it was presumably to hide the blushes as you fessed up to things like taking the name of the Lord thy God in vain, or even worse still, disobeying your parents.
Life was, well pretty dull.
You were taught respect though, to elevate those in positions or power to another level. If you were one of our teachers, a Sister of Mercy, who had to show a fair amount of it to teach me, you were on a pedestal just as you were if you were a priest, who in our innocent mind's eye, was even closer to The Almighty.