Radios

It has occurred to me that I’m a ‘radioholic’. I have a surplus of radios. They are of various sizes, shapes and colors. Most work with a combination of electricity and/or batteries; some play only with batteries. I rarely discard one so I have a collection that is unique. One of them is a bright yellow AM- FM flashlight with a siren sound. An old favorite is the size of a deck of cards that uses a 9 volt battery, but I have to remove the case and jiggle wires to make it play. One is a General Electric shortwave AM- FM radio the size of a book that has a broken tuning knob. It can be tuned using fingers, but the little lever that selects AM or FM won’t lock into place. There is a set of radio headphones in the shape of hamburgers from Burger King. Another is an advertisement for Radio Shack batteries and is shaped like one.


The kitchen and bedroom radios have plain black plastic cases. My small combination CD, tape, AM- FM radio has an elegant design of silver, gray and black. My single tape player with AM-FM is silver and blue. My most expensive radio dubs tapes and cost $75 from Radio Shack. The commercials for Bose radios promise great sound for listening, but I am satisfied with my less expensive radios and only get frustrated when the stations drift. The kitchen radio is tuned to public radio 24/7 but I listen to an AM news station in the bedroom when I’m not watching TV.

During my childhood, an early family radio had a large megaphone speaker with a picture of a dog on it. That was supplanted with a table model with a curved wooden case which sat on a shelf in the dining room where we gathered to listen to news, favorite programs and the President. At the time of the Lindberg kidnapping, all the room chatter stopped as the radio announcer reported the latest news. My grandparents lived with us during that period of time and my grandfather got upset with the ranting of Father Coglin.

After school my sister and I listened to soap operas like Stella Dallas before the children’s programs, Jack Armstrong and Orphan Annie came on. After supper, we children would pull our chairs up around Dad’s, or sit on the floor at his feet as we listened to a program called The Black Lagoon. We older children had our ears glued to the radio along with Dad when The Brown Bomber fought in the ring. I heard discussions about NRA in the news broadcasts but only knew it had something to do with the depression.

Our imaginations enhanced the scripts of the broadcasts with color and emotion. My mother was so taken with a singing cowboy’s voice, she wrote for his advertised photograph costing a dollar, but was terribly disappointed when he was not as handsome as she mentally had pictured him.

During the depression my father became an amateur Ham radio operator and built his own radios using vacuum tubes. As each succeeding radio was more powerful, shelves were added to hold the additional tubes. The tubes created a lot of heat, so the intricate wiring and tubes were left exposed. We children were not allowed to touch any of the tubes or wires but were allowed to watch as Dad tinkered with them.

One evening Mom and Dad went to visit friends and left instructions to disconnect the radio from the wall socket if it started to rain. The storm started with thunder and lightening and suddenly there were loud popping, crackling noises with streaks of electricity jumping all over the exposed radio shelves. We kids were too terrified to go near enough to pull the plug. H.O., an uncle who had been left in charge, (and was only a few years old than I), had the courage to pull the plug which stopped the sizzling flashes. From that time on, He had our total admiration and devotion. And he got credit for saving Dad’s radio which was in use until the war came and the government suspended all ham licenses.

Years later, I emulated my father and got a General License at age 80. But that's another story...