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...

Rita Damage Repaired

Except for painting inside and out, the hurricane damage to my house has been repaired. Light at the end of the tunnel is iridescent and glowing brighter every day! The job of finding a bone fide contractor seemed almost insurmountable after listening to TV news coverage of scams, rip offs, and shoddy work, but I did not experience any of those horrors reported by neighbors or news coverage of the area.

I had to learn how insurance companies work as well as how to check qualifications of persons claiming to be in the business of repairing hurricane damage. The operative word was PATIENCE, and I was forced to practice it.

I telephoned the Better Business Bureau of southeast Texas for a list of contractors working in the area. They also gave me a detailed list of things to check before signing a contract with any person advertising such repairs. First on the list was the requirement for a ‘bond’ and checking to make certain the person was actually bonded by phoning the city hall where the work was to be done and requesting a copy of the registered bond with the amount of insurance carried. The next step was to check with the surrounding county courthouses for any liens or law suits against any of the contractors being considered and contacting at least two referrals.

I added names from the internet and newspapers to the BBB list and started telephoning them, but I soon had so many scraps of paper with notes, and pertinent information the clutter became too much to cope with. My son’s suggestion of using manila folders for each contractor was so practical I had a mini filing system up and running in short order.

From my apartment in Houston, I started a routine of phoning, leaving messages, waiting for return calls with bids contingent on seeing inside of the house, and talking to references. My insurance adjuster in Florida was my security blanket, giving me tips on how contractors work and what questions to ask.

Before meeting with individuals at the house for final bids, I phoned my brother, a retired contractor who lives in the Dallas area, and asked if he would take the time to help me choose a contractor and supervise repairs. When he said yes, I was delighted! Motel Six had only one room with two king size beds with cable TV coming available the next afternoon so we reserved it for a week with the possibility of continuing for as many days as needed.

I stuffed my contractor files in a briefcase, packed a cooler with water and lots of munchies, clothes to last a week and waited for my brother to pick me up in Houston and head for Rita territory. I scheduled 4 interviews and every thing was on track!

After checking into the motel, we drove to the house so my brother could see the damage. While we discussed what had to be done, we saw a crew putting new shingles on the house across the street. They were going 90 to nothing and my brother said that was the kind of workers we needed.

As we watched the work being done, a woman and a man were picking up junk as soon as the roofers tossed it on the ground and put it in the back of a pickup truck. The woman waved to us and I walked over to talk to her while my brother went inside the house. The woman said her husband was doing the work. His name was Scot and I asked if he could talk to us when took a work break.

In the meantime, the owner of the house came by and told us he hired Scot after seeing what a great job he had done for a friend of his. After my brother interviewed him, we hired him on the spot. Scot was from San Antonio and did not have a registered bond, but my brother said it wasn’t necessary. We had found the right person to repair my house.

We chose the option of buying the material and Scot went to the lumber yard with us to make certain the materials were the best and delivery would be when needed. Because the structural damage was not as extensive as originally thought, the length of time to complete the repairs was lessened by three days. My brother was extremely pleased and gave a substantial bonus for a job well done. Fortune truly smiled on us when our chance encounter with Scot ended my Rita saga so happily.