It now became a radio tuned to my memory. The iconic voices began to construct mental images and serve as memory triggers. I listened to the episode, not hearing much of it. I was remembering our living room, the furniture, and sitting on the floor in front of the radio. My dad and I. We didn’t talk much just sat in a comfortable silence. There was something sacred about those nights. Not because of the show, which we enjoyed, but because my world with all the issues related to growing up, had shrunk to just the two of us. My memories expanded to include the sense of security I always felt when he would envelop my small hand and we would walk to the corner store two blocks away to buy comic books before the show came on.
I suddenly had another flashback. One that has come to mind periodically over the past 75 years. It occurred one Tuesday when I was getting ready to listen to Boston Black with my father, and he and my mother told me they were going out for the evening. I started to cry saying they couldn’t because it was time for us to listen to our favourite program. The tears didn’t move my mother, but they did my father. He stayed home. I’m sure he never realized just how much that gesture meant to me or that I would continue to think about it a lifetime later.
I was surprised by how memories could be brought alive by a sound from a radio. It may not have been a perfect sound, but it was so very powerful. Remembering all of this made me teary and I closed the radio. It was enough for one night.
I was preoccupied all the next day, wondering if I wanted to go through that again. It was no longer simply listening to old radio programs; it was an emotionally draining experience. I needn’t have worried. The answer soon appeared.
Another memory came to mind. Coming home from school for lunch each day, the brown radio in our kitchen would always be tuned to “The Happy Gang“. It was broadcast from 11:30 to 12:30 a.m., with music, songs, and jokes. The show had an iconic opening. First the sound of someone knocking at a door, then a voice asking “who’s there?“ The response was “it’s the happy gang,” and the reply, “well, come on in!“ The show was known for its spontaneous humor, music, and corny jokes. I would be sitting at the kitchen table watching my mother prepare lunch, and we would laugh at the jokes until it was time for me to leave for school. I wanted to relive these times. Unfortunately, it was not to be.
When I decided to open the radio again, this time all I was met with was loud static. No music. No programs. No commercials. Only static. After a time, it became less harsh, as if its kinetic energy was dissipating. Finally, it became silent. No sound. Nothing. Frantically turning the dials had no effect. Could a combination of older tubes and ageing wiring be bringing the radio’s life to an end? I never tried to find out. Rather than trying to have it repaired, I chose to be satisfied with the brief three days I had experienced and the memories they had rekindled.
Objects connect us to significant life events and to loved ones who are no longer with us. Our attachment to them is about the meanings and memories these items provide. They can supply comfort, security, and a sense of identity, connections that can begin from our childhood.
Many years later, I still find myself pausing when I hear a song, a voice, and even the static of a radio. Just for a second, I’m back to that time again.
