As a child I was comforted by the crackling reception of my grandfather's Emerson radio which was gifted as a hand-me-down electronic. Whatever my childhood imagination was up to in the moment -- setting up a set for a TV show, creating a beauty parlor in my room, or writing a short story from the back of my closet, fuzzy AM/FM radio programming was my companion and guide. Switching it on and waiting the half a minute for it to "warm up," was part of the magic of my theatre.
As my parents aged, they kept a radio in their kitchen which was on in the morning and evening. It was always tuned to their local PBS affiliate, WITF. When dad read in the evenings at the kitchen table, he listened to classical music and then would complain when John Diliberto came on with his show, "Echoes." That was his signal to stop reading.
Last week I asked Dan if we could get a radio for the kitchen. I felt like it was our turn to start listening to WITF in the morning and evenings. I'm tired of bluetooth connections and algorhythmic listening. I'm getting older, and I am discerning. I prefer print to digital, face-to-face interactions to online, and I'm loathe to admit I find a strange satisfaction in solving jigsaw puzzles now. I want to turn on a radio and have it fill up the room with songs or stories.
The radio we got also has a bluetooth option (of course), along with its ancient AM/FM capabilities. It is now sitting between the coffeepot and the tea kettle. I have learned after a week of listening that WITF is now all talk radio of some sort or another. There's no programming like Echoes, or classical music.
I think what I wanted from this radio is something it can't give anymore or its funding gets cut. Free thought. The beauty of cellos on an otherwise empty Tuesday afternoon that lift your spirits and carry you through the rest of your workday.
At this point, our donations keep the radio voices barely breathing. The knee of the administration is on the neck of every outlet that doesn't applaud it.
My addition of a radio in the kitchen was a way for me to keep the memory of my parents alive. When I switch it on, I find myself grateful that they aren't around to hear what is happening in the world.
I'm listening to a sample of Echoes on my computer's tinny speaker now, a track called "That Shore," from a band called "Pineapple Thief." I can imagine my father closing his book, switching off the radio, and standing up from the ladderback chair. The caned seat squeaks and then he switches the lights off, the last note in the room an echo in the dark.
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