“Philco Radio Memories”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-18)

Radio. I have always been a fan.

One of the earliest gifts I can recall from childhood, somewhere in the mid-60’s, was a gray, Silvertone table radio out of the Sears & Roebuck catalog. Made of hard plastic. Our household consisted of many items from that notable retailer. Indeed, I sometimes wondered if my sister and little brother came from their holiday ‘Wish Book.’ The AM receiver was old enough in design that it still used vacuum tubes. Likely, a closeout item as transistor devices were beginning to flourish in the market. But I felt a rush of new-world experiences when tuning frequencies with its white, circular dial. The radio connected my rural world to another dimension, like a portal into the cosmos.

In that distant era, it was my ‘Internet.’

Later, for Christmas around 1967, in got a sleek, new transistor device. It had a stylish leather case and cream-colored earphone as accessories. Very typical in that moment. Also, quite useful for discovering late programs after bedtime. Because I could tune around on my own, listening truly became a learning experience. While an affinity for music made me want such a gadget, soon enough, news and on-air chatter piqued my interest. I listened intently as voices from afar discussed issues of the day. The progress of technology had changed my world forever.

But somewhere after 1970, this march toward tomorrow hit a ‘speed bump’ of sorts. One in which I rejoiced with youthful glee.

I was riding home from grade school with my father, through a suburban neighborhood near our own. The tree lawns were piled with rubbish and old furniture. Apparently a cleanup day of some kind was close at hand. Something my own family would hesitate to observe because we rarely, if ever, threw anything away. There, at the curb of a home we passed was a Philco console radio. Quite stately and grand in obsolescence. The sun glistening from its faded, wood cabinet.

As a kid, I was struck by its physical dimensions. It was literally huge compared to anything seen in our household. Immediately, I bounced up and down in my seat.

“Are they throwing that away, Dad?”

My father seemed disinterested. “Probably,” he replied.

“Can we look at it?” I pleaded. “Please?”

He raised an eyebrow. Something about my naive enthusiasm must have reminded him of his own younger days. Without protest, he turned the car around. We pulled into the driveway and waved to the homeowner who watched our approach with curiosity. A short conversation revealed that the radio was ‘junk’ waiting to be hauled away. It had been manufactured in the 1930’s. We were encouraged to take it for free.

Somehow, the Philco managed to fit in our beige, two-door, Ford Maverick. I cheered as we finished the drive home. Later, friends would laugh out loud at my relic. But for the moment, I felt like a trophy hunter with an incredible score.

Dad knew what my child-brain could not imagine. Namely, that the antique was likely being discarded not only because it had fallen out of fashion, but also because it no longer functioned. Once we had it in the basement, a quick check revealed the awful truth. Besides being visually battered from decades of use, it needed a transformer of some sort and a speaker.

I felt crestfallen.

Some of the tubes lit up when we plugged it in, and the dial light worked. It was an AM receiver with shortwave bands. But of course, no sound came through the tattered grille-cloth.

Happily, as a farm boy, Dad had mastered not only automotive repair, amateur carpentry, and later in life, philosophical and theological disciplines, but additionally – radio & television service. He had a manual published in the 1950’s with all sorts of useful information. So after diagnosing the receiver’s woes, he rummaged through a stash of spare parts in the garage. In less than a week, my new-old radio was once again in service.

I cheered even louder than when we first spotted it during our after-school drive!

Though about 40 years old at that time, the Philco proved to be very dependable. I listened to stations across the country at night, like WHO in Des Moines, Iowa, WLS in Chicago, or WSB in Atlanta. The shortwave bands brought in broadcasts from around the globe, often in English, but some in foreign tongues that I could not understand. Still, I tried to mimic their inflections. Varied blips and beeps and artificial noises from orbiting satellites provided extra entertainment.

Eventually, I encountered Wolfman Jack, who I believe was on WABC at that moment, doing the routine seen famously in ‘American Graffiti.’ I loved his style and wished for my own career as a disc jockey.

“YES, GRACIOUS! PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE RADIO AND FEEL THE VIBRATIONS COMIN’ THROUGH!”

With my march toward adulthood, the Philco faded from consciousness. I left home at the age of 19, to pursue personal goals associated with motorcycles and Rock & Roll. The console radio was eventually given away to a family friend who hoped to restore it to factory condition. But instead, it ended up in his garage. Water damage from a leaking roof finished its lengthy life-cycle. Only later would I realize my mistake in not retaining this beloved friend.

An error I will regret forever.

In recent years, I have looked for another Philco without success. Many versions of a similar design were produced before and after World War II. But nothing exactly like my lost receiver has appeared locally. Still, cyberspace research has offered clues that have helped to jog my memory. I can only hope to find a family photograph at some point to clarify what Dad and I discovered.

Until then, I will ponder… and write.

Questions or comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

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Shared occasionally in the Geauga Independent

Note: Philco radio photograph from AntiqueRadios.com