Make-believe radio as good as real thing

Posted Feb 9, 2012 By Mary Cook

EMC Lifestyle - Father was far more patient than was Mother./

My sister Audrey said it was because Mother was fed up with the Depression, whereas Father figured there was nothing you could do about it anyway. You might just as well accept it, as it wasn't showing signs of going away anytime soon./

I had a hard time figuring out what the Depression had to do with Mother's patience, but my older and much wiser sister told me it was so, and I believed every word Audrey said.

And that is why the day I lamented about my little friend Joyce having far more than I did. Mother, with a snap in her voice, told me to remember some people had more than we had, and the sooner I accepted it the happier I would be.

Well, that fact did little to make me happy, and that night at the supper table, I was once again comparing all the toys Joyce had with the few in my possession. I was especially envious of a little battery radio she had gotten for Christmas./

"Brown. With a real voice coming out of it," I said in a shaky voice. "And three knobs along the bottom and she just has to turn them to listen to someone talking in some city."

Mother let out her usual big sigh, drummed her fingers on the oilcloth covered table, and reminded me about how the Depression hit some people harder than others.

Father asked me to describe the little radio to him./I told him it was as high as Joyce's twelve-inch ruler and was rounded at the top, and the sound came out of the middle of it which was covered in brown material.

Nothing more was said about the little radio that sat on Joyce's dresser upstairs in her all-pink bedroom./I tried to put it out of my mind./And life went on. Many days passed, and as always in the winter, Mother stayed close to the house, and we didn't go into Renfrew as often, relying on Briscoe's General Store for our needs. We children slid down the West Hill on cardboard boxes and an old fender from a wrecked car. This was our winter fun.

Farm chores were confined to the barns. Cleaning out the cow byre and stable twice a day, feeding the pigs, sweeping out the chicken coup, and generally putting in the days moving not far out of the barnyard filled the days./

The little building closer to the house was simply called the drive shed. Father's work bench stretched across the entire front of the shed, with all his tools neatly hung on spikes above./An antique stove, so small, it looked like a toy, was kept chucked full of small pieces of wood and took the chill off the interior, but never really brought the temperature up high enough to suit anyone but Father. We never went near the drive shed in the winter, unless it was absolutely necessary.

This was Father's hideaway. When his chores were done, he would escape into this little building, and as Mother would say, "never even came out for air" until it was time to come into the house for a meal./

I remember it was the end of the week./A Friday. The snow was deep, and it was bitterly cold on our walk home from the Northcote School.

Supper was always early in the wintertime. No need to call Father./He knew./That night he came in, stamping his feet on the rug at the door, and carrying a wood box under his arm./Without taking off his boots, (I could see Mother looking at him with a frown), he walked right over to the kitchen table and put the box in front of the place I sat to eat.//It looked very much like Joyce's little radio./It was a radio! I was close to tears. "You won't be able to hear voices, but you can pretend./ You're good at that," Father said with a twinkle.

To this day, I can see that little make-believe radio in my mind's eye./It was a square of small boards which Father had varnished./The hole in the middle was covered tautly with a brown piece of cloth retrieved from the rag bag. This was/where the sound would come out if it was a real radio./The knobs were three empty spools from Mother's sewing box.

All through supper, I twisted the spools, and rubbed my hands over the smooth varnished wood.//

It would have taken many hours and patience for Father to make the little make-believe radio./ I was too young to fully realize the time and love he put into it in the drive shed./All I knew at the time was that by using my imagination, I could connect with cities far away and hear music and voices just like my friend Joyce did in her pink bedroom./