Opening the curtains of theater of the mind.

Radio comes full circle.
I must had been about four-years-old when I became aware of radio. Radio mostly broadcast live from New York, Chicago, and from my hometown of Los Angeles or Hollywood. And back then it was not referred to as “Old-time radio.” Or as some call it today, ‘OTR.’ Some programs were broadcast with a live studio audience. Never mind the voice characters were just standing there reading straight from a scrip on a music stand with a sound effects man behind them. Radio back then was just Dragnet or The Lone Ranger or The Great Gildersleeve. Just as some refer today to TV programs as just Sixty-minutes or Monday night football or Americas Got Talent.

Back then I liked listening to Sky King, You Bet your life, Fibber McGee and Molly, and the Jack Benny show. It was all current and entertaining. Not Old Time Radio. No sir!
My family had in our tiny Livingroom a Sears mahogany flip-top radio/record player combo console. Just a single speaker AM radio with a two-speed record player changer up top. About the size of a Maytag automatic washer.
Down below was a separated section for recorded albums and singles. A space intended for forty-five RPM and 78 RPM records. However, in our house this space below was taken up mostly with the World Book Encyclopedia. About eight volumes. So many early evenings I would be sitting on the living room floor cross leg listening to Dragnet with Jack Webb while flipping through the encyclopedia looking at photos of old train steam engines or looking at the broad view of Hoover Dam.
My mom was a stay-at-home mom She listened only in the day time hours. Her preference was listening to soap operas and the Breakfast Club out of Chicago each morning. Helping her kitchen duties speed along. None the less, soap opera was her most listened to radio program. Young Widder Brown, Lorenzo Jones, My true Story, Young man’s family, Back Stage Wife, and others. Then later radio was an important part of my teenage years. As in Rock and Roll music. L A, where I grew up, had good R-N-R stations. KFWB, KHJ, and KRLA.
Then came Television. We bought our first TV in 1952. It too was a Sears model. A 12-inch black and white fuzzy round picture screen set in a square mahogany box cabinet. It would be best described as looking at a black and white photo covered with wax paper.
So then came I Love Lucy, Dragnet the TV show, Milton Burl, Howdy Doody, and the occasional diagonal and rolling lines. My mom’s favorite was watching men’s professional wrestling. Don’t ask me why. Then in 1952 the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. And away went radio listening from our attention. I could only speculate it was the promoters of TV that began calling radio, Old Time Radio. Just to push it back as a has-been relic. Never the less, I still love radio. I love exploring other radio markets. This is done late at night on an AM receiver when the ionosphere royals and flows. Causing radio waves to bounce and made easier to capture on most AM radio receivers. I have listened to late at night radio stations from Chicago, Cincinnati, Saint Louis, Denver, Dallas, and sometimes as far away as Los Angeles and San Francisco. But now days I use an app on my iPhone called ‘Tune-in Radio’ and listen to almost any radio station around the world. But limited by listening to stations speaking only English. One of my new favorites to listen to is CBC Radio 1 in Halifax Nova Scotia. Home of the famed Marconi Towers. And Marconi being the inventor of the process called radio. How cool is that?

So here I was listening to the horrible news while eating my Cheerios.

I was sitting at the kitchen table while mindlessly eating breakfast when listening to Morning Edition early one September day. Bob Edwards had just introduced Susan Standberg with an NPR piece she had produced. She started talking but suddenly was faded down and Bob Edwards came back on the air and said it seems that a commercial jet had just hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. Early speculation was a jetliner must had gone off course and collided with the trade center tower. This moment of mine was about 8:45 AM central time in Tulsa Oklahoma. I was hunch over our round glass top kitchen table eating whatever it was while listening to NPR. So, I turned up the volume and listen to the horrible event unfold. Thinking how could a jetliner veer off course that much as to hit a Manhattan tower. Then just moments later another jetliner hit the second WTC tower. Realizing this was more than just a coincidence but a planned plot to highjack jetliners and blow up the trade center. More than likely by terrorists. It was terrorists back when who had attempted once before to blow up one tower with a car bomb in a delivery van as it went into the underground parking garage. Creating minimal damage to the famed hundred-plus story skyscraper. But they were back again with death and destruction on their minds
At that point I new my brother in California, two hours behind us, needs to hear this incredible news and switch on his TV. So, I called him with the horrific news.
And you know the rest of the story. It was beyond tragic. It was like the bombing and sinking of the USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor or worse.

won’t be gone for long.

Dear readers of this blog. For the next ten days or so I will be out of office. Out of pocket. Away from this blogmafacation. My wife, Sheba, and myself will be away on vacation. We will be gone to protect our grandkids from their abusive parents. How dare they expect our tender little grandies to pick up and straighten their rooms. How dare their parents expect our little darlings to close the toilet lid and feed the kitties? So, from time to time, we must go and intervene on their behalf. Therefore, I must bear the sad news there will not be any erudite and meaningful bits of wisdom on this blog for a few short days, Bloggerchuck.
Audios and take care.
.
Okie Beyond Borders.

Ronald Reagan brought an end to it all.

Fall 1962 I started my freshman year
at East Los Angeles College. A community college under the oversite of the Los Angeles Unified School District. At that time the total enrollment of students for both day and night classes at ELAC were about 10K.After filling out the required forms and papers then selecting my desired classes, totaling 15-credithours, I handed the person in the school’s bursars office a total of ten-dollars. Yes, the entire semester of five classes cost me only $10. Just ten bucks. Handed the lady two five-dollar bills. Caching the register rang paid in full.
At that time an all-new administrative building was finished along with the expanse of a center plaza. The campus was most welcoming and collegial. Every amenity one would expect of a metropolitan college setting was close at hand. Student center, canteen, auditorium, etc.
Had I enrolled at one of the California State colleges the total cost would have been $200 per semester. Two hundred dollars for a full load of classes. Still not a bad deal.
Then came governor elect Ronald Reagan. Reagan ended the affordability of the state’s community and state colleges and universities. Creating a significant increase and shifting the cost of education from the state to the student. Was this suppose to be a positive for Californians? It didn’t appear to be so.
And now America is talking about free colleges or community colleges. Wondering how to pay for this. Well, we’ve did it before. We could certainly do it again.

How did we ever make it out of Junior High?

Junior high boys
are the most peculiar barbaric animals observed in the human world. And I am speaking boys of my own generation. Not middle school boys of the recent generations. And speaking of middle school I’m not really sure why we went from junior high designation to middle school classification. We societal wonks are always trying to revarnish a concept or institution. When in doubt or just tired of the same old words, change its name or label.
But anyway, we are talking about 1950s junior high males. Preteen and teen boys. Boys in the change of life. Boys with pimples and hair growing in secret places. Boys who do not like to touch each other or show any kind of sympathy resulting from insult or injury. Doing whatever it takes to slam or put down each other. It seems like a constant rebuke or rebuff coming from so-called friends about our own status or integrity. “Your face reminds me of a chimpanzee with zits. Or, you have body odor like a pig wallowing in cow poop.”
Plus, you do not want to be seen in public with your parents by your teen guy friends. And especially not to be seen in public playing with your younger siblings. And most of all not be seen with a younger little sister. Just isn’t cool. Looks bad and gives you a “kissypooh” girlyboy image. The type of image your teen friends would disparage and avoid at all costs. “Charly is a weeneyboy babysitter.”
So, one day I was walking home from junior high all alone and thinking about what might be in our home refrigerator. I came to a corner and if I go either straight on or turn the corner, I end up at my house in the same amount of time. So, I chose to turn the corner and go up to Madison and go east all the way to Sixth street and go north. It’s basically a mindless slog. Walked it hundreds of times.
Then I suddenly came up on something I would prefer to have avoided. A little girl looking about nine years old and crying. Tears were flowing down her sorrowful face. She cried out to me that she was lost and couldn’t find her way home. So here I was standing near a little grade school girl crying and she rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands and appearing to be lost forever. Or so it seemed. And I’m standing there hoping none of my junior high friends would be nearby observing this drama. Possibly would be guffawing and speaking in besmirching nattering grumbles. “Look guys it’s Charley and his new little girlfriend.” However, and fortunately none of my so-called friends were close by.
The little girl mentioned this was the first day at her school and had just moved from another faraway place. And I was thinking how could I get out of this situation. Then I had the presents of mind to ask her if she knew her home address. And to my surprise she did. I knew actually where she lived. Then I told her I might know how to get there and follow me. I mean follow me at a fair distance. I tried my best to be a few steps ahead of her so if some of my bone head friends saw me, they wouldn’t shout out any disparaging remarks. So, the two of us trudged on in hopes of quickly finding the little girl’s home. She was, where I found her, about a mile or so from the address she gave me. Then after crossing a few busy streets, we came to the main Boulevard that intersect her street. I walked to her corner and pointed and said, “you live just a short distance that way. She yelped, “I see it” and took off running. Then I felt relieved and walked the rest of way home by myself while looking about to see if I could see any of my goofy friends. Whew! I was finally home free.

Was it skating or dancing?

Thou Shall not dance.
Especially with the opposite sex. Boys and girls were forbidden to dance with each other. At least this was the doctrinaire of our fundamentalist church.
However, the first Monday evening of each month way back when we kids would go with an older couple in their twenties to Pasadena at the Moonlight Roller Drome. Roller skating on a rink is what it was. Round and round the skating oval while an old guy behind a big glass window at one end of the rink played the huge zillion key Wurlitzer organ. Early on after arriving and renting our skates everybody would just roll along the main skateway either with some proficiency or holding on to the outer rails just as I did. It took a while for me to become confident enough to skate out in the mix of things.
Then it would happen. The lights would dim and the reflecting mirror ball over the center of the rink would start to revolve and a million twinkling lights would shower the skating floor. The high pitch voice of the organ player would announce “couples skate only.” So only older teen and young adult couples took the floor holding crossed hand as couple skaters would do. Holding one hand behind the female skater and one hand in front of the couple. The older couple who drove us to the rink had their own skates and skating outfits. He in black tuxedo-looking pants with a wide vertical red stripe down the side with a white long-sleeved party-looking design shirt. And she in her woman’s short mini-skirt skating outfit. So, all skaters danced with varying degrees of performance and proficiency. Some were good skaters whirling and twirling all around the oval skating floor. Dancing and twirling ballroom style as they progressed around the oval. And others just hanging on to each other trying not to fall down.
Then a most dreaded thing happened, the lady who brought we kids to the roller rink asked me to skate with her at the next couples only session. Leaping lizards! Why me. I tried my best to beg her off but she would not relent. So, when the organ guy announced couples skate only, I prayed the power would go off. But it did not and we shakily strolled out on the skateway and she literally had to hold me up while held each other’s hands and arms in couple skate style. It seemed like forever the dance tune played on and on. And as soon as the couple skate session ending. Zip! Off I went to embrace the side hand rail. Never looking back at my couple’s skate partner. What a freaking embarrassment.
Now here is where the rubber meets the road. My dad decided to come with we kid to one of the monthly Monday skating’s. But he came as an observer only. Watching for about an hour or so. And as a prominent member of our church he surmised, “All this is just dancing. Dancing on roller skates. “So, I stood up on my rented skates and rolled into the men’s room. Fade to black.

Book Report.

Book Report
I don’t know if it was intended to happen this way by the author but the book, I just finished listening to had an extraordinary reader. Voice actor he is best described as. Coupled that with good writing was a voice so matched to the story it brought an almost third dimension to a two-dimensional book. Or maybe it would be best described as bringing technicolor to black and white pages. But anyway, I strongly recommend ‘listening’ to this story on audiobook. Allen Lewis Rickman is the reader. He easily pours over the words with a most convincing Russian accent. One must have lived in Russia for a while to accomplish such a proletariat brogue.
The title of the book is “The Kitchen Boy” A novel of the last Tsar by Robert Alexander, historical fiction 2022
Here is the Library of Congress annotation:
Drawing from decades of work, travel, and research in Russia, Robert Alexander re-creates the story of the final days of Nicholas and Alexandra Romanov as seen through the eyes of their young kitchen boy, Leonka. You will like this audiobook. I liked it. It will amaze you. Go on a road trip and listen. Or get out your coloring book and listen to The Kitchen Boy.

I don’t just read any old book.

Audio books I have read
Being a blind person, I read or rather listen to audiobooks. I have been listening to hundreds of books going back for about four decades. Audio books loaned out by the Library of Congress. More often that not LOC will send or download audiobooks from commercial audiobook producers instead of their in-house amateur voice talent. I now receive audiobooks on my iPhone. I have listened enough to be a bit particular on what books I read and who reads them. It’s one thing to just read a book but another to actually perform them. A good voice actor makes a big difference in whether or not I finish a book. But it most helpful if the book is written well. A well written book coupled with a talented voice actor makes for a good book. In the past some books were read by monotone readers and hard for me to stay awake. Some readers have voice characteristics which distracts from the reading. A real book closer.

Here is a short list of books I had listened to recently:
Title: The Kitchen Boy: A novel of the last Tsar, by Robert Alexander, historical fiction 2022 and read by Allen Lewis Rickman. A voice actor with a most convincing Russian accent.
Drawing from decades of work, travel, and research in Russia, Robert Alexander re-creates the story of the final days of Nicholas and Alexandra Romanov as seen through the eyes of their young kitchen boy, Leonka.

Title: The Maid, a novel. by Nita Prose, fiction, 2022 and read by Lauren Ambrose. Ambrose captures the clueless wide eye ‘Deer in the headlights’ voice of Molly the maid.
Twenty-five-year-old Molly Gray doesn’t interact well with the world and misses her gran who codified it for her. She has gotten a job as a hotel maid and revels in her orderly duties. When she discovers a dead body in a room, Molly must unravel the real killer’s identity… Bestseller.

Title: The Dutch House, by Ann Patchett, historical fiction, 2019 and read by Tom Hanks. An incredible reading. An incredible actor.
Through a canny investment at the end of World War II, Cyril Conroy lifts his family out of poverty. His first order of business is to buy the lavish Dutch House. But this purchase brings only heartache to his loved ones–including children Danny and Maeve.

Title: The Best Cook in the World, Tales and recipes from my Mama’s table by Rick Bragg and read by Rick Bragg. Read with his southern folksy style. Just as he wrote it, 2019.
PPulitzer Prize winner and author of All Over but the Shoutin’ and Ava’s Man presents a food memoir and tribute to his mother, Margaret, who never owned a cookbook, but was an amazing cook. Includes family generational stories that pre-date the Civil War.
And I could add dozens of more but I’m out of room here.
Chuck

Oh my. How did its feathers come off?

Chicken business.
My dad received a letter in the mail from the county health department. It was 1953 in East Los Angeles and the letter informed my dad he had to get rid of all his chickens. Obviously, a neighbor had complained of the chicken noise and ruckus. Lots of hen clucking and roosters crowing. Crowing perhaps too early in the morning. Back in the chicken yard we had about fifty Rhode island reds. Mostly hens and two or three roosters. Chickens that enabled our three peach trees to flourish and produce huge peaches. Peaches the size of softballs and oh so juicy and sweet. Peach trees we kids loved to climb up in. Peachtree’s that provided shade for the chickens in the summer. Between the chickens and the trees, it was a mutual admiration society. Ecology at its best.
But back to this letter. It stated there could be a health hazard associated with many chickens in our backyard. The only hazard I could think of was eating too much fried chicken. Fried chicken with smashed potatoes with chicken gravy. My mother did a superb job of cooking up all these Sunday after church meals. Yes, those were the days. Absolutely finger licking good.
It was conjectured that our new German neighbors must had complained. In retrospect it must had been the times on Saturdays when we rendered a chicken. It would go like this:
It would all take place in the backyard just behind our house. We would fill up a galvanized wash tub with boiling water Then my dad would grab by the neck his chicken of choice and start twirling it around and around until its head disconnected from the chicken’s body. Once the chicken body hit the ground it would toss and thrash about. Something like a chicken with its head cut off. That’s what they do. Toss and thrash. Then my dad would pick up the thrashing chicken by its feet and dip it in the boiling water in order to relieve the chicken of its feathers. Once that was accomplished my dad would remove its feet and Waa Laa, it was finished and sent off to my mom’s kitchen for further dressing and processing.
All of the aforementioned in plain view of our German neighbors back window. A method repeated many times on Saturday mornings. If all this had been posted on Facebook it would have photos of the boiling water tub, the chicken being twirled about, the chicken’s headless body tossing about, and the chicken floating the boiling water with feathers being plucked off. Then finally photo of chicken parts being fried in a large cast iron fry pan. Like, react, or comment.

Lawn mowing cover up.

A mowing distraction.
When we lived on Joplin Avenue in Tulsa, we had a large grassy lawn area in front of the house. Possibly about 3000-square feet or more of Bermuda and crab grass. Enough room to build another house on top of. Lots of lawn to mow none the less.
Our adult daughter, who lived a few blocks away, would sometimes come and mow our lawn. Both her mom and I were working full-time jobs so our daughter felt compelled to mow our lawn for us. So very nice of her.
This goes back about twenty-years ago. Putting our daughter at about thirty-something years old. Young, healthy looking, tall and red hair. Someone who would catch the eye of any passer-by when she was out mowing in the front yard.
I was okay with her mowing our lawn and paid her for doing that but, what I was in fear of was she insisted on maximizing her tan time. So, her gardening uniform was a skimpy bikini. So here we have a tall, shapely red head pushing our Toro with lots of her flesh exposed.
I didn’t mention Joplin Avenue which our house faced out on was sometimes a busy street. Lots of traffic And I’m almost certain drivers would notice the tall red head pushing the lawn mower. Especially the men passersby. Some of the same might had driven by several times. Turning around at the end of the block and making another pass just to confirm what they had just seen on the first pass. As a result, I told her she needed to cover up. So, she went inside the house and came out with a big floppy hat. Right! Oh well. Beware of slow passing cars.