How could Guglielmo Marconi know in 1901 that his new radio system, developed for transmitting Morse code across the Atlantic, would transform the world? For any kid growing up in the 1940s and ‘50s, and certainly for those living in remote areas, radio was akin to a miracle. Back then, we listened, sometimes through static, to RCA Victors or Marconis, tuning in a small table model or a more expensive console; the radio equivalent of today’s flat screen television. Like a good book, radio opened up the wider world. It gave us the words, but we had to flesh out the characters and events. The mind’s eye was put to work.

Radio shows were many and varied. Home from school at lunchtime in the Manitoba town of Wawanesa, my brother and I listened to the Happy Gang, a talented group of joke-tellers, skit artists and musicians based in Toronto. The hosts, Bert Pearl and Hugh Bartlett, kept things moving. Bobby Gimby, Kaye Stokes, Eddie Allen and Blaine Mathe provided the music and everyone participated in the daily “jokepot” routine. They helped keep the grim war news in the background at least for 15 minutes each weekday. In the evening, shows like the Green Hornet, The Whistler, The Shadow and The Inner Sanctum provided mystery and suspense. Private eyes like Sam Spade, the Thin Man and Boston Blackie were characters almost as real as the man next door, if somewhat more adventuresome. They were tough, but paragons of virtue, solving crimes without resorting to excessive violence.

Comedians Fibber McGee and Molly, Fred Allen, and The Great Gildersleeve all vied for laughter, but Jack Benny topped the list. Sponsored by Lucky Strike cigarettes, the star was portrayed as a selfish, penny-pinching miser, far from Benny’s true persona. This joke was typical:

                  Mugger confronting Benny: “Your money or your life!”
                  Long, long pause,
                  “Well?” the mugger finally asks.
                  Benny: “I’m thinking, I’m thinking!”

The cast was memorable: band leader Phil Harris; the valet Rochester; tenor Dennis Day; Benny’s wisecracking wife Mary Livingston and a host of other characters like Mel Blanc, who provided the voice of Bugs Bunny and other cartoon characters. I can still hear Mel announcing a train’s departure for “Anaheim, Azuza and Kookamunga,” the first syllable of the last-named destination prolonged for comical effect.

Lux Radio Theatre featured Cecil B. DeMille, a great director of epic films, who introduced radio versions of movies. With fine actors like Jimmy Stewart and Katherine Hepburn reading their lines for the home audience, how could the show miss? Love scenes or brawls were left to vivid imaginations.

On CBC, “L for Lanky” focused on the adventures of an imaginary Canadian crew of a Lancaster bomber in the Second World War. Documentaries painted a vivid picture of the terrible cost of that conflict. War correspondent Matthew Halton gave vivid reports from the front and in his deep baritone, Canada’s Lorne Greene (later to become famous as Ben Cartwright of *Bonanza*), read news of the war’s triumphs and tragedies.

Despite the great affection I felt for the shows and their characters, as a kid, I was disappointed to learn that the vivid settings I had imagined were just that - imagined. The sets contained only a large microphone, actors and simple sound effect equipment. But the often brilliant talent and clever writing created a whole world outside of our small town.

Radio honed my zest for sports. It began with Foster Hewitt’s “Hello Canada, and hockey fans in the United States and Newfoundland. The first period is over and the score is Toronto 3, Montreal 2.” Hewitt’s intense play-by-play made the dullest game seem exciting. Meeker, Apps, Kennedy, became household names. I followed major league baseball too, after hearing the 1945 World Series between The Detroit Tigers and the Chicago Cubs in which the Tigers, led by slugger Hank Greenberg, and pitcher Hal Newhouser, beat the Cubs team of Hank Wyse and Phil Cavarretta. Friday night boxing from Madison Square Gardens, with announcer Bill Corum, featured fighters with vivid names like Joe Louis, Rocky Graziano and Jake Lamotta.

Later in a B.C. logging camp on Sechelt Inlet, while studying by correspondence, my brother and I became hooked on morning soap operas. Ma Perkins, Pepper Young’s Family and Stella Dallas all held our interest because of the dramatic lives the writers created. I can still hear some voices, especially Ma Perkins’, weary but full of wisdom, as she resolved everyday conflicts.
 
Radio was also music. Many bandleaders had their own half-hours or were featured on comedy shows. Charlie McCarthy had Ray Noble; Bob Hope had Les Brown. Swing bands like Woody Herman, Tommy Dorsey, and the unforgettable Glenn Miller were familiar names whose popular music is still venerated today. And who could forget Phil Spitalny and his All-Girl Orchestra featuring Evelyn and her Magic Violin? 

In startling contrast to the jazz, swing and pop, was the “music” of Spike Jones and his City Slickers with their bells, whistles, hoots and crazy lyrics. His “Cocktails for Two,” “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth,” and the horserace hit “Beetlebomb” were hilarious departures from sentimental songs such as “It’s Magic,” a line of which reads, “The stars desert the skies /And rush to nestle in your eyes.”

Innovative stations and faithful listeners keep radio thriving. Despite the influence of modern media, it continues to survive, an intimate voice that, like good literature, gives us the power to imagine a wider world. Radio remains an important part of my life. Thank you, Mr. Marconi.

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DECEMBER 2011 SENIOR LIVING MAGAZINE VANCOUVER ISLAND