Rick was cleaning up the basement, sorting old junk in preparation for the yard sale the following weekend, when he came across a dusty, old cardboard box labeled “Radio” in black marker. He looked inside and there was the relic itself: his Citizens Band Radio from long ago.
This particular home base C.B. was purchased sometime in the mid-seventies, when C.B. radio was at its zenith of popularity. Everybody had a radio, either in the car or at home, especially after the popular movie, “Smokey and the Bandit” was released. Every guy wanted to be as cool as Burt Reynolds, the actor who played Bandit, a smooth-talking, fast-driving, good old boy from down South. The craze, like any fad, lasted only a short while before fizzling out.
That’s a perfect description of Rick’s C.B. radio days.
Rick’s father, Jim, was a truck driver back in the sixties and seventies. Jim used the radio during his coast-to-coast trips driving truck. He encouraged Rick to get into the radio for fun. Rick had always been a shy kid. The radio helped him break out of his shell. Those were times to remember, especially during the Summer of 1977: Making new friends through the radio, group picnics, cruising on the weekends, and meeting girls. During the height of its popularity, Rick used the C.B. almost daily for several years before a violent summer thunderstorm caused his wobbly antenna on the roof to come crashing down in the backyard, abruptly ending his short-lived radio days for good.
********
It was Father’s Day, and this summer Sunday was a real scorcher, with a high temperature into the nineties. Rick was thinking about his late father. He would have celebrated his one hundred and third birthday later in the summer. Jim died from a diabetes-relation infection in his foot on New Year’s Day, 1978.
Rick put the radio to the side for a moment. He had hit the treasure trove of father memories. There were boxes of baseballs, souvenirs from foul balls caught at actual big-league games or signed baseballs from assorted players in the sixties when he was growing up. Going to ball games with his father was more than just a bonding experience; it was the culmination of a long process from ordering tickets back in the freezing days of February to experiencing the game itself in the warmth of July. It was one of the fondest memories of life with his father.
He would always remember trying to get autographs from big league players before and after the game. He had signed baseballs from many of the greats back then: Clemente, Mays, Aaron. As he peered at the faded, ink-stained signatures on the worn baseballs, Rick could imagine his father getting the tickets and driving down to the stadium on warm, summer nights, the smell of the hot dogs and roasted peanuts when they entered the park. He could still see the parrot-green grass of the outfield as they found their seats; he could still hear the yells of “Get your program here!” from the vendors. It was like all of those sights and sounds and smells and musty memories were stored in those dusty boxes with the baseballs. Rick felt like a kid again.
In another box Rick found his father’s old bowling trophies. Some were broken, but some were in surprisingly good shape: “Most Improved Player,” “Best Sport,” and the infamous “Most 111 games during the season,” also known as the “Out-House Award.” Rick used to watch his father bowl every Sunday night. He was part of a Catholic League team, Sacred Heart White. Rick looked forward to keeping his own scoresheet as he rooted the team on, a box of Bachman pretzels and an ice-cold cup of Coke nearby. His father’s youngest brother, his Uncle Frannie, was on the team. Uncle Frannie averaged close to 200, whereas Dad averaged around 150. It was a wonderful time to share from September to May.
Rick considered junking the entire box. Nobody was going to buy old bowling trophies. But, for some reason, he put the box to the side for closer inspection later, maybe just to relive a few more memories of his dad.
********
He took the radio to his study upstairs to check it out. It was a relic, for sure, but it would be even worth more money if it worked. The same power mic had survived the test of time but with no antenna on the roof, Rick didn’t anticipate talking to anyone; He just wanted to plug it in to see if it worked.
Rick was pleasantly surprised when the lights lit and the familiar scratchy static was heard. He was ready to take a spin around the dial, hoping he would hear a voice; back in the day, there was always someone on Channel 19, the trucker’s channel. That is where the dial was set, and where he may have been when his antenna crashed on that fateful, stormy night. He recalled the peaceful feeling of falling asleep listening to truckers all through the summer nights, driving through with their rigs before disappearing as they drove out of range.
“Hello? Is there anybody alive out there?” he asked. “Testing…Testing- One, Two, Three…”
The only reply was increased static. No surprise. Faint voices were heard in the distance, probably a pair of truckers shooting the breeze or warning each other of a speed-trap just ahead. With no antenna he couldn’t expect to clearly hear conversations, especially from far away.
Before he could change the channel, he heard another voice on Channel 19. It too was faint, just about audible above the static. He blew off the dust on the controls and tried to hone in on the sound.
“Breaker, Breaker!” asked a weak male voice in the distance.
“Go on, Breaker,” Rick acknowledged. How stupid, he told myself. There’s no way he could be heard, not without an antenna or a fresh battery in the microphone.
“Thank you,” came the response.
Rick was shocked beyond words. This guy had to be pretty close in order to pick up the signal. The mic worked, but without a fresh battery? For an ancient set to work like this, after being in storage for so long, it had to be some sort of miracle.
“How ‘bout you, ‘Lefty’. How ‘bout you, ‘Lefty’. Please respond. Are you out there?” the voice asked.
That was Rick’s old handle, “Lefty.” His father was left-handed too, one of several traits they shared (including hay fever in the late summer). It had to be another, newer “Lefty.” Just a coincidence, he thought.
“How about you, Lefty?” the voice called again. “Are you out there?”
Rick was certain that he could not be the person this fellow was requesting to talk to, but he thought, why not answer?
“This is ‘Lefty ‘,” Rick said. “I can barely hear you. Can you hear me? What’s your handle and location?”
“This is Dad. I’m here in Phoenixville, 10-4?”
Phoenixville. No wonder. That’s where Rick was from. Wow, his set must be as junky as mine, he surmised. This guy claimed to be broadcasting nearby yet he sounded a million miles away.
“Come on back, Dad. I got you. How’s it going today, good buddy?”
“I’m good, Butch -- and yourself?”
Now, wait a minute here. His father was the only one who called Rick “Butch,” and that was back in the day.
“I’m doing fine,” Rick answered, a little floored at the remark.
“Butch, don’t you know who this is? It’s Dad,” he said, drifting in and out of frequency.
“Yes, you told me your handle.”
“No, it’s not my handle. I’m your father,” said the voice.
Rick stared at the radio. He was alone at the time. His wife was across the street at the neighbor, otherwise he would’ve asked her to listen to this old-timer trying to play games. Rick was guilty in the past, by family and co-workers, of being “gullible,” even a little overly sentimental. But whoever was playing this cruel ruse, especially on Father’s Day, was an idiot.
“You can’t be my father,” Rick replied, trying to keep his composure, “He’s not around anymore.”
Rick left it at that. He wasn’t going to give this guy any information.
“I know that I died,” was the reply. “January 1, 1978….”
He knew! He knew when Jim Winston died! An icy chill ran up Rick’s spine. Suddenly time stood still.
“Hold your horses,” as his father used to say. It’s Father’s Day and you miss your dad. You are surrounded by all these memories. Naturally, you are a little sensitive and sentimental, today of all days. It had to be a lucky guess. His father died 47 years and 4 months ago, for God’s sake. Well, if he wants to play that little game, so can I, thought Rick.
“How’s Mom?” Rick asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, she’s fine. We are all fine. It’s a beautiful place where we live. Very peaceful. Even your Uncle Franny is here.”
Right then and there, he should’ve turned the damn radio off. He should’ve forgotten all about this scam. Turn the radio off and get back to work in the basement.
“Dad, do you remember the first baseball game we went to together?” Rick asked, testing once more.
“I sure do, Butch. I hope you remember it, too. Our Phillies were playing against the Dodgers. Sunday afternoon in May. Connie Mack Stadium. Beautiful, sunny day. The sky was as blue as those Dodger caps. Sandy Koufax was pitching for LA. Jim Bunning pitched for us. We had fun, even if we didn’t win…”
How could this be? He was right about everything.
“Yes,” Rick said, his voice cracking, “I remember.”
“Son, throw all those junky bowling trophies away. Now, if you look in the basement, near the cubby hole, there are three of my old bowling balls that might be worth something at your yard sale. The holes were drilled to fit my fingers but, hey, you never know…”
“I will…Dad,” Rick answered, tears welling in his eyes.
Stress. It had to be stress at work. He had no other explanation.
But what if it was his father?
“Dad, I have a son. His name is Kyle. He plays baseball,” Rick said. “You would be so proud of him. He’s on the bowling team in high school. He’s even left-handed, like you and me.”
“I know, son,” he answered. “I am proud of him. And I’m proud of you. You’re a good father. And I ….”
The static had increased. Connection was nearly lost. Rick yelled into the mic, “Dad, are you still there?”
“I’m here,” the son heard him say, oh so faintly. The distance between them was growing. Rick wanted to believe that the signal was fading because of weather, his lack of an antenna, or the many miles between them. Anything but the supernatural.
“Dad, I never got a chance to say so-long,” the son said. “When you went to the hospital, I thought you would come home. I never thought…”
“I’m losing you, Butch,” was the faraway answer. “I just wanted to wish you a Happy Father’s Day. Oh, I’m glad you found the Purple Heart. I want you to wear it, son. Wear it with pride…”
Rick had recently found his father’s long-lost Purple Heart, the one he earned while fighting in World War II.
“But it was awarded to you, Dad. The Battle of the Bulge. Shrapnel in your right leg. You earned it, not me.”
“It was lost. Now it’s found. I want you to wear it -- for me,” Jim insisted.
When Rick unkeyed the mic he could hear one faint, final reply.
“So long, son! Talk to you next year…”
Rick sat there for the longest while, listening to the empty static on the now empty channel.
********
He never told anyone about the conversation with his late father. No one would have believed him. All those years, Rick kept it to himself.
Rick Winston never did sell the radio. His wife and kids always wondered why he kept such a run-down piece of junk in his study, plugged in, on Channel 19 all the time. What they didn’t realize or couldn’t understand was that radio had to stay on 24/7, and not just on Father’s Day. It had to remain turned on…just in case.
********
The following June on Father’s Day, at precisely two o’clock, Rick settled in his home office, just like the previous year, waiting. All year Rick waited to hear his father’s voice again. Every night he would cruise around the channels, hoping he would hear his father’s voice. He never talked, even though he had erected a new antenna on the roof since last Father’s Day. Only listened. The thought did cross his mind during that year, maybe it was a prank. Time had started to fade his memory of their brief conversation. As he eavesdropped on other conversations, he stayed alert to anyone on the radio who even remotely sounded like his father. He wanted a final resolution to this mystery which bugged him for a year. If it was all a terrible trick, he wanted to know. If it was supernatural, he wanted to know. He just longed to hear that familiar voice one more time.
“Dad?” a voice shouted from outside the door. It was Kyle. Rick knew it was Kyle but he still jumped, anxiously expecting his father any moment.
“What do you want, Kyle? I’m busy right now!”
“Dad, Mom wants to know what time you want her to throw the steaks on the grill. You’ve had the door closed for a few hours and she’s kind of worried about you. Are you ok?”
“Yes, I’m fine, son. Tell her I’ll be out…soon. I can’t leave the radio right now.” Rick’s words faded as he heard another voice calling his name, this time from the radio. And then he did something which surprised even himself: He invited Kyle into his study to speak with his grandfather -- for the first time ever.
From then on, Kyle knew the secret and promised not to tell anyone else. It was their special Father’s Day bond. As the years passed and Kyle had his own family, he would always stop by, not only to wish Rick a Happy Father’s Day, but to speak to his grandfather, who only appeared on the radio on that particular day.
********
Flash forward four years. It’s Father’s Day and Rick is on Channel 19, where he had been every third Sunday in June for the past seven years, just waiting -- listening and waiting.
Finally, Kyle comes on the air. Rick gives a sigh of relief. Kyle apologizes for being late. The connection is pristine, this heavenly bond. They have a beautiful chat. Rick expresses how much he misses the family. Kyle informs his father that he has a new grandson named Andrew. They talk baseball and play catch-up. He is broken-hearted when the linkage crashes and he starts fading away. Rick asks Kyle never to forget. Never forget the good times. Never forget that he is always close by.
Rick wants to tell him how sorry he is. Sorry he’s not there anymore. Sorry for having a massive heart attack that took him away. Sorry that Rick is only allowed to connect on Father’s Day. And yet he is also grateful…grateful that Kyle took the old C.B. radio and set the antenna up at his place. Grateful that Kyle keeps this “family tradition” going, this annual time to bond between father and son, grateful to God that he is permitted to check in with his earthly family, even if it is only once a year. Kyle promises never to box up the old radio, never to take it to the basement, never to forget about his dear old dad.
The tradition will be passed down to Andrew sometime in the future. Then it will be Andrew’s turn to talk to his dad on Father’s Day. And on and on.
See you next year, Dad.
So-long until then, son.
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