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I heard it on the radio

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Occasionally, I feel an immediate connection with someone who would not ordinarily cross my radar. This usually occurs whilst listening to an interview with a radio, TV or other personality.

 

Speaking of his love of radio, writer and radio columnist Joseph O’Connor triggered many memories recently. Recalling his grandmother’s large radio, he described his fascination with the exotic names of countries up and down the dial. And, right there in the centre of those fabulous locations was – Athlone.
I cannot exactly recall my first memory of radio but the sports results on a Sunday night are crystal clear. The soothing effect that the recitation of the rosary, and particularly the litany that followed, had on us children of that long-ago Ireland is well remembered: how we knelt, leaning on the seat of a kitchen chair, as the intonation of Pray for Us! Pray for Us! Pray for Us! lulled us into peaceful slumber.
Well, the rosary was rivalled only by Seán Ó Chealacháin, who induced a similar soporific effect with a seemingly endless list of teams and scores, although the spectre of Monday morning school somewhat tainted that particular dreamy, trance-like state.
Almost without exception, my every childhood memory, and photograph, features either a dog or cat. So, an amusing yet paradoxically poignant image of a certain cat will forever be associated with those huge, old-fashioned radios. Cats unerringly detect heat for a catnap, so the cat in residence constantly occupied the top of our radio. You know how cats sleep – sort of on all four paws? Well, this particular cat developed an affliction, which caused him to sway, whilst thus asleep, from side to side. He would oscillate obliviously for some time before falling, completely collapsed, from whatever perch he happened to be snoozing on. With the unintentional cruelty of children, this spectacle engendered enormous entertainment, heightened by the excitement of conjecturing when precisely to rescue him before he’d tumble unceremoniously to the ground. This guesswork was electrified by reckoning whether the ailing cat would fall towards you to safety or away from you to unknown danger on the ‘far side’, so to speak. Which, sadly, is exactly how he met his demise. Our picturesque little city house had a wall at the back, behind which a river flowed. The sun-warmed stone wall was a favourite napping-spot but one day, the cat was missing and when we glanced over the wall down at the river… presumably, his nine lives were up.
Nights when we all rose from bed for Muhammad Ali’s fights on the radio were momentous occasions, enjoying a cuppa and my mother’s freshly baked spotted dog as we “watched”.
In a house that encouraged only traditional or classical music, the Hospital’s Requests programme, playing the current hit songs, was manna from heaven to a music buff like me. As a carefree youngster, the music was all-important, with no recognition of the far greater significance of the programme. Not being the age of instantaneous communication, that programme forged a vital link between long-stay patients and home. Someone To Watch Over Me was its particularly apt signature tune. Programmes sponsored by Urney Chocolates, Prescott Dry Cleaners, Palmolive Soap and other companies supplied an additional fix of pop music. And who will ever forget The Walton Programme, with Leo Maguire exhorting us, “If you feel like singing, do sing an Irish song”.
Remember Din-Joe, anyone? Of course we do. Who would have thought that entire families would sit around their radios “watching” dancers Take the Floor under Din-Joe’s tutelage? And Paddy Crosbie, the quintessential educator who knew that the correct method of teaching was to draw out what was within those children privileged to be taught by him and who memorably entertained us with The School Around The Corner.
My parents were proud Clare people who found themselves living almost in central Dublin, so they kind of circled the wagons and shielded us from the temptations that they perceived lurked around every corner. The Kennedys of Castleross was one such avoidable corruption. Imagine! The entire country listened to The Kennedys and we were deprived. God bless their innocent protectiveness.
But ultimately, my poor mother fell on her sword. Her grandnephew, visiting from London, enquired in his cut-glass accent whether my mother listened to The Archers – the British equivalent of The Kennedys. Unaware of this but aspiring to listen to nothing but the best, my mother assured him that, yes, of course she did. Mortified, she shrank at the scornful reply, “Oh, Mother wouldn’t dream of listening to such drivel”.
A proud moment for us was a live broadcast from Radio Éireann featuring a piece by a small orchestra in which my dear late brother, TJ, played the violin. The charming minuet by Boccherini played that night remains my all-time favourite classical piece.
People of a certain age know what a transistor is – the forerunner of today’s MP3s. Battery operated, myself and my transistor were inseparable, to the disgust of my dad, who despised the sight of it glued to my ear as I sashayed around. Hey, look, Dad. Today, my MP3 travels with me – in my arthritis trolley.
Some things never change.

 

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