songs in the night

“He said within himself-
Surely, if men be tried and troubled exceedingly,
it is because, while they think about their troubles and
distress themselves about their fears, they do not say,
‘Where is God my Maker, who giveth songs in the night?’”

~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon, Songs in the Night

Winter winds have returned recollections to me that highlight reminders of many late nights ago. In the process of becoming a self-possessed high school student in the early 1980s, I developed a habit of staying awake late into the night. Being the only soul awake in the house, I’d perch at my desk with school art projects spread on the surface- with the radio nearby. The volume was kept low, out of respect, as well as to enjoy the quiet. Even New York City tones itself down very late at night. My tastes have always tended to times long preceding mine. History and depth were always understood to be intertwined. After all, une histoire means “a story,” too. Elder teachers, family members, and neighbors had the most captivating stories with matching dramatic recitative voices. Coming of age at a crossroads was somehow clear to me, and I would ponder this during my midnight musings, already longing for more warmblooded times. In the graininess of night, books, outer clothing, and satchel rested still as granite, but the radio was on. Before AM broadcasting became fully infested with political pugilists, much of the programming gave airspace to local commentators. New York’s abundant airwaves were resplendent with stories, reminiscences, and musings- in between round-the-clock news stations and music. Perhaps the older radio personalities also thought themselves at crossroads.

Listening to calming tones eases the environment and creates an oasis in time. Indeed, as sound is involved, spoken and musical content must soothe, lest the frequency be changed to another station. In my farthest memories- and there still exists some of this today- I’ve enjoyed live broadcasts during which the radio hosts reflect with anecdotes, or converse with guests, or place verbal interludes among music selections, or address the audience as a counterpart. “How in the world are you?” was how King’s College president Robert A. Cook would begin each of his radio offerings. The more interesting commentators display a signature style. Some have been able to make their commercials into entertaining extensions of their shows. Art Raymond, on WEVD, would advertise sponsoring eateries and tell the audience what to order at these businesses.

During dark and solitary hours, the earth and all its life forces continue unceasingly. I knew this from my window, at my desk, with the radio on. Such diversions are able to distract individuals away from making life’s boundaries into something as narrow as a table surface. My radio imaginings would include picturing the sources of the broadcasts. Studios are ensconced in large downtown office buildings, with announcers and technicians awake through the night hours. Some of them tell us how cold it is outside, and about traffic patterns on the roads and bridges. Through all the textbook diction, I could detect local accents. I remember how I could hear Richard Gladwell puffing on his pipe amidst gentle narratives within his classical music show. To this day, I often look at the radio while listening; perhaps many others do this, too. The gesture is similar to that of respectfully eyeing the person speaking to you.

This Philips radio from France has the perfect home in my apartment, with a slanted back
that exactly matches wall's angle.

Among our treasures we find our own iconography: gifts, heirlooms, and the finds that for us mean more than their surface appearances. Indeed, material is inherently temporal, but meaning is transcendently enduring. Only through personal experience can the iconographic aspects of places, things, sounds, and even thoughts be discovered and realized. It is for each of us to comprehend meaning and grasp that which is solid in our spirits. Radio is at least as endlessly fascinating to me as it is to see a photographic image manifest in a tray of developer. Even after all these years. There are technical and scientific explanations for these processes, yet the magic of retrieving sound signals from the air exceeds rationalization.

A radio’s purpose is to clearly receive a range of frequencies, and it must be tuned and positioned to make reception possible. And the goal of the radio’s purpose is for a person’s ability to listen. Radios have no memory. They do not store their commodities. Like cameras, they are instruments designed to register the moment. If such objects are considered in an iconographic context, we can ascribe our personal memories to these instruments. You may see a Realistic Chronomatic 9, but I always see the 15th birthday gift from my father. He offered to buy a television for me, but I said I’d rather have a radio. Over the years, I’ve added a few antiques, and find it remarkable how well they continue to work daily- thus defying the culture of manufactured obsolescence.

Providing company at work. The G.E. radio (top right),
a gift from my lifelong best friend, has accompanied me
through schools, studios, apartments, and many workplaces.

From my nighttime desk, the warmth of quiet music emanating from my radio aperch by the arching lamp, the new year stretches out before me. True to ascribed iconography, the small Grundig on my desk is understated yet far-reaching. It reflects this very instant, having neither past nor future. Yesterday’s news, scores, and statements are forgiven. Brightly through night hours, sounds of Mozart sweeten the horizonless abyss. Its life is a constant update; times and temperatures are always of the moment. The parable of the radio is one of receptivity and discernment, with static cleared away. Winter’s deeps remind us that above reportage and ads are angelic messengers bearing words of assurance. Mystery steeps our midst, and we’ve but to merely acquiesce.

A bright morning near the radio at The Palace Diner,
in Biddeford Maine.

heartsong

“Whistling in the dark,
I see the lights all over town,
And I keep walking up and down,
While I am whistling in the dark.”

~ Bert Ambrose, Whistling in the Dark

duly noted

“When we despair of gaining inner transformation
through human powers of will and determination,
we are open to a wonderful new realization:
inner righteousness is a gift from God to be graciously received.
The needed change within us is God’s work, not ours.
The demand is for an inside job, and only God can work from the inside.
We cannot attain or earn this righteousness of the kingdom of God;
it is a grace that is given.”

~ Richard J. Foster, Celebration of Discipline.


Looking for new encouragement, I’m remembering some old words. Times of seemingly endless struggle demand consolation. It does not suffice to simply keep going without good reason and purpose. Straining to see far ahead has a way of diverting from taking stock in the present. The here-and-now is a moving point along undefined timelines; thus it is fluid and ever-changing. When I find myself bewildered with crossroads and closed doors, I reach for words stored deep within that taught me. Perhaps this occurs to you, too. Be strengthened by the good things you’ve learned; they continue to teach.

In graduate school, the finest and most brilliant educator I’ve ever met imparted much more than technique and ability. By the time I graduated, he became a friend with whom to exchange insights and books, and offered advice I needed to face a perennially depressed job market. Last evening, I remembered Professor Anderson’s celebrated course in Reference Services (exceeded only by his inspiring courses in management theory). In our studies that trained us to unambiguously respond to research queries, we were taught about ways in which questions manifest. What is asked is a “wanted,” and what is already established is a “given.” If a question is unclear- and indeed, there is a skill at being able to ask a specific question- we were taught how to draw out what AJ called the real question. Our research assignments involved long lists of intensely complex and arcane reference questions, and we were all turned loose to solve them. But it was not enough to come up with the answers, we wrote detailed analyses of the sources we used, narratives of the hunt for the answers, including our “what-learneds.” The genius in this was that we each had to specifically describe how we proceeded- all the fits-and-starts- and what we learned in the process. All of this information was in addition to our having answered the reference questions. Clearly, the teaching rationale had deeper goals than to superficially train data-brokers. We were being taught to synthesize queries, sources, information formats, and facilitate guidance in ways that would be appropriate to those we serve.

One pointer from AJ that I’ve always cherished is, “read with an eye to application.” A marvelously affirming phrase that describes how I value my studies with respect to how they can be applied. Through implementation, we can find out how much we’ve really learned. Further, the prospect of becoming able to embody what is learned, my reading and listening are actually enhanced. There are things to comprehend and practice, hence there is much to be distilled and taken to heart. And still further, the learning need never cease. Through this, we’d all like to think we grow wiser with the passage of time. Age is generally thought to be equivalent to an increase in wisdom. But is this true? Perhaps adaptability is the best testament to cultivated wisdom. How attentive and consistent is that sense of application through transitions of living? Going for walks through and around places trimmed with remembrances causes me to notice changes, and reminds me that time never stops. The same trees are different now, the same buildings have new shops and paint colors, and this same person walks with this year’s shoes.

Equal parts of vigilance must be assigned to both constancy and innovation. This is to say perseverance to keep on going, alongside a watchfulness to make opportunities. Duly note while giving due diligence to possibilities for betterment. I can only hope for an improved level of perceptive alertness that empowers me to alter my own course when necessary. More things are changeable than we tend to realize. When I was very active in the field of commercial photography, I learned to customize every new piece of equipment to accommodate getting the job done. Those lenses, easels, tripods, and camera backs were merely raw materials when unpacked from their boxes. As we increase in our knowledge of the crafts we practice, our sense of refining our basics continues to heighten. In addition, experience gives us an ability to anticipate results to correspond with efforts, ingredients, and time allotted.

Here in northern New England, winter has cycled down into customary deep freeze. This is the flip side of summer’s “dog days,” in every way- from shortened days to dormant forests. Seasons notwithstanding, continuum rolls on. Motion is never fully stilled. And with such consideration in mind, embarked upon this new year, I hope the progress of my steps increases and does not stagnate. Applying principles as they are learned will counteract emptiness of word and action.

Several nights ago, I was awakened by remembrances from a job I once had which resembled a sports highlight video- except these were the low-lights. A barrage of my most regrettable moments, strung together, from an inconsequential number of years past. Gathering my wits, I reminded myself of the uselessness of replaying buried and otherwise nonexistent events. Thus, lying awake at 2 a.m., I lulled myself back to sleep by very deliberately giving thanks for what had been positive about that job, and for all I’ve learned through the years. When I woke, it occurred to me how recollections must be forged into constructive tools, rather than anchors.

Make the present what the past hadn’t been. History can indeed be used for changing patterns and taking forward action. We can all look back to our own historic intersections at which we chose higher roads. No doubt there will continue to be such crossroad experiences.

Rather than attempt at generating an inventory, I’ll simply recall my gratitude for the times I chose not to engage a goading, and for the better decisions I’ve made in realms of projects, travels, creative pursuits, and relationships. I once worked with a man who had burned his bridges to such a detriment that on the occasion in which he had to be hospitalized after a grisly traffic accident, I was his only visitor. Although he had stolen property from me, it was painful to hear people make fun of his condition. So I went to bring him cheer. It was the right thing to do. On another occasion, years ago, I might have easily nominated myself into a grant-funded project to follow an initial assignment at a certain workplace- but declined due to questionable ethics I’d witnessed. Completing my work and moving on to better affiliations, I did the right thing. As I comprehend the cultivation of diligence, I appreciate the skill of sizing up a situation. It is unwise to be drawn into settings that are counter-intuitive, but it is wise to notice the appropriate occasions to walk the extra mile. Part of that is knowing when and how to adapt with the present, dignifying and implementing the goodness that has been absorbed.

In this long and complex journey, the written chronicle serves as an indispensable witness. If resilience attests to the what-learneds of life’s pilgrimage, then faithful and honest journaling is the voyage’s testament. My writing continuum flexibly moves between description and exploration, the only guideline being that of candor. In so doing, the words are my own reportage- a unique form of journalism. After all, reporting the journey generates an investigative primary account. The documentation and its topics exist together in the same provisional dynamism. Reading back in time to past entries, much as those walks to familiar places, is its own time-lapse photography. With each carriage return, scroll, and margin-release of my typewriter, with each round of syphoned ink, and with each whittled-down pencil, the written record follows time’s perpetual motion. That which is seen and heard- the experiential (or, in 17th century parlance, the experimental)- registers in our inner reference tomes. When I was 16, an octogenarian neighbor taught me to end each substantial meal with something sweet-tasting; this way the appetite is properly sealed for the next repast. I still do this, following his effective advice with a morsel of chocolate or a cereal bar, while remembering my elderly friend’s marmalade toast.

soundings : progress, part 2

“Deep calleth unto deep
at the noise of thy waterspouts;
all thy waves and thy billows
are gone over me.”

~ Psalm 42 : 7


Longing guides my steps to the waterfront. Watching gusts of rain, whether at the open shore or along harbor piers, aquatic textures blend. Seeing skies mirrored by the water surface brings a fascination with distance and volume. Altitude from sea level is readily seen, and can be noted with every terrain or air-travel ascent. When it comes to water depths, ocean charts inform and provide a sense of distance below surface. Simply watching the stirs of blue-green waves is insufficient for a realistic impression of how far- or near- edges of crags may be. Both knowledge and sharpened sense are needed. Trying to synthesize these two aspects, my thoughts return to the idea of progress. I consider whether deepening of trust, of learning, and of direction can be known, as hypnotic hatching tidal lines group and disperse around me. Depth-of-field, a very familiar concept to me, concerns broadening areas of sharpened focus by using only the center of a camera lens. Through slower shutter speeds and finer apertures, more area can be sharply seen. It is the more patient view. But thirst urgently desires heights above and depths below surfaces.

Pelting rain adds layers of circles to the weave of ocean. When it becomes snow, the falling flakes shuffle with whispers into the water. Such unparalleled sounds are audible once away from city or ship-engine noises. Recently, I thought to call the Maine Geological Survey to ask about how ocean depths are measured. The scientist I spoke with helpfully explained depth soundings- also known as echosoundings, which is much the same as sonar. Acoustic signals are sent from an instrument towards the bottom, and depth is calculated based on the time it takes for the signal to come back to a transducer mounted on a vessel. Higher topography in the water will have reflected signals that come back sooner than areas that are deeper. Calculations are based on the speed of sound through water, which varies with salinity and temperature. It is fascinating to know how precise these depths- and even the shapes of bathymetric forms (underwater topography) are determined.

After this intriguing conversation, my usual waterfront walks brought these depth soundings to mind. Rather than to imagine any pinging rates of my own, a preferable quest is to plumb the depths and sail the heights of the Divine. Just the other day, out on a briny pier and breathing in the salt-washed air, I called unto the deeps. A simple supplication for refuge, from the depths preceding me- toward the Creator of all life whose understanding is unfathomable. And the words returning to me from beneath the tides are to continue onward. Greater things are up ahead than those yet seen. The unseen and trust- a tandem to accompany the cloud of unknowing and unceasing prayer. Once beyond my own perimeters, God’s expanse is limitless. Of course, it is quite human to ponder any progress I may have made; to marvel is something beautifully mortal. I wonder about what’s really changed, whether the changes have been for the better, and if this year’s product is one I would’ve bought last year- or even 10 years ago. It is all terribly humbling, and brings me to modest contentment with the small increments of distance effected.

Between digitally-plotted soundings and the heart’s sonar is the crossroad of ostensible and intrinsic. Indeed this is not meant to set one against the other, as both aspects are necessary. And somehow, no matter how much can be verified, the greater interest is in the elusive and unknown. In his tractate Signs of the True Ground, Meister Eckhart (13th c.) wrote “there are few who get beyond the science and the theory,” being well aware of the vitality of balance. “By being free from notions,” he continued, we can “be carried up beyond all rational concepts,” borne by the Spirit “to this truth and to this blessed life which no one can attain except in abstract knowledge and pure understanding.”

Discovery, alas, is often subtle and indirect. Straining at a conundrum doesn’t guarantee a solution. It’s as though endurance is tied to creativity. If answers are not immediately apparent- even with persistence- the subtler, overcoming discipline is to focus away from the matter. Irrational as that may seem, the emphasis becomes a more general context. Motion, and a panoramic view, will help overcome the paralysis of analysis. Notice how waters in channels, inlets, and around islands steer around obstructions. These directions are diverted by encountered resistance, though not prevented. Thirst for wisdom and the pilgrimage of trust come at one’s own risk, but it is well worthwhile- as St. Diadochos wrote in the 5th century, quoted in the Philokalia:

“For in much wisdom is much knowledge; and he that increases knowledge increases sorrow... the soul is tested by divine rebuke as in a furnace, and through fervent remembrance of God it actively experiences joy exempt from unreality”.

Discoveries and changes follow humbling episodes and experiences. Similar to steering away from fixating upon a question or a problem, listening for answers begins with embarkation. Standing straight, proverbial mat rolled up, and going forth with a perspective unburdened by old grudges. Pursuit inevitably teaches perseverance. But it requires getting going first; drawing a bold black charcoal mark on the large blank paper. By creatively engaging the voyage, we write off the detours that divert the road of communion. Or as St. Diadochos wrote, “ceaselessly journey toward God within the soul.” Somehow, in unexpected ways, endurance enhances understanding as hyper-focus in isolation cannot. Having already navigated some depths, echosoundings will reveal their worth as guiding coordinates.

fleurs bleues

“Pourtant ne soyons pas tristes
Pour fleur bleue
J’en ai là toute une liste
C’est bien mieux
Amourettes passagères
Joies peines de coeur légères
Oui fleurs bleues.”

~ Charles Trenet, Fleur Bleue


If you don’t like how you’re feeling, change what you’re doing. That’s a fine gem of wisdom that got me through a perilously lean stretch about six years ago. Now, in times that threaten dead ends in so many directions, I am brought to remember the spirit of those words. While scavenging for hints of treasures in tired territories, I’ve noticed myself turning to trusted mentors. By the end of last week, I realized how I’d been unexpectedly visited by a variety of friends from different spheres of my life- in a nice incidental reciprocity. This made for some surprising lunch company to spice the days. Many tell me how ideally suited I am for what I do. This only contributes to my sense of unsettle, but I can at least take stock in listening to how my friends describe what they see. Indeed, simply attending to sincere perceptions helps me to interpret my context. There is always something to be derived from outside the old teapot tempests. If there are limits to my doing, there needn’t be such hindrances to my listening.

Apparently, turns in the road reveal continued desert stretches. These are without measure, and there will need to be plenty of energy to keep the pace. But, as I wrote last time, recommencing by considering blessings helps provide for a running start. From there, my thoughts have been occupied with the idea of “reprieve mindset.” Being spared a crisis leads to a catharsis of both reprieve and of a liberty to choose other points of attention. How refreshing to be able to look beyond self survival! With the grace to do so, the same old can be viewed anew. Explorations that can leap the dead-end barriers can be reading and observing with renewed vision; tasting and listening with amended senses. Beneath fixed givens, there are variables I can change. Perhaps in such reevaluation is the badge of reprieve.

Discovering the good and constructive amidst cynical and impoverished times is an altering of local colors. Actual in the sense that a fuller spectrum of color is a reminder of vastness. Figurative in the sense that the soul must not dwell long in drab grimness. There must be references beyond genre shades, and perhaps that makes an immersion into dazzling colors something rather daring. Make note of what nourishes above and beyond times of consumptive cynicism. Though gloom and defeat, find unfettered graces. When I cannot remember God’s presence, that surely doesn’t mean I’ve been forgotten. Indeed, finding encouragement in despair is hard enough- yet I don’t give up trying to be the encouragement I seek. In this way, I can help effect my own renewal as well as be an ingredient in that of others. To bloom in the desert is to be able to vary one’s vistas, to see the flowers grow through the ruins. Locate the bright prospects- or listen for them.

So much is made of endurance, that it becomes an end rather than a means toward something greater. Distinguishing between means and ends reveals the purpose of perseverance. It’s easy to be swept into popular perceptions of “survival” as an entire self-enclosed competition. “Hanging on” is often made into a goal. But surely the soul’s destiny is greater than any refinement of coping skills. There are higher aspirations than the sake of movement. But it seems our progress is measured by motion and amassments. I’d rather think of my journals as ships’ ledgers instead. These are testaments of perseverance, reminding me that the times demanding endurance are steps toward a sure yet unseen glory. Abilities to abide and pursue continue to hold great value- both as offerings of support and as ways to help appreciate the present.

For me, to resolutely continue mustn’t be of the gritted teeth variety, but with expectant hope. There is a fine splitting-off between reluctant tolerance and making the best of things. Again, means and ends are distinct. Neither should be exclusive of the other, and both are necessary reminders for each other. Contemplative prayer seems to be both, and it causes me to wonder at praying for guidance (asking for means), given the limited aspects of distance vision. Yet I wouldn’t dream of ceasing to do so.

The indefinite soul and the finite earthbound self interlock as mysterious counterparts. It is necessarily so. Duns Scotus boldly differed from Aquinas when he asserted that soul and body are united for the sake of the soul’s highest aspirations. Creativity is manifested in the composite being. We gaze heavenward, with feet on the ground. The long road does have its consolations and treasures- with diligent navigation, these are continually revealed. This week’s humble example joined two small finds to the sum of an inward grin: an old Boston Globe that was used to interleave some ancient volumes opened to an ad for “Blue Band” pencils. Then, in a later, unrelated circumstance I found a box of these- which must have been made close to the 1929 date of the newspaper fragment. Artifacts from the Great Depression era, yet so scrupulously produced. Small treasures to remind me of my conduits. Inevitably if the ends are as yet imperceptible, perhaps the means can be enjoyable. In a similar sense, I don’t journal with a final entry in mind.

airwaves

“It’s not true I had nothing on.
I had the radio on.”

~Marilyn Monroe


When welcoming a houseguest, I try to share as much of my living space as possible. For most of my adult life, I lived in 2 ½ rooms. More books meant less furniture, but it was always neat and tidy. Guests always got the room with the bed surrounded by bookshelves, and I’d take the dining area. Recently with a visiting family member, I followed the same custom of creating a welcoming space. Yesterday, I thought of how monastic houses balance shared and private spaces. I remembered how the common spaces are entered and passed through, with a warm sense of deference. I set aside the morning essentials from off my desk, before bidding my guest goodnight. Early the following day, I noticed myself quietly camped on my livingroom floor, with coffee, journal- and radio. The always-faithful wireless: iconic and useful, with the ready steadfastness of a portable typewriter. Radio often reminds me of who I am and what I am. I comprehend, therefore I interact with this world. With selections and references of my own, I listen.

broadcast presence

Despite all the scientific explanations, the very idea of radio signal reception remains magical to me. The little rectangular box usually perched on my desk can be dialed to faraway broadcasts transmitted through the air. On shortwave, sounds from continents away visit my writing surface. So much is conveyed with seemingly very little. The little box of batteries, numbered dials, speaker, and transistors accompanies me around the house- and out on the front stoop. Radio retains many of its time-honored attributes, and is still somehow an intimate form of media. The operas, the pop tunes, the narratives, the cheering fans, and the chimes of Big Ben (at the top of each hour)- all mingle in the stratosphere.

My mother likes to humorously point out how we tend to look at the radio as we listen. We gather around the sounds that visit our habitations. Long predating the Web, radio is freely accessible 24 hours a day. Live programming is immediate, and does not require reloading a page. Commercials can be turned down. The best sportscasters are assigned to radio, which is only as effective as the human ability to articulate is successful. Intrinsically neutral, the broadcast medium presents both troubling and calming voices. The format lends itself to use and misuse. We can engage the airwaves to find what speaks to our sensibilities.

personal connotations


Beyond the radio as an object, it is a subject replete with profound connotations. As an archivist, cataloguing a manuscript requires that I describe the item as well as the subjects pertaining to the item. What does the object mean? Radio broadcasts are accessible through other avenues, along with traditional receivers. A few years ago, during an immense blizzard in Vermont, I stopped at an inn for a break from my treacherous drive. The British innkeepers had no guests that day, and served tea while nostalgically recalling their beloved BBC. I showed them how they could listen through their computer. In their ecstatic gratitude, they offered me a place for the night- and moved their desk computer to where they could listen to the “Beeb” with their tea. Radio is still radio. A vacuum-tube Marconi from the 1930s can bring you next year’s World Series.

Radio listening has an inherent time-travel aspect. Not simply via music and archival rebroadcasts (both sources of enormous wealth), but also in current programmes in a style of another time. Mystery Theater and Twilight Zone Radio represent new manifestations of a long tradition of thrillers in the “theater of the mind.” National Public Radio’s lively quiz shows and the much-loved Prairie Home Companion endure with off-the-cuff literary wit that has long-since disappeared from television. New Englanders are regularly regaled by the seasoned voices of Jordan Rich (WBZ), and Steve LeVeille (also WBZ)- both of whom are endeared to their countless listeners. They represent a demeanor from an era that fused spontaneity, directness, and a high regard for decorum. Rare and not shrill. Encouraging and not alarmist. Good listening is an exercise of memory, as well as an understanding of significance. Weighing ideas is an opening to interpret the world. The spoken word without pictorial footage lends well to imagination. An amusing juxtaposition would occur during early-morning commutes in rural Maine, during which I could pick up frenetic Boston traffic reports. Turning off the sound, I’d glance again at the dairy farms and pastures around me. Truly, the newswatch never stops, and radio reminds me to remain awake to the present, reference the past, and participate in life’s developing story. Always making notes- mental and otherwise, I continue to collect words, sounds, and anecdotes.

accompaniment

As personal essentials are determined, it is easier to know what travels along. Radio goes with me on every major travel, be it in or out of the country. With every locality, there is always something to listen to, reminding me of where I am. In Europe, it’s a cornucopia of languages. On returns from cross-country road trips, I move across NPR (or Radio Canada) affiliates, until I get within range of my New England favorites. Familiarity comes by sound and cadence. Radio has accompanied me at all my jobs, studios, apartments, cars, and has echoed through every darkroom I’ve worked in. It is a medium without moorings. Being a postmodern, radio has always had a suggestion of being something a bit antiquated. As a teen, my parents offered to give me a television of my own. To their surprise, I gratefully said no, and asked for a table radio instead. I still have it, and the sound is as rich as ever. After one of his enthralling monologues, I wrote a letter to Gene Burns- with a matted landscape I printed for him- to say thank you. I told him that his programme was something of a graduate education in the liberal arts. He wrote a memorable letter back to me. Assuredly, my life’s influences include some of those golden voices inspiring worlds of words and oration. To be immersed in depths of musical and verbal sounds also inspires a life of listening.

“Hello, Mr. Radio, you friendly station,
So glad of your company, your morning music...
Your voice comes riding home across the air,
You travel 'round the world, but still you're here”.

~ Jeff Lynne, Mister Radio