My Radio Family
Dear readers,
I hope you will enjoy this “sneak peek” from In Pursuit of Radio Mom!
My Radio Family
Thanksgiving comes late
in this museum of childhood,
flower painted at the bottom
of a porcelain teacup:
cracked saucer, no sugar, no milk.
—Joyce Peseroff,
Museum of Childhood
“ANYBODY HOME?”
1958. Chicago’s south side. I was not quite five years old as I sat there in front of the living room’s radio console, attempting to rouse my imaginary family by brushing my pinkie against the glass front. I can see my reflection: an explosion of hair, mouth set in a line. Crouching low, certain this miniature group must be at home nestled together in the rear compartment of our second-hand Zenith, I pressed my ear against the cool surface to listen for any movement coming from the set. “Anybody home?” I called again, telegraphing them with my finger and keeping my voice to a whisper so that my mother wouldn’t find me in the living room.
I wasn’t looking for a new family because I didn’t like my own. A dreamer, I was a girl who lived elbow to toe with nine blood kin—the sixth and next to youngest child. At least for the time being, since baby number eight had yet to arrive. The problem was that my real family was both everywhere and nowhere. A three-ring circus with too many acts performing all at once. A place where I couldn’t grab hold of the ringmaster—my mom. Her attention always seemed focused on someone else in the tent or on performing her own magic act. The one where she could make herself disappear for long parts of a day.
We were packed into our six rooms in a house that, at a thousand square feet, was hardly bigger than a box. Perhaps it wasn’t all that surprising, then, that when I went out scouting for a fantasy family, my search fell within a similarly small space.
Like the console, most of our furniture was hand-me-down stuff, functional and nicked around the edges. On the mantle stood a ceramic statuette of the Blessed Virgin Mary; a large oil painting of Jesus at Gethsemane hung on one wall. All shadow and gloom, the picture seemed not so much haunting as haunted. Early on, I developed the habit of scurrying past Jesus, no direct contact. If brave enough to do so, I shot him only a sideways glance.
But in the Radio Family’s living room there was a luxurious velvet sofa with crocheted doilies stretched across its wide arms. A thick, floral-patterned rug warmed the room, and the polished wooden end tables had lamps that threw light into even the darkest corners. In the kitchen, the table was set, readied for the meal to come. With seating enough for everyone, and chairs that matched.
Every night in bed, I strategized about how I would at last coax Radio Mom out from where she and the others huddled together. My desire for her had grown increasingly intense. I was sure that once Radio Mom saw me, everything else would be easy-peasy—it was getting her attention that was the problem. Now, taking a deep breath, I made up my mind to be more forceful if necessary, even willing to risk discovery. I reminded myself that this tiny clan just out of reach would be the perfect fit to adopt me.
On this day, I’d already planned for the hours when kindergarten had ended for me but the bigger kids hadn’t come home yet. I’d waited for the lull in household activity. Still hunching forward on a patch of the worn carpet, I stared for as long as I dared, adjusting the volume on my thoughts and tuning out the static of my younger brother’s background clamor, content to be in the company of just the old radio.
As I let my nose kiss the glass, I imagined Radio Mom to be as beautiful as my own mother, with dark eyes, and curly hair that always looked neat even when she was bustling about cooking and cleaning. But unlike Real Mom, she also spent time just sitting with her children, or playing a game. And, being surrounded by her own family who adored her, she loved sticking around the house. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear Radio Mom humming, her voice silky, warm enough to carry me toward sleep.
Just as much as I was certain that Radio Mom had magical powers to soothe, I could see that my own mother was like a bundle of wires: tangled and frayed. The mother who gave birth to me could light up a room with her high-voltage power but was also prone to bouts of short-circuiting. Good looks aside, the truth was that Real Mom and Radio Mom bore little resemblance to one another, except that they both lived behind a wall and were impossible to find on the dial.
“Yoo-hoo,” I sang.
I could hear my mother washing dishes in the kitchen.
On the other side of the console “window,” tall numbers marched across the width of the case. If I gazed at them long enough, the numbers began to glow, like a visual doorbell. Now, gazing through the picture window that only moments before had been the radio’s glass partition, I sensed something else. Little figures hugging tight on the other side of that rectangular wall.
Listening!
I tapped again, this time with my knuckles. Then harder, my heart beating wildly.
No response.
Time passed and eventually, I rocked back on my heels, struggling not to cry. Nothing I did was working. The tiny family dreamed on behind the glass without me.
A bitter taste on my tongue. I shifted my gaze toward the front door.
She wasn’t coming out and would always remain just a mom behind glass. I would never sit in her lap and feel her hand untangle my hair. She would never slick a Band-Aid over a cut on my elbow, never make me a peanut butter and grape jelly on white. The realization cut through me. Radio Mom hadn’t heard me after all, despite my determination. The fantasy of being a special and cherished child faded.
After that, I spent little time in front of the radio.
