I’m not a neurolinguist, but as the
expression goes, “some of my best friends
are.” They like to remind us that
the human brain is an organizer. As
marvelous as the brain is, it cannot manage random, disassociated data;
therefore, our brains are crafted to sort, classify, categorize, and relate. “STORIES”
exist in all human cultures because human brains use this format to organize
the events of our existence, and give structure and meaning to our lives. For each of us, our lives become stories
linking and defining who and why we are.
With no particular organizational structure, I share a collection of my
stories:
RADIO SUMMER
Between my freshman and senior years of
high school, television came to Logansport.
There were a limited number of shows, all in black and white, of
course. The news was suddenly a visual
experience with live reporters. I still
wanted to write, but radio and television seemed more exciting than the
newspaper. Although I had never had a
single speech or journalism course, I bravely declared my college major as
speech with a minor in journalism.
My parents didn’t object because my Daddy
had already informed me I could study anything I wanted, as long as I got
teaching certification, “That’s your
insurance policy.” He stated, and I
understood he meant that if my future husband died or deserted me, I would be
able to support my children and myself. What
can I say, that was how fathers thought in the 50’s.
I began college the second week of
June, 1957, two weeks after my high school graduation. I couldn’t wait to get away from home and out
into the world. Dr. Edna West, head of
the speech and theater department at Northwestern State College (today
University), was assigned as my advisor, and set my schedule for my first
summer of higher education.
Under ordinary circumstances, I should
have been signed up for freshman, introductory courses. However, Dr. West had a little problem. She was scheduled to teach a 6-credit, upper
level Radio Production Workshop, and she needed at least six students for the
class to “make” (meaning generate
enough tuition monies to justify paying the professor). It was essential that the course register at
least six students because the University Radio Station needed trained workers,
and Dr. West needed summer salary.
Of course I didn’t know the details of
academic finance, and was absolutely delighted to find myself along with 5
others (juniors, seniors, and one graduate student) in the advanced radio
class. I was off to a high flying start
– WRONG.
On the first day of class, we each read a
newscast into the bi-directional ribbon microphone in the NSC Radio
Studio. Our readings were recorded on
magnetic tape and then played back for critique. The grad student sounded
better than Edward R Murray. His name
was Norm Fletcher, and his voice was melodious and his articulation impeccable.
The sound of my voice was the most awful
thing I had ever heard. I sat and
cried. Please understand, this was not
vanity or exaggeration. My very large
adenoidal tonsils had never been removed, and in addition to causing my hearing
loss, they impeded the flow of air (and sound) through my nose, creating a
voice that sounded like I had a perpetual cold.
On top of my awful, denasal, high-pitched voice, I pronounced my words
like the most ignorant, uneducated hick in the remnants of the Confederacy.
The next hours and days constituted the
emotional and psychological low point of my early life. I had always accepted my family’s assurances
that, “I could do anything I wanted.” (With
the exception of things not permitted girls.)
Now I was faced with incontestable proof that I couldn’t do the thing I
most wanted. At some point in my funk, I
remembered the rest of that famous phrase – “If
you try hard enough.”
In my far future, I would become an
effective voice therapist, and I always credited my success to my empathy for
my voice clients. I was my own first
voice patient. Maybe Dr. West felt guilty,
because I succeeded in persuading her to “loan”
me a tape recorder in the evening hours.
It weighed at least 40 pounds, and I carried it back and forth to the
basement of my dormitory (the only private place I could find). My “therapy”
approach was simple, I read and recorded and listened. If what I did made me sound better, I tried
to do it again. It wasn’t very efficient
(I didn’t know what I was doing, and had to work for endless hours) but it was
effective. I developed a “mike” voice. I never successfully altered my habitual speaking
voice, but I could “turn on” my “mike” voice when I wanted. I got an “A” in the course (probably for
effort), and in the following spring semester received a first place in the
Louisiana Women’s Radio speaking contest.
I was ready for the AIR. Before the spring semester ended, I presented
myself to the general manager of the radio station nearest my hometown, located
in Mansfield, LA. I was told they didn’t
use women on the air. Our voices
irritated their listeners. I persuaded
him to give me an audition, but the best he offered was to “let” me to record commercial
announcements for women’s products.
Undeterred, I took my application to the
next radio station, KDET in Center, TX.
The manager there was much nicer, but his reply was essentially the
same. They had a woman broadcaster
already, Mrs. Rex Payne, wife of the owner of the local hardware store. Every morning, she gave the “social and women’s news” on a 20 minute show
sponsored by her husband’s store.
I
walked out of his office discouraged. It
was clear I was getting nowhere. Then I
realized that his story about Mrs. Payne suggested a connection between
sponsorship and on-air talent. I turned
around, went back in, and asked, “What if
I sell the advertising to sponsor my show?”
A broad smile spread across the manager’s face, and I knew I had hit the
right note – The Logansport Show
was born.
I would have a two-hour afternoon show,
five days a week. I had three weeks to
build up my sponsors and sell enough ads to cover my airtime. Finally he informed me, I had to pass the
FCC engineering test because the station couldn’t afford to pay a man to cover
for me. He was worried about the
license. Apparently he had never known a woman to take the test. I got the license, sold the ads, and for this
effort was paid a total of $27.00 a week for 10 hours of air-time (and 40 hours
of preparation).
We had two remaining points of
contention. First, I intended to do
Logansport news, feature Logansport talent, and play rock and roll. The news and talent were fine, but in 1958
rock and roll was not a part of KDET’s image or format. Reluctantly he agreed I could try the music
the kids liked, but he was adamant that I couldn’t read the news on the hourly
newscast. It seems the general consensus
held that the news was serious business, and a woman’s voice just couldn’t
convey the necessary gravitas. In the end, I did the news anyway. The guy who was supposed to come in to read
the news for me, proved so unreliable I wound up doing the newscast, and since
there were no complaints, we just rocked along.
It
was an exciting summer. I used The
Champs’ Tequila as a theme
song until there was an objection to the one-word lyric. I switched to the Champs’ Midnighter, but I was also
awfully partial to Bill Justis’ Raunchy. Pace Hardware in Logansport provided the
newest releases as part of their advertising, and I discovered that DJ’s could
get freebees from most record companies.
At the end of the summer, my collection of classic 45’s was worth more
than the total of my salary.
One incident that continues to haunt me, involved
my then boyfriend (now husband of 57 years) who was the lifeguard at the local
recreation lake. Charles regularly listened
to my show from his lifeguard stand. I
took on-air requests, and one day a girl called-in asking me to play Sam
Cooke’s “You Send Me,” for Charles
Freeman from Cyndi. In a flash of 18
year-old wit, I played Sketter Davis’s “I Forgot More (Than You’ll Even Know
About Him)” for Cyndi from me. If I
had known how many times I would have to listen to my husband tell that story,
I would have just played Cyndi’s request.
Everyone in town called in news, and my
interviews included the little league baseball teams, the mayor, the librarian,
the football coach, preachers, teachers, and the managers and clerks in the
stores that bought ads. I recorded and
played church choirs, local bands, vocalists, and instrumentalists, actually
anyone who wanted to be on the radio. I
was still carrying a 40 pound tape recorder, but now I was a celebrity.
Without doubt, from the depths of my
defeat, I had risen to the heights of my ambitions. I was so “COOL,”
I didn’t need a fan that summer. My ego
inflated beyond all reasonable bounds.
But somewhere, in the back of my mind, a flame of doubt began to
flicker. My life as a celebrity seemed a
bit like cotton candy at the Fair. It
looked wonderful, smelled delightful, was wholly desirable, but just melted
away, leaving no real sense of satisfaction.
The most lasting lesson from my Radio
summer was totally unexpected. After my
first few days on the air, I began to receive “fan” letters. It seemed
implausible, that so many lonely people would connect with a voice coming
across the airwaves, and open their hearts to a total stranger. Some of the letters were heart breaking. I was only 18 and had little experience with
the despair, loneliness, and general misery that too often characterizes the
human condition.
One lady wrote me every day, somehow
confusing or identifying me with a daughter who had vanished. After the first few weeks, I began receiving
little gifts. Sight unseen, I received two marriage proposals. At first I was spooked, and tried to avoid
opening my mail. But gradually I came to
realize that those letters represented the real world where real people
suffered daily.
As much as I was enjoying my Radio
Summer, I could not imagine doing that work for the rest of my life. I had
become so caught up in the challenge of proving that I could do it, that I had
neglected to ask whether it was worth doing.
I began to reconsider my ambitions and aspirations, and it was clear that
being a radio or television personality was not necessarily the best way to
spend the only life God had allotted me.
I quit in August, and went back to NSC in search of a new career.
My greatest satisfaction from that summer
came when the Mansfield radio station hired a boy from Logansport to try to
recapture the advertising they’d lost.
When I left KDET, the station manager hired my someday-to-be
brother-in-law, Dennis Freeman, to take over my show. The males were each paid twice as much as I
was, and didn’t work half as hard. I
wasn’t surprised by the pay discrimination, but I was bitter and beginning to
be angry.
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