The Transistor: Who Could Resist Her?

Every era has its cool stuff. Today kids have smartphones that do things we didn’t even dream of in 1963. That’s when I wanted a cool little device called a transistor radio.

Miniature enough to fit into a jacket pocket, this ’50s innovation let you take pop music or St. Louis Cardinals broadcasts anywhere. It was one more accounterment of cool that a kid with a thin veneer of confidence could use to try to close the gap between his fantasy girlfriend across a crowded classroom and a (gulp!) real one.

J.C. Penney had the one I wanted, silver and gray with a kind of mesh grill and a dark leather case that snapped shut. It also included an ear piece and cord for private listening.

But my parents said $15 was “more than we can afford right now.” Mom said, “Let’s talk to your grandmother. I know she wants to get you something nice that you really want for your birthday.”

When I asked Grandma, she said, “We’ll see.”

So I was hopeful.

Grandma was a great seamstress. She worked back in the sewing room at DeLaynes doing alterations, which she also did for family and others. I noticed one day that her money jar had more quarters and half dollars than usual, and even a few dollar bills. Grandma didn’t drive, so on my birthday we rode the city bus — Cape still had them then — to downtown. She gave me a handful of bills from her purse and some change. The bills smelled like the inside of her purse, like perfume, I guessed. She said after buying batteries, I could keep what was left and get a soda, a candy bar, maybe baseball cards.

Back on the bus I let Grandma listen to music with the ear piece. It was one of the happiest birthdays I ever had.

That night was a school night, so I went to bed at 9 o’clock, like I was supposed to. Secretly, I put my transistor under my pillow, muffled just enough for only me to hear. Pretending to sleep, I heard the sounds (and, somehow, the sights) of a late-night Dodger Stadium drift into my ear from 1,600 miles away. Young Cardinals pitcher Ray Washburn took a no-hitter into the seventh inning, but by then I had slipped away into California dreamin’.

The next morning I learned he had lost the no-hitter, but the Cardinals won. That night I fell asleep early, but the next night I willed myself to stay awake long enough to hear the Dodgers fans’ ovation for pinch-hitter Stan Musial, who in his final season connected for a home run, the crack of the bat audible even through my pillow, bringing the fans to their feet — and me, as well. I played it off like I was getting a drink of water.

Our house was small, and the TV was just beyond the bedroom door. My transistor blocked out the scary “Twilight Zone” music that otherwise would creep through the wall into the dark bedroom that my two younger brothers and I shared. (I let them listen at times so they wouldn’t tell on me for breaking bedtime rules.)

Sometimes I’d tune in WLS with its strong signal out of Chicago. At 10 p.m., DJ Art Roberts would play, in reverse order, the top three most-requested songs in the Chicagoland area, as voted by listeners’ phone calls. One night the top three were “Sugar Shack,” “South Street” and “Louie Louie.”

But the next night everything changed. At 10 o’clock I heard (and felt) a crash of thunder. Thunder that kept on rumbling — in rhythmic melody and harmony. I couldn’t believe what was coming through my little radio. This was a new kind of rock ‘n’ roll, dense yet intricate, with dramatic beginnings and endings. They were called The Beatles, and soon they had all three spots, with “All My Loving,” “I Saw Her Standing There” and “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” The Beatles dominated the radio for months, and then years.

So thanks then to a cool little radio, one that brought me DJ Art Roberts coming in behind the silicone smooth promo: “Double-u-EL-es...Chi-cago.” Thanks to The Beatles and Cardinals voices Harry Caray, who signed off with “So long everybody,” and Jack Buck, who wrapped up the scoreboard show with, “Thanks for your time this time. Until next time, so long.”

And, of course, thank you, Grandma. And so long.