Ramona's Radio Soapbox

By David L. Whitney

Tragedy has driven Danny Randle to a small East Tennessee town, which he now identifies every working day with the words, “This is Radio Station WRNT, the voice of Ramona, Tennessee.”
Other voices join the airwaves, too, as each week, Danny introduces someone from the community and WRNT becomes their radio soapbox – Ramona’s Radio Soapbox.
The varied cast of Soapboxers includes a Bible-belting preacher, a retired country doctor, an unwashed janitor, the newspaper editor, a Dutch immigrant, the local sheriff, and a retired black baseball player whose inadvertent on-the-air remark provokes a vindictive lawsuit.
And then there is the mystery woman who delivers her Soapbox comments anonymously. Her voice captivates Danny and he nearly loses his life before discovering her identity.
Ramona’s Radio Soapbox scripts these storylines with creative insight and humor. The author, a former radio announcer, writes with the authenticity of one who has often held the microphone and talked to an unseen audience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David L. Whitney
• Release date: Jul 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476213842

David L. Whitney

David L. Whitney is Professor Emeritus at Central Michigan University. Prior to that, he was a faculty member at Washington State University and Pepperdine University. He also served as a department chair at the Anglo-American College in Prague, Czech Republic. Before his academic career, David worked as a writer and program director in missionary radio broadcasting in a number of international settings. He and his wife, Judy, live in Oregon.

Book preview

1

Listening to Flatt and Scruggs play Foggy Mountain Breakdown, Danny Randle wondered if the best way to play a banjo was with a hacksaw. Probably not.

Holding a stack of 45-rpm music records and a handful of news reports, he stood beside the Gates radio broadcast console where Henry Butch O’Hare was concluding his DJ shift.

O’Hare lowered the music level and opened the announcer’s microphone. It’s just about noon, folks, and I’m out of here. Been good keepin’ company with y’all since six this morning. Danny Randle’s here with the news, and after that he’s got more good music for you all afternoon. So ’til tomorrow, this is Butch O’Hare saying, ‘so long.’ He clicked off the mike and reestablished the music, giving himself and Danny twenty-five seconds to exchange places.

All yours, pal. Butch handed him the earphones and vacated the announcer’s chair.

Thanks. Danny took his seat before the control console. He adjusted the overhanging microphone a couple of inches and queued up Chet Atkins’ version of Centipede Boogie on turntable #1, ready to go in a quarter of an hour.

Then, as the clock hit the top of the hour, Danny went on the air. It’s twelve o’clock, he announced. You’re listening to radio station WRNT, Ramona, Tennessee. He flipped a switch and the clatter of a teletype machine filled his ears. Two seconds later, he slowly faded the sound out and began to read, From the wires of the Associated Press and the WRNT newsroom, here’s the latest news on this Monday, October 10, 1960.

Reverend Clayton P. Stafford was mighty upset with the news he heard earlier that day. WRNT was airing a new Sunday morning program at the very hour of his own church service. Why just yesterday, while he and his congregants were enjoying a lively worship hour, the radio station was airing the Sunday morning mass of Ramona’s Episcopal Church, a small gathering of liturgically inclined folks who met in an aging chapel that boasted Ramona’s only pipe organ, albeit a small one with a single keyboard manual.

Naturally, Reverend Stafford disliked the Episcopalians. Papists in disguise, he called them. But that wasn’t the biggest lump in his bowl of grits. The main point was that for two years he’d been pressing Hank Holman, manager of WRNT, to give complimentary radio time to Stafford’s Freewill Baptist Church so that the Reverend’s fiery sermons could be heard beyond the city limits of Ramona to the four corners of East Tennessee’s Colter County. He was certain the papists didn’t have any radio money, just as he knew he didn’t have any, so he assumed they’d been given gratis airtime, and that rankled him to the extent that he decided to pay a visit to WRNT, even though this was Monday, his day off.

It’s seventeen minutes after four o’clock, Danny said to his audience, and here’s a song nobody wanted to sing. In fact, thirty artists turned it down before these two brothers recorded it in Nashville. ‘Bye Bye, Love.’ Here are the Everly Brothers. Danny already had the turntable spinning as he snapped off his microphone switch and sat back to listen. Bye bye, love. Bye bye, happiness. Hello loneliness. I think I’m a-gonna cry-y. Yeah, that’s the way it is, Danny thought as the studio door opened and station manager Hank Holman walked in.

Danny looked up. Bye bye love, hello Hank.

I think I’m a-gonna cry, Hank said.

Why’re you gonna cry?

Preacher Stafford was just here.

What’s he want, same old thing?

Yeah, but with a new twist, said Hank. He claims we gave a freebie to the Episcopalians yesterday and now he wants equal time.

But we didn’t, did we?

No, and I told him so, but he’s pretty upset. Says he’ll get his church to boycott us and our sponsors if we don’t ... Hank automatically stopped talking as the song ended.

Danny opened his mike. That was ‘Bye Bye, Love,’ everybody’s theme song at some point in their life. He paused a long two seconds of airtime to let that sink in. I’ll be back with Patsy Cline right after this message. He activated a cassette-recorded commercial for Barbara’s Hair Salon where big back-teased hair was a specialty.

Anyway, Hank continued, I gave in. He raised his hand as Danny began to object. I gave in. I said to him, ‘Look Reverend, let’s not take on a fight we can’t win. How about a little compromise?’ I told him to come back tomorrow and we’d put him in front of a mike and give him three minutes free to say anything he wants as long as it’s decent and legal.

Danny lifted his eyebrows. And he agreed?

Hank grinned. Eventually. I just stared at him while he fussed a bit. Then he finally said okay.

Danny looked at his boss. And let me guess, he’s coming in tomorrow afternoon on my shift.

Right. He’ll be all yours. Hank grinned. Then, Danny-boy, you get to take his little recorded sermon home and edit the heck out of it if necessary before we air it free of charge on Wednesday. It’ll give you something to do in the evening. Keep you out of the bars. Hank slapped him on the shoulder and left the room.

Flip Flop and Bop was playing when Danny opened his microphone for the last time that afternoon. It’s close to six o’clock, he said, and we’re going to let Floyd Cramer take us out today – ‘Flip Flop and Bop’ – and we’ll do a little flip flop of our own and make way for Maggie Ann who’ll be with you through the evening – so stay tuned. Up came Floyd Cramer’s Nashville piano for the duration while Maggie Ann settled in, adjusting the microphone back out to where Butch O’Hare had left it. Maggie Ann Purdy was a large gal.

After putting away his music, Danny quietly left the control room, turned right in the hallway, and walked into the reception area. Usually, at six o’clock in the evening, nobody was there. Loretta Jenkins, the secretary, went home at 5:30. But tonight, she stayed to type tomorrow’s log, the time schedule of programs, commercials, and transmitter information required by the United States Federal Communications Commission.

What are you doing here? said Danny.

I’m just hanging around until you get off so you can take me out for a drink.

Okay, he said. You want a chocolate or vanilla milkshake?

Danny liked Loretta. A few years ago the guys would have gone nuts for her good looks. But now, a little too much wear and tear was evident at the corners of her eyes, in her smile, and in the white scar that lay along the jawline under her left ear. As she once put it, I’ve got that used-but-not-abused look except for the not-abused part. With self-effacing humor, she tried not to take herself or life too seriously.

Oh honey, you’re only offering because you know I’m chained to this typewriter. She patted the machine. Hank up and gave that preacher a bully pulpit and I have to redo a page of Wednesday’s log to fit it in. I’ve been waiting to ask you when to schedule the rant. What do you think?

Two o’clock, he said.

Two? Why?

Because nobody’s listening then. They’re either at work or taking a nap. I try to make all my on-air mistakes at two o’clock.

She laughed. Okay. But if Hank doesn’t like it, I have to tell him it’s your idea. You know I cannot tell a lie.

Hank will love it.

Yeah, right, she said. So what do I call this thing?

I’d call it quits if I were you, then we could go have our milkshakes.

Danny! Be serious. I have to give it a name.

No you don’t. It’s a one-time-only event. Put down anything – radio soapbox – doesn’t matter. It’ll never happen again. Danny paused on his way out. Tell your mom hello for me. I hope she’s feeling okay.

Thanks, I will. And you tell the boys to go easy on the root beer.

2

Danny coaxed his 1954 Studebaker Champion out of the gravel parking lot and headed south past the Arrow Shirt factory, a La-Z-Boy furniture warehouse, and Bobby Bertram’s used car lot. As always, he drove in silence. He’d had enough radio for the day. Soon he entered Ramona’s quiet Main Street where the hush of old American elm trees and gracious homes gave the town a sedated look that never failed to quiet his mind. Danny took a deep breath, a habit now, as he felt the tension leave his neck and shoulders. He enjoyed radio broadcasting with its clock-induced adrenalin hits and the excitement of talking one-on-one to ten thousand people at once, but he also looked forward to that magic moment when the quiet southern charm of Ramona worked its therapy.

He had no reason to go home, so he usually stopped by Alberts Drugstore where folks visited around an old-fashioned soda fountain.

Howard Alberts had opened his brick-faced store in 1924 and had managed to survive the Great Depression even though he extended easy credit to everybody who needed medicine but couldn’t pay. In turn, the community took care of Howard Alberts and his family, providing farm produce for payment and suspending local commercial and property tax obligations for folks like the Alberts who were providing what was defined as essential services. Howard died in 1952 and his son William Billy had been owner/pharmacist for the last eight years. Billy remembered the old days and insisted that Alberts Drugstore would continue to be there for the community every day of the week, and every evening, except Sunday, until nine o’clock.

Entering downtown, Danny drove past the newer Walgreens Drugstore on his left, a big-window, brightly lit pharmacy that stretched along the sidewalk under a long sign. He saw the manager, Purvis Wallen, at the nearest counter. A single customer browsed the magazine rack. Walgreens was a good drugstore, modern, well stocked, and highly professional. It was also conveniently close to the hospital. But the good folks of Ramona liked the retro look of the Alberts establishment, locally owned by citizens who were rooted in the community. Ramona had deeply ingrained memories, some reaching back a century, but most built on principles of honesty, fairness, and loyalty. In a small way, these community adhesives were reinforced every day as neighbors stopped in at Alberts Drugstore for their healthcare needs. Many also took a midday break for coffee, Coke or an ice-cream soda. Teenagers came around after school. Now, in the early evening, Danny was looking forward to seeing a group of friends who, like himself, were either reluctant to go home from work or were coming back out after supper for a walk about town in the autumn air with an ice cream dessert to top off the day.

Hey, Danny! Wendell Smith beckoned in a loud voice. I’ve got a question for you. Wendell was a high school history teacher, and like many history teachers, considered himself ultimately educated across every field of human knowledge. The achievement that inspired much of his intellectual confidence was his master’s degree from the University of Tennessee. But since his graduate thesis was on the medieval crusades, most of his friends wondered about Wendell’s grasp of the here and now. Wendell often wondered too, and it was that honest self-awareness that balanced his personality, making him just vulnerable enough that his friends enjoyed his company.

Danny made his way down the long soda fountain counter, the ice cream bar, greeting a few of the folks who were sitting on the tall stools. Wendell and three others were parked around the larger of several old marble-top tables, the kind that stand on wrought-iron legs.

You’ve got a question for me?

Yeah, said Wendell. Who was the first Christian king of Denmark?

What?

Denmark. Who was their first Christian king?

Wow, said Danny. That’s a provocative question, Wendell. He looked at the three others. I’ll bet you’ve all been sitting here pondering that and how it relates to life in Ramona.

We were talking about the new downtown parking ordinance, said Harold McGinnis. This is the first time we’ve heard that question. The others, Peter Kearsey and Aaron Gibson, grinned and nodded. Danny found a chair at a neighboring table, gained permission from the couple seated there, and brought the chair over into the tight circle of friends.

The reason I’m asking, said Wendell, is that I got stumped today at school. History of Civ class. We were talking about how early Europe came out of paganism, and one of my students asked that very question. Right out of the blue. ‘Who was the first Christian king of Denmark?’ He told me they were reading some Hans Christian Andersen in literature class and he was trying to put those ‘paganish,’ his word, fairy tales into their historic setting.

Did you tell him?

I couldn’t, so I told him to look it up himself. Now, of course, I need to know in case he blows smoke at me tomorrow. So I figured that’s the kind of thing you’d know, Danny. Wendell looked at the others. Let’s see what he comes up with.

Wendell, you know I don’t do heavy thinking without sugar or caffeine. Danny looked over to the counter where Denise Crawford was blending a milkshake. She smiled at him and nodded. Give me a minute, Danny. Your root beer float’s coming up.

While I’m waiting, Danny continued, I want to ask, Pete, how’s your sister?

We’re not sure, said Peter Kearsey. She’s lost a lot of weight, and we won’t know for a while if they got all the cancer. But she’s home now. When I saw her yesterday she sounded a little more optimistic.

How’re the kids taking it?

Peter shrugged. How do kids ever take something like this?

Yeah, Danny said. It’s got to be real tough on them. She’s lucky to have you close by.

True enough. Well, if she gets worse, I guess Bobby will try to get a medical leave from the Army. He’s back at Fort Benning now, and I know he misses his kids.

Denise arrived. Here you go, Danny, she said. I put my finger in it. Hope that doesn’t make it too sweet for you.

Aw, Denise, you shouldn’t have. Now I’ll have to double your tip.

Let’s see, she calculated. Two times zero. Gosh, thanks, Danny.

Nice kid, Denise, Wendell said after she’d gone. Had her in my U.S. history class last year. Good student.

Danny stirred the scoop of ice cream in his float, spooned a big lump of it into his mouth and said, First Christian king of Denmark… I believe that was Knut the Knucklehead. After his conversion they called him Knut the Pius. As I recall, he once wrote a letter to the Pope, but his Holiness couldn’t figure out what language it was in. Well, it turns out that Knut was inarticulate in every language, but apparently they confused stupidity with saintliness. Danny pulled a long drink of root beer up through his straw.

No kidding! said Aaron Gibson. Aaron was the youngest member of the group and had been working at the Ford garage since his military discharge a year earlier. How’d you know that, Danny?

He doesn’t, said Wendell. He just now made it up.

And speaking of articulate saints, Danny continued, one’s going to visit us at the station tomorrow. He told them about Reverend Stafford and the deal Hank Holman had made. Actually, I’m sort of looking forward to it. Should be interesting, although I doubt the good Reverend can limit himself to three minutes. I’ll probably have a lot of tape-splicing to do tomorrow night.

When’s he going to be on the air? asked Wendell.

Danny told them, and they all agreed to listen.

A little later, Harold McGinnis looked at his watch. Well, boys, I have to go. Town council meeting tonight at eight. We’re going to argue over whose fault it was that Arnie Mather’s still blew up last week right here in town behind the Winn-Dixie store. Some folks wonder how it is we didn’t know it was there.

Did you know? Danny asked. You’re the city manager.

I didn’t, but I found out later that a couple of our council members did. According to them, they figured Arnie was doing a little personal chemical refining back there.

I’ll bet he was, Peter chuckled as he too rose to leave.

Danny joined them. I’ll be right back, Wendell, Aaron, he said.

At the door, Danny laid his hand on Peter’s shoulder. Uh, Pete, I was thinking that maybe your sis could use a little free babysitting help. Except for Thursdays, my mornings are usually open. Maybe I could watch the kids if she needs to go out, you know, to the doctor or something. What do you think?

Yeah, I think Sally would appreciate that. Nice of you to think of it. I’ll tell her.

Thanks. Danny returned to the table.

Harold Blue Tooth, said Wendell. Wasn’t Knut the Numbskull. Harold did write a letter to the Pope, though. You got that part right, Danny.

What did it say?

It said, ‘Dear Pope, thought you might like to know that one of my Vikings just discovered the new world.’ Of course the Pope didn’t believe him. He knew that wasn’t going to happen until 1492.

Danny drove home in early darkness. He lived in a small gray-shingled house that used to be an all-purpose garage/gardener’s cottage back behind one of Ramona’s old Southern mansions. The owners had renovated it and added a private driveway off a side street. It was all he needed. He’d been there for two years now. He eased the Studebaker in, cut the engine, and sat for a moment in the still dusk of day. Here we go again.

As usual, everything inside was orderly. Not spic ’n span, but orderly. Old furniture was in good repair and graced by slipcovers where worn upholstery had failed. There were a couple of dishes in the sink, but no dirty clothes hung over chairs, and no unmade bed. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s was in the cupboard, but rarely consulted. Danny looked around. The place was orderly but irreparably lonely.

Reverend Clayton P. Stafford felt a little guilty. In spite of his bluster at WRNT, he knew Hank Holman had told him the truth. From who-knows-where, the Episcopalians had come up with the money for six months of Sunday broadcasts. I suppose I could too, but that would take too much of my church salary, and right now that’s my only source of income.

Clayton Stafford was also a certified real estate agent. However, two years ago he promised God that he’d give up selling houses if God would bless his struggling church ministry. And for a while things went well. Attendance grew as Stafford devoted more time to sermon preparation, parishioner home visitation, and family counseling. These things came naturally to him, an energetic man with only a high school education, a Bible correspondence certificate, and an appetite for reading. His ordination was genuine enough, although the ordaining committee had been chosen by Stafford himself.

Over the last few months, however, relocation and death had claimed some key members of his church, and one family had left in anger over his refusal to marry their son to an agnostic. Things were a little difficult for Clayton at the moment. He supposed that was why he rushed off half-cocked to confront Hank Holman. Oh well, I’ll take his offer and do my best not to embarrass myself. He sat down at his kitchen table and began to jot down some thoughts. Soon he realized it is far easier to speak for thirty minutes than to speak for three.

3

In November of 1958, Danny came to Ramona almost out of necessity. The desire to simplify his life and escape another brutal Wisconsin winter had played some part in the decision process; but above all, there was the urgent need to break away from the memories to which tragedy had given birth, the sudden loss of the two people dearest to him.

He and Janet were talking one morning over breakfast coffee.

Danny, if something happened to you, I think Timmy and I would go back home to Michigan.

I think you should. Don’t let a tombstone keep you here. I promise I’ll go with you in spirit if that time comes.

I know you will, she said.

The time did come, though not as he imagined it.

In Ramona, Tennessee, radio station WRNT had fired one of its announcers for on-air comments that had greatly offended both the management of the station and the public in general. Since Colter County offered no acceptable replacement, Hank Holman had placed a small ad in Broadcasters MikeLife, a popular trade journal. Danny saw it and mailed an audition tape. With his pleasant voice and seven years’ radio experience, he was hired over the phone. The pay was modest, but so were his needs.

After settling in, Danny began walking the neighborhoods of Ramona during the morning hours before going to work. He noted a mom-and-pop grocery, public library, bakery, dry cleaner, doctor’s office, the Cumberland Presbyterian Church. One morning, after crossing Main Street into the west side of town, he came upon Crocker Elementary School. To this day he is unable to say exactly why, but after watching the children play during recess, he walked into the building.

The entrance was a hub for two long hallways, right and left, with two stairways leading to the second level. Since recess had just ended, only a few children were still scurrying back to class. Danny stood in that hub for a moment, surrounded by the ambience, big and little voices reaching him from the many classrooms and the metallic ring of a couple of small student lockers being closed in a hurry. Then he entered a door marked Office.

Good morning, said a gray-haired woman at the reception desk. May I help you?

Danny shrugged his shoulders. I don’t know. I was just walking by and… well, I decided to come in. My name’s Daniel Randle. I’m new here, and I guess I’m just getting to know the neighborhood.

Welcome, Mr. Randle. I’m Virginia. She pointed to her name badge that read Mrs. Morris. Wait a minute, aren’t you the new fellow at the radio station? Your voice is familiar.

Yeah, Mrs. Morris, that’s me.

Well, Danny Randle, how can I help you? And please call me Virginia.

I don’t really know, Virginia. It just feels good to visit a grade school. Back in Wisconsin, I used to go to PTA meetings.

She nodded. "So you’re a parent. Will your child be attending here?

Uh, no. Danny spoke reluctantly. I’m not a parent anymore, Virginia.

Oh. Virginia Morris made a fluttering motion with her fingers. But maybe you’re looking for something to do with children.

To be honest, I don’t know. Maybe so, but I don’t know what it might be.

Virginia pursed her lips and nodded her head for a moment. Would you excuse me for a moment, Danny? She stepped over to an open door behind her. Phillip? Have you got a moment? I want you to meet someone.

The man who appeared was younger than Danny. He was on his way to portliness with a baby-face already developing a double chin. He wore a three-piece suit with a tie that didn’t quite match. Virginia introduced them. Phillip, this is Danny Randle. He’s the new announcer at the radio station. Danny, this is our principal, Phillip Scopes.

Glad to meet you, Mr. Randle, said the principle. Yours is already a familiar name in Ramona. They shook hands.

So is yours, I’m sure. Danny smiled at him.

Scopes laughed. Distant relation, I have to say.

It was the trial of the century. Danny referred to the Tennessee courtroom drama of 1925 when the defendant, John Scopes, was found guilty of teaching evolution in the public school.

That it was, Phillip Scopes acknowledged.

Danny just stopped in to get acquainted, and we were wondering if there might be something he could do with the children. I was thinking about Mrs. Goodman.