It was no accident or twist of fate that I started mapping our house in the radio room. He called it his radio “shack,” because apparently that’s what all ham radio operators called their “space.” And while the room had many things jammed into it, the REAL draw for me was that counter covered in radio receivers, transmitters, boosters, wires, coils, and that precious Morse code key.
I loved playing with Dad’s ham radios…when he was not home, of course. I would have been in trouble if he’d seen me flipping switches, spinning dials, and changing frequency settings.
One time, I went in there when I was really young, fascinated as always by the wall of black radios. The adventurer in me was overwhelmed with excitement at how these powerful things could bounce invisible radio waves, whatever those were, off the ionosphere, whatever that was, and depending on the frequency and time of day, those radio waves could reach people all over the world. I remembered that something magical changed in the ionosphere at night, so there were people he could talk to then, whom he couldn’t reach during the day.
When he was home using his radio equipment, I would rarely venture in there, though he was usually in a good mood then. I loved listening to the dit-dah-dah-dit sounds of him sending code, and the beeping from the US Bureau of Standards channel when they did their countdown to mark the exact time. But one time, while he was sending a code message on his key, I went in and reached up to touch this round metal coil — an induction coil — that was on the wall, and it burned my hand. Rather than get in trouble, I didn’t say a word, just pulled my hand back, slipped out of the room, and crossed the hall to the bathroom to run my hand under cold water. So, I usually stayed out of there when he was home.
But when he was at work? Oh, that was my time to dream. I would pretend to be flying a spaceship or on an adventure in the jungle, spinning the dials and tapping the code key. It was like a giant toy.
Two of the walls were covered with “QSL cards,” postcards from people he’d “talked to” in Morse code – a Ham radio operator’s way of being penpals with someone. Whenever he connected with another “Ham,” they would each send their postcard to the other to document their transmission. It would have the radio operator’s call sign, name, information, logo, and on the back, the frequency, time, and other notes about their conversation. The term QSL basically meant “I acknowledge receipt.”
The other thing that just fascinated the hell out of me was, of course, a map — the big world map taped up above the linen closet, across of his radios. Red stick pins were scattered all over the earth, each marking the location of someone he’d communicated with. It was a room that represented dreams of faraway worlds, exotic peoples, and adventure, all achieved through the magical, invisible force of radio waves.
The room also apparently spoke to the artist side of me. One particular day when he was at work, I went in there, as usual. Awed by the expanse of black radios, and armed with a white crayon, I was moved to create. For the next several minutes I scribbled all over that vast expanse of black. It was like an empty canvas calling to be filled. When I finished, I stepped back to admire my work and suddenly, that rational side of my brain freaked out. Realizing what would happen if Dad came home and saw white crayon all over his radios, I began to panic and cry.
My Mother walked in, surveyed the situation, and asked me why I had done that. My response was instantaneous and filled with the desperate realization that my survival was in her hands.
“I don’t know how it happened!”
She arched her eyebrows. “You don’t know how it happened?”
“No! But it will never happen again!”
I recall a smile and an acknowledgment of my “promise,” and she sent me off to play in another room. Later that day, the black radios were back to normal. I never did draw on them again, but the radios – they held a power over me that has never been broken.
I remember that Dad wanted us to get our ham licenses. He would teach us Morse code and test us on it over summer vacations. Because I found it so fascinating, I wished I had been able to get my license. But electronics were not my strength. I was about playing with the radios in my dreamer world and making up stories for myself, than of actually getting the license. I was never going to be an engineer. Case in point, years later, on a whim, I bought myself a model train set and promptly wired it wrong so that only half the track worked at a time.
But the radios served their purpose, though. His attitude told us that we could actually do something like this. It was a confusing message in one way. He expected us to be something. He would constantly tell us, “Don’t grow up to be a stupid woman.” While he instilled in us that we could do anything and we should, it was a horrible message. But at the same time, it all had to meet his criteria and rules and control, since he ruled the household and made clear what you could and could not do.
At that age I took it to mean that there were smart women out there– women who did well in school, got good jobs, did things, and then there were the “other women” and they were stupid. So HIS daughters were not to grow up and be that.
I look back and question if that was really about us and for our benefit…or so he could proudly show off his “smart daughters.” I also wondered – what did my Mom feel about that statement? His mantra. After all…she hadn’t gone to school, she didn’t work, she didn’t “do things” that his “smart women did.” Was she a “stupid woman?”
But at that time in my life, aside from his indoctrination, it was that room that fired me with a desire for adventure, a vast curiosity about the world, and a sense of possibility for my future. I didn’t want to be a wife or mother; I wanted to be out there, having adventures.
From a very young age I had spotted that it was the world of men that had all the fun and the power. Women cooked, sewed, and cleaned. Men had “careers.” They were scientists, explorers, makers of action. My father’s stories, and this room, with the QSL cards all over the walls, were proof. Even when I played house with the neighborhood kids, I would be the Dad because I knew men ran the show.
Even at that age, I knew I didn’t want to be the one worrying about whether supper was ready. I wanted to be the one coming home to supper. I wasn’t sure what I would be or how I would get there — all those “in-between” details I had no concept of then — but I would be “something and not stupid”….and the world with all the space flights and TV travel specials, the exotic places out there I was learning about and all the things there were to learn about, I fell in love with that.
Over the years, Dad would eventually replace the radios with newer transmitters and receivers. But somehow, one of those old black ones — a World War II Army tank radio — survived and made its way into my hands, along with that Morse code key. They have a place of honor now, in my living room.
My husband asked me one time why I kept it, why I kept something of Dad’s, knowing how bad many of the memories were. Without hesitation, I said I didn’t keep it to remember him. I kept it to remember her — that younger version of me.
That old tank radio is a talisman. Magical. Every time I touch one of those dials or press the key, I am directly connected to her — my young inner child playing and dreaming in that radio room — and I can still feel a sense of joy just putting my fingers on those switches. That radio was my talisman filled with hope and power, a portal that could transport me to a better future where I could reach for the magic in the world — whether it was radio waves bouncing off ionospheres or the dreams in my heart that said anything might be possible…someday.
Soul Mosaic 