The Days Before Christmas

As far back as I remember, we always had a pine tree for Christmas. About a week or so before Christmas, on a Saturday, my Dad would get out his tree cutting tools. They consisted of a small hatchet and a hand saw. Dad liked the saw because it didn't make much noise!

Mom would get me bundled up in my winter clothes, hand knitted mittens and hat. Dad would let me carry the hatchet in spite of Mom's protest! The hatchet blade was wrapped up with an old rag and tied, keeping me safe.

Off we would go down the old railroad tracks to a cart path crossroad (now Pinehurst Road). We would take the cart path into a pine grove of small trees. These pine trees were spreading into the pasture land of David Seager's Farm.

Dad would select one a little taller than he could reach. He would send me in to trim the lowest branches with the hatchet. This was quite a task for a young kid.  Dad helped me those first few years. He would take his saw and, in short order, over the tree fell.

Now the task of dragging it home: Dad in front and me taking up the rear, trying to keep the tree from dragging along the ground, while still hanging onto my hatchet!

Finally we arrived home. I was pooped!

Oh no, we weren't through. Dad had me gather up the bushel baskets stored in the barn. Into the back seat of the old Chevy they went. We now headed off to Pine Street.

About half way down Pine Street, we pulled over, across from the brick yard factory. We scrambled over the embankment, jumped over the brook and through the thick moss.

The moss-covered ground under the hemlock trees was ideal for Princess Pine to thrive. We would pick a basketful -- how pretty those little tree-like plants were. A good crop of Trailing Ground Pine was also found growing through the Hemlock litter and moss.

With two full baskets, we headed back to the car. I would drag the lightest basket to the edge of the brook. Dad would carry it over the brook, up the bank, and into the Chevy. (I was back at the brook on my hands and knees having a cold drink, and boy was that water cold!)

Back home we unloaded the full baskets of greens. Dad got the round frames made of chicken wire down from the barn attic. They still had a few dried-up leftover greens from last year. I would clean them out and start weaving the Princess Pine into the frame.

I had watched Dad make these wreaths as long as I could remember. He would fix them up here and there where I messed up. During this time Dad was making a stand for the tree (no store-bought stand here!) Finally, late in the afternoon, we had three wreaths made and a tree ready for decorating.

Remember, this took place on a Saturday, so now what? Into the old Chevy and off to Sted's. I, holding a five cent returnable bottle. Dad would get a bottle of Ballentine Ale and a cigar. I would exchange the bottle for a candy bar. After arriving home, the tree got dragged into the house to be decorated the next day.

Supper came and went. Now it was time for a few games of checkers. I, with a candy bar and a glass of milk. Dad, with a glass of ale and a cigar. As I look back, I lost most of the checkers games, but I won a day with my Dad.

''The smells of Christmas are the smells of childhood'' - Richard Paul Evans

by Ray Freden. The village of Seaview, Marshfield Ma.

P.S. I still have one Christmas tree ball from my first Christmas. It's 78 years old!

Holidays of the 40s

As the holidays neared, Mom and Dad would start preparing the food stuff and housecleaning. Our guests were Gram and Gramps, my mother’s parents. They were always welcome for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. That was okay with me because they were very generous.

As I was the only child for my first nine years, I had chores. Clean my room, clean the hall and stairs up to my room. Geezs, why? No one goes up there! Also, straighten up the porch. Well, I could see that -- anyone that came into the house came through the porch. The summer table and chairs got stacked neatly, other stuff got taken to the barn. Skippy's [my dog] bed and dishes got moved whether or not he liked it!

And then it was my chore to care for the chickens. We had 3 or 4 roosters, each for a holiday dinner. Turkeys -- what are those? Yes, I knew wild turkeys were the traditional birds of Thanksgiving. But, where would you get a wild turkey? I never remember seeing one in the grocery store. I knew of a turkey farm in Duxbury -- on occasion we drove by it. My mom said they were expensive. I had no idea what expensive was.

 Anyway, I took care of the chickens -- about twelve hens and three or four roosters. During school years, it was tough to get up early enough to feed them, so Mom did my morning chores after she saw me off on the school bus. After school, I would lug a bucket of fresh water to them, a coffee can of mash, then a treat of cracked corn scratch. Boy, would they run for that! The roosters would get all puffed up and stomp around in circles, telling the hens where the food was! The hens cleaned that scratch feed up fast. There was little corn left for those dumb roosters!

About two weeks before a holiday, it was time to fatten up a rooster. Dad had a small cage he put in the chicken yard. He put a rooster in it. Now he got special treatment. Warm, wet, fattening-up mash, and a half can of corn twice a day. He was fed well and had limited exercise so he fattened up fast. Now he had a bad attitude -- he would try to attack me when I fed him. Dad said he was mad and wanted out with his hens!

On the Saturday before the holiday, Dad would get his gear together to do the rooster in, pluck him and clean him. Oh yes, I watched. I knew where chicken came from -- roosters too. Mom would take the naked bird, singe the fuzz off it and wash it up. Then it went into a cooler box on the porch. Dad would always have Mom weigh the bird. He would be disappointed if it didn't weigh more than six pounds.

I remember so vividly my Dad carving that rooster, always saying, “What a great bird.” My favorite was a wing, but white meat smothered with gravy was equally accepted. There was never much left on that bird after a holiday meal, but enough for Mom's soup or a chicken pie, both my favorites to this day.

Happy Holidays.

- Ray

wrfreden@localnet.com

Box Tops

--> Wheaties were not my favorite cereal, but Jack Armstrong was my favorite radio person, “The All American Boy.” Oh how I wished I too could have been an All American Boy. Listening to his adventures made me feel like a different kid. However, after finishing a soggy bowl of Jack Armstrong's Wheaties, “The All American Breakfast,” hardly made me feel like a different kid.

 

I remember, it was the summer of 1944, I was almost 10. Wheaties was offering two WW-2 war plane models for two box tops and a nickel. An offer I couldn't resist, [but should have]. The first offered was the P-40 Flying Tiger, my favorite fighter. The other was a Japanese Zero, not a favorite! I really had to stuff down the first box of Wheaties. My dog Skippy never let on that there was more in that bowl than leftover milk and sugar.

Then there was a delay for the second box of Wheaties. Mom said I had Cheerioats to finish before they get stale! Oh no, another setback!

I finally got the second box of Wheaties, a nickel, and three pennies for a stamp.

Now, a three to four week wait for them to arrive -- eternity for a 10 year old! The rest of school vacation passed, school started and no model planes!

The school bus let me off a few steps from our mailbox. I would run over, wing the lid down and only find no mail for me. More days passed, still an empty mailbox. Now I was pretty mad at Jack Armstrong! In fact, I was so mad I could have kicked the cat, only we didn't have a cat!

Into the kitchen I went. I threw my lunch box onto the table, scattering the mail my Mom brought in earlier. There it was, a manila envelope with my name and address, and most important, P-40 and Zero stamped on front. A few seconds later, the contents were spread out in front of me. Where to start? Reading instructions was not something I was good at.

Mom convinced me to wait for Dad to help. After supper, Dad and I spread newspapers and an old sheet on the dining table. There would be hell-to-pay should anything spoil that table. Out came the two cardboard sheets. Each plane was printed in color. Dad picked up the instruction sheet and started reading. I had the P-40 sheet in my hands.    

“Come-on Dad,” I urged, “Let’s cut 'em out!”

Finally we got cutting. I was having a hard time cutting that cardboard. Oops, I cut a tab right off! Every tab was important to hold the parts together. We worked on those two models until past my bedtime.

The next night was glue together time.

The only glue we had was a bell shaped bottle with a rubber, pig-looking nose, with a slot for applying the glue [Le Pages glue]. A dab on this tab, then on that one, then a glob spurts all over the place! Glue all over my fingers. What a mess!

The instructions said to place a penny in the nose and glue it to the tabs. Well this smart kid of 10 thought two pennies would work better. Dad glued the recommended one penny in the Zero. What I thought was going to take a few hours took a week!

The next Saturday came. I was right on time having breakfast with the two finished planes sitting in front of me. My mind was flying with my P-40 Flying Tiger. I was going to dogfight with that Zero and blow him to smithereens!

Title, My P 40.

Title, Dads Zero.

 “Come-on-Dad, lets go and dog fight.”

We went out front where there were no trees. I faced into the wind as the instructions said, and threw my P-40 as hard as I could.

Up, up, up it went. It nearly stopped, then nosed straight down, crashing into the wet grass.

I ran to it, picked it up, shook it off, and set it on the front step. Now Dad's trial flight.

Up, up, up the Zero went, nosed over, and glided softly down into the grass.

I was not happy. I went and picked up my P-40. It was soggy and soft! Dad said the Zero was getting soft too. The water from the wet grass had softened the cardboard and melted the glue!

Into the house I ran. I set my P-40 on the table, and Dad set the Zero down beside it. I looked up at Dad, my eyes full of tears. I broke into a cry as he held me. My dreams shattered -- no dogfights, no blasting that Zero out of the sky!

Well, in a few days, I got over that disaster. I will never forget the sight of those two limp planes sitting on the kitchen table! Never again did I mail away for any other box top offer!

W. Ray Freden    Seaview/ Marshfield

wrfreden@localnet.com

Sad things happen—they do—
but we don't need to live sad forever.
 Mattle Stepanek.

What’s For Breakfast

Hey,CAPT CRUNCH, take a look. DIG 'EM FROG and FREAKIES are harassing GUMMY YUMMY and COLD MONKEY. Send FRUIT BRUTE and FRANKEN BERRY over and shoo-em away!

Yes, if you take a look at the cereals available at today’s market, you will find names like this! I can't imagine (when I was young) my Mom bringing home a box of COLD MONKEY or CRAZY COW! I would never have known what a breakfast cereal was!

As it was, I do remember, behind that grey cupboard door with the clear glass knob, were: a box of Shredded Wheat, Corn Flakes or Pep, and Rice Krispies. These were the dry cereals to which warm water or milk was added, along with sugar and fruit. During WW2, sugar and milk were scarce. Only the basics could be found in those cupboards.

My Dad's favorite was two Shredded Wheat biscuits. He called them '' hay bales.” Softened with warm water, some milk, then topped with brown sugar. In season, sliced strawberries, peaches or raspberries would be a welcome topping.

Corn Flakes or Pep worked for me until Cheerioats came along during WW2. I had to trade off the Pep, but that was easy. Cheerioats floated on top of the milk and stayed crispy much longer. The powered sugar I liked stayed on top much better. They stuck to the side of the bowl and had to be picked up with my fingers . . . not a bad thing until I got caught!

At the end of WW2, they discontinued the name ''Cheerioats,'' and renamed them ''Cheerios.'' A new name, a new box -- I was devastated. I couldn't be convinced they were the same.

Do you remember when you couldn't wait to find the prize in the cereal box? Many times the box would get opened in the car and the contents rummaged through until the prize was found. My Mom would go bananas if she found out!

I think I was about 10, I discovered the variety packs of 10 single serving boxes. Kellogg’s offered: three Corn Flakes, two each of Rice Krispies and Pep, one each of Shredded Wheat, Bran Flakes, and Kellogg Krumbles.

Many of our old favorites have come and gone. It seems everything I really liked got discontinued. After WW2, there were so many more to choose from. Lots of sugar coated stuff with goofy names. As I left my teen years behind, so did my desire for any cold, soggy breakfast cereal.

Names like Quaker Oats, Kellogg’s, General Mills, Post Foods will remain in our lives forever.

by Ray Freden.  Seaview, 60 years. Marshfield 70 Years.

The Hurdy Gurdy Man and his Monkey

I don't remember the first visit of the Hurdy Gurdy Man and his monkey, however it was before school age. Maybe 1938 or 9.

During those early visits, my Mom would be with me on our Summer Street driveway. Mom would hand me a penny and I, in turn, would hold it out for the monkey. Those first years I remember of being timid of this dressed-up animal.

These summertime visits became an event to look forward to. Most of my days were spent out in the yard. Being outside, I was aware of the noises of goings-on in the neighborhood. This was during WW2, so the cars and trucks going by were few and far between. It was quiet.

The faint melody of an organ playing just atop the hill, up past the Seaview Garage, got my attention. I would drop everything, run to the edge of Summer Street and look up the hill to Banner's house, where I would see the Hurdy Gurdy man grinding his organ, with his monkey collecting coins from the kids.

His next stop would be the Seaview Garage. Pansy, the book keeper, and Eula, the owner’s daughter, had a weakness for that cute little monkey. I could see the monkey crawling all over them. How envious I was! How in the world could I get him to do that with me?

The stop at the garage gave me time to run into the house and shake pennies out of my tin bank. It didn't take me long to learn to use a knife to jimmy out the coins. I now was armed with five or six pennies, waiting for the Hurdy Gurdy man to stop at my house.

"Hey kid, where's da pennies?''

 
Every time I handed out a penny, the monkey would look at his master. Little did I know, he was looking for a command. After the fifth penny, the monkey got a command to hold my finger. Later and older, I learned that silver coins were the secret to the monkey’s bag of tricks!

I remember so vividly the monkey’s outfits. During the hot summer months, the monkey wore a red and black vest with gold trim and gold-looking buttons; and a pair of black shorts with red side stripes and gold trim. Three brass buttons were on the sides of the shorts. It also wore a red fez-shape hat with a chin strap, and a gold tassel on top that flopped around. The monkey had a leash and collar that had worn away its neck hair.

The Hurdy Gurdy Man wore an outfit as a worn as the monkey's was: a black shirt, sometimes white, and a black bow tie; a black vest with red and gold trim. Black trousers, sometimes knickers; black socks and shoes. His hat was a very worn fedora (maybe) with a gold and black feather, also very worn.

The Organ Grinder had black hair, sharo features and some gold teeth. He always wore a smile and my Mom said, “He had a twinkle in his eye,” whatever that meant.

The organ was a square box with a crank handle, a leather strap, and a grille in front; it was supported with one leg.

On my Dad’s way home from the Greenbush railroad station, he would pass the Hurdy Gurdy man hiking up the long Summer Street hill. The monkey would be hanging on top of the organ that was strapped to the Hurdy Gurdy’s back. I know the organ grinder man and his monkey were still making the Summer Street trip in 1951.

I got my driver’s license in May of '51 and sometimes would make the Greenbush railroad station trip to pick up my Dad. I too would pass the Hurdy Gurdy man somewhere on Summer Street, headed back to his car, which was parked on the old road at Stoddard's Corner. I wondered many times how an organ grinder could afford that new, big, black Cadillac sedan, collecting pennies.

His Caddy parked beside a barn on Summer St.'

 For over 10 years, before 1940 to after 1951, Summer Street, Seaview, Elm Street and Humarock were so fortunate to be entertained by those wonderful characters. I can find no record of who he was or where he was from.

by Ray Freden, Remembering the Village of Sea View.

The Blizzard of ‘78, 34 years ago

I am jumping ahead of "the kid from Seaview" in the 40s & 50s, to a 44 year old man from Seaview. I was teaching in Fitchburg, Ma. So, on February 6th, 1978, I was up at 5:00 to leave Seaview about 6:00 for the 90-mile journey.

Monday morning off I went, with a slight falling of snow, arriving at school at 7:55, just in time for class. I kept an eye on the much faster and heavier snow falling. School was called off at noon. I called my wife to get the latest news; she said, “It’s getting bad.” I had a room in Ashburnham, but decided to head back home,

East on Route 2 was plowed, however, slow. It took two hours to get to Route 128 – usually about 30 minutes. Approaching 128, I had to make a decision to continue on Route 2 or 128. Route 128 looked clear, so down I went. As I approached the Mass Pike, I entertained the idea of heading toward Boston.

Unbeknownst to me, at 6pm, Route 128 was at a complete jam in Canton. I did not have a radio in my truck to monitor the storm or traffic. It was stop and go for about a mile, then stop and no more go! I could see the railroad bridge in Westwood.

14 died from carbon dioxide poisoning.

After about an hour, people were walking past me. I stopped one and asked where everyone was going. That person was going to seek refuge in the St. Bartholomew Church, not far away. He told me that Route 128 was jammed solid. Not being a church going person, I opted to stay in my truck.

It was quite cold and the wind wouldn't stop howling! A few more cold souls passed by about 10PM. I was quite aware that exhaust fumes entering the cab could do me in! I cleared the snow away from the exhaust a few times. I had my suitcase with me for my week of extra clothes, and the two sheets I would have used on my bed in Ashburnham. I usually had some leftovers and sandwich making stuff, however I left that back in the shop refrigerator. I cracked open the wing windows and the back slider for a fresh flow of air. I turned the heat to full hot and high fan, wrapped up in the sheets, and dozed off. When the heat got so hot I woke, turned the truck off, and dozed until I was cold. That went on for nearly six hours.

The sound of sirens awoke me at about 6:30 am. Two State Police cruisers were broadcasting that a bus was coming to transport any of us left. This was happening on the cleared northbound lane, now being used for both north and southbound traffic.

About 20 of us abandoned our vehicles, climbed over the guardrails, and boarded the bus. More were picked up as we traveled along. We ended up at the National Guard Armory in Dedham. They let us use their phone to call our loved ones. My wife and two kids were fine as well as Reggie, our dog. They had plenty of wood for heat and cooking.

After I contacted my wife, the guardsmen fed us onion soup for breakfast! There were four of us at the table trying to decide what to do. There was a small restaurant close by that we ended up having a lunch in.

Two of the group were from Quincy, one from Norwood, and me, from Marshfield. The two from Quincy left us. My new-found friend said he would walk home to Norwood and asked if I wanted to come along. I did.

Oh my god, what was I in for? Down Route 1, unplowed! We were walking on a snowmobile trail with just the roofs of cars showing! As we passed Lechmere's, the snow had drifted so high it covered the entire entrance!

We continued until we came to a Chinese restaurant, and turned right up a hill that was barely plowed. It was dusk. When we arrived at my friend’s house, the entrance was completely covered in snow!

Our shovel was a board. It took about 30 minutes to get through the door with quite frozen hands. My friend’s wife made us dinner, we did some chatting, then off to the sofa for a some well-needed sleep. The next morning: a nice breakfast, a thank you, and a farewell.

I hiked south on Route 1. Some plowing had been done to Route 27 -- that was my way home. I got a ride on the running board of a wrecker into Stoughton, another ride in the back of a pickup through Brockton, and finally another ride on the step of a grader into Rockland. I headed east on Route 123 and got a ride to 3A & 123.

As I got to Neal Gate Street in Greenbush, a friend picked me up and dropped me off at my front door! Wednesday, Feb. 8th about 2pm -- two and half days. Not too bad!

My wife had the deck and back steps cleared. Up I went, opened the back door and hollered, “I'm home!” My wife said that she had a feeling I'd be home that afternoon. Hugs and kisses for the wife, the kids, and the dog, in that order.

Now my wife says, “Let’s take a walk down to Fourth Cliff to see the damage!” Oh well, why not? My legs were still in motion from hiking from Norwood.

A week later I obtained a permit to recover my truck. I found it in the northbound lane. The National Guard had cut openings in the guardrails and dragged all of the vehicles into the northbound lane.

The next week was spent freeing the vehicles.

All was well, except all my clothing in the suitcase was gone! I suppose a Guardsman was grateful for the dry clothes!

by Ray Freden Seaview/Marshfield

"Snowflakes are one of nature's most fragile things, but just look what they can do when they stick together." - Vesta M. Kelly

The First Blizzard I Remember (1940)

On St. Valentine’s Day in 1940, as I was approaching five and a half years, a horrific northeast blizzard swept over the northeastern United States. Seaview was left buried in snow.

It was on a Wednesday, and my Dad made it to Greenbush to take the train to work in Boston. The storm was getting worse. At noon his boss – knowing my Dad had a long trip home -- let him off early. The next train to Greenbush wasn't until 4:30. Dad had to wait four hours in the South Station . . . and my Dad didn't like waiting.

Steaming out of Boston.

That early train just made it to Greenbush. Dad had installed tire chains on his car that morning, just in case the storm got worse. Route 3A was plowed, but at Stoddard’s Corner, Summer Street had a huge drift across it. Dad had to continue down 3A until he found a plowed road to Seaview.

Highland Street was plowed, as were Pleasant and Summer Streets. Station Street was not plowed, and the snow bank was too high to crash through. The Seaview Garage was closed for the night and had a space plowed open. Dad left his car and walked home from there, just two doors away.

Our streets were barely plowed.

 I remember the snow was so high that getting in or out of the back door was difficult. Dad was over an hour late, but Mom had supper warm on the kerosene stove. Mom made a favorite dinner for Dad. Valentine’s Day was always special for my folks and so the dinner was eaten in the dining room by candlelight (this night we HAD to use candles -- the electricity was out.

After supper, a white frosted cake with red heart shapes all over it, was dessert. Just after we finished, Dad placed a red heart-shaped box of Fanny Farmer chocolates at Mom's place. Mom had first pick, I had the next -- always a square one. Dad had last pick -- he didn't care which one. Then we had another round.

After supper, Dad lit his lantern, and went to shovel an opening out to Summer Street so he could get his car into the side yard. The wind was howling and stayed that way all night. The drifts were becoming quite high against our house -- up to the windows!

We had a coal furnace for heat and the telephone was working. Our home was lighted by kerosene lamps and candles. Dad had a flashlight that he carried everywhere until the batteries went dead. When the flashlight was useless, he lit up a kerosene lantern.

The next morning, Dad got a telephone call from Bill Pratt, the Police Chief. He was asked if he would help dig out Summer Street between the O'Donnells’ and the Littles’. This is now the entrance to Cedar Acres Road. Dad agreed, got his shovel and walked down Summer Street to the site. There were many men and the older boys from the neighborhood there.

Men and boys shoveling through a drift.

When he arrived home in the late afternoon, he told Mom and me that they only made about ten feet of headway and Dad was beat! There were no plowing machines that could handle these fifteen foot drifts, and many were higher.

The ladies of the neighborhood kept a steady flow of coffee, sandwiches and goodies for the crew.

Also, there was a huge drift at the south end of Station Street and the plow truck couldn't budge it. The north end of Station Street got plowed because Charlie Langille, our neighbor, was a town selectman. All hell would break loose if it didn't get plowed!

On the third day, Saturday, Mom and I took a hike down to the big drift to watch the gang shoveling.

When we arrived, Dad was atop the drift, cutting blocks of snow that would be passed to the next shoveler, and finally into a waiting dump truck to be hauled away. In those days there were no front end loaders. I think there were only two graders in town, one was the town’s and the other was Gino Rugani's. Gino's was assigned to Stoddard's Corner (Main and Summer). The crew got information about the goings-on around town from the truck drivers. It took three days to get through that drift.

I think Dad got to work in Boston on that following Tuesday. He said that along the way to Boston, from Greenbush, that the drifts were as high as the train.

I was to live in that house for another seven years, and every Valentine’s Day dinner, my folks would go over every detail of that 1940 “Valentine’s Day Blizzard,” and a box of Fanny Farmer's candy would always there.

by Ray Freden, 70 years in Marshfield, 60 In Seaview.

Old Time Radio

Today’s "Old Time Radio" was then, my current time radio.

To about 1950, the radio was our connection to the world – as well as the daily Boston Record American tabloid newspaper. TV took over about 1950.

I can remember racing home just before quarter 'til five to listen to my favorite radio broadcasts. This would have been in the early 1940s.

The “quarter 'til five” was hard for me to understand when first learning to tell time. At some point, someone explained to divide the clock into 4 parts, place quarters (25 cent pieces) on a clock face: one on three, two on six, and one on nine. Bingo! One quarter after, two quarters past -- or half past, then the quarter on nine was quarter before or “quarter 'til five!” All thanks to four quarters of a dollar.

I would race home on foot or on my bike, slide the rear wheel on the dirt walkway, run up the back stairs, through the kitchen into the living room, jerk the switch out, then wait for the old Philco radio to come alive. It seemed to take forever!

I think Jack Armstrong, “The all American Boy,” was first to come on, “Quarter 'til Five.” Sponsored by Wheaties, “The Breakfast of Champions.”

There were so many. I will mention a few that I liked.
Captain Midnight
Charlie McCarthy Show
Abbott and Costello
Aldrich Family
Amos and Andy
Baby Snooks
Batman and Robin
The Shadow: “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow Knows. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.”

Blondie and Dagwood
Bob Hope Show
Burns and Allen
Jack Benny
Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde
The Inner Sanctum
The Buster Brown Show: “Hi, I'm Buster Brown. I live in a shoe. Whoof! That’s my dog Tyge. Look for him in here too.”

Dick Tracy
Duffy's Tavern
Fibber McGee and Molly
Flash Gordon
Gene Autry
The Green Hornet
The Lone Ranger and Tonto
Lum And Abner
Little Orphan Annie
Our Miss Brooks
Ozzie and Harriet
Sky King and Penny and their Songbird
Super Man And Robin
Hit Parade
You Bet Your Life
Popeye and Olive
Red Skelton
Roy Rogers
Sam Spade
The Thin Man
Tom Mix
Victor Borge (A favorite of my Dad’s)
And the WW2 News.

There are so many more. Some of my list were my Mom and Dad’s favorites, which I was hog-tied to the wing chair and forced to listen to!

The loss of the radio was devastating for a youngster of the 40s. The worst happenings would be a storm when we lost electricity, or I would have to go with Mom to pick up my Dad at the Greenbush railroad station!

Then there were the times that the power tube blew out or grew weak! If this happened during the week, it wasn't so bad because Dad knew which one, took it to Boston with him, and got a replacement. Should this happen on the weekend, off to Chandler’s Radio Store for a replacement. Ya! It cost three times more!

Oh, and there was the “No Radio Tonight” punishment! That was a tough one!

So many shows were dropped in the late ‘40s as television took over. Some shows moved to TV, but it just wasn't the same.

As I became a teenager I had less interest in the radio shows and they became history. TV took over for a while. Then 16, 17, 18 and on . . . there were other interests!

Google ''Old Time Radio'' and listen to some of the shows.

by Ray Freden, 60 years in Seaview, 70 in Marshfield, 7 in Pembroke Maine.
“Maine, the way life should be.”
Down East, "It is that way"