AM Radio
I abandoned AM radio years ago, when the country oldies station switched to non-stop coverage of the baseball game. (Historical note: There is only one baseball game. It started in 1908 and is expected to wrap up in the 2050’s, or the 2070’s if it goes into overtime. This explains why it is referred to as the ‘old’ ball game.) Baseball fans are a patient lot, surviving on peanuts and crackerjacks, not caring if they ever get back, content to watch nothing much happen as the decades crawl by and pine tar fossilizes to amber. Like the guildsmen who built the great cathedrals, they don’t expect discernible progress in a single lifetime.
Long-time listeners may recall the flurry of excitement in 1988 when the announcer, who had dozed off in 1916, was awakened by the sharp report of fans’ joints popping during the mandatory 118th inning stretch. Startled and confused by what he thought was gunfire, he declared the U.S. under attack and exhorted all his listeners (seven) to take up arms against Kaiser Wilhelm II. Officials called a brief intermission until the announcer regained his composure and nodded off again. Fans tolerated the delay with their usual serenity, and used the time to memorize statistics such as Randy Johnson's inseam (67 inches) and each player's REI, or Required Expectoration Index (114 spits per hour).
Not everyone has the dedication, focus, and bladder capacity to be a baseball fan, but a simple test can determine if you have what it takes. Watch this space. This one. Right here. Just…keep…watching… Anything happening? No? And are you having fun? Great! You’re a potential baseball fan! Now for the test that separates the true aficionados from the merely comatose: Does this activity continue to fascinate you for the next eleven or twelve hours? Try it!
Anyway. Recently, to my great delight, I've found a number of stations that play the music of my youth. This was a motley assortment of genres, thanks to ‘record of the month’ clubs. At first we enjoyed affixing little stickers to the order forms, but as the months rolled on, my mother became increasingly desperate to find something, anything, to order. I don’t know what would have happened if she opted out -- “Mom, there are some RCA guys at the door. They have a 20-album set of Lawrence Welk’s Polka Hymns of Accordion Joy” and they won’t leave until you sign for it” -- but rather than find out, she’d choose something at random and hope for the best.
That is how Tex Ritter’s “Blood on the Saddle” lurched into our lives. It was the sad tale of a cowboy’s demise when a “bronco fell on him and bashed in his head,” delivered in Tex’s mournful croak. Imagine a suicidal, two-pack-a-day whiskey-gargling bullfrog, and that would be Shirley Temple compared to Tex. The dirge had only three verses, with lyrics consisting mostly of “bloooood.” Tex loaded up the word with all the misery at his masterful command, and it sent my sister and me into tears-in-the-eyes, pain-in-the-side, snorting hiccupping sputtering laughter every time we played the song. Which was often. One day the album mysteriously disappeared, leaving us no choice but to sing it ourselves. Often.
Any reference to “Blood on the Saddle” was forbidden during meals, after demonstrations that laughter on its way out overpowers food on its way in, and milk can be spewed a remarkable distance out of any cranial aperture, with the possible exception of ears.
So then the game began; the goal, of course, was to frame one’s sibling while maintaining the illusion of innocence. Whispering was risky, but sometimes under the cover of conversation it was possible to get away with “Please pass the salt – and bloooood .” My sister developed a sudden inability to hold her napkin and utensils; from under the table would come a mournful “There was bloooood…” And by the time she reappeared I’d be banished to the kitchen, wiping milk from my nose.
But “Blood on the Saddle” was a cheery romp through daisy fields compared to Hank Snow’s “When Tragedy Struck.” Mom ordered it for my dad; she wasn’t a country music fan herself, but she figured she couldn’t go too far wrong with a country singer named Hank. My sister and I enjoyed the album; it hit that thin line between tragedy and comedy and just kept going. Dogs and gray-haired Mamas shuffled off this mortal coil, children breathed their last, blind orphans and prisoners lamented their sad lot; altogether an impressive amount of agony packed into ten songs.
Our favorites featured sanctimonious children who took to their deathbeds spouting flowery prose, which we cheerfully lifted. “Don’t make me go to bed, Papa, and I’ll be good,” became our bedtime refrain. When told to pick up after ourselves, we’d launch into a duet of
“Mother dear, come bathe my forehead
For I’m growing very weak.
Mother, let one drop of water
Fall upon my burning cheek…
Mother, soon I’ll be an angel
By, perhaps, another day.
So if you will, my dearest Mother,
Put my little shoes away.”
Dearest Mother informed us just what cheeks would be burning if we didn’t get to work, and sent Hank to join Tex in gloomy exile.
Most of our old record collection has gone to that big turntable in the sky, so I’m delighted to hear the songs of my youth on the radio. Sadly, Tex and Hank remain missing from the playlist; maybe they went out to the ball game. I’ll let you know if they ever get back. Watch this space.
