:Why do I spend hours on ebay and craigs list looking at old radios when I have no money to spend? Why do I buy radios and say im going to fix them then sell them but never do? Why does my house look like a radio museum? How does someone catch this disease?
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Stories told, yet many to be written
Are found right here with these old fingertips.
They are there right where they were put
Some days, some years, some decades ago.
Now to be recalled with joyous pride.
Many to be found with tears and joy.
How can it be? I asked, for all to share.
Be it just a little, some short, some long.
It all began one day it seems, today.
Just before the day before or later.
Forgotten for a while, now vivid in my mind.
Twice put away in the depth of thoughts.
So now it is my turn to spell the words.
Often many, sometimes few, just enough.
To tell the tale other men had heard.
Of whispers let out with fragile voice.
'I remember', he once said. I listened now.
My ear cocked to hear what this voice to say.
This person with a tear on down his cheek.
Was about to tell, his life, not written.
Mom and dad and their old radio, no more.
Had sat at night to listen, together.
Of news of wars and hopeless fighting.
Far away but yet much to close for me.
I saw them there right by the window.
The frost etched photos of those perils.
Around and around, and then into forms
I had never dreamed of. Quite glad to say.
He said: 'I wish to do it all again.
It was my turn once, I did it all.
Just about enough, but room for more'.
In life, you see, he'd done his best.
I cried a bit, then heard him say:
'It was over there I learned a lesson.
One or two. Many more left for others.
Saw far to many, last breaths expelled.
Then news reports to hopeful minds at home.
Now vacant with news so hard to hear.
That radio never cared. I turned it loud.
It glowed so bright and brought so dark the news.
It was my brother Bill over there.
Older by just five, yet far more than that.
Somehow I heard him say 'My God, how can it be?'
'I am seeing things I never thought could be.'
The radio switched to songs, I smiled.
For joy was best enjoyed with mom and dad.
Now with them silent by my side, I listen.
And now to hear how proud they were.
This old girl, Zenith, RCA, GE or other.
Spat its news into the air, for me.
I grabbed it all and held it tight.
For it was just enough to grasp, you see.
This old radio may have been put away.
Once or twice, maybe many more.
Left quiet for years on the shelf.
But now thanks to Walt it glows.
And thanks to all who listen, care.
For with the ears many mouths can speak.
He finally said, 'I care a lot for days ago.
When we were four, together, all of us'.
Del Tysdal
9-21-10
But in a good way.
All of us that have this "disease" have had it since our childhood ( I started when I was 12 years old and I have NOT sold ONE thing since!!). There is NO cure!!
I agree with Ed - you can have a lot of great conversations with this Hobby.
Lou
:Why do I spend hours on ebay and craigs list looking at old radios when I have no money to spend? Why do I buy radios and say im going to fix them then sell them but never do? Why does my house look like a radio museum? How does someone catch this disease?
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:I look at it this way. It is an illness but you end up with something for your money. Would it be better if you were spending it on cigarettes and booze?
Bob Masse
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