On most Sundays our families would carpool to church. This usually constituted a backseat filled with four grumpy passengers including Sybil and her Nana Lucille, my Dad and me. Sybil’s Daddy and Ma sat quietly, attentatively up front. Dad said we should always “go hungry” to church, as it helps you “become sharp” and “learn better”. My father was not excessively verbal, yet he was quite able to get his very few points across.
Dad liked the radio. He didn’t just like to listen to a certain station, though he did that too of course. He was in love with the very Concept of the radio more than its modern manifestations of infomercials and “heavy rotation”. “Electricity in the air” he would refer to when he got up to switch on, ie “play with” his radio, “the muse of the human mind”. He used to regale me with stories about the unforeseen influential power of FM radio in the ’60’s and the hysteria caused by Orson Wells’ voice on October 30, 1938. He did habitually tune in to one particular personality-driven late night radio call in show. Dad would predictably get angry, swearing at the radio, “fuck-in ass-hole!” each time he got up to use the toilet.