“[T]he easiest way to get into radio,” wrote Fred Allen (or fred allen, as he signed letters he didn't sign “f.a.,” Faljek Prink, Mr. A., or other appellations), “is to become a quiz contestant. when it is your turn and you come to the microphone whip out a revolver, kill the master of ceremonies and take over the quiz program yourself. a lot of listeners will be grateful to you for killing the m.c. and good will is important if you hope to survive in radio..."

I wasn’t a quiz contestant who shot the M.C. at the microphone. (I have wanted to shoot the occasional program director.) I wasn’t a quiz kid growing up in the business. Nor was I born the son of a sponsor. My father worked for Nationwide Insurance, and Nationwide had its share of commercials on the air in my childhood. (“The man from Nationwide is on your side,” an opinion of which my father’s elder brother thought so highly for its revealed truth that he walked out of Nationwide and went independent when the opportunity knocked.) But you could call me the son of a sponsor, however, if you have a habit of forging screwy syllogisms:

a) Father works for Nationwide insurance.
b) Nationwide Insurance advertises heavily on radio.
c) Father's are the children of a sponsor.

Beyond clients about whom I may have forgotten, my father’s contact with radio consisted of listening at the dining room table or in the car or, as best as I could tell, in his office. The home listening was probably the same as the car or office listening — music, news, baseball games. There was a night the whole household huddled up by candlelight in Mother and Dad’s bed with a large portable transistor playing all night. Oh, we were big on family togetherness, but candlelight radio required extraordinary circumstances. The big Northeastern blackout of 11 November 1965 qualified.

By that time, too, the closest thing to classic radio I can now remember getting was a) what was left of Bob and Ray; b) what was left of Rambling with Gambling (there was a hell of a lot of it left, as things turned out); c) the news of one or another old radio star’s passing; or, d) old radio stars lingering on television still. (Circa 1965, that would have been Ozzie and Harriet, Jack Benny, Garry Moore, Bob Hope, Ed Sullivan, Robert Young — no, on second thought: Father Knows Best was canceled in 1960, and Young was still four years from board certification, ABC's in fact, as Marcus Welby, M.D.)