My parents separated shortly after I turned a year old. I grew up travelling back and forth between my mom and my dad’s houses every week. Both of my parents did a fair amount of moving around in my youth, and oftentimes my father’s house was the basement of my grandparent’s home. As an only child, I didn’t always have someone to play with. There were a lot of hours to fill in a day and only so many could be spent in my own head. When I grew weary of the storylines, character arcs, and plots I had created, I would set down whatever props I had assembled and see what the adults were up to.
As I would walk up the staircase, from our basement suite to the main floor, the sound of my Grandma’s radio — fastened tightly under the spice cabinet, slightly yellowed with age and despite her regular cleaning — cigarette smoke, would usher me up and greet me in the kitchen. The channel very rarely changed outside of a single oscillation; that well-loved radio was always going to be set to one of two frequencies: 101.7 FM – CBC Radio or 88.3 FM – CBC Radio One.
Friday nights could be a bit of a wild card in my family; we’re a rambunctious bunch, and there were many nights as a kid that I fell asleep to the sounds of the party continuing on in the other room or outside my window. No matter how late they were up, how many stories were told, or fights fought, we would all come together the next morning, because Saturday would be a busy day: yard work, housework, groceries, cooking — it takes a lot to keep a household running, especially when most of that house was up the night before till 3:00 AM playing cards. The soundtrack that played over these weekends was the CBC Radio One lineup. And the voices we listened to felt like weekly guests, and they brought me a lot more than just a sense of routine.
I knew that even if my Grandma and I were the only ones awake by mid-morning, Terry O’Reilly would join us at 11:30 AM on The Age of Persuasion, and the tight cadence of his voice and the quippy, witty retellings of advertising history lore would be most welcomed by my father, step-mother, uncle, and whomever else made the trip from the basement up the stairs for that treasured first cup of coffee. No one can be annoyed with a hangover while Terry O’Reilly recounts the history of Tony the Tiger.
As the day progressed, we would go down the list of chores. My dad and I might head outside to help with the garden or the lawn, or we might take my Papa’s truck to run errands. Whatever we were doing, we were sure to listen to Bob McDonald’s Quirks and Quarks. Listening to it together, my dad was able to share his love of science and of learning; we had a common denominator. We were both fascinated by whatever Bob McDonald was explaining. We would have conversations based on what we had heard. I would ask questions, he would answer them, and Bob would be there to fill the time in between.
At 1:00 PM we would listen to The Debaters — a particular favourite for a family full of people ready to play devil’s advocate at any moment. I can still feel the amazement that the younger me felt at the participants’ quick wit, their turn of phrase, their ability to perform improv on the spot and earn Steve Patterson’s points and his laughter. The adults didn’t tell you you were being a smart alec when you made counterpoints along with The Debaters — you were just engaging with the show.
Over the years, as I grew up, the times changed — as they always do — from good to bad back to good. So is life, wiser and more talented people than I have written, using much better words. The chapters in my family life changed, but the regular weekly guests always came to visit at their regularly scheduled times. I always appreciated their consistency, and their incredible audio quality.
By the time I reached young adulthood, I listened to the CBC on my own, often in my car. I would drive around with Terry, Bob, Steve and their guests to and from university lectures, my shift at the hair salon, or to a friend’s house. When it came time for me to graduate from university, my school — Lakehead — announced that one of the Honourary Degree recipients would be Bob McDonald. My heart leapt when I read this: “I know him!” I thought, as I realized that although I had listened to his voice more times than I could count, reading the email announcement was the first time I could remember seeing his face.
On the day of the graduation ceremony, I sat on stage with hundreds of my fellow graduates and listened — not by radio, but live — to Bob McDonald speak. He delivered an incredible commencement speech that urged us not to listen to the inner saboteur in our head, reject the imposter syndrome, and launch ourselves full force into whatever our biggest dreams and ambitions may be. I was captivated, existing as both the young woman on the verge of her future and the young girl sitting in the front seat of my Papa’s pickup truck, listening to one of my weekly visitors. How privileged I was to be one of the recipients of such an impassioned speech, by someone I spent so much time listening to, who brought me and my family so much connection.
After the ceremony, I returned one last time to campus to pick up my official degree. As I walked through a building, I passed what was clearly a very formal affair. The most important of the university faculty and staff — I believe their official title is collectively “bigwigs” — were having a reception, and the guest of honour was none other than Bob McDonald. I stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, just outside of the roped-off party where important people socialized and ate tortilla chips with bruschetta on them.
“I have to go introduce myself to him,” I thought to myself.
”This is clearly not a party you have an invitation to,” my conscience retorted — oh good, a mini episode of The Debaters was airing in my head.
I shuffled around the stanchion and entered the reception — no other students in sight. I had spent six years at this school: countless all-nighters, hours spent searching for parking, coffee after coffee drank while walking from class to class. I deserved to meet the man attached to the familiar voice from my childhood; he was, after all, a fellow graduate like me, I rationalized.
I walked up and, right as I was about to introduce myself, a woman turned and introduced herself to Mr. McDonald, and they began to chat, and I stood there for what felt like an eternity, awkwardly forcing myself to follow through with my plan. One of the Deans made eye contact with me and, although he didn’t speak, his furrowed brow told his message: “Don’t bother our distinguished guest.” The woman walked away, and I took my chance — trying to act like Mr. McDonald hadn’t been completely aware that I was standing two feet away from him for the past forty seconds, clearly wanting to talk to him.
“Um, Mr. McDonald, I just wanted to say, I grew up listening to Quirks and Quarks.”
Sound sophisticated. Try to sound like you grew up listening to the CBC, I thought in my head.
“Listening to your show every week,” I continued, “It’s one of my favourite memories I have with my dad. I was really excited when I read that you were the Honourary Degree Recipient. It was an honour to hear you speak. I’m sorry to bother you, I just really wanted to tell you that…”
I trailed off, cursing myself internally for using the word “honour” twice in the same sentence. He picked up when my conversation skills began to falter and thanked me for my words and for listening to the show. He asked me what my degree was and congratulated me on my accomplishment. I admit as I write this, that I’m realizing I was so struck, I didn’t even fully take in what he had said. The little girl in the pickup truck was just amazed to not just be listening to the voice coming from the radio, but talking to him in person. We took a quick photo and I thanked him again before rushing off as I tuned back into the fact that I was crashing the party.
“I hope I didn’t come across as weird. Was that weird to do?” I kept thinking to myself as I continued down the hallway. Maybe it was a little weird, maybe Bob McDonald just wanted to serve himself from the assortment of cocktail apps and not take a photo with a very earnest, slightly sweaty (those stage lights are hot and that gown is thick) university graduate. But the little girl sitting in the pickup truck is very happy I did it. All those hours spent gathered around the radio — what a gift. Every conversation started from a show, they make up a whole childhood. I had to express my gratitude; when would I ever get the chance again?
So, thank you to Terry, and Bob, and Steve and all the other people on shows I couldn’t name for the sake of brevity, and thank you to my family for these weekly listening sessions that were the background music to our lives. Show by show, week by week I grew up, and here I am now — the woman shaped by all of these experiences. What a privilege to be exposed to the wealth of public broadcasting from such an early age. And now, wherever I go, whether I’m in my car driving to the grocery store or on a plane to another country, I can turn on one of these shows — whether it be live or on CBC Listen — and I’m back in Grandma Susan’s kitchen.
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