It’s a blocky, black radio that was manufactured in 1941, the year my father was 12 years old. Though at first reluctant to save “that ugly old thing,” he seemed pleased hours later when he entered the kitchen announcing that the radio worked fine and had only needed a tube. For years after this, my father kept that radio on a shelf above his workbench, listening to country singers croon about lonesome truckers. I’ve become somewhat protective, even superstitious, when it comes to our radio, which now resides on a shelf above the space where I work. Each time I listen to our radio, I see my father just as he was that day when we found it.

Source: Los Angeles Times June 20, 2023 15:00 UTC