I was mentally transported back to my childhood when I came across this picture on Gab the other day. (Clickit to biggit.)
My late father had the identical radio in his study in Cape Town, South Africa, during my formative years. Many’s the evening I’d go in there to find him smoking his pipe, the aromatic blend of American and Turkish tobacco slowly turning the white paintwork of the door frame and the white plastic of the radio buttons to brown as he puffed contentedly. He’d turn on the radio, and we’d wait patiently for the valves inside to warm up and reach operating temperature; then he’d tune the radio to the short-wave BBC signal, and we’d listen through the crackling of the static and the howl of competing signals to a calm, patrician voice from London reading the news.
Closing my eyes, I’m transported back to those moments as if it were yesterday. I can smell Dad’s tobacco in my nostrils and feel it catch at the back of my throat, that’s how real it is.
Dang, some memories sneak up out of nowhere and ambush you, don’t they?