From the memory bank #01 - Cassette Recorder

Not my father's radio, but the same model, acquired when I was 17, as a memory souvenir. 

My  father had a pathological abhorrence of all things modern (unless it suited him). Especially television, an object of loathing and scorn; 'The Goggle Box' as he called it.  This was in the late 1960s and 1970s, when television was rapidly becoming a standard item for many families. But as long as my father was alive, it was forbidden in our household.

This was partly an attempt to curtail any undesirable outside influences - specifically with regard to me - and also because we were poor and such things as electrical items would have been beyond our means anyway. The only such item of any note we had was an old Bush radio, which used large, blue 'Ever Ready' block-like batteries. He often used to sit with it in his lap, turning the squeaky tuning knobs to find different stations. So the hissing, buzzes and swooshing noises of the airwaves, inter-spaced with crackling voices and snippets of music, became a familiar sound during my early years.

Sometimes I would be given an old, used battery to play with and I used to stick my tongue in the protruding metal connection sprockets, which gave me a slightly odd sensation. 

Such was my father's hatred of  television and fear of my being contaminated with slang and lax attitudes, that I can remember briefly owning a TV Annual and it mysteriously 'vanishing'. I was very young at the time, still a toddler, so I would only have looked at the pictures anyway,   but I can still remember being confused over it disappearing from my small collection of books. My mother one day told me that my father had disposed of it, in case it had a bad effect on me.

A few years later, when I was about seven,  someone gave my mother a second hand cassette recorder. I had never seen one before. It was standard for the 1970s, a black plastic box with a flip open top lid and large rectangular buttons on one of the shorter sides. It also came with a little silver coloured microphone. My father was out at the time. He disliked visitors;  he was probably avoiding the extra company and almost certainly at the pub. So my mother, the visitor and myself were able to briefly enjoy this new and novel contraption without interruption. Of course, we didn't have any commercial music cassettes to play, but the recorder came with an old home recorded Rod Stewart tape for us to use. The microphone was connected up, buttons pressed and the three of us huddled round the magic box.

 

My mother was very fond of countryside history and farming issues, and she chose to read from an old edition of 'The Countryman'. I cannot remember exactly what, but it was written in rural dialect, which she reproduced very well, being a simple West Country woman herself. Little did I know that one day I would live just a few miles away from Burford, the small Cotswold town where the magazine was produced until 2003. And from where I started this very blog, which has also catalogued many of my own  quiet country adventures. 

 

When my mother had finished her recital, the cassette was rewound and I listened with wonder and excitement as her voice floated out, sealed onto tape forever, or so I thought.  

My father quickly took command of the cassette recorder. It sat on the sideboard, next to his big green armchair and beside the radio, which was also under his rule. He began recording his favourite songs using the microphone - we had to be very quiet when this was happening. He was particularly fond of Country and Western, especially Johnny Cash and made several compilation tapes during his remaining years. In fairness, he also recorded songs for me, such as the Wombles and the Wurzels. Curiously, I don't remember the tapes ever being played back, though I'm sure they must have been. 

 

I have been rummaging in the attic and found an unopened box of cassettes that I have accumulated over the years. It was still sealed with packing tape, from when they were boxed up in 2012 for the big move to Shropshire. I discovered my father's little collection of radio recorded music; they are some of the rare things of his that I have managed to keep hold of. Two of them still have the magazine pictures he decorated the covers with. I played them once, some time ago and was startled to hear him coughing in the background. It was like hearing a ghost. 

Of course, my mother's recitation in rural dialect was soon recorded over.