Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been fascinated with tape recorders.
I can remember back when I was about 15 and decided to form a band. I’d written a song and learned how to play two chords on the guitar, then taught the song to my friends Sue and Dee. Even though we sounded pretty much like a trio of wild geese when we sang, we were positive we were ready to make a demo tape to send out to record producers.
Back then, reel-to-reel tape recorders were just becoming all the rage. The only problem was, they were expensive, costing hundreds of dollars. I was so determined, however, to get a recorder for my band’s demo tape, I started to save my pennies for a $600 one I’d seen in Radio Shack.
Probably because he figured I’d be ready for Medicare by the time I saved up enough money, my father finally took pity on me and surprised me by renting a recorder for us kids to use for a week. I suspect it was because he figured if we finally recorded our demo tape, we no longer would be spending two hours after school every day practicing that one song…and then his ears could stop bleeding.
The minute I touched that tape recorder, I was hooked. I loved being able to hear my own voice, tape my favorite songs and even act out skits like those on the old radio shows. I nearly cried when my father had to return that precious machine to the rental place at the end of the week.
Over the next few years, I owned several tape recorders: a huge reel-to-reel one that weighed about 50 pounds, a small reel-to-reel one about the size of a box of chocolates, and finally, a cassette recorder. The cassette recorder was in the form of a big boom box, as they were called back then. It had a built-in radio and a cassette recorder and player. When the six D-cell batteries were in it, it weighed about as much as a small car.
I loved that boom box. I would spend hours recording songs from the radio or playing records and singing along with them on tape. While I was singing, I was certain I sounded as good as the next Streisand or Cher, but when I later listened back to my best efforts, I was certain someone had stolen my original cassette and replaced it with a tape of cattle being branded.
A few years ago, I was searching for an old storage chest of Christmas decorations down in the basement when I came across my ancient G.E. boom box behind a stack of boxes. I hadn’t seen it in years, and was disappointed it hadn’t aged well. It was dirty, rusty, the antenna was missing, the buttons on the recorder were bent and were so corroded, they wouldn’t push down, and the batteries in it were covered in what looked like a furry white fungus.
A flood of memories came back to me and I found myself wishing I could use that old boom box again. But my common sense told me the only place it was going to end up probably was in the bottom of a trash bin.
About a week later, I happened to be driving through Pembroke Village when I saw a store called Bobby Dee’s Records. In the window was a sign that said they repaired audio equipment. My thoughts immediately turned to my beloved boom box. Even though I figured the repair guy probably would point at it and laugh hysterically, I decided I had nothing to lose by asking if, by some miracle, it could be fixed. The next day, I, lugged the boom box into the store.
“Is there any hope at all for this?” I asked the man who greeted me. He turned out to be Bobby Dee.
He took the boom box from me and checked a few things on it.
“This is a great model,” he said. “One of the best ever made for sound quality.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve owned a few others since this one, but nothing compares. Do you think it can be saved?”
“Well, it’s in pretty rough shape,” he said. “In fact, it probably should have been given its last rites a long time ago. But I can tell you really care about it. So I'll see what I can do."
At least I left there with some hope that all was not lost...at least not yet. Bobby said he would call and let me know the verdict.
I didn’t expect to hear from him for at least a month, considering the sad condition of the recorder, but he called only a day later to ask if I could drop by the store. His tone of voice pretty much told me my boom box should be measured for a coffin.
When I walked into the store, Bobby told me to have a seat and close my eyes. I did, and he put the boom box on my lap. When I opened my eyes, I was speechless (which was pretty unusual for me). It looked like a new machine – polished, shiny, a new antenna, a new cord, and when I pressed the buttons on it, they all pushed easily.
"It's as good as new," he told me. "Plays like a dream."
That night, I dug out some of my old cassette tapes and listened to them. The sound quality of my boom box was even better than it had been when it was brand new. I tried recording a few songs from my computer, and it taped them perfectly.
It even made my old copy of my band's demo tape, which I long ago had transferred from a reel-to-real tape to a cassette, sound...nearly tolerable.
A few days later, I woke up feeling as if I were coming down with something. My throat hurt, my neck was sore and my voice was hoarse. I groaned, certain I was getting either a cold or the flu, or maybe even something like strep throat. I went back to bed in an attempt to fight it off.
I felt much better after a few hours of sleep, and that’s when the cause of my sore throat dawned on me. I burst out laughing.
I’d spent the night before playing with my boom box, just like old times, taping myself as I sang along with a variety of songs. Then after I’d had a good laugh listening to myself, I'd erase the songs and record myself singing even more of them. Before I knew it, hours had passed.
My sore throat turned out to be nothing more than a bad case of voice strain.
I blame Mariah Carey, Adele, Janis Joplin and Michael Bolton. No mortal human my age ever should attempt to sing along with them and try to reach those high notes. It’s a wonder I didn’t rupture something.
But I’m pleased to say that as of today, I’m still using that same boom box and it’s working just fine. I like to record songs on it from my computer and then pop the cassette into my trusty old Sony Walkman before I head out for my daily walk.
Yeah, I already know, so you don’t have to tell me…I’m a dinosaur.
Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
