WLT (4 page)

Roy thought the problem was poor location: a former mortuary. “Too many customers have been here once before, to bury a loved one. You sit down and spot the ferns or you hear the clink of ice cubes and you think about somebody pumping formaldehyde through a tube in your ankle. It puts a crimp in your appetite. We should've built a new place, out on the River Road.” Their sister Lottie refused to set foot in the restaurant—or set wheel, since she was in a wheelchair, crippled since childhood from polio. She thought that opening a restaurant in a mortuary was morbid beyond words, the next thing to cannibalism itself. Ray was glad she felt that way: getting her up steps was a major undertaking, heavy as she was. It was like hauling a coffin, except you didn't have the nice long handles and the five other guys to help.

Roy thought another problem was the newspaper ads. A murky etching of two men in dinner clothing descending from a carriage under a lamppost against a weeping willow, and underneath:
The establishment to which gentlemen repair for refreshment
. “People will take us for a whorehouse,” said Roy. “Especially if they know you personally.” The ad was Ray's work. Ray said, “If we did as well as most Minneapolis whorehouses, we'd be cleaning up.”

The real problem with Soderberg's wasn't the building, said Ray, but that, among your better families—the Pillsburys, the MacMillans, the Daytons, the Denhams—sandwiches are looked down on as something served free in taverns and eaten by a big bruiser in coveralls with his other hand wrapped around a beer glass. “People hear sandwich and they think saloon,” he said. “They imagine a joint full of Polacks with cheese dribbling down their shirts and Bavarians in funny hats, people yodelling, big-boned girls in dirndls, dogs barking, big mutts. Music might help.” A string quartet playing Brahms and Schubert would tone up the place, sprays of flowers—“No flowers, please,” said Roy, “but music might help. What about radio?
Radio.”

In later years, they disagreed over who had said what, whose great idea it had been: whether Roy had said they should purchase a radio
receiver
and mount it in the lobby as a curio and it had been Ray who said, “Why buy
one
radio when we could start a whole station!” or whether Roy had cried “Eureka! Radio!” and Ray had held back and dithered until Roy had grabbed him by the lapels and talked him into it. They agreed that it was the middle of a Friday afternoon on a cold February day, and Roy had his plaid shirt on and his warm boots and the trunk of the Packard loaded for a trip to Lake Mille Lacs for ice fishing, and that he had gotten a cup of coffee and sat down. “Radio,” he said. “Think about it.” (Or “What do you think about it?”)

“It's how to make this business click! Radio. We have to grab it. Radio is going to change everything!” (One of them had said this.) When the brothers got excited, they tended to walk away from a conversation, still talking, and pace into the next room and shout from there, and at the crucial point, they remembered, they were in opposite wings of the dining room yelling, “Radio! Absolutely! Radio!”—“This only happens once in a lifetime. There are good ideas and then there are revolutions and by gosh radio is one of them, it's going to be a Radio Age, and if we get on board early, we can go as far as we want to,” they each remembered saying.

Radio would take Soderberg's right into people's homes and they'd hear for themselves what sort of fine place it was. Roy's boy, Roy Jr., was studying engineering at the University, but radio was his real love. He built receivers from bicycle parts, and he'd jump at the chance to quit school and run a radio station. (Said Roy.)

According to Roy, Ray had been afraid of the cost, the danger of electrocution—a man had been fried at WLB while plucking “Camptown Races” on the banjo—but according to Ray, he (Ray) instantly saw the potential of it and could imagine the Pillsburys seated around a radio receiver in their new mansion, Fair Oaks, enjoying the fine music from Soderberg's Court, and commenting on those Soderbjergs and their wonderful taste in things, and him running into old John S. at the Minikahda Club who would actually pronounce his name right: “Soderbjerg! Aren't you the one with the wonderful radio station?” Him and Vesta dolled up and sipping champagne and hobnobbing with the plush crowd. Pillsburys and Heffelfingers and Denhams and Powells, that whole bunch of swells, the regatta element in their clean pressed whites.

“I don't know,” he told Roy that fateful Friday afternoon, according to Roy. “I just don't know.”

I don't know
was Ray's form of the affirmative, so the next week, Roy obtained a license for $25, and Roy Jr. found a 500-watt transmitter, and on April 6, 1926, patrons came to lunch to find the windows draped with velvet, the tables arranged in a semicircle, and in the center a bastion of broad-leaved plants from which rose a black iron stand adorned with a golden eagle, the Stars and Stripes, and a microphone. Next to it, said Ray, was a pitcher of water, laced with aquavit.

Station WLT went on the air at noon that day with the Tuxedoans Quartet and pianist Patrice Duval Paulsen. Ray's lodge brother, the ever hearty Leo LaValley, was master of ceremonies (“Sure is good to be with you today, folks. We have a darned nice audience here for the broadcast, though they sure are quiet. Reminds me of the fellow who was driving along and his wife fell out of the car . . .”). Roy Jr. stood at the controls back in the linen closet. The Quartet sang “Whispering Hope” and “Take Me Back to My Little Grass Shack in Minneapolis,” and Leo told the joke about the Norwegian mother who bought three shoes for her boy Olaf because he had grown a foot and the one about the farmer whose cow wouldn't give milk so he sold him, and the secretary of the Y.M.C.A. recited the poem “Let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man”—and then, though it was the first broadcast, Leo said, “And here's a number that so many of you friends and neighbors out there have written in and asked to hear, and of course we're only too happy to accommodate your desires, so the Quartet will do it for you now—‘Hälsa dem dar Hemma.' ” Finally, Ray was brought up for a few words. He planted both feet firmly, grasped the microphone with both hands, pressed it to his lips, and said in a loud voice that he and his brother Roy looked on this as a great day in their lives and he hoped all would work out for the best. Mayor Huffner spoke. “It is an honor to be given this opportunity,” he said gravely, “and I sincerely thank you for it.” Miss Corinne and Her Accordion played the state song and “By the Waters of Minnehaha (I Will Wait Tonight for You).” The broadcast lasted forty-five minutes, and afterwards there was a reception. Forty people milled around, excited—something big had happened—but what, exactly? They had seen a show that flew out invisibly as far as Anoka, Stillwater, and Hastings, a miracle, but how could you know it was true?

Roy Jr. switched off the transmitter. It sighed, expelling a faint breath that smelled of vacuum tubes and electrodes. Ray leaned against the doorway, feeling faint. His speech had exhausted him.

“Did anybody hear it, do you think?”

“Guess so.”

“Anybody ring up and say so?”

“Nope. Maybe they were too busy listening.”

Ray went home and found Vesta asleep on the sofa, snoring. Their brand-new Rivard receiver sat on the sideboard, whispering static. He switched it off, and she woke up. “Vesta,” he said, “did it come through?” She said, “It came in loud and clear. Clear as a bell, like you were in the next room.”

He said, “Was it good?” She said, no. It was
radio
and that was exciting, but no, it was not good. Leo LaValley? Good? No, she was thinking that maybe she would have to go down to WLT herself and lend a hand. Go on the air and read something
good
, like “Thanatopsis” or “In-victus.” Ray winced. No, she said, she thought maybe he was onto something after all.

T
he next morning, in the
Tribune
's “Radio Log” column: “WLT 770 kilocycles. 12:00 Sign-On & Piano Prelude 12:15 Radio Program 1:00 WLT Noontime Jubilee 1:30 Postlude & Sign-Off”—the schedule had gone from forty-five minutes to ninety minutes in just twenty-four hours! The 12:15 program was Vesta reading “Intimations of Immortality” and “Thanatopsis,” and the 1:00 was Leo and the Tuxedoans and Miss Corinne. Ray did not give another talk. He had said everything he had to say the day before.

That morning, four persons approached him and expressed an interest in sharing their talents via radio, including two more of his pals from the Sons of Knute lodge—a realtor and former Grand Oya named Walter “Dad” Benson and his brother Wilmer, who did impressions of people and barnyard imitations. He did a cow, a horse, a cat, a dog, a cowboy, a Jewish man, a colored man and an airplane for Ray. “Okay, it sounds good, we'll find a spot for you,” said Ray, the voices were so realistic. The next day, more than thirty people dropped by and asked for the Radio Manager. Some of them held song sheets and seemed prepared to sing. Ray pointed them to Roy Jr. and said, “He handles the singers, the young guy in the white jacket with the fountain pens in his pocket. See him.” So they put the arm on Roy Jr. “To whom should I talk about getting on the radio?” they asked him. “He's the boss,” he said, pointing to Ray, but Ray had grabbed his hat and ducked out.

The third day, Ray had to close the restaurant. The lobby was full of people asking about radio, and they were too excited to eat. Their talent was on the verge of being discovered and they could hadly wait to start broadcasting.

He told Leo, “I heard a ladies' quartet yesterday who sounded like the night the orphanage burned down. How do you tell somebody they can't sing?” Leo said, “You say that you'll call them in a few days and then don't.” But what if they think you only forgot to call, and they call to remind you? A person wants to admire persistence, but who has time to listen to it?

“Maybe,” said Leo, “they would be satisfied with a speaking role. A small one.”

The fourth day, it was clear that Minneapolis was wild about radio. The whole town had heard that Soderberg's was
the
place to go to “get on the air.” Every day, a line began to form at 9 a.m. for the
Noontime Jubilee
and its popular “Meet Your Neighbors” feature, where Leo LaValley would come through the ferns with the big carbon-ribbon microphone in hand, hop down off the stage, and stroll from table to table, putting the mike down for folks to speak into. It was a real innovation—the voice of an ordinary person, such as the listener, carried to countless unseen homes as if he or she were the Governor! Miraculous! Whole families waited in line outside Soderberg's for hours who had journeyed from distant towns, having alerted neighbors and friends to listen to their broadcast. People offered to pay money for the privilege.

To speak through the air on the radio! It was so wonderful—and so awful. Many a man who had rehearsed the golden words in his mind found himself tongue-tied at the crucial moment, and sat down in shame and wept bitterly and had to be comforted. Many a man who had thought to tell a joke chucked it at the last moment in favor of a religious or patriotic sentiment befitting the occasion. (“This is Albert M. of Waseca. Hello. For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. My dear listener, if I can only persuade you of the truth of this verse, then I will have accomplished a great deal. Thank you very much.”) Some people stood up and requested prayers for their mother who had been ill and who was listening at home. Respect for the flag was expressed, and the need for vigilance, the superiority of Minnesota cheese and butter, the beauty of her lakes and rivers, the belief in democracy, the hope for a better future through scientific methods of agriculture. Bracing their hand on a chair, they spoke of hardship and its lessons—the value of good friends and a close family—you learn these things when times are hard. Spoken on the radio, carried to distant places
instantly
, these truths seemed even more permanent, like the light of the sun.

Even the WLT regulars considered the idea of broadcasting pretty amazing. They could not quite believe it. They never got used to it. To think that their voices were heard by thousands all over Minnesota! Leo LaValley would tell his wife Leola in the evening about a particularly good joke he had told on the radio that day, “You should have heard it!”

“I did hear it, as clear as day,” she would say. Of course Leo knew this, and yet, never having heard it himself, he couldn't be sure.

One day, unable to bear the mystery, he backed away from the microphone as he was telling the story about Ole Torvaldson's horse. Ole got drunk as a skunk one night and his friends turned the saddle backwards on his faithful horse Henrik and Ole climbed on board and rode away home to Lena and burst in the door, weeping—Leo edged toward the door to the linen closet as he told the joke, the microphone in hand, and he cracked open the door just as he came to the punchline—Ole said, “They cut Henrik's head off but I stuck my finger in his windpipe and he ran faster than ever”—and recognized his own voice on Roy Jr.'s receiver inside, and cried, “I have heard it!” Sensing that the home audience might not grasp the meaning of his remark, he quickly added, “I am on the radio!” Ray was not tuned in for the windpipe joke. He was on Whitefish Lake, with Mavis Feezer, fishing, splashing water on her long brown legs.