1955 Firestone (The Graduation Present)

I had never been on eBay before I started collecting radios. To be honest, it all seemed, I wasn’t sure why, a little nefarious. Even when I began bidding for and buying radios on the site, I didn't have my own account. I didn't want to get involved. Didn't want to enter a credit card. I wanted to keep an arm’s length distance. I asked one of my employees to buy the radios for me and he would then expense them. But he lives in the UK and the time difference sometimes made it hard to get messages about what I wanted out in time. Also, we lost a couple of bids on radios I wanted, so I decided I would take over the reins.

Collecting and addiction are separate words, but I’m not entirely sure they are all that different. I used to mock all of the people who logged unfathomable hours checking their Instagram and TikTok, until I began to visit eBay multiple times a day. And night.

Multiple. Because eBay has replaced garage and estate sales as the place to rummage through vintage wares in the hope of finding that rare and hard to find (HTF in eBay lingo) radio. Hoping that some poor shmuck who usually sold Grateful Dead signed programs had inherited his grandfather’s rare Addison catalin and listed it for $49 - but was open to offers. It never happened. But it didn't stop us from refreshing the site and checking for new listings.

I got to know the vernacular and the type of personalities. From the sellers who were so careful not to mislead and disappoint that they would say ‘it was playing this morning but please consider it as a bonus if it works’, to those who applied every marketing trick of the trade. Everything was rare. Everything was hard to find. Everything played as if new. And, of course, the greatest pitch of all - ‘just discovered in the attic.’ Despite all that, when I came across this iconic Firestone with the imitation Mercedes Tri-Star, which was advertised as an ‘attic find’ with a touching ‘graduation gift from Mom and Dad. Colleen 1955’ written on masking tape fixed on the back, I snapped it right up with a high bid. The radio didn't work and was only in ok shape, but I loved those Tri-Star radios, and the masking tape, that piece of history, made it a no- brainer. Oh, the stories that radio could tell (now my nieces are all saying - Uncle Ronnie, you’re the writer. You should tell the story about Colleen and not waste our time telling us about how you bought it on eBay. But I don't know Colleen. And anyways, I only write the truth).

I have to say I was pretty damn pleased with my buy. It was, in large part, why I got into collecting in the first place. I showed the radio and the masking tape message to everyone who walked into the house.

It was a great story.

Until Lewberg came over.

Lewberg scoffed when I showed him the radio.

“You fell for the oldest trick in the book,” he said shaking his head. “The old graduation gift on the masking tape.” He said it like Maxwell Smart.

“Just classic,” he continued, “the guy saw you coming from a mile away.”

I wasn’t sure why Lewberg was talking like he was in a 1955 movie, but he was pissing me off.

“Lewberg,” I countered, “you have no clue. The radio wasn’t even that expensive. I’m sure the masking tape is genuine.”

“It works?” he asked.

“No.”

“A little scuffed up,” he continued, running his fingers along the case.

“Yeah,” I admitted.

“You asked your collector friend?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“What did she say?”

I didn't like the way this was going. “She said I overpaid,” I said sheepishly.

“Well, there you go,” he said waving his arms, “case closed. Now enough with the radios. Can you pour me a Ketel and cran?”

But I wasn't ready to let it go.

“You really think that someone is going to go to the trouble of faking a masking tape note for the sake of a couple hundred bucks?”

“Well…”

“You bought it on eBay?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” he said, helping himself to my vodka, “I'm sure it is full of honest people. Keep looking. Maybe you will find a transistor radio previously owned by Benjamin Franklin.”

Of course, I didn’t care what Lewberg thought. And even if he was right, what difference did it make? It was a perfectly nice radio regardless of whether it had a nice story attached to it.

I took out my iPad and logged into my eBay account.

I searched through my purchases to find the Firestone. I clicked on it.

The seller’s account had been suspended. “Damn,” I said out loud. “Damn, damn.”

“What are you looking at there, Pappy?” he asked with a wide grin.

“ESPN,” I replied sullenly. “I lost my football bet.” Then I looked at the radio and the masking tape again.

I shook my head.

I wasn't going to let it bother me.

There is no direct flight from Miami to St. Paul, MN. You have to go through Chicago. I’m sure the good folks of Minneapolis/St. Paul would disagree, but there really is no good reason to leave Florida in the dead of winter and go to Minnesota.

But that is where the 3M headquarters were located. And 3M manufactured masking tape.

The guy I was going to see was called James Wilkenson. It only took me 18 emails and 22 phone calls.

After a while, I finally realized that opening with, “I’m looking for someone who can carbon date masking tape,” was not a productive approach. To be honest, I was kinda surprised that they didn't have an entire department for this sort of thing. In the end, I got through to someone at the 3M Historical Society and that person said, “the person you want to see is Jim Wilkenson.”

Now I think it is ridiculous and offensive that any person from the lovely state of Minnesota is automatically and callously relegated to having an accent like a character from Fargo, but you can call Jim Wilkenson and decide for yourself.

That’s all I'm going to say.

I didn’t really want to disparage him because he was the first person to take me semi-seriously.

Well, until I told him I wasn't going to send him the masking tape. “You’re not going to send me the tape?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, “I’m afraid I’m going to rip it.”

“The masking tape?”

“Yeah. I really don't want to rip it.”

“I see.” Jim Wilkenson was super patient. “So how am I going to test it?”

“I thought I would bring the radio to you.”

“‘I see,” he said. “Why don't you just ship it?”

“I’d rather not,” I said. “I don't really trust those shippers. I’ve lost a few radios that way. And have had a few damaged.”

“I see,” said Jim Wilkenson, “so this is a rare and expensive radio?”

“No,” I replied, “it is pretty common. Not rare at all.”

“I see,” he said, although it was becoming clear that he did not see at all. “This Colleen, she was famous? Or became famous?”

“I don't think so. I’m not sure she is even real.”

Then Jim Wilkenson said, “well, better bundle up, we’re having one of those winters.”

I said, “ok.”

Then I thought he said, “global warming my ass.”

It took Jim Wilkenson all of thirty-seven seconds to tell me it was real. Maybe thirty-eight.

“That’s it?” I said.

“You were expecting some fancy X-ray machine?” he said.

“What gave it away?” I asked.

“I could tell you but I would have to kill you.”

Nah. He didn't say that. He said, “it’s old masking tape. What can I tell you?”

Jim Wilkenson gave me a drink of scotch from a bottle he had in his desk. Made some joke about scotch and scotch tape which he had likely made a hundred times before.

We drank our scotch and then he asked, “does she work?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Nope. Just humming.”

“Really? Let’s open her up. Might be a loose tube.”

He then pulled out a screwdriver from the same desk drawer he had found the scotch in and effortlessly removed the back panel.

“Ya see? That number 4 tube is loose. That often happens with these old babies.” He then wriggled around and pushed the tube so the prongs easily entered their respective holes.

Then he plugged it in.

Thirty seconds later, we heard the same hum I had heard in Florida. And then he turned the knob until he got to 1280.

It came in loud and clear.

AM 1280 in Minneapolis/St. Paul. The Patriot.

You can look it up.

Loud and clear. Disc jockey was predicting more snow. “You see,” said Jim, “just a loose tube.”

When I got back Lewberg asked where I had been. He hadn't seen me on the course for a few days.

“I went to a radio shop and got the Firestone fixed. Plays nice now.”

Of course, I couldn't tell Lewberg that the masking tape was real. That it was really from 1955. Couldn't tell him or anyone that I flew to St. Paul with a stop in Chicago with the Firestone radio securely wrapped in my overnight bag in order to see Jim Wilkenson.

Couldn't tell him that security both in Miami and St. Paul twice made me unwrap and then rewrap the radio because they wanted to see what was in the bag. Or about the Uber getting stuck in the snow, or about having to wait 45 minutes for another Uber in the freezing cold because apparently nobody wants to be an Uber driver in Minnesota in the winter.

I got him a Ketel and cran, cranked up the transmitter and put on some Ella.

“Not bad,” said Lewberg. “Sounds pretty good. How much did he charge you to fix it?”

“Not a dime. Did it for free,” I answered truthfully. “Plus, he gave me a drink of scotch.”

“There you go Pappy. Maybe you’re not such a sucker after all.”

I would have given him the thumbs up, but it had gotten frostbite waiting for the second Uber on the side of the road.

Instead I turned up Ella and thought about Colleen and the stories that radio would be able to tell.

The End.