1956 Westinghouse H589P7

So, my nephews and nieces’ kids like to come over and play with the radios. They also, depending on their ages, like to play with the cases. Jojo will spend an hour putting transistors in and out of leather cases. Usually, what I do is play a song through my transmitter, tune a transistor to the right channel, and let the kids walk around with the transistors. Their parents think it is all very cute. I think. Well, best not know what I think. What I will do is show them the volume wheel so they can turn it louder or softer. But what will invariably happen is they will turn the channel knob and tune out of the station which is playing the music. Then they will come to me and, again depending on their age, will say some version of ‘not working.’

So, I'm handing them radios and they are handing them back to me to fix.

It can get quite hectic.

One day, a radio disappears. This red Westinghouse:

I’m writing this on my iPhone and again I have typed Weatinghouse by mistake. So, I have had to go back and fix it. I collect both Westinghouse tube radios and Westinghouse transistor radios so I have to write Westinghouse a lot. I get it wrong about 50% of the time. And I might be being generous. Go ahead and try it. It’s not easy. Then again, I am prepared to concede I might just be an idiot.

Where was I? Oh yes, the missing Westinghouse. In the morning, it is no longer in the case.

One of the kids must have wandered around the house and put it down somewhere

I’m not naming names, but I think it is Chaim, the two-year-old. The kid seems too happy to be legit.

Right now, he’s my number one suspect. I'm not worried.

It will turn up.

But it doesn't.

Everyone joins in the search. We turn the house upside down.

I really like that transistor. Not only is it beautiful, but it plays great. But I don't really care. It’s just a transistor. I have hundreds.

I just can't understand where it could be.

I look in the recycling and then, oh the horror, I look in the garbage bin.

We turn up no less than three baby pacifiers. I have to stop letting family stay at my house.

But no radio.

Now, the kids are 6, 4, and 2. So interrogation is out.

But I ask some questions.

It seems that the two oldest, Survivor style, have formed a pact. They don't say it in so many words, but their money is on the two-year-old.

The missing radio remains a mystery.

My friend, Russ Abrams, known by collectors as Transistor Man, generously and unexpectedly, sends me one for free. So, the one in the picture, is not the one currently on the display.

I’m not done questioning Chaim yet. But I have to wait until he learns how to speak.

The End