Where Two Rivers Meet Anthology
BOOK 4: The Big Broadcast of 1942—A Christmas Memory
By H. A. Silliman
Part 1—Sincere and Suitable
It occurs to me there are a few amiable stories from our town’s past that I overlooked retelling during the years I published the Two Rivers Ledger. Nowadays, current publisher Mack Boyd fancies mysteries and crime. He assigns reporter Cara Lavitch to filch old articles from the archives and repackage them into historical serials. Me, Babe Garibaldi, I prefer the lighter side of our history—the dash of wit, the spice of life! I especially like reminding people that living “way back when” had amusing moments—even during the darkest days of the Depression and world war.
This story harkens all the way back to Christmas 1942, when I was a fifth grader at the old Two Rivers Elementary School. It’s still right there on Gooseneck Mine Road, but now remodeled into a very swanky, private residence. The building housed grades one through eight all in one room, and our teacher Miss Gillick—a pretty thing, with long black hair and a cute turned-up nose—she had modern ideas about keeping two dozen kids engaged when so much of the world had turned sad and scary. By then, Two Rivers had three homes displaying Gold Stars in front windows. In our school, Jeri Lynn Watts’s oldest brother, Sterling, was among the first of local boys who was killed, lost in the Battle of Coral Sea. Our family, so far, had been lucky. At that time, dad’s younger brother, Bobby, was an army airplane mechanic safely tucked away at an air base near Sacramento.
As I said, Miss Gillick, who had graduated from the San Jose Teacher’s College, took advantage of up-to-date ideas about education. Our school, for instance, had a wireless set. This early Westinghouse radio sat in a squat wooden cabinet and could pick up stations from all over the world. She made the entire class listen to Edward R. Murrow’s news broadcasts in the morning. On Mondays, we had entertainment, in particular, the Rex Rawlings Adventures show that featured radio and movie star Abel Goodwin. I keenly remember coming back inside after lunch recess, sitting at my desk and waiting as Miss Gillick tuned in the National Broadcasting Company for shows like Rex Rawlings To The Defense, Rex Rawlings Finds Buried Treasure, Rex Rawlings Tames A Tiger. The programs served as the perfect antidote for children energized by noontime play. After a few minutes of listening, we kids rested our heads sleepy-eyed on the desktops while Miss Gillick, smiling primly, sipped hot tea and read to herself. We were always sorry to hear Rex Rawlings trademark signoff: “A hot diggity dog, kids! I’ll be waiting right here for you next week!”
One day, in late September, NBC announced a contest. The company would send actor Abel Goodwin to a town somewhere in the States to make a nationwide broadcast Rex Rawlings Celebrates Christmas. To be chosen, fans had to write NBC and describe what made their town sincere and suitable for hosting the show.
Upon hearing the announcement, I remember Miss Gillick perked up. She slapped her book closed, startling the class, and said, “Oh children, wouldn’t it be fun to have Rex Rawlings here in Two Rivers? I bet we could even get him to visit our school!” Thinking back on that day, I can see even Miss Gillick had been so charmed by the dashing movie house posters of Abel Goodwin decked out as Raconteur Rex in pin-stripe suit, red bowtie and slicked-back hair that she conflated him with Abel. We all thought we could be getting Rex. We all thought wrong.
We shook ourselves alert and murmured agreement. “Let’s all write a letter together and enter the contest!” she suggested, going to the blackboard. She then said a word new to me—and one which is certainly popular now: “Let’s brainstorm!” she commanded, chalking out two columns: “Sincere” and “Suitable,” the criteria for hosting the broadcast.
The oldest boy in school—Bailey Bradley, whose family owned The American House Hotel—spoke first. “They’ll certainly need a nice place to stay,” Bailey offered. “Rex can even do the broadcast from our hotel’s second-floor balcony, with the audience on the street.”
All of us boys, by the way, looked up to Bailey. A whiz both at throwing a baseball and playing ragtime on the piano, he was, with his red-hair and freckled face, a ham at that, screwing his face into all sorts of comical looks and impersonating folks around town. Once during class, he launched into his version of W.C. Fields competing in a spelling bee, “That’s chickadee, spelled M-i-s-s-G-i-l-l-i-c-k, as in ‘Miss Gillick is my little chickadee.’ Blushing deeply, our teacher replied, “Thank you, Mr. Fields. And what does d-e-t-e-n-t-i-o-n spell?” Bailey was our hero.
That day, as Miss Gillick wrote Bailey’s idea on the blackboard, the class began tossing out more suggestions—suitable and sincere: “Radio broadcasts need lots of electricity—our town has its own powerhouse.” “Everyone attends church.” “Our Christmas Pageant is famous.” “Two Rivers leads the county in buying war bonds.” “Two Rivers won a metal recycling drive.”
When Marie Manassero (whom years later I married) suggested, “We have our own telephone company,” I piped up in eager support, “That’s right. And they have that contraption for making phonograph records.”
This novelty was a big deal because in those days when long distance calls were prohibitively expensive, you only had to pay fifty cents for a blank record. People would haul the whole family up to the Two Rivers Telephone & Telegraph office to record a message that could then be mailed to far-flung relatives or soldiers.
Dutifully adding Marie’s idea to the list, Miss Gillick suddenly proclaimed, “Class! I think there’s a sure-fire way to win this contest. And I know just the man to help us!”
PART 2—An Unexpected Announcement
Having kicked around for nigh unto a century, I’ve delighted in living through different eras—epochs of time not marked by decades. Thinking about the war years, I feel lucky to have spent them in Two Rivers. Of course, my turn having owned the Ledger, is dear to me, but World War II for a hometown boy had that keen sense of derring-do.
When I conjure up memories, I am back on nighttime Main Street. Hunch-back cars, their gears growling, slosh over rain-slick pavement, while shadows of men in fedora hats and trench coats move under lamplight—essentially scenes inspired by Rex Rawlings Adventures. My scrapbooks document the period with better accuracy, if less drama. My collection, of course, contains clips of that radio contest, and frankly, I rely on these scraps of news to tell this tale. There are also articles where I made the headlines, “Babe Garibaldi heads up kids’ scrap metal drive,” and “Young Garibaldi helps widows plant Victory Gardens.” Seeing my name in type, of course, made me profoundly fond of the Ledger, which may be why I chose a career in journalism.
Now, in those days—as true yet—folks in town pretty much knew the gist of your personal business. It was common knowledge, for instance, that our school marm was a sure catch for a wife. We knew Mr. Briggs’s son, Jamison, who had joined the Army, was sweet on Miss Gillick. Before he shipped out, they were seen drinking malts at Dr. Wiser’s pharmacy and attending matinees at The Nugget movie house. Despite these sightings, anytime Miss Gillick wanted to demonstrate a science experiment or explain some bit of modern technology—which she did to the entire spread of school grades—she called upon Jamison’s father, Mr. Briggs, who owned the telephone company and was the chairman of the school board.
At the time, Mr. Briggs must have been in his late ‘40s—his hair was gray and thinning. I thought of him as incredibly old. A widower, his wife had died twenty years before from the Spanish flu, late in that pandemic, when it still lingered in our backcountry ravines. Even as a ten-year-old, it seemed to me that Mr. Briggs paid special attention to Miss Gillick, and she to him. These days, it may not be politically correct to state, but she acted girly around him. When she introduced him to the class, she always clasped both of her hands around his left arm and bounced on her tiptoes. She lavished compliments, “Oh, Mr. Briggs, you are so clever!” “Why, that’s most fascinating thing; how smart you are, Mr. Briggs.” When he would say “hi-de-ho” or “This is killer-diller,” she’d giggle. So it was natural for Miss Gillick to turn to Mr. Briggs for help in entering that contest. Her idea was magnificent, but we had to hurry. The deadline was October 16—about three weeks away, with the winning town to be announced on the November 9 broadcast. Here’s a clip of what the Ledger wrote:
Elementary students to enter NBC radio contest
Miss S. Gillick’s students at Two Rivers Elementary School are making a big play to entice the National Broadcasting Co. show Rex Rawlings Adventures to our town. The network announced a contest, seeking a location somewhere in America to host the live Christmas broadcast of that popular radio show. Entries will be judged on how well-suited the town is for hosting a live broadcast—and how sincere it is! Young Miss Gillick is well known in these parts for employing modern teaching methods in her classroom, and this entry will certainly exhibit that. She intends to have students make a phonograph record using the device at the telephone office. But this won’t just be a bunch of kids reading a letter aloud; instead, they will create a radio production, complete with music, guests, an emcee, and an audience—with students playing all the parts. Since everyone in Two Rivers knows that our young people are very talented (and that our town certainly is sincere), the class is sure to have an excellent chance of winning the contest, and the Ledger wishes them all success!
After we had written a show and practiced over and over, Mr. Briggs wheeled the phonograph machine into our classroom. We needed four takes before we got a perfect recording. Fortunately, he didn’t skimp on the records we could waste: “Use as many as you need,” he said cheerfully, watching our antics over a whole afternoon from the back of the classroom.
I won’t narrate the contents of our production because you can hear it for yourself. There’s a scratchy recording right up there at the Quartz County Museum, where the Ledger stories and the record are on display. The one highlight that I will mention, however, is what Bailey Bradley improvised at the finish. The play ended with the emcee, twelve-year-old Eddie Norbert, saying, “This program was sponsored by the Two Rivers Telephone & Telegraph Co.” That’s when Bailey exclaimed, in perfect imitation of a Rex Rawlings’ signoff, “A hot diggity dog, kids! Tune in next when Rex Rawlings goes to Two Rivers!” Everyone cracked up, and we thought the laughs captured on the record certainly made our entry sincere.
Mr. Briggs made a few copies of the recording, and the next day the whole class trooped over to the post office to see our postmistress, Mrs. Niles, mail off the original record—and then we waited three weeks. Excited, we tuned in November 9 for the big announcement. But it didn’t happen! Instead, we heard, “The Rex Rawlings show has been interrupted for a special report on the Allied landings yesterday in North Africa.”
Part 3—Messages from Afar
Naturally, everyone in town that November—and I suppose all across the States—finally felt relief that the Allies were fighting Hitler—even if it were in a far-off place like North Africa and not Europe. We kids redoubled our efforts to scrounge metal for the recycling drives, scouring the surrounding hills, dotted with abandoned mines and old sawmills. While coming back the next Saturday afternoon with bits of pipe fittings loaded in our Radio Flyer wagon, Eddie Norbert and I passed by Miss Gillick’s house. We saw her on the porch with Mr. Briggs, and she was crying something awful. As we got closer, we could see in his hand that telltale yellow of a telegram. Later we learned that his son, Jamison, was missing in action in North Africa.
On the next Monday, Miss Gillick was absent from class. The superintendent of the district, Mr. Thompson, substituted and said it would be a while before she’d return. From then, a fog settled over the little school. How can you be happy when a teacher who so filled the classroom with cheer and excitement, was now gone—and the tragic circumstances? After lunch that Monday, when Miss Gillick would normally tune in the Rex Rawlings show, Mr. Thompson, instead, read to us. No one spoke up to ask about the radio. You just didn’t do that with Mr. Thompson. He wasn’t an unfriendly man—just the opposite, for he delighted telling students the history of Quartz County and could name your ancestors and what part they played in the founding of the town. As an old-school educator, however, he didn’t truck much with modern methods. He kept a wooden ruler conspicuously on his desk as a warning if we got unruly. He never had to use it.
I guess, collectively, all of us students put away thoughts about the contest and whoever the winner might be. Thanksgiving and Christmas were around the corner and occupied our imaginations. One day, Mr. Thompson took us on a field trip to the old Bonafoy homestead to collect walnuts and Filberts from the orchard. The outing was a relief for the class, and the nuts were highly welcomed and prized by our mothers, as food rationing was now in full swing due to the war. We also gathered extra nuts as little gifts for the old folks in town, other families who we knew could use them, and of course, for Miss Gillick—and a few of us took hers by after school. When we knocked at the door, we hoped to see our teacher, but her sister Rosalyn answered instead. She thanked us for the gift and said she was sorry that Miss Gillick couldn’t talk.
Bailey Bradley asked if she were coming back at all—and Rosalyn said, “Of course!” That answer satisfied for the time being—it gave us kids hope! When we bid goodbye, Rosalyn said to wait and went back inside. She returned with a letter. “This was sent to the school, but the postman knew she wasn’t there, so delivered it here. Please give it to Mr. Thompson.”
The envelope’s return address was the National Broadcast Company in New York City, and the postmark dated November 10—a whole ten days previous. Racing back to school with the unopened letter, we arrived just as Mr. Thompson was climbing into his car—a ’34 Dodge coupe, as I recall. Thanking us for the letter, he said he’d read it at home that evening. Of course, we were disappointed he didn’t open the envelope right then, but in those days, children abided by adults’ decisions without complaint—especially since Mr. Thompson was not the kind of man you could appeal to, plead with or cajole. This was a Friday, so by the next Monday when we entered the schoolhouse, the entire student body—all twenty-four of us!—knew that NBC had sent a letter to Miss Gillick. We were suddenly spirited again—and hopeful! It also helped that Thanksgiving was a few days away and school would let out early the day before.
Standing in front of the class that morning, Mr. Thompson said, “I have an announcement to make. It seems Two Rivers Elementary School has won the National Broadcasting Company contest.” The class broke into a clamor that could raise the dead in the church cemetery across the ravine. The celebration went on for a number of minutes. For once, he didn’t shush the class right away and let the ruckus die on its own.
“I’m very proud of you all and Miss Gillick, too. However, I must talk to the school board to see if they will permit this to go forward. I have asked the trustees to hold a special meeting tomorrow night to make a decision.” We slumped back into our wooden seats, audibly disappointed. “You might want to have your parents attend,” he added. “Mr. Bailey, you in particular, better have your dad present. These radio people want to stay at your hotel—for free!”
Now in those days, the school board was, of course, a public body and its meetings open, but they were lightly attended because parents trusted the trustees to do right for their children. So Mr. Thompson asking outright that parents should attend was a bit unusual. When the board convened Tuesday night, Mr. Thompson rose to speak first. He began by congratulating our school for winning the contest and praised Miss Gillick. for her work. She wasn’t present, so he hoped for her speedy recovery and return to class. He then produced the letter from NBC.
Waving the document, he said, “Why we’re here tonight is because of this list of requirements. There’s quite a lot of things they want in order to make the Rex Rawlings Christmas broadcast here in Two Rivers. Some items are rather peculiar.”
Part 4—The Town Gathers Up
Even nowadays with the technical conveniences that enrich our lives, residents of Two Rivers are no-nonsense people. We pride ourselves, I think, in how down-to-earth we are. Folks who lived back during the Depression and war certainly had to be practical. Things got reused and recycled. Life was simple. We were not “self-aware” in the sense of needing to be in touch with our feelings so we could become “enlightened.” We also have always been gracious to share what little we have. I suppose this is the result of living a long ways up a twisty mountain road.
In any case, when Mr. Thompson read what was required for the Rex Rawlings Christmas show to be broadcast from Two Rivers, folks at the school board meeting listened respectfully. In addition to details on the room set-up for the broadcast, the demands included bottled Saratoga Spring Water, tea at 180 degrees with fresh lemon before the broadcast for Mr. Goodwin, a vegetarian diet (a separate list itself) with fresh greens for Mr. Goodwin, five hotel rooms at no charge, bathwater that reached 98 degrees, and a completely darkened and silent space where Mr. Goodwin could “practice yoga” before the show. Also needed were a person to play a piano and children to sing a few Christmas carols. The broadcast was set for one p.m., Monday, December 21—now less than four weeks away. The entourage would arrive on the Sunday before, and a rehearsal would be held, starting 7 o’clock that Monday morning.
“Any questions?” Mr. Thompson asked.
From the back of the room we heard, “What the heck’s yoga?”
“I believe this is a kind of exercise from the Orient,” Mr. Thompson explained. “It’s not something you eat.”
We then waited for the chairman, Mr. Briggs of the telephone company, to make a statement. We were surprised and happy to see him attending, given the circumstances of his son being missing in action. In the past few weeks, Mr. Briggs had been making a good show around town since he got that awful telegram. Because the show would need his company’s telephone equipment to transmit the program back east to NBC for rebroadcast, this might have been the reason why Mr. Thompson wanted to ask the school board for approval. He knew Mr. Briggs would have to play a big part in making the broadcast happen, and as a grieving father, he certainly had the right to beg off.
Clearing his throat, Mr. Briggs said, “I see no problem technically in hosting the broadcast. I’d like to do that for the town. It will be welcome publicity. But when it comes to Saratoga Spring Water, well, that’s above my pay grade!”
Everyone laughed and then Mr. Bradley from The American House Hotel spoke up next. He agreed to house Mr. Goodwin and the NBC crew for free. “I’ll make sure they all sign our guest book. Since I always get snooty visitors who come just to say they slept in this room or that room where some famous person set their heads, we’ll make it pay later that way. As far as that fancy bottled water, let’s call down to The Red Eagle Lodge. They’re well-known for having lots of city-folk and celebrities—what you call the glitterati—come stay at their hot springs. They might have it.”
“Jeepers,” said contractor Prentice Jenner, “where’d you learn that new-fangled word from? What was it again?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Mr. Bradley replied. “One of my fancy lady customers left a slick magazine in the lobby. And there it was right on the cover: Glitterati! Why, I had to read the entire story to find out what it meant!” He turned to the crowd, “See, boys and girls, you can learn new stuff by reading!”
Once more the room erupted in laughter. A clamor ensued as people volunteered to do this and that to meet the letter’s demands. It turned out that the best place to make the broadcast was right in the schoolhouse itself because the building had a windowless cloakroom where Mr. Goodwin could “practice yoga” before the show. The classroom also had a well-tuned upright piano needed for the music, and the new telephone exchange building was located conveniently just down the road.
High school teacher Miss Hall volunteered for her girls in Home Ec to take charge of Mr. Goodwin’s special diet. “There’s all sorts of wild greens that grow around here that we can gather,” she reported. “Since rationing started, we’ve been learning about them and have tried some. They’re actually pretty tasty.”
Then, Mr. Thompson got everyone quiet and said it was time to make separate lists so folks could sign up for what was needed. What emerged from that gathering was a can-do spirit: No matter what they were, we’d meet Mr. Goodwin’s peculiar requests. We were happy to do it. Proud that we could. You know, even as a ten-year-old, I could sense the bonhomie that filled the room that night. Hosting a famous radio show certainly would place Two Rivers in the spotlight, but I think folks were happier because they were being asked to be of service to something not hitched to the war effort.
I suppose, too, that happening almost on the eve of Thanksgiving—and not long after a successful invasion to root out Mr. Hitler from Africa—the special school board meeting became a celebration of sorts for the town. A few ladies had arrived with pumpkin pies and hot apple cider. Someone even brought in a Victrola to play the phonograph recording we made for entering the contest. Though all around a happy ensemble, hanging over the room that evening yet was that awful question: What had become of Jamison Briggs, who was missing overseas?
Part 5—A Bearable Truth
With Thanksgiving over, folks turned to the task of preparing the schoolhouse and—for that matter—the entire town to host Mr. Goodwin and the big radio broadcast. Mr. Thompson wanted Christmas decorations everywhere. One day, he marched the class up to the ridge behind the school, and we collected pine boughs and manzanita berries which the high school boys helped us turn into dozens of wreaths that were used to decorate the school, Main Street, the hotel and even distributed to homes around town. War or not, Two Rivers must look festive!
With Mr. Kelly and Mr. Jenner directing the high school boys, the schoolhouse facade received a new coat of white paint. Someone got ahold of blackout curtains, the kind being used along the coast, and these were strung up in the cloakroom as soundproofing for Mr. Goodwin’s pre-broadcast quiet time. We boys were made to visit Mr. Vukovich, the barber, for haircuts and tubes of Brylcreem. Our hair was so slick you could see yourself in the shine! If dressed in red bowties, we’d have looked just like little Rex Rawlings.
It was only natural for Mr. Thompson to assent to the class listening again to the Rex Rawlings Adventures on Monday afternoons. On the first day back from Thanksgiving when he tuned into the show, we heard our town mentioned in a promotion of the special Christmas broadcast. That tickled us mightily! It might be difficult nowadays to imagine what it meant for Two Rivers to receive nationwide attention that was good. We all knew the last time the town made headlines. That happened in 1928, the result of the Abraham Mine disaster, when an explosion left a dozen miners trapped hundreds of feet underground. Sadly, by the time rescuers finally arrived, they found the men had survived the collapse but had perished from mine gas, with the dying men having written messages to their loved ones using candle black on the tunnel walls. So a happy occasion for recognition of Two Rivers cheered everyone—especially when the War Production Board had recently ordered closing of—the gold mines. They were considered nonessential, but that order sure put a lot of men out of work in our county.
Since a requirement for the radio broadcast was a children’s choir to sing Christmas carols, we had to rehearse. Mr. Thompson announced one afternoon that a special guest would help us. He opened the door and in stepped Miss Gillick: We were thrilled! Though thinner and whiter—it was obvious she had been through an ordeal—her happy eyes still shone through. With her, we would practice every afternoon for an hour until the radio broadcast. Bailey Bradley was enlisted to play the piano. High school students joined us as well, and we were divided into four parts to sing harmony. Mr. Briggs stopped by a few times to listen, and one day brought back the machine to record the carols.
Finally, came Sunday, December 20—the day our big-city guests arrived. A light snow had fallen that morning, sugar-coating the town. Folks naturally had gathered at The American House Hotel to welcome our esteemed visitors. The women wore their Sunday best, and most men were in shirt-and-tie. A few boys sported the signature Rex Rawlings red bowtie. They stood in front of proud parents. Just after two o’clock, a fire-engine red Duesenberg J, squealed to a stop at the hotel. Most of us had never seen a car that big! The limousine sported a snout of a motor compartment so long that the NBC panel truck that followed could fit between the bumper and windscreen.
In stone silence, the crowd waited, breaths held, for a door to open. Finally, the slender, liveried chauffeur slowly stepped out, gave a polite tip of his cap to the crowd and spent a few seconds adjusting his uniform. He then opened the back door. What emerged was a bear-like figure, covered in fur from head to toe. Closer inspection revealed a very tall man inside the folds of a humongous raccoon coat, a head almost completely covered with a giant, puffy beaver hat with ear flaps.
A voice, booming low, with great excitement, said, “Oh, what a wonderful crowd you are! Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” And then a long, white hand emerged from the fur and pointed at the hair-slicked boys in front, “And look! Little Rex Rawlings lined up all in a row! Good job, my friends!”
In salute to the audience, the furry creature made a complete circle, lifting his furry cap with one hand. Some of us gawked at the sight revealed, but it was little Eddie Norbert who blurted, “Good golly, he’s a chrome-dome!” That broke the crowd’s silence, bringing laughter from many, and something surprising from the fur-clad man.
“Yes, I am certainly bald!” the figure said, rubbing his head. “Abel Goodwin is as bald as a baby’s bottom.” He clamped the hat back on. “Did you make it snow just for me this morning?” he asked. “Your town is magical—a Christmas postcard. Better than Currier and Ives!” He laughed at his own joke and promptly waded into the crowd, offering a string of “Hi-hi-hi’s, Hi-hi-hi’s” as he attempted to personally greet everyone, shaking hands with as many as he could. He spent a half hour in front of the hotel that afternoon chatting with town folks before heading in.
At home that evening, I overheard my parents rehashing the event. “He’s not like anything I expected,” my dad said. “He is downright friendly,” my mom agreed. “And out of that coat, he’s skinnier than a rail, though. For being rich, it looks like he doesn’t eat anything at all.”
Maybe whatever food prepared by the Home Ec girls for Mr. Goodwin to eat the next day wasn’t substantive—but it was certainly significant.
Part 6—The Show Must Go On
Monday morning in Two Rivers dawned clear and cold, the skies a darker blue and the air extra sharp. Bundled against the chill, all of us singers arrived at 6:45 for the 7 o’clock rehearsal. Mr. Goodwin’s Duesenberg was already at the schoolhouse. We found the man, sans that humongous coat, inspecting the room’s layout—placement of microphones, the podiums that held broadsheet-size scripts for the cast, the location of piano and choir, and seating for the live audience, made up of chairs borrowed from the Elks Club and the Presbyterian Church social hall. The night before, the crew had set up the electronic equipment, plus a giant clock with a second hand and a red-lit, electric “On the Air” sign. Standing next to him, a young assistant, Miss Doreen, checked off items on a clipboard.
“This is all delightful and perfect,” he pronounced. “A shout out to everyone who helped!” He then called for Miss Gillick to move the choir into place. We had prepared six carols to sing, with the provision that he and the radio crew would choose the three best that we’d perform during the program. After we ran through the set, they decided we would first sing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” followed later by the brand new “White Christmas” that Bing Crosby had made famous on NBC. He quietly asked Miss Gillick if the Crosby tune would still be OK with her. She nodded a quick yes, and he smiled. You could tell from his eyes, gestures and the way he talked kindly to her that someone must have told him about Jamison Briggs being M.I.A.
Then Mr. Goodwin announced, “Of course, the program will go out with you all singing ‘Jingle Bells’ because Rex Rawlings Adventures always ends on a happy note! A hot diggity dog!”
Eddie Norbert, assigned to jingle the bells, rehearsed his cues with Miss Doreen. She also rehearsed the applause and laugh cues—on big cards—with the audience of town citizens who had arrived early to watch the rehearsal. By ten o’clock, Mr. Goodwin had run through the entire script with the other cast members, a Miss Guthrie who did the women’s voices, Mr. Foote, who voiced the men’s and Jonesie, who created amazing sound effects. With the rehearsal complete, he returned to the hotel to rest and eat. Since we boys had nothing better to do, we followed the big red car down to Main Street. At the hotel, Mr. Goodwin got out and walked to the small telegraph office. Tucked next to the hotel, this was the original location where the company years ago had been established by Mr. Briggs’s father. The actor exited five minutes later, called out “cheerio” and went inside the hotel.
By noon, nearly two hundred people had assembled in the schoolhouse. Every chair was filled and folks stood jam-packed along the walls. The room grew very hot, so we opened the windows and doors. A few seconds after we heard the Duesenberg’s roar, Mr. Goodwin—or I should actually say Rex Rawlings himself—entered the building. This thrilled us kids! The actor now wore a pin-stripe suit, the trademark red bowtie and a wig of the blackest, slicke hair this side of Reno. His patent leather shoes shone brilliantly. Perspiring slightly and red of face, he dabbed a handkerchief on his forehead and waved to the audience.
“Rex, Rex, Rex,” cried a few kids in the choir. They reached out their hands as he passed. He patted a few on the head, shed his coat and stepped into the cloakroom for his yoga and quiet time. Miss Doreen gestured for everyone to simmer down and reminded us not to speak after the “On the Air” sign flashed.
At 12:45, Miss Doreen knocked on the cloakroom door. She waited for the second hand to sweep another thirty seconds and knocked again. Then she rapped loudly, and called, “Mr. Goodwin, it’s 12:47!” The door suddenly flung open and the actor stepped out, much redder and visibly distraught. Clasping his throat, he squawked, “I can’t talk!”
The audience gasped. Doc Mazzatti, who never goes anywhere without his black bag, rushed up from the back. We heard him ask the actor a few questions that elicited quick nods. Leading the stricken actor into the cloakroom, Doc told Miss Doreen, “He’s not going to be able to perform. I’m sorry,” and he slammed the door shut.
Disbelieving and stunned, Miss Doreen blinked her eyes rapidly. The NBC guys manning the equipment sat mute and wide-eyed. The audience erupted in confused chatter. In front of the room, the big clock swept away the seconds—and soon with them our town’s reputation, which threatened to end in infamy. Nearby, I heard someone furtively ask Miss Hall what she had fed Mr. Goodwin. “My girls just collected wild greens for his lunch,” the Home Ec teacher whispered, “You know, local stuff like miner’s lettuce, thistle stalk, dandelion root, nettles and the like…Of course, we boiled the nettles…”
At the piano, Bailey Bradley stood up abruptly. He paced left and right, and then returned to the piano. Suddenly crashing chords silenced everyone. Standing up, Bailey whooped in trademark Rex Rawlings style, “A hot diggity dog, kids, let’s get this show on the road!”
Miss Doreen jolted, stared hard at the boy and exclaimed, “You sound just like Rex!”
“Yowsa,” he replied, stepping to the middle podium between Miss Guthrie and Mr. Foote.
Face suddenly alight, Miss Gillick quickly took Bailey’s place at the piano. Miss Doreen stared at the tech crew, and they stared right back until she nodded a very slight “yes.” The crowd held its breath. At one o’clock, the radioman in headphones announced, “Standby.” At 1:02, we heard the countdown called out, “Five-Four-Three-Two-One!” A hand chopped down toward Bailey. The red light flashed. The broadcast began!
Part 7—A Modern Miracle
I think you’ll agree that infrequently in our lives certain events that happen become magical—both in the unfolding and the ensuing memory, the latter embroidered in nostalgia and love. All of us folks that December 1942 witnessed something awesome—a marvel of stagecraft and the audacity of youth.
When Bailey Bradley stepped up to the microphone, the audience froze. Could he actually impersonate Rex Rawlings? Having watched the rehearsal, we knew the gist of the show, and that gigantic script lay in front of Bailey. At hand, were the actors Miss Guthrie and Mr. Foote, and Jonesie, on sound effects. To that, you could add dozens of prayers from the audience!
Bailey didn’t hesitate. In perfect imitation of Rex Rawlings, he jumped in, “Right now, I’m in the little Gold Rush town of Two Rivers, waaaaaay up here in Northern California, and today we're going treasure hunting for gold!” He introduced the choir. We launched into “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” From there almost without hitch, the show rolled forward, with Rex Rawlings on an adventure searching for the Lost Scotsman Mine—“yonder east of Gold Lake.”
When Bailey stumbled on the word “argyle,” Miss Guthrie ad-libbed, “Rex, slow down, you’re always in such a hurry!” Bailey, playing along, retorted, “Who cares about words when we’re saving the world!” The audience added an unscripted laugh. Our confidence rose.
Midway we sang, “White Christmas,” and tears fell on Miss Gillick’s cheeks as she accompanied us on the piano. Finally, as the show wrapped up with the choir singing “Jingle Bells,” a very pale Abel Goodwin emerged from the cloakroom. When Bailey stepped back from the podium to let the actor take his place, Mr. Goodwin motioned him forward, thus allowing our classmate to sign off: “A hot diggity dog, kids! From all my new friends in Two Rivers, California—Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!”
Without prompting, the audience rose to a standing ovation. The actors bowed slightly, and Mr. Goodwin lifted one of Bailey’s arms like you see in pictures of a prize-fighter winning a round. Applause roared again. Bailey turned beet red, but you could tell he was proud—and relieved!
At school the next morning when we arrived in high spirits, we saw Miss Gillick back at her desk. It was a good thing, too, because I doubt that Mr. Thompson could have channeled our exuberance. After we settled down, she asked Bailey, “How on earth did you do that? You were absolutely marvelous!”
He turned red again. “Well, you all saw the rehearsal—just people speaking words from that script. That looked easy enough. The only time I got mervey was just before—when I paced a bit, wondering if I should try, but then I said “a hot diggity dog” like Rex. I got it into my head that I was him, and I knew I could pull it off. After that, it was just plain fun.”
A voice boomed from the back, “That’s right, Mr. Bradley. The magic starts in one’s mind. That’s how a skinny, bald vegetarian can become Raconteur Rex!”
We turned and saw that great big raccoon coat, but no hat. It was Chrome-Dome himself, Abel Goodwin, appearing completely recovered, with Miss Guthrie and Mr. Foote in tow. Presenting Bailey with a red bowtie, the actor said, “Young man, you were amazing yesterday.” He tucked his agent’s business card into Bailey’s shirt pocket. “You certainly have a future in show business.”
Motioning to all of us, Mr. Goodwin divulged, “I talked to the network this morning. They were thrilled with the broadcast—and your singing. Ha! But NBC didn’t realize I wasn’t on stage.” He added, conspiratorially, “And they still don’t. Because we didn’t tell them! My boss just wondered how on earth I could mispronounce “argyle.” He let out a big laugh.
Incidentally, later that week the Ledger’s article kept the cone of silence as well, reporting merely, “Rex Rawlings is quite the character, and had a lot of local help—especially from Bailey Bradley—that saved the day.”
Before they left, the three actors spent the next hour answering our questions—about show business, what New York City life was like, how they came up with ideas for the radio adventures—and what had made Mr. Goodwin ill.
“Holy mackerel!” he exclaimed. “I had an allergic reaction to those salad greens. Doc gave me a shot and the swelling went away. That was really killer-diller.”
The best part of Mr. Goodwin’s visit came when Eddie Norbert asked about yoga. Thrilled, Mr. Goodwin told the class to sit on the floor and he’d show us what it was like. He guided us through a series of moves, including humming a “mantra.” From the side of the classroom, Miss Gillick watched, bemused. The class was intoning “o-ooom-o-ooom” when in walked Mr. Thompson and Mr. Briggs, the latter holding a telegram.
Standing near Miss Gillick, and taking in the scene, Mr. Thompson said, “All I can say is kids, don’t try that at home!” Everyone laughed. Mr. Briggs handed the message down to Mr. Goodwin.
“Ah yes,” the actor said, ripping it open. “I sent one yesterday to a War Department official who owes me favors.” Glancing at it, he beamed, stood and read aloud: “Your boy found safe. Recuperating in ship hospital.” He handed the telegram to Mr. Briggs. “Sir, that’s your son, Jamison.”
Had Mr. Briggs not rushed to her side caught her, Miss Gillick would have crumpled to the floor. They fell into each other’s arms—literally and figuratively. They hugged. They cried. I can tell you right now when Mr. Briggs proposed marriage to her a few months later, no one was surprised. By the time Jamison returned home from the war, he had a new mom and a 16-month-old brother—named Bailey Abel Briggs.
In hindsight, no one should have been surprised about Bailey Bradley’s performance. After all in that era, teenage boys were being asked to pilot gigantic bombers in enemy skies and navigate ships through perilous waters. In comparison, a radio broadcast was child’s play. And by-the-by, Bailey did in fact have a career in show business—as an agent and talent scout—but that’s a story for another time.
THE END
© 2021 by H.A. Silliman. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction and all persons and places are fictional or fictionally portrayed. A version of this story appeared in the (Downieville) Mountain Messenger.
Cover by Diana Rich
It occurs to me there are a few amiable stories from our town’s past that I overlooked retelling during the years I published the Two Rivers Ledger. Nowadays, current publisher Mack Boyd fancies mysteries and crime. He assigns reporter Cara Lavitch to filch old articles from the archives and repackage them into historical serials. Me, Babe Garibaldi, I prefer the lighter side of our history—the dash of wit, the spice of life! I especially like reminding people that living “way back when” had amusing moments—even during the darkest days of the Depression and world war.
This story harkens all the way back to Christmas 1942, when I was a fifth grader at the old Two Rivers Elementary School. It’s still right there on Gooseneck Mine Road, but now remodeled into a very swanky, private residence. The building housed grades one through eight all in one room, and our teacher Miss Gillick—a pretty thing, with long black hair and a cute turned-up nose—she had modern ideas about keeping two dozen kids engaged when so much of the world had turned sad and scary. By then, Two Rivers had three homes displaying Gold Stars in front windows. In our school, Jeri Lynn Watts’s oldest brother, Sterling, was among the first of local boys who was killed, lost in the Battle of Coral Sea. Our family, so far, had been lucky. At that time, dad’s younger brother, Bobby, was an army airplane mechanic safely tucked away at an air base near Sacramento.
As I said, Miss Gillick, who had graduated from the San Jose Teacher’s College, took advantage of up-to-date ideas about education. Our school, for instance, had a wireless set. This early Westinghouse radio sat in a squat wooden cabinet and could pick up stations from all over the world. She made the entire class listen to Edward R. Murrow’s news broadcasts in the morning. On Mondays, we had entertainment, in particular, the Rex Rawlings Adventures show that featured radio and movie star Abel Goodwin. I keenly remember coming back inside after lunch recess, sitting at my desk and waiting as Miss Gillick tuned in the National Broadcasting Company for shows like Rex Rawlings To The Defense, Rex Rawlings Finds Buried Treasure, Rex Rawlings Tames A Tiger. The programs served as the perfect antidote for children energized by noontime play. After a few minutes of listening, we kids rested our heads sleepy-eyed on the desktops while Miss Gillick, smiling primly, sipped hot tea and read to herself. We were always sorry to hear Rex Rawlings trademark signoff: “A hot diggity dog, kids! I’ll be waiting right here for you next week!”
One day, in late September, NBC announced a contest. The company would send actor Abel Goodwin to a town somewhere in the States to make a nationwide broadcast Rex Rawlings Celebrates Christmas. To be chosen, fans had to write NBC and describe what made their town sincere and suitable for hosting the show.
Upon hearing the announcement, I remember Miss Gillick perked up. She slapped her book closed, startling the class, and said, “Oh children, wouldn’t it be fun to have Rex Rawlings here in Two Rivers? I bet we could even get him to visit our school!” Thinking back on that day, I can see even Miss Gillick had been so charmed by the dashing movie house posters of Abel Goodwin decked out as Raconteur Rex in pin-stripe suit, red bowtie and slicked-back hair that she conflated him with Abel. We all thought we could be getting Rex. We all thought wrong.
We shook ourselves alert and murmured agreement. “Let’s all write a letter together and enter the contest!” she suggested, going to the blackboard. She then said a word new to me—and one which is certainly popular now: “Let’s brainstorm!” she commanded, chalking out two columns: “Sincere” and “Suitable,” the criteria for hosting the broadcast.
The oldest boy in school—Bailey Bradley, whose family owned The American House Hotel—spoke first. “They’ll certainly need a nice place to stay,” Bailey offered. “Rex can even do the broadcast from our hotel’s second-floor balcony, with the audience on the street.”
All of us boys, by the way, looked up to Bailey. A whiz both at throwing a baseball and playing ragtime on the piano, he was, with his red-hair and freckled face, a ham at that, screwing his face into all sorts of comical looks and impersonating folks around town. Once during class, he launched into his version of W.C. Fields competing in a spelling bee, “That’s chickadee, spelled M-i-s-s-G-i-l-l-i-c-k, as in ‘Miss Gillick is my little chickadee.’ Blushing deeply, our teacher replied, “Thank you, Mr. Fields. And what does d-e-t-e-n-t-i-o-n spell?” Bailey was our hero.
That day, as Miss Gillick wrote Bailey’s idea on the blackboard, the class began tossing out more suggestions—suitable and sincere: “Radio broadcasts need lots of electricity—our town has its own powerhouse.” “Everyone attends church.” “Our Christmas Pageant is famous.” “Two Rivers leads the county in buying war bonds.” “Two Rivers won a metal recycling drive.”
When Marie Manassero (whom years later I married) suggested, “We have our own telephone company,” I piped up in eager support, “That’s right. And they have that contraption for making phonograph records.”
This novelty was a big deal because in those days when long distance calls were prohibitively expensive, you only had to pay fifty cents for a blank record. People would haul the whole family up to the Two Rivers Telephone & Telegraph office to record a message that could then be mailed to far-flung relatives or soldiers.
Dutifully adding Marie’s idea to the list, Miss Gillick suddenly proclaimed, “Class! I think there’s a sure-fire way to win this contest. And I know just the man to help us!”
PART 2—An Unexpected Announcement
Having kicked around for nigh unto a century, I’ve delighted in living through different eras—epochs of time not marked by decades. Thinking about the war years, I feel lucky to have spent them in Two Rivers. Of course, my turn having owned the Ledger, is dear to me, but World War II for a hometown boy had that keen sense of derring-do.
When I conjure up memories, I am back on nighttime Main Street. Hunch-back cars, their gears growling, slosh over rain-slick pavement, while shadows of men in fedora hats and trench coats move under lamplight—essentially scenes inspired by Rex Rawlings Adventures. My scrapbooks document the period with better accuracy, if less drama. My collection, of course, contains clips of that radio contest, and frankly, I rely on these scraps of news to tell this tale. There are also articles where I made the headlines, “Babe Garibaldi heads up kids’ scrap metal drive,” and “Young Garibaldi helps widows plant Victory Gardens.” Seeing my name in type, of course, made me profoundly fond of the Ledger, which may be why I chose a career in journalism.
Now, in those days—as true yet—folks in town pretty much knew the gist of your personal business. It was common knowledge, for instance, that our school marm was a sure catch for a wife. We knew Mr. Briggs’s son, Jamison, who had joined the Army, was sweet on Miss Gillick. Before he shipped out, they were seen drinking malts at Dr. Wiser’s pharmacy and attending matinees at The Nugget movie house. Despite these sightings, anytime Miss Gillick wanted to demonstrate a science experiment or explain some bit of modern technology—which she did to the entire spread of school grades—she called upon Jamison’s father, Mr. Briggs, who owned the telephone company and was the chairman of the school board.
At the time, Mr. Briggs must have been in his late ‘40s—his hair was gray and thinning. I thought of him as incredibly old. A widower, his wife had died twenty years before from the Spanish flu, late in that pandemic, when it still lingered in our backcountry ravines. Even as a ten-year-old, it seemed to me that Mr. Briggs paid special attention to Miss Gillick, and she to him. These days, it may not be politically correct to state, but she acted girly around him. When she introduced him to the class, she always clasped both of her hands around his left arm and bounced on her tiptoes. She lavished compliments, “Oh, Mr. Briggs, you are so clever!” “Why, that’s most fascinating thing; how smart you are, Mr. Briggs.” When he would say “hi-de-ho” or “This is killer-diller,” she’d giggle. So it was natural for Miss Gillick to turn to Mr. Briggs for help in entering that contest. Her idea was magnificent, but we had to hurry. The deadline was October 16—about three weeks away, with the winning town to be announced on the November 9 broadcast. Here’s a clip of what the Ledger wrote:
Elementary students to enter NBC radio contest
Miss S. Gillick’s students at Two Rivers Elementary School are making a big play to entice the National Broadcasting Co. show Rex Rawlings Adventures to our town. The network announced a contest, seeking a location somewhere in America to host the live Christmas broadcast of that popular radio show. Entries will be judged on how well-suited the town is for hosting a live broadcast—and how sincere it is! Young Miss Gillick is well known in these parts for employing modern teaching methods in her classroom, and this entry will certainly exhibit that. She intends to have students make a phonograph record using the device at the telephone office. But this won’t just be a bunch of kids reading a letter aloud; instead, they will create a radio production, complete with music, guests, an emcee, and an audience—with students playing all the parts. Since everyone in Two Rivers knows that our young people are very talented (and that our town certainly is sincere), the class is sure to have an excellent chance of winning the contest, and the Ledger wishes them all success!
After we had written a show and practiced over and over, Mr. Briggs wheeled the phonograph machine into our classroom. We needed four takes before we got a perfect recording. Fortunately, he didn’t skimp on the records we could waste: “Use as many as you need,” he said cheerfully, watching our antics over a whole afternoon from the back of the classroom.
I won’t narrate the contents of our production because you can hear it for yourself. There’s a scratchy recording right up there at the Quartz County Museum, where the Ledger stories and the record are on display. The one highlight that I will mention, however, is what Bailey Bradley improvised at the finish. The play ended with the emcee, twelve-year-old Eddie Norbert, saying, “This program was sponsored by the Two Rivers Telephone & Telegraph Co.” That’s when Bailey exclaimed, in perfect imitation of a Rex Rawlings’ signoff, “A hot diggity dog, kids! Tune in next when Rex Rawlings goes to Two Rivers!” Everyone cracked up, and we thought the laughs captured on the record certainly made our entry sincere.
Mr. Briggs made a few copies of the recording, and the next day the whole class trooped over to the post office to see our postmistress, Mrs. Niles, mail off the original record—and then we waited three weeks. Excited, we tuned in November 9 for the big announcement. But it didn’t happen! Instead, we heard, “The Rex Rawlings show has been interrupted for a special report on the Allied landings yesterday in North Africa.”
Part 3—Messages from Afar
Naturally, everyone in town that November—and I suppose all across the States—finally felt relief that the Allies were fighting Hitler—even if it were in a far-off place like North Africa and not Europe. We kids redoubled our efforts to scrounge metal for the recycling drives, scouring the surrounding hills, dotted with abandoned mines and old sawmills. While coming back the next Saturday afternoon with bits of pipe fittings loaded in our Radio Flyer wagon, Eddie Norbert and I passed by Miss Gillick’s house. We saw her on the porch with Mr. Briggs, and she was crying something awful. As we got closer, we could see in his hand that telltale yellow of a telegram. Later we learned that his son, Jamison, was missing in action in North Africa.
On the next Monday, Miss Gillick was absent from class. The superintendent of the district, Mr. Thompson, substituted and said it would be a while before she’d return. From then, a fog settled over the little school. How can you be happy when a teacher who so filled the classroom with cheer and excitement, was now gone—and the tragic circumstances? After lunch that Monday, when Miss Gillick would normally tune in the Rex Rawlings show, Mr. Thompson, instead, read to us. No one spoke up to ask about the radio. You just didn’t do that with Mr. Thompson. He wasn’t an unfriendly man—just the opposite, for he delighted telling students the history of Quartz County and could name your ancestors and what part they played in the founding of the town. As an old-school educator, however, he didn’t truck much with modern methods. He kept a wooden ruler conspicuously on his desk as a warning if we got unruly. He never had to use it.
I guess, collectively, all of us students put away thoughts about the contest and whoever the winner might be. Thanksgiving and Christmas were around the corner and occupied our imaginations. One day, Mr. Thompson took us on a field trip to the old Bonafoy homestead to collect walnuts and Filberts from the orchard. The outing was a relief for the class, and the nuts were highly welcomed and prized by our mothers, as food rationing was now in full swing due to the war. We also gathered extra nuts as little gifts for the old folks in town, other families who we knew could use them, and of course, for Miss Gillick—and a few of us took hers by after school. When we knocked at the door, we hoped to see our teacher, but her sister Rosalyn answered instead. She thanked us for the gift and said she was sorry that Miss Gillick couldn’t talk.
Bailey Bradley asked if she were coming back at all—and Rosalyn said, “Of course!” That answer satisfied for the time being—it gave us kids hope! When we bid goodbye, Rosalyn said to wait and went back inside. She returned with a letter. “This was sent to the school, but the postman knew she wasn’t there, so delivered it here. Please give it to Mr. Thompson.”
The envelope’s return address was the National Broadcast Company in New York City, and the postmark dated November 10—a whole ten days previous. Racing back to school with the unopened letter, we arrived just as Mr. Thompson was climbing into his car—a ’34 Dodge coupe, as I recall. Thanking us for the letter, he said he’d read it at home that evening. Of course, we were disappointed he didn’t open the envelope right then, but in those days, children abided by adults’ decisions without complaint—especially since Mr. Thompson was not the kind of man you could appeal to, plead with or cajole. This was a Friday, so by the next Monday when we entered the schoolhouse, the entire student body—all twenty-four of us!—knew that NBC had sent a letter to Miss Gillick. We were suddenly spirited again—and hopeful! It also helped that Thanksgiving was a few days away and school would let out early the day before.
Standing in front of the class that morning, Mr. Thompson said, “I have an announcement to make. It seems Two Rivers Elementary School has won the National Broadcasting Company contest.” The class broke into a clamor that could raise the dead in the church cemetery across the ravine. The celebration went on for a number of minutes. For once, he didn’t shush the class right away and let the ruckus die on its own.
“I’m very proud of you all and Miss Gillick, too. However, I must talk to the school board to see if they will permit this to go forward. I have asked the trustees to hold a special meeting tomorrow night to make a decision.” We slumped back into our wooden seats, audibly disappointed. “You might want to have your parents attend,” he added. “Mr. Bailey, you in particular, better have your dad present. These radio people want to stay at your hotel—for free!”
Now in those days, the school board was, of course, a public body and its meetings open, but they were lightly attended because parents trusted the trustees to do right for their children. So Mr. Thompson asking outright that parents should attend was a bit unusual. When the board convened Tuesday night, Mr. Thompson rose to speak first. He began by congratulating our school for winning the contest and praised Miss Gillick. for her work. She wasn’t present, so he hoped for her speedy recovery and return to class. He then produced the letter from NBC.
Waving the document, he said, “Why we’re here tonight is because of this list of requirements. There’s quite a lot of things they want in order to make the Rex Rawlings Christmas broadcast here in Two Rivers. Some items are rather peculiar.”
Part 4—The Town Gathers Up
Even nowadays with the technical conveniences that enrich our lives, residents of Two Rivers are no-nonsense people. We pride ourselves, I think, in how down-to-earth we are. Folks who lived back during the Depression and war certainly had to be practical. Things got reused and recycled. Life was simple. We were not “self-aware” in the sense of needing to be in touch with our feelings so we could become “enlightened.” We also have always been gracious to share what little we have. I suppose this is the result of living a long ways up a twisty mountain road.
In any case, when Mr. Thompson read what was required for the Rex Rawlings Christmas show to be broadcast from Two Rivers, folks at the school board meeting listened respectfully. In addition to details on the room set-up for the broadcast, the demands included bottled Saratoga Spring Water, tea at 180 degrees with fresh lemon before the broadcast for Mr. Goodwin, a vegetarian diet (a separate list itself) with fresh greens for Mr. Goodwin, five hotel rooms at no charge, bathwater that reached 98 degrees, and a completely darkened and silent space where Mr. Goodwin could “practice yoga” before the show. Also needed were a person to play a piano and children to sing a few Christmas carols. The broadcast was set for one p.m., Monday, December 21—now less than four weeks away. The entourage would arrive on the Sunday before, and a rehearsal would be held, starting 7 o’clock that Monday morning.
“Any questions?” Mr. Thompson asked.
From the back of the room we heard, “What the heck’s yoga?”
“I believe this is a kind of exercise from the Orient,” Mr. Thompson explained. “It’s not something you eat.”
We then waited for the chairman, Mr. Briggs of the telephone company, to make a statement. We were surprised and happy to see him attending, given the circumstances of his son being missing in action. In the past few weeks, Mr. Briggs had been making a good show around town since he got that awful telegram. Because the show would need his company’s telephone equipment to transmit the program back east to NBC for rebroadcast, this might have been the reason why Mr. Thompson wanted to ask the school board for approval. He knew Mr. Briggs would have to play a big part in making the broadcast happen, and as a grieving father, he certainly had the right to beg off.
Clearing his throat, Mr. Briggs said, “I see no problem technically in hosting the broadcast. I’d like to do that for the town. It will be welcome publicity. But when it comes to Saratoga Spring Water, well, that’s above my pay grade!”
Everyone laughed and then Mr. Bradley from The American House Hotel spoke up next. He agreed to house Mr. Goodwin and the NBC crew for free. “I’ll make sure they all sign our guest book. Since I always get snooty visitors who come just to say they slept in this room or that room where some famous person set their heads, we’ll make it pay later that way. As far as that fancy bottled water, let’s call down to The Red Eagle Lodge. They’re well-known for having lots of city-folk and celebrities—what you call the glitterati—come stay at their hot springs. They might have it.”
“Jeepers,” said contractor Prentice Jenner, “where’d you learn that new-fangled word from? What was it again?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Mr. Bradley replied. “One of my fancy lady customers left a slick magazine in the lobby. And there it was right on the cover: Glitterati! Why, I had to read the entire story to find out what it meant!” He turned to the crowd, “See, boys and girls, you can learn new stuff by reading!”
Once more the room erupted in laughter. A clamor ensued as people volunteered to do this and that to meet the letter’s demands. It turned out that the best place to make the broadcast was right in the schoolhouse itself because the building had a windowless cloakroom where Mr. Goodwin could “practice yoga” before the show. The classroom also had a well-tuned upright piano needed for the music, and the new telephone exchange building was located conveniently just down the road.
High school teacher Miss Hall volunteered for her girls in Home Ec to take charge of Mr. Goodwin’s special diet. “There’s all sorts of wild greens that grow around here that we can gather,” she reported. “Since rationing started, we’ve been learning about them and have tried some. They’re actually pretty tasty.”
Then, Mr. Thompson got everyone quiet and said it was time to make separate lists so folks could sign up for what was needed. What emerged from that gathering was a can-do spirit: No matter what they were, we’d meet Mr. Goodwin’s peculiar requests. We were happy to do it. Proud that we could. You know, even as a ten-year-old, I could sense the bonhomie that filled the room that night. Hosting a famous radio show certainly would place Two Rivers in the spotlight, but I think folks were happier because they were being asked to be of service to something not hitched to the war effort.
I suppose, too, that happening almost on the eve of Thanksgiving—and not long after a successful invasion to root out Mr. Hitler from Africa—the special school board meeting became a celebration of sorts for the town. A few ladies had arrived with pumpkin pies and hot apple cider. Someone even brought in a Victrola to play the phonograph recording we made for entering the contest. Though all around a happy ensemble, hanging over the room that evening yet was that awful question: What had become of Jamison Briggs, who was missing overseas?
Part 5—A Bearable Truth
With Thanksgiving over, folks turned to the task of preparing the schoolhouse and—for that matter—the entire town to host Mr. Goodwin and the big radio broadcast. Mr. Thompson wanted Christmas decorations everywhere. One day, he marched the class up to the ridge behind the school, and we collected pine boughs and manzanita berries which the high school boys helped us turn into dozens of wreaths that were used to decorate the school, Main Street, the hotel and even distributed to homes around town. War or not, Two Rivers must look festive!
With Mr. Kelly and Mr. Jenner directing the high school boys, the schoolhouse facade received a new coat of white paint. Someone got ahold of blackout curtains, the kind being used along the coast, and these were strung up in the cloakroom as soundproofing for Mr. Goodwin’s pre-broadcast quiet time. We boys were made to visit Mr. Vukovich, the barber, for haircuts and tubes of Brylcreem. Our hair was so slick you could see yourself in the shine! If dressed in red bowties, we’d have looked just like little Rex Rawlings.
It was only natural for Mr. Thompson to assent to the class listening again to the Rex Rawlings Adventures on Monday afternoons. On the first day back from Thanksgiving when he tuned into the show, we heard our town mentioned in a promotion of the special Christmas broadcast. That tickled us mightily! It might be difficult nowadays to imagine what it meant for Two Rivers to receive nationwide attention that was good. We all knew the last time the town made headlines. That happened in 1928, the result of the Abraham Mine disaster, when an explosion left a dozen miners trapped hundreds of feet underground. Sadly, by the time rescuers finally arrived, they found the men had survived the collapse but had perished from mine gas, with the dying men having written messages to their loved ones using candle black on the tunnel walls. So a happy occasion for recognition of Two Rivers cheered everyone—especially when the War Production Board had recently ordered closing of—the gold mines. They were considered nonessential, but that order sure put a lot of men out of work in our county.
Since a requirement for the radio broadcast was a children’s choir to sing Christmas carols, we had to rehearse. Mr. Thompson announced one afternoon that a special guest would help us. He opened the door and in stepped Miss Gillick: We were thrilled! Though thinner and whiter—it was obvious she had been through an ordeal—her happy eyes still shone through. With her, we would practice every afternoon for an hour until the radio broadcast. Bailey Bradley was enlisted to play the piano. High school students joined us as well, and we were divided into four parts to sing harmony. Mr. Briggs stopped by a few times to listen, and one day brought back the machine to record the carols.
Finally, came Sunday, December 20—the day our big-city guests arrived. A light snow had fallen that morning, sugar-coating the town. Folks naturally had gathered at The American House Hotel to welcome our esteemed visitors. The women wore their Sunday best, and most men were in shirt-and-tie. A few boys sported the signature Rex Rawlings red bowtie. They stood in front of proud parents. Just after two o’clock, a fire-engine red Duesenberg J, squealed to a stop at the hotel. Most of us had never seen a car that big! The limousine sported a snout of a motor compartment so long that the NBC panel truck that followed could fit between the bumper and windscreen.
In stone silence, the crowd waited, breaths held, for a door to open. Finally, the slender, liveried chauffeur slowly stepped out, gave a polite tip of his cap to the crowd and spent a few seconds adjusting his uniform. He then opened the back door. What emerged was a bear-like figure, covered in fur from head to toe. Closer inspection revealed a very tall man inside the folds of a humongous raccoon coat, a head almost completely covered with a giant, puffy beaver hat with ear flaps.
A voice, booming low, with great excitement, said, “Oh, what a wonderful crowd you are! Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” And then a long, white hand emerged from the fur and pointed at the hair-slicked boys in front, “And look! Little Rex Rawlings lined up all in a row! Good job, my friends!”
In salute to the audience, the furry creature made a complete circle, lifting his furry cap with one hand. Some of us gawked at the sight revealed, but it was little Eddie Norbert who blurted, “Good golly, he’s a chrome-dome!” That broke the crowd’s silence, bringing laughter from many, and something surprising from the fur-clad man.
“Yes, I am certainly bald!” the figure said, rubbing his head. “Abel Goodwin is as bald as a baby’s bottom.” He clamped the hat back on. “Did you make it snow just for me this morning?” he asked. “Your town is magical—a Christmas postcard. Better than Currier and Ives!” He laughed at his own joke and promptly waded into the crowd, offering a string of “Hi-hi-hi’s, Hi-hi-hi’s” as he attempted to personally greet everyone, shaking hands with as many as he could. He spent a half hour in front of the hotel that afternoon chatting with town folks before heading in.
At home that evening, I overheard my parents rehashing the event. “He’s not like anything I expected,” my dad said. “He is downright friendly,” my mom agreed. “And out of that coat, he’s skinnier than a rail, though. For being rich, it looks like he doesn’t eat anything at all.”
Maybe whatever food prepared by the Home Ec girls for Mr. Goodwin to eat the next day wasn’t substantive—but it was certainly significant.
Part 6—The Show Must Go On
Monday morning in Two Rivers dawned clear and cold, the skies a darker blue and the air extra sharp. Bundled against the chill, all of us singers arrived at 6:45 for the 7 o’clock rehearsal. Mr. Goodwin’s Duesenberg was already at the schoolhouse. We found the man, sans that humongous coat, inspecting the room’s layout—placement of microphones, the podiums that held broadsheet-size scripts for the cast, the location of piano and choir, and seating for the live audience, made up of chairs borrowed from the Elks Club and the Presbyterian Church social hall. The night before, the crew had set up the electronic equipment, plus a giant clock with a second hand and a red-lit, electric “On the Air” sign. Standing next to him, a young assistant, Miss Doreen, checked off items on a clipboard.
“This is all delightful and perfect,” he pronounced. “A shout out to everyone who helped!” He then called for Miss Gillick to move the choir into place. We had prepared six carols to sing, with the provision that he and the radio crew would choose the three best that we’d perform during the program. After we ran through the set, they decided we would first sing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” followed later by the brand new “White Christmas” that Bing Crosby had made famous on NBC. He quietly asked Miss Gillick if the Crosby tune would still be OK with her. She nodded a quick yes, and he smiled. You could tell from his eyes, gestures and the way he talked kindly to her that someone must have told him about Jamison Briggs being M.I.A.
Then Mr. Goodwin announced, “Of course, the program will go out with you all singing ‘Jingle Bells’ because Rex Rawlings Adventures always ends on a happy note! A hot diggity dog!”
Eddie Norbert, assigned to jingle the bells, rehearsed his cues with Miss Doreen. She also rehearsed the applause and laugh cues—on big cards—with the audience of town citizens who had arrived early to watch the rehearsal. By ten o’clock, Mr. Goodwin had run through the entire script with the other cast members, a Miss Guthrie who did the women’s voices, Mr. Foote, who voiced the men’s and Jonesie, who created amazing sound effects. With the rehearsal complete, he returned to the hotel to rest and eat. Since we boys had nothing better to do, we followed the big red car down to Main Street. At the hotel, Mr. Goodwin got out and walked to the small telegraph office. Tucked next to the hotel, this was the original location where the company years ago had been established by Mr. Briggs’s father. The actor exited five minutes later, called out “cheerio” and went inside the hotel.
By noon, nearly two hundred people had assembled in the schoolhouse. Every chair was filled and folks stood jam-packed along the walls. The room grew very hot, so we opened the windows and doors. A few seconds after we heard the Duesenberg’s roar, Mr. Goodwin—or I should actually say Rex Rawlings himself—entered the building. This thrilled us kids! The actor now wore a pin-stripe suit, the trademark red bowtie and a wig of the blackest, slicke hair this side of Reno. His patent leather shoes shone brilliantly. Perspiring slightly and red of face, he dabbed a handkerchief on his forehead and waved to the audience.
“Rex, Rex, Rex,” cried a few kids in the choir. They reached out their hands as he passed. He patted a few on the head, shed his coat and stepped into the cloakroom for his yoga and quiet time. Miss Doreen gestured for everyone to simmer down and reminded us not to speak after the “On the Air” sign flashed.
At 12:45, Miss Doreen knocked on the cloakroom door. She waited for the second hand to sweep another thirty seconds and knocked again. Then she rapped loudly, and called, “Mr. Goodwin, it’s 12:47!” The door suddenly flung open and the actor stepped out, much redder and visibly distraught. Clasping his throat, he squawked, “I can’t talk!”
The audience gasped. Doc Mazzatti, who never goes anywhere without his black bag, rushed up from the back. We heard him ask the actor a few questions that elicited quick nods. Leading the stricken actor into the cloakroom, Doc told Miss Doreen, “He’s not going to be able to perform. I’m sorry,” and he slammed the door shut.
Disbelieving and stunned, Miss Doreen blinked her eyes rapidly. The NBC guys manning the equipment sat mute and wide-eyed. The audience erupted in confused chatter. In front of the room, the big clock swept away the seconds—and soon with them our town’s reputation, which threatened to end in infamy. Nearby, I heard someone furtively ask Miss Hall what she had fed Mr. Goodwin. “My girls just collected wild greens for his lunch,” the Home Ec teacher whispered, “You know, local stuff like miner’s lettuce, thistle stalk, dandelion root, nettles and the like…Of course, we boiled the nettles…”
At the piano, Bailey Bradley stood up abruptly. He paced left and right, and then returned to the piano. Suddenly crashing chords silenced everyone. Standing up, Bailey whooped in trademark Rex Rawlings style, “A hot diggity dog, kids, let’s get this show on the road!”
Miss Doreen jolted, stared hard at the boy and exclaimed, “You sound just like Rex!”
“Yowsa,” he replied, stepping to the middle podium between Miss Guthrie and Mr. Foote.
Face suddenly alight, Miss Gillick quickly took Bailey’s place at the piano. Miss Doreen stared at the tech crew, and they stared right back until she nodded a very slight “yes.” The crowd held its breath. At one o’clock, the radioman in headphones announced, “Standby.” At 1:02, we heard the countdown called out, “Five-Four-Three-Two-One!” A hand chopped down toward Bailey. The red light flashed. The broadcast began!
Part 7—A Modern Miracle
I think you’ll agree that infrequently in our lives certain events that happen become magical—both in the unfolding and the ensuing memory, the latter embroidered in nostalgia and love. All of us folks that December 1942 witnessed something awesome—a marvel of stagecraft and the audacity of youth.
When Bailey Bradley stepped up to the microphone, the audience froze. Could he actually impersonate Rex Rawlings? Having watched the rehearsal, we knew the gist of the show, and that gigantic script lay in front of Bailey. At hand, were the actors Miss Guthrie and Mr. Foote, and Jonesie, on sound effects. To that, you could add dozens of prayers from the audience!
Bailey didn’t hesitate. In perfect imitation of Rex Rawlings, he jumped in, “Right now, I’m in the little Gold Rush town of Two Rivers, waaaaaay up here in Northern California, and today we're going treasure hunting for gold!” He introduced the choir. We launched into “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” From there almost without hitch, the show rolled forward, with Rex Rawlings on an adventure searching for the Lost Scotsman Mine—“yonder east of Gold Lake.”
When Bailey stumbled on the word “argyle,” Miss Guthrie ad-libbed, “Rex, slow down, you’re always in such a hurry!” Bailey, playing along, retorted, “Who cares about words when we’re saving the world!” The audience added an unscripted laugh. Our confidence rose.
Midway we sang, “White Christmas,” and tears fell on Miss Gillick’s cheeks as she accompanied us on the piano. Finally, as the show wrapped up with the choir singing “Jingle Bells,” a very pale Abel Goodwin emerged from the cloakroom. When Bailey stepped back from the podium to let the actor take his place, Mr. Goodwin motioned him forward, thus allowing our classmate to sign off: “A hot diggity dog, kids! From all my new friends in Two Rivers, California—Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!”
Without prompting, the audience rose to a standing ovation. The actors bowed slightly, and Mr. Goodwin lifted one of Bailey’s arms like you see in pictures of a prize-fighter winning a round. Applause roared again. Bailey turned beet red, but you could tell he was proud—and relieved!
At school the next morning when we arrived in high spirits, we saw Miss Gillick back at her desk. It was a good thing, too, because I doubt that Mr. Thompson could have channeled our exuberance. After we settled down, she asked Bailey, “How on earth did you do that? You were absolutely marvelous!”
He turned red again. “Well, you all saw the rehearsal—just people speaking words from that script. That looked easy enough. The only time I got mervey was just before—when I paced a bit, wondering if I should try, but then I said “a hot diggity dog” like Rex. I got it into my head that I was him, and I knew I could pull it off. After that, it was just plain fun.”
A voice boomed from the back, “That’s right, Mr. Bradley. The magic starts in one’s mind. That’s how a skinny, bald vegetarian can become Raconteur Rex!”
We turned and saw that great big raccoon coat, but no hat. It was Chrome-Dome himself, Abel Goodwin, appearing completely recovered, with Miss Guthrie and Mr. Foote in tow. Presenting Bailey with a red bowtie, the actor said, “Young man, you were amazing yesterday.” He tucked his agent’s business card into Bailey’s shirt pocket. “You certainly have a future in show business.”
Motioning to all of us, Mr. Goodwin divulged, “I talked to the network this morning. They were thrilled with the broadcast—and your singing. Ha! But NBC didn’t realize I wasn’t on stage.” He added, conspiratorially, “And they still don’t. Because we didn’t tell them! My boss just wondered how on earth I could mispronounce “argyle.” He let out a big laugh.
Incidentally, later that week the Ledger’s article kept the cone of silence as well, reporting merely, “Rex Rawlings is quite the character, and had a lot of local help—especially from Bailey Bradley—that saved the day.”
Before they left, the three actors spent the next hour answering our questions—about show business, what New York City life was like, how they came up with ideas for the radio adventures—and what had made Mr. Goodwin ill.
“Holy mackerel!” he exclaimed. “I had an allergic reaction to those salad greens. Doc gave me a shot and the swelling went away. That was really killer-diller.”
The best part of Mr. Goodwin’s visit came when Eddie Norbert asked about yoga. Thrilled, Mr. Goodwin told the class to sit on the floor and he’d show us what it was like. He guided us through a series of moves, including humming a “mantra.” From the side of the classroom, Miss Gillick watched, bemused. The class was intoning “o-ooom-o-ooom” when in walked Mr. Thompson and Mr. Briggs, the latter holding a telegram.
Standing near Miss Gillick, and taking in the scene, Mr. Thompson said, “All I can say is kids, don’t try that at home!” Everyone laughed. Mr. Briggs handed the message down to Mr. Goodwin.
“Ah yes,” the actor said, ripping it open. “I sent one yesterday to a War Department official who owes me favors.” Glancing at it, he beamed, stood and read aloud: “Your boy found safe. Recuperating in ship hospital.” He handed the telegram to Mr. Briggs. “Sir, that’s your son, Jamison.”
Had Mr. Briggs not rushed to her side caught her, Miss Gillick would have crumpled to the floor. They fell into each other’s arms—literally and figuratively. They hugged. They cried. I can tell you right now when Mr. Briggs proposed marriage to her a few months later, no one was surprised. By the time Jamison returned home from the war, he had a new mom and a 16-month-old brother—named Bailey Abel Briggs.
In hindsight, no one should have been surprised about Bailey Bradley’s performance. After all in that era, teenage boys were being asked to pilot gigantic bombers in enemy skies and navigate ships through perilous waters. In comparison, a radio broadcast was child’s play. And by-the-by, Bailey did in fact have a career in show business—as an agent and talent scout—but that’s a story for another time.
THE END
© 2021 by H.A. Silliman. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction and all persons and places are fictional or fictionally portrayed. A version of this story appeared in the (Downieville) Mountain Messenger.
Cover by Diana Rich