I rummage through the closet for a record my cousin sent me in 2021. It's red and the size of a 45. The imprint on the plastic says that Rainbo Record Co. L.A made it. The black-on-red artwork shows a half sun and proclaims, "It's for a Colorful Reproduction."
"Once upon a time, Rainbo Records manufactured the sound of America. Ravers and garage rockers, rappers and producers, talentless screamers, kazoo orchestras — anyone who wanted, quite literally, a permanent record of their work — contracted the Canoga Park-based company to make their 45s, flexi discs, albums, 8-track tapes, cassettes and C.D.s." 1
When U.S. troops stormed the beaches at Normandy in 1944, Rainbo produced audio letters from soldiers stationed overseas. Later they put records on cereal boxes and created miniature records for talking dolls.
A handwritten label on my record says "Rebroadcast of Herb's Recording." When my California cousin sent it to me, I had it transcribed onto a CD. It cost the price of a used Audi, but I wanted to hear my dad's voice.
Today, I sit in my car and insert the CD into the player. I almost forget how to use the machine and accidentally keep ejecting the CD. Loud static comes from the speaker.
"I'm in the Titanic Lounge at the Red Cross. I'm waiting for the show to open and want you to know what I sound like".
Static.
"It's raining cats and dogs right now, but at least it's not snowing. You know I've always hated snow."
Static.
"Berlin's quite the place. It's not as badly bombed as Kassel."
Static.
"Paul and Chick are here right now."
A male voice says hello.
"Here's Chick now. Look alive Chick. He's a little bashful".
Another male voice says something indecipherable.
"We're going to sing a little ditty right now."
"Merry Christmas to you. Merry Christmas to you. Merry Christmas dear Folksies. Merry Christmas to you." (Sung to the tune of Happy Birthday).
"I think that's pretty good. Maybe it's a little corny. I don't know."
"Miss you lots, mom and dad. Hope I'll be there to see you next Christmas."
Most of the words are unintelligible. But this is my father's voice 77 years later.
I think of my dad, the original California boy, long before beach-promoting record companies made it famous. His father worked as a salesman for Heinz Ketchup; his mother was a 2nd-grade teacher. San Diego was a small town where boys played touch footfall in the street, rode bicycles, shot 22 rifles, and swam nude at Mission Valley.
During my dad's senior year of high school, he marched in the Rose Bowl Parade and earned extra cash as a' Pearl Diver' (washing dishes). The summer after graduation, he bucked rivets in an aircraft factory.
All the senior boys in his class wanted to be in the Army Air Corp, but when my dad was drafted at age 18, it was straight to the Infantry - Private 1st Class - Serial Number 39725421.
His division entered combat at Aachen on Dec 16th during the Battle of the Bulge. He was lucky if you consider being a machine gunner and losing a good part of his hearing lucky.
During one battle, a mortar shell bruised his little toenail, and he did not dig a foxhole that night. The guy next to him got hit in the ass with a mortar shell which stuck in his wallet. Wet feet and rotting toes - coming across a goose in a farmer's yard and roasting it for dinner – the best meal - ever! Many of his fellow soldiers did not make it home. As he said – he was lucky.
And now he's on occupation duty in Berlin - chauffeuring a Modern Major General, watching the Nuremberg War Crimes Trials, and visiting the concentration camp at Dachau. Making a Christmas recording for his folks and again realizing how very lucky he is.
Nineteen years ago, my dad died at 78 on Father's Day. And I realize how fortunate I am to have this small piece of him – this San Diego Boy.
1 Randall Roberts - L.A. Times
— opelikakat
"Once upon a time, Rainbo Records manufactured the sound of America. Ravers and garage rockers, rappers and producers, talentless screamers, kazoo orchestras — anyone who wanted, quite literally, a permanent record of their work — contracted the Canoga Park-based company to make their 45s, flexi discs, albums, 8-track tapes, cassettes and C.D.s." 1
When U.S. troops stormed the beaches at Normandy in 1944, Rainbo produced audio letters from soldiers stationed overseas. Later they put records on cereal boxes and created miniature records for talking dolls.
A handwritten label on my record says "Rebroadcast of Herb's Recording." When my California cousin sent it to me, I had it transcribed onto a CD. It cost the price of a used Audi, but I wanted to hear my dad's voice.
Today, I sit in my car and insert the CD into the player. I almost forget how to use the machine and accidentally keep ejecting the CD. Loud static comes from the speaker.
"I'm in the Titanic Lounge at the Red Cross. I'm waiting for the show to open and want you to know what I sound like".
Static.
"It's raining cats and dogs right now, but at least it's not snowing. You know I've always hated snow."
Static.
"Berlin's quite the place. It's not as badly bombed as Kassel."
Static.
"Paul and Chick are here right now."
A male voice says hello.
"Here's Chick now. Look alive Chick. He's a little bashful".
Another male voice says something indecipherable.
"We're going to sing a little ditty right now."
"Merry Christmas to you. Merry Christmas to you. Merry Christmas dear Folksies. Merry Christmas to you." (Sung to the tune of Happy Birthday).
"I think that's pretty good. Maybe it's a little corny. I don't know."
"Miss you lots, mom and dad. Hope I'll be there to see you next Christmas."
Most of the words are unintelligible. But this is my father's voice 77 years later.
I think of my dad, the original California boy, long before beach-promoting record companies made it famous. His father worked as a salesman for Heinz Ketchup; his mother was a 2nd-grade teacher. San Diego was a small town where boys played touch footfall in the street, rode bicycles, shot 22 rifles, and swam nude at Mission Valley.
During my dad's senior year of high school, he marched in the Rose Bowl Parade and earned extra cash as a' Pearl Diver' (washing dishes). The summer after graduation, he bucked rivets in an aircraft factory.
All the senior boys in his class wanted to be in the Army Air Corp, but when my dad was drafted at age 18, it was straight to the Infantry - Private 1st Class - Serial Number 39725421.
His division entered combat at Aachen on Dec 16th during the Battle of the Bulge. He was lucky if you consider being a machine gunner and losing a good part of his hearing lucky.
During one battle, a mortar shell bruised his little toenail, and he did not dig a foxhole that night. The guy next to him got hit in the ass with a mortar shell which stuck in his wallet. Wet feet and rotting toes - coming across a goose in a farmer's yard and roasting it for dinner – the best meal - ever! Many of his fellow soldiers did not make it home. As he said – he was lucky.
And now he's on occupation duty in Berlin - chauffeuring a Modern Major General, watching the Nuremberg War Crimes Trials, and visiting the concentration camp at Dachau. Making a Christmas recording for his folks and again realizing how very lucky he is.
Nineteen years ago, my dad died at 78 on Father's Day. And I realize how fortunate I am to have this small piece of him – this San Diego Boy.
1 Randall Roberts - L.A. Times
— opelikakat
Oh, my, this is such a well-written and touching piece. Thank you for sharing, if indeed the information is true. But how could it not be. Loved it!
ReplyDeleteCiting your research like a good writer! Very nice memory, fictional or not. Thank you for reminding me of the reality of war, but in a good way. ---Macoff
ReplyDeleteYou capture so beautifully the San Diego of yesteryear. Excedepictions. Wonderful narrative
ReplyDelete