All Director's Notes were written by Dick Goetzman for the playbills for the respective performances.

May 2009

Jack the Ripper—yup, that’s what my mother was sure I would become after my grandpa gave me my first jackknife when I was in the fourth grade and my dad was still away in the Marines near the end of WWII. It was a magnificent knife with three (count ‘em—three) blades and a genuine stag bone handle. He had invited me to stay at his farm for the weekend and surprised me, then, with that world-class knife. There was, however, a precise caveat that came with that gift. Grandpa told me in no uncertain terms (and, believe me, you paid attention to him) that the knife was to be kept razor sharp at all times—all three blades! “No use carrying a knife if it isn’t sharp!” was his stern admonition.

[Sidebar: that admonition proved to be a great life lesson in just about every way; i.e., whatever talent or skill you might have, it’s no good if you don’t hone it and use it to the best of your ability.]

He went on to give me exacting and detailed sharpening instructions and even gave me my very own whetstone for honing those blades. Wow! Could it have been a better weekend—I think not. He then added that anytime he saw me he would ask for the knife and would check to see if it was indeed sharp. If not, he would take it back and I would, again, be knifeless. If you knew my Grandpa, you knew with absolute certainty that this was no idle threat.

The likelihood of his meeting me was pretty high because the barbershop he went to was right next door to where I lived and the drugstore he frequented was right across the street. So he was around regularly and often stopped by when he was there. I vividly remember making sure every time I used that knife to get it sharpened again just as soon as I got home. Then, when I’d run into Grandpa and he’d ask for the knife, I’d sweat it out as he opened each blade in turn and took his time checking each honed edge with exaggerated care. (I didn’t know he was just making me sweat a little at the time.) Then he’d close up the knife and stand there holding it for a while as I stood by with my heart in my throat, just about wetting my britches, wondering if I passed inspection. Finally he’d hand it back and pat me on the shoulder and tell me what a good job I had done. I knew he was not the kind of man who gave idle praise just to be kind and I swelled with pride to know I had passed the test.

That knife carved a lot of slingshots, cut fishing line, played many a game of baseball and mumblety peg, went on innumerable camping trips, sliced a lot of green apples (“confiscated” from neighbors), and a host of other tasks for which I was ever grateful. A lot of people have told me what a cantankerous old coot Grandpa could be, but to me he was the best a kid could ask for!

October 2008

In April of 1988, Rochester Civic Theatre, needing some extra operating funds, settled on an unusual fund-raiser. They decided to do a couple evenings of oldtime radio shows, re-creating the live-studio atmosphere complete with music, sound effects, and, of course, a studio audience. Programs replicated in that first production, were The Shadow, Easy Aces, Dr. I.Q., and The Aldrich Family. The venture was so successful that it was repeated three months later with different shows. Three of the participants in those first two shows—Bob Ruble, Craig Peterson, and Dick Goetzman—had so much fun (and being such great old-time radio fans) they decided to create a group dedicated to the revival of the shows from the Golden Age of Radio.

Dick Goetzman came up with the name Rochester Radio Theatre Guild while Craig Peterson and Bob Ruble started on the promotion and organization of the group. We applied for and received official status as a not-for-profit corporation, somehow scrounged up some aging audio equipment, found a place to do our first RRTG show (Mid-Way Motor Lodge theatre) and we were on our way—penniless, but enthusiastic. That theatre would hold 96 people and when we came close to filling it the first couple of shows, we were in hog heaven. Then we actually began to sell out the 96 seats and have overflow crowds so we moved on to a larger space at the Senior Citizens Center. When we outgrew that space, we went to Christ United Methodist Church Conference Center until we needed still more space and moved to Peace United Church of Christ.

In 2001, we had an opportunity to return to our roots, Rochester Civic Theatre and it was wonderful! By now, our audience was definitely a loyal group and still growing. We sold out several shows and reluctantly had to move again, this time finding space at the Assembly of God Church. It has been a perfect venue for us with great sight lines, a wonderful speaker system for our now top-notch sound equipment, and plenty of seats. We hope we can stay on here!

Over these past twenty years, we have performed for conventions, fund-raisers, banquets, reunions, and our own “public” performances. One of the highlights of our successes was performing for 1500 wildly enthusiastic people at Mayo Civic for the state square-dancers convention. We have performed over 200 times and have re-created over 150 different episodes of various shows. We have many audience members who have been loyal attendees over these great years. We sincerely thank you—new and old audiences—for being here to encourage us in preserving this wonderfully entertaining medium. It is a part of our cultural history that should not be forgotten. Thank you, again, for making our efforts so worthwhile. We could not have succeeded this long and this well without you, our audience. It is our turn to applaud you!

0810

May 2008

Growing up in Winona when I did—throughout the 1940s— meant your imagination was constantly stimulated by that great “theatre of the mind” simply known as “radio” during its golden age. The lack of electronic gadgetry and wizardry meant playtime was left up to our imaginations as honed by listening to the radio—no Game Boys, iPods, computers, cell phones, or text messaging. One of the greatest imagination stimulants I had was a huge— broad and tall—old oak tree in the middle of a large, half-block empty lot known to us as King’s Lot—as in E. L. King of the J. R Watkins Co.

That single tree was a virtual world of adventure for us providing an infinite variety of excitement. If you knew the secret (take a good run, plant on foot on the trunk as high up as you could, and jump), you could get a hold of the first low branch and up you went into the magic tree which had a host of other branches going every which way—several slightly parallel to the ground before they wended their way upward. It was on these numerous branches (we each had a favorite spot) that we sat weaving our great imaginative adventures.

One day, the tree was transformed into a space ship exploring the secrets of Mars, evading and destroying the cruel and fiendish Martians who were no match for our bold and fearless crew. Another time, we were courageous airmen in a B-29 on a raid over Germany, fighting off the relentless Luftwaffe bent on our destruction. Then we were out west as the greatest posse for law and order ever assembled—I was, of course, Red Ryder on my great steed, Thunder; Dale was the Durango Kid astride Raider; Butch was Hopalong Cassidy riding Topper; Junior was the Lone Ranger on . . . let’s see what was his horse’s name? Every once in a while the cast changed to include Lash LaRue, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Rex Allen and other noble western heroes.

Yes, I piloted a fighter plane and led a platoon of tanks to protect the world from the Axis menace; I commanded a space ship and visited the worlds of outer space long before we put a man on the moon; I rode the finest horses and fought off the worst of outlaws; raced the fastest cars; sped through the waves in the South Pacific with a valiant and much decorated PT boat crew; and had adventures known only to the infinite imagination of exuberant youth.

I hope you, too, had a magic spot that launched you on these splendid exploits when you were a kid. I’m afraid today’s youth don’t have that magic and they are poorer in spirit for lacking a world which unfolds when imagination is let loose to fly unhampered through the excitement of infinite adventures. Perhaps tonight we can send you off on a short journey into your imagination again.

0805

October 2007

During WWII, I was in grade school at the guileless ages of 5-10 years old. Those were definitely impressionable times and my plethora of memories of that difficult era seem like “good” memories even though they occurred at a time that adults certainly found far less than enjoyable. The list of those recollections could take hours to write about, so let me make a long note short by mentioning, without too much elaboration, only a few of the many things I recall and see how many of them strike a familiar chord in your memory bank

• Rationing, which covers ration cards, coupons, points, etc.
• Taking money to school to buy stamps—in denominations from 10¢ to $5— which you put in a War Bonds stamp book aiming for the magic total of $18.75 which you could then turn in for a $25 bond (maturing in ten years).
• Victory gardens, “tin foil” drives, newspaper drives, rubber drives, etc.
• Saving waste kitchen fat and turning it in to your neighborhood butcher.
• Airplane identification charts showing each airplane in three silhouette views—bottom, front, and side. These were for Allied as well as Axis planes and I memorized them all!
• Playing war with the toy soldiers, planes, tanks, artillery, etc.
• Going to the “war” movies and seeing great films like Destination Tokyo, The Fighting Sullivans, Guadalcanal Diary, They Were Expendable, Sands of Iwo Jima, Bataan, Back to Bataan, Flying Tigers, Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, Wake Island, Blood on the Sun, The Fighting Seabees, Lifeboat, We Dive at Dawn, O.S.S., Sahara, and so many others!
• Suddenly finding out your local drug store (we had one right across the street) has a shipment of nickel Hershey bars and you can actually buy a limit of two; or, your corner grocery store has penny bubble gum and you can buy as many as ten pieces to be hoarded and rationed carefully.
• Hundreds of vivid, almost shocking, WWII posters encouraging conservation
  of resources, enlistment, victory gardens, canning, buying War Bonds, donating blood, and all sorts of other favorable WWII propaganda.

I could go on and on reminiscing about those days and I probably will do just that in future “Director’s Notes.” While those were severely trying times, I still treasure the memories of my innocent childhood in that era.

0710

May 2007

Bicyclists today—what a bunch of coddled wimps. They are totally spoiled with their gel-padded seats; super light-weight designer frames; 16-speed derailleurs; full-suspension; forged aluminum, linear-pull, front and rear wheel brakes; etc., etc., etc. When I was a kid, a bike was simply a bike—a brute machine that conquered the steepest hills and the biggest puddles, and hopped curbs with abandon—all done without benefit of fancy technology. Need to go faster? You pumped faster. Need more power on the hill? Stand up and pump till your gut was ready to burst! Quick stop? Jam on those coaster brakes and whip that monster into a dirt-spraying power skid that stopped on a dime.

My first experience with a bicycle came when my aunt gave us her old (read: ancient) Elgin. It was a “girl’s” bike—no unisex frames then! But that was good because I was only in the first grade and I learned to pedal standing up right where the bar would be on a “boy’s” bike. The handle bars were at shoulder height, but, dang it, I could ride that bike and was proud of the accomplishment. Hey, it even had a basket on the front for hauling stuff. Pretty snazzy!

I yearned for my very own bike for years, and finally at Christmas when I was in the fifth grade, by gum, a brand-new bike just for me. Could life possibly be any better! No more riding that junky, old, “sissy” bike. I couldn’t wait for guys to see what a beauty I now owned. It was a blue, white-trimmed Monarch, with knee-action suspension on the front wheel—how neat was that! It even had a kick-stand and a basket—a huge basket—that could carry a ton of stuff like groceries when I had to go to the store for Mom, all sorts of gear for when we struck out on an overnight camping expedition in the wild woods on my grandpa's farm, books, stuff for when I rode my bike to school, or my towel and swimsuit when I rode across the bridge to the bathing beach to get totally fried by the June sun. Ah, the whole world lay before me.

No cowboy ever had a finer steed, a more dependable companion. Oh sure, I had flat tires; but just think of how I learned to take the wheel off, separate the tire from the rim, pull out the inner tube and get out the old Monkey’s Paw patching kit and fix it. When I wiped out and bent the pedal arm, I had to take the pedal off (this is where I first learned about left-handed threads), get a monkey wrench on the arm and straighten it (a first-hand lesson on the laws of leverage). I learned to tighten spokes and adjust the cones so the wheel was snug yet spun freely. I learned how to put on a new chain and tighten it up just so there was a tad of slack but not enough to allow it to pop off the sprocket.

That old bike was as true a comrade as a kid ever had. I sure hope you had an equally fine friend to share your childhood with.

0705

November 2006

I’ve heard it said, and I suppose I’ve said it myself, more than a few times, “Kids, these days, don’t have to use their imaginations.” Think about it: movies, TV, DVDs, digital pics on cell phones, ad infinitum. Everything is visually laid out for them. Watch a scary program on TV and the monster is there for them to see—maybe scary, maybe not. But when we listened to the radio shows, we conjured up that monster in our own minds and it definitely was a horrible visage that filled our uneasy thoughts. And, that haunted house was a dark, creepy, frightening old mansion because we created it out of our own innate fears. Remember, also, unless you were an admitted scaredy-cat, you had to listen to those shows in a darkened room to heighten the fright factor.

More times than I can count, I sneaked up on my older sister and grabbed her with a snarl and a growl and relished her piercing, terrified scream and accompanying levitation. Of course, as kids are wont to do, she got her revenge more than once by doing the same thing to me. I was more creative and persistent, however. I remember one time she was in her room listening to Inner Sanctum and I went to the basement and screamed an unearthly bellow into the heat duct, at the same time whapping the duct with a pie pan. Her reaction was a paralyzing screech that must have raised the hackles on half the dogs in town. She jumped so frantically she knocked over her bottle of Pepsi (12 full ounces, that’s a lot!) and up-dumped a giant bowl of buttered popcorn. The words she bellowed to voice her displeasure were not supposed to be used by a 14-year old young lady. It was enough to make a sailor blush. I was laughing so hard my sides hurt and I had tears rolling down my cheeks. I was mildly surprised when she launched no physical attack upon my person (which did happen on occasion). I found out why, however, when I went to bed that night. The sheets were full of popcorn and salt and soaking with Pepsi.

My favorite fright prank, though, was the night I hid under her bed and, when she came in to get under the covers, I reached out from beneath with a guttural snarl and grabbed her ankles. This time she far outdid the heat-duct shriek. I think the neighbors thought the air-raid sirens were set off and another war was on. She must have jumped and danced and screamed for five minutes. She verbally assaulted me again with stevedore thoroughness and vowed violent and sadistic measures to ensure I would never live to see my next birthday.

Somehow we both survived our teens and now can laugh over some of those antics, though she swears she is still going to get even with me for the anklegrabbing incident. Little does she know I will never stand beside my bed before climbing in —just in case something is there waiting to grab my ankles.

0611

June 2006

One of the most common questions people ask about our shows is, “Just how does one of your productions actually come to be?” The answer, of course, is very complex when you consider all the pieces of a show that need to fit together to make it happen. Over the years, we have determined an effective pattern for each production which is comedy, non-comedy (i.e., western, drama, science fiction, mystery, etc.), intermission, short comedy, and music/variety. Interspersed within this format are our corporate sponsor commercials and our commercial jingles.

So, the first step is getting scripts. We (co-producers) listen to many different tapes of the original shows, especially the ones RRTG members might have recommended. Once we decide a show has the right qualities, we transcribe it or give a copy of it to one of our members who transcribes it (thank heavens). After I get the raw script, I edit it for typos, format, etc. to get it into the exact format we have standardized for RRTG. (Can you say obsessive-compulsive?)

The next big step is auditions for the non-musical shows where the producers/directors decide who will fit each part best. It seems we have three or four new people try-out for each show and often one or more of them will make the cast.

Our musical shows are written by me in the style of the original show. I find out in advance which of our very talented singer-members will be available for the production and choose the appropriate music for them and for the show.

Once the cast is secure, we start our four-week rehearsal schedule alternating rehearsals between scripted shows and the music numbers. The last three rehearsals are full run-throughs of the show.

On Thursday morning, just before the show goes on, we set up all our equipment so we are ready for our one and only full-tech rehearsal that evening.

What you have just read is a very, very simplified version of what happens. The full (though still not complete) list of production elements would include: writing and editing and mailing the newsletter prior to each show; getting tickets printed, numbered, and out to our pre-sale locations; writing and editing this Playbill, making up audition grids, cast lists, cast grids, jingle lists, and jingle grids; copying music and lyrics; writing musical arrangements; performing a multitude of publicity chores; designing and printing posters; setting up lobby displays and ordering retro candy; baking cookies for intermission; ad infinitum! Whew! It really is an intense labor of love for old-time radio. You, our audience, make every task worth the time and effort. Thank you!

0606

November 2005

This past summer, we sent out a letter of appeal for help in funding the upgrading of our sound equipment. Your response was absolutely amazing. Because of your many generous donations, we were able to purchase every single piece of needed equipment, as well as a few desirable accessories.

Just what did your dollars buy us? Well, let’s take a look: a large 20-channel mixer with built-in special-effects generator, a hard-shell case for the mixer, two powered speakers with stands (with 50’ extension cords and 50’ speaker cables), two covered plastic “tubs” to store the speakers and cables, one more studio-quality microphone, a digital recorder with two 1GB Compact Flash cards for recording our shows (each card will hold three hours of recorded sound at the highest bit rate), a card reader for uploading the files to the computer for editing (once edited, the files go onto a CD for the archives—also CDs for cast members), a hard-shell case for storing and transporting the recorder, and a jump drive for backing up our computer files.

We have already used this equipment in two different road shows and the results were super! We can never thank you enough for your generosity in helping us preserve this wonderful art medium—old time radio. We had intended to acknowledge each of you individually by including your names in this playbill, but knowing that some of you prefer to donate privately, we will make this one general thank you to include every single donor.

We also appreciate the many encouraging and complimentary notes you sent in along with your donations. If we ever had any doubts about your appreciation of our endeavors, you have dispelled them and given us one very fine encouraging boost. Thank you, to all the wonderful friends of RRTG.

——Dick Goetzman, Producer/ Director
(on behalf of all the members of the Rochester Radio Theatre Guild)

0511

May 2005

When I was a kid in Winona , I loved pancakes. We rarely had ‘em for breakfast; usually, we had ‘em for supper. Oh, boy! Sausage and pancakes, one of my favorite meals. I was never late for that supper. And I got to help cook by tending the sausages and sometimes even getting to flip the pancakes when those little bubbles said it was time. Imagine my excitement when I found out that Aunt Jemima was going to be at the Red Owl store, in person, cooking pancakes and handing them out for free to anyone at the store on Saturday morning. This was probably the biggest event in months. Aunt Jemima, herself. Wow! Time ticked by mighty slowly until that Saturday morning when I hopped on my trusty Monarch knee-action bike and pedaled up Fourth Street to the Red Owl Store. From a block away I could see the big truck with Aunt Jemima advertising plastered all over it. I was drooling by the time I hopped off my bike, secured it with a chain and a huge “railroad” lock, and hurried inside trying to look so nonchalant. There at the side of the store was a big platform, on top of which was a low counter with all sorts of Aunt Jemima products. And behind the counter was none other than Aunt Jemima with her white and red bandana tied around her head. I had no idea of any racial stereotypes, no sense of what would become “political correctness.” All I knew was, here’s the woman who made the bestest pancakes in the world ever and I was going to get some of those pancakes. I no sooner approached and she smiled about the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, just like she knew who I was and was waiting for me to get there. She offered me a plate with a huge pancake on it and showed me to the syrup. I gobbled up that wonderful pancake in seconds and went back to see if I could get another one. She smiled that big smile again and was “delighted” to give me another. She even asked if I wanted two. Two more pancakes! Two more Aunt Jemima pancakes! Could this Saturday possibly be any better. I snarfed down those two succulent morsels and sauntered back to Aunt Jemima trying to look as pathetic as I could wondering if it could possibly be that I could cadge more pancakes. Aunt Jemima just flashed that big grin of hers and announced to everyone, “This young man has already eaten ten of my pancakes and is still coming back for more. That sure shows you just how tasty these pancakes are.” And she handed me a plate of two more pancakes and gave me a great big wink. I polished off those two and was so stuffed, I could hardly move, but, boy, was I flying high. As I walked over to dump my plate in the waste bucket, Aunt Jemima called to me. I hurried over, she leaned down from the platform, thanked me for coming and handed me a free box of Aunt Jemima Pancake Mix. Wow! My very own box of Aunt Jemima Pancake Mix! What a Saturday! (Guess what I had for supper!)

0505

October 2004

Oh, boy, a brand new box of Shredded Ralston and that box top was going to get me my very own Ralston Straight Shooters of America badge. I pleaded with my mom to let me tear off the box top and send it in immediately, but she was adamant that I eat all the cereal first so it would not “dry out in the box.” Criminy, how can a cereal be any drier than Shredded Ralston already was. My mother’s edict was not to be trifled with so I resigned myself to eating that cereal as fast as I could. I choked down bowl after bowl of it for breakfast, lunch, and snack time. Tom Mix would have been proud of my dedication. On the third day, the box was empty and off came that box top. I taped a quarter to it with my name and address filled out on the proper lines, pleaded with my mom for a 7¢ VIA AIR MAIL stamp (no measly 3¢ stamp for this important missive), hopped on my trusty Monarch bike with the “knee action” springs and a huge heavy duty basket in front, and pumped like crazy the eight blocks to the post office. Faster than a speeding bullet!

Lord, the next week was one of the longest in my life! None of my friends had talked about sending in for their badges yet so I had a chance to be the only one with that badge when it came time for playing cowboys—which was most every day. I didn’t even brag about sending for it because I was afraid someone else might run to do the same and I wouldn’t have bragging rights as the first Straight Shooters Badge owner. Day after day I waited for that mailman, in absolute agony, looking for my badge. Finally, it arrived—a small box from the Ralston-Purina Company addressed right to me. I got out my trusty pocket knife and carefully sliced open the package. There it was, glittering in all its silver glory, wrapped in clear cellophane, my very own Straight Shooters Badge. I’ll bet my heart was pounding 1,000 beats per minute.

Out the door I flew like The Flash, onto my trusty bike and over to Butch’s house to show him my prize. He couldn’t believe it. He had sent for his badge a couple days ago and had been keeping it a secret, too, hoping to be the first. Next stop was Dale’s house to flaunt my treasure. I was the envy of the neighborhood for at least a couple of days—then, all of the others had their badges, too. It was a glorious coup for me to have it days ahead of anyone else.

Now, all I had to do was drink all that awful Ovaltine so I could get that special Orphan Annie Secret Society Decoder Pin. And then there was the Sky King Atomic Ring with special crystals that glowed in the dark. And how about that Captain Midnight Mirro-Magic Code-O-Graph! I sure had a lot of cereal and peanut butter to eat and a lot of pseudo-chocolate glop to choke down. But look at all the neat stuff I was going to get! Glorioski, Sandy!

0410

May 2004

I grew up smack dab in the middle of the Golden Age of Radio. I can remember the radio being a part of my life as far back as . . . well, as far back as I can remember. Before I was shuttled off to kindergarten, I can recall the radio in the barn was almost always on (probably WCCO), belting out news and farm prices and music. I can distinctly remember my uncle racing to the radio to turn it up full blast whenever they played “I’ve Got Spurs That Jingle, Jangle, Jingle.” And you had to be mighty careful running when cow manure was an ever-present threat to your footing. Teflon should be so slick.

Another memory, from a couple years later, is my Saturday morning walk to my friend Joey’s “house” above his Dad’s store to listen to Let’s Pretend. His dad had those big bins of cookies with the see-through lids in the back of the store and each of us was allowed to grab four cookies of choice (wow!) and then we would head back upstairs, each get a big glass of ice cold milk (whole milk laced with butter fat—mmmmm), plunk down in front of the big old Philco and listen to our show. Kids, today, playing Game Boy or watching sappy cartoons while they suck up flavored sugar water don’t know what they are missing. It was nirvana.

When I was in grade school, my mother rarely had to worry about my being home in time for supper because I surely had to be there to listen to Terry and the Pirates or Dick Tracy, then listening later to Jack Armstrong and Sky King. When things were going my way, my friend, Dale, would invite me to be at his house at 6:30 p.m. to listen to The Lone Ranger. (Our radio wouldn’t pull it in very well, but his folks had a really nice radio that got it clear as a bell.)

In my later grade school days, I can remember my two cousins coming to our house. We made a giant bowl of popcorn (“Japanese rice” popcorn, of coursesmall kernels with few old maids or hulls), loaded it up with melted butter (real creamery butter), added the salt, got out the cold Pepsi (of course, Pepsi—it was a twelve ounce bottle, not the dinky eight ounces you got with Coke), and we luxuriated to the thrills and chills of our favorite programs, The Whistler (my all-time personal favorite), Inner Sanctum, Gangbusters, This Is Your FBI, Escape, Big Town, The Shadow, Mr. District Attorney, and scads of others.

I hope this has given you an idea of why I feel so strongly about preserving this wonderful entertainment media now referred to as “Old-Time Radio.” It grabbed your imagination and held you spellbound (and sometimes scared the absolute bejeebers out of you). You are so very lucky if you remember it, too.

0405

October 2003

In April of 1988, Rochester Civic Theatre, needing some extra operating funds, settled on an unusual fund-raiser. They decided to do a couple evenings of oldtime radio shows, re-creating the live studio atmosphere complete with music, sound effects, and, of course, a studio audience. Programs replicated in that first production, were The Shadow, Easy Aces, Dr. I.Q., and The Aldrich Family. The venture was so successful that it was repeated three months later with different shows. Three of the participants in those first two shows—Bob Ruble, Craig Peterson, and Dick Goetzman —had so much fun (and being such great old-time radio fans) they decided to create a group dedicated to the revival of the shows from the Golden Age of Radio.

Dick Goetzman came up with the name Rochester Radio Theatre Guild while Craig Peterson and Bob Ruble started on the promotion and organization of the group. We applied for and received official status as a not-for-profit corporation, somehow scrounged up some aging audio equipment, found a place to do our first RRTG show (Mid-West Motor Lodge theatre) and we were on our way—penniless, but enthusiastic. That theatre would hold 96 people and when we came close to filling it the first couple of shows, we were in hog heaven. Then we actually began to sell out the 96 seats and have overflow crowds so we moved on to a larger space at the Senior Citizens Center. When we outgrew that space we went to Christ United Methodist Church Conference Center until we needed more space, again, and moved to Peace United Church of Christ.

In 2001, we had an opportunity to return to our roots, Rochester Civic Theatre and it was wonderful! By now, our audience was definitely a loyal group and still growing. We sold out several shows and reluctantly had to move again, this time finding space at the Assembly of God Church. It has been a perfect venue for us with great sight lines, a wonderful speaker system for our now top-notch sound equipment, and plenty of seats. We hope we can stay on here!

Over these past 16½ years, we have performed for conventions, fund-raisers, banquets, reunions, and our own “public” performances. One of the highlights of our successes was performing for 1500 wildly enthusiastic people at Mayo Civic for the state square-dancers convention. We have performed over 225 times and have re-created nearly 200 different episodes of various shows. We have many audience members who have been loyal attendees over these great years. We sincerely thank you—new and old audiences—for being here to encourage us in preserving this wonderfully entertaining medium. It is a part of our cultural history that should not be forgotten. Thank you, again, for making our efforts so worthwhile. We could not have succeed this long and this well without you, our audience. It is our turn to applaud you!

Welcome to our show—–our “Theatre of the Mind!”
0310

May 2003

“There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination.”

Although this narrative opened an early 1960s’ television show, it aptly describes the appeal of television’s predecessor; i.e., radio. From the 1920s through the 1950s, the entertainment in nearly every home revolved around the family radio. Perhaps your grandparents or your parents lived during this era. Many in our audience may even remember these days themselves. The Philco, Atwater-Kent, or RCA console resided in the living room or the parlor. Bright afternoon sunlight might catch Mother or Grandma darning socks to the maudlin strains of Ma Perkins or one of the many other soap operas (so named because they were most often sponsored by soap products). Evenings found eager young faces lying on the floor listening to favorite adventures, lit only by the pale glow of the tuning dial. Comedic talents like Jack Benny, Burns and Allen, Bergen and McCarthy, Amos and Andy, Bob Hope, and many others elicited paroxysms of laughter. The Lone Ranger, Sergeant Preston, The Shadow, Gangbusters, and the like, energized the mind with thrills, anticipation, and excitement. Sinister tales from Inner Sanctum, The Mysterious Traveler, The Whistler, and Lights Out sent chills down the spines of those of us brave enough to tune in.

Every show and every character held special, individual meaning for each listener, because radio’s storytellers painted with the broad brushstrokes and vivid colors available only from imagination’s infinite palette. You and your brother both knew just what Sky King looked like, but if you could have seen with the other’s mind’s eye, the differences between those imagination rendered portraits might have surprised you.

Some say television’s finite and absolute images have stunted the imaginations of several generations. If so, we at Rochester Radio Theatre Guild would like to help turn back the tide, if only for one evening’s pleasure. So, we invite you to sit back, relax, and open the door to your own imagination. We replicate our programs just as faithfully as possible, complete with music and sound effects. We perform our shows here in our very own radio studio just for you, our studio audience. Close your eyes and relive the past with us.

Welcome to our show—–our “Theatre of the Mind!”
0305

November 2002

Radio actually came into the nation's eye (or ear, as the case may be) in 1920 when the national election results were first broadcast over station KDKA in Pittsburgh. Throughout the '20s and '30s it gained in popularity, becoming a standard fixture in almost every home in America. When World War II came, radio’s popularity soared to amazing heights as every American tuned in to find out what was happening with our Armed Forces overseas. It was during these years that the famous NBC chimes even went to war. You are familiar with the famous three-note network signature of theirs; but did you know there was a fourth note? When this fourth note was added, it was a signal to the local stations to not break from the network for local news or commercials, but, rather, stay on the network feed for an important war-news bulletin. Listen carefully, tonight, and you will hear just such an occurrence.

In contrast to tuning in to hear about the war, people also tuned in to try to forget about the war. Drama, music, science fiction, adventure, and, especially, comedy provided a theatre of the mind where listeners could absent themselves from the concerns of the war or a few minutes or a few hours. People listened to their favorite programs religiously and many of us today still remember that era as clearly as if it were yesterday.

• Remember the squeaking door of Inner Sanctum (you’ll hear it tonight!)
• How about the William Tell Overture? If you don’t immediately think of
  the Lone Ranger, you had a deprived childhood. Hi-Yo Silver!
• And “The Flight of the Bumblebee” meant you were listening to . . . ?
• “You betchum, Red Ryder!” (As Little Beaver was sure to say.)
• “Bloonnnnndieee!”
• “It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s . . . !”
• “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men . . . .”
• Who lived at 79 Wistful Vista? An overstuffed closet is your clue.
• “I am the Whistler and I know many things . . . .”
• “Can a girl from a small midwestern town find happiness . . . ?”
• “L-S-M-F-T, L-S-M-F-T”
• “Henry! Henry Aldrich!”
• “. . . a tale well-calculated to keep you in . . .!”

So, tonight, we want you to revisit some of those memories if you have them; and, if you don’t remember radio as it was sixty years ago, then pay attention and enjoy our show. We replicate those programs just as faithfully as we can, complete with music and sound effects. We are performing here in our very own radio studio and you are our studio audience.

Welcome to our show—–our “Theatre of the Mind!”
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