In 1959 my father gave me a brown Motorola radio which was about twelve inches high and fourteen inches long, with a radio sensor on the front indicating the strength of the radio signal. The sensor looked like an eye with the retina opening and closing as if it were watching me as I moved across the room. It wasn’t eerie, because I knew what it was . . a radio!
It was the old tube variety, and the ancient technology was encased in a polished wooden enclosure. It was only, perhaps, twenty years old, but it had been relegated to the trash bin of electronic history . . making it available to a wide-eyed, inquisitive neophyte, me!
I studied it for a few days. I listened to the fluctuating radio signals and stared at the electronic eye as it seemed to be studying me. Finally, I decided on a course of action. I decided to open it up and check out how it worked. Once inside, I realized that I didn’t know what to do, so I did the only thing a reasonable person would do: I took it apart.
Looking at the pile of tubes, wires, condensers, resistors and transformers, it didn’t seem to make any more sense than before. Reluctantly, I put it in the garage closet, not anymore the wiser for its presence in my life. I was twelve. I realized it was probably unwise to dismantle it, but I didn’t know what else to do.
At twelve this is normal, at 72 this is . . . The Donald.