It was 1970 and Susan and I and our parents were in Florida for the Christmas holiday. Our Grandpa and Grandma Anderson had rented a cottage right on the beach side–a walk out by all definitions. On Christmas morning, the wrapped presents for our grandparents–the ones that Dad had loaded in the trunk before our departure to drive the 24 hours required to get from northern Indiana to Ft. Myers Beach, Florida–lay beside a little tabletop tree. But, there were so many more presents. Where did they all come from, I wondered. Among them, with my name on it, was a personal tape recorder and player. It even came with a handheld microphone.
Months earlier, I had written tape recorder on my Christmas list, something I had no expectation of actually getting. It was an expensive item for a twelve-year-old to request. Tape recorders, for personal use, were all the rage. They were the hottest of hot items with a $100 price tag. That’s over $700 in today’s dollars. But, because Dad loved gadgets of all ilk, especially those that were audio in nature, he was as keen to get one for me as I was to have one.
I can only imagine the discussion he and Mom must have had about getting such a luxury item for a kid, but clearly Dad won the argument. He must have won the argument long before Christmas Day arrived because not only did I open the tape recorder with the widest of wide-eyed surprise, but there was also a box of 12 cassette tapes. Six of the tapes were marked in Dad’s engineer-trained printing. He had spent time, probably after Susan and I were in bed, recording music on to the tapes from his favorite LPs. The other six tapes were blank.
After all the presents had been opened, and while Susan and I waited for Christmas dinner to be served, she and I took the tape recorder and its microphone into the walk-in closet in our grandparents bedroom. There, with the door closed, we slipped a brand new cassette tape into the machine and began recording ourselves. We’d say some silly thing and then we’d rewind to listen to our voices. We’d then crack up laughing.
At some point, we decided to turn on the recorder and pretend to act out a play of sorts. I said, “Let’s pretend that you’re a salesperson and I’m the customer.” Six-year-old Susan nodded as she stroked the hair on her new doll. I further instructed, “I’m going to come into the store looking for something to buy, but I won’t be sure what I want. So, you’re going to try to sell me….” I looked around the closet for inspiration and spotted my grandfather’s wristwatch sitting on the built-in dresser. I grabbed the watch and continued, “...this watch!” Susan dubiously looked at me but agreed by taking the watch from me. “OK, let’s start,” I said as I pressed down the Record button.
Salesperson (Six-year-old Susan): Hello.
Customer: I’m looking to buy…
Salesperson: A watch!
Customer: No, I was thinking something more like a…
Salesperson: A watch!
Customer: No, I really don’t need a watch.
Not only did the tape recorder and player bring joy to us all throughout the next several years, but that first recording of our little play exchange absolutely sent our father into hysterics. He loved listening to that recording over and over. And the punchline became a favorite for all sorts of moments for decades to come. At the most tense of family moments, just a shrug and those seven words: The bill will come in the mail, could diffuse the situation, and bring a smile to everyone’s face. Even our mother would have agreed that it was a $100 well-spent.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2021
