You feel dislodged from the old shoe of yourself. It’s a shock, similar to hearing your own voice for the first time, when you’re forced to wonder how the rest of you comes across if you sound nothing like the way you think you sound. We look so very different from the way we sound. “The parting shot of our erstwhile manager.”ĭespite the red glow of the on-air light, he then pushed through the studio door, only to be met by one of the great mysteries of life. He paused beside her desk and with a broad wink asked about the new person on air. Harry rarely darkened the station door except at night when he came in to do the late shift and got away with saying and playing whatever he liked. Eleanor Dew was behind the receptionist’s desk and behind clever Eleanor was the studio. It was the beginning of June, the start of the long, golden summer of 1975 when northern light held that little radio station in the large palm of its hand. More than curious, already in love, he walked into the station the next day at precisely the same time. He listened to the slow, clear, almost unnatural confidence, the low-pitched sexiness, the elusive accent as she read the local news. A voice unusual in its sound and unusual in itself, since there were no other female announcers on air. Harry was in his little house on the edge of Back Bay when at half past twelve her voice came over the radio for the first time.
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