Radio Digest (Mar 1928-Oct 1929)

RADIO DIGES T— Illustrated 43 CWCSH Claims Oldest Mikeman fi> harks Henry Ross Recalls Early Days Before Telephones Were Known in Portland By H. C. WING Program Director of Radio Station WCSH HP ::|B£S: vvsill . . . juMKk * } :;:: ' I*-::. '' ■' ,,:.*; 'J m0 V : * / . ■ . ■ 1 Charles Henry Ross HERE we are again, WCSH, the Eastland at Portland, Maine. At this time we are introducing Charles Henry Ross, whom we believe to be the oldest announcer in the United States. Charles Henry Ross, to use his own words, "was born at an early age on his first birthday," which was December 11, 1856, making him a little over seventyone — and he's on the job day after day. Mr. Ross was born here in Portland and his reminiscences are a constant source of interest to the personnel of the station. Of course there was no Radio in those early days, but further— there were no automobiles, no telephones, no street cars, not even horse cars, no electric lights. Only the most wealthy people had bathtubs; in fact, there was no public water-works system. Every house had its own well from which water was drawn and wells were supplemented by cisterns for the accumulation of rain water. Thus the kitchen was supplied with two pumps — one for hard water and one for soft water. In addition, there were corner pumps, "town pumps," to supply water in the event that private wells went dry. THE main street of Portland when Henry was a boy was a primitive thoroughfare. The picture as he gives it to us is of roughly cobbled streets, lined with board or dirt walks. On either side were lines of hitch rails and feed troughs where horses were tied for their feed while the drivers transacted necessary business. Like a western town in the movies. Up and down the street plodded patient oxen hauling manufactured goods, principally barrel shook from the country districts destined to carry molasses from the Indies. It is interesting to note that the side on which the WCSH studio is now located was the popular side of the street, patronized by the bloods of the day and known as "the dollar side." The "fifty cent side" was shunned consistently. "The harbor," says Henry, "used to be full of square-riggers in the 'Indy' trade, principally molasses and sugar. The molasses found its way, for the most part, to the two breweries and two distilleries, which turned out rum for home consumption. And Maine has been dry a long, long time. OTHER industries which are now long forgotten were pegey presses, where "wash bait" was made for fishing mackerel schools and crude oil was extracted from the fish for painting ships, etc. There were shipyards on all parts of the waterfront. There were also grist mills for grinding salt and grain. We inquired about an example of tattooing which appears on one forearm, wondering if Uncle Henry was holding out any romantic adventures. The story is amusing, if not exciting. It seems that in the old days, when Henry was a boy, it was customary to pay the crews of schooners a little advance money. Then the problem arose of how to keep the crew on board. Henry's father had his crew all below decks the night before the schooner was due to sail and he posted Henry with an old horse pistol to keep them on board. Henry was then about fourteen. He took his commission seriously. One of the crew, knowing that Henry craved to be ornamented, tattooed a bleeding heart on the boy's forearm, hoping thus to bribe him into letting a boat approach to take off some of the crew ashore. Young Henry stood the ordeal nicely, but when the question of letting the boat approach was brought up he stood pat. No, sir ! No boat comes alongside ! And he waved the horse pistol as added evidence of his determination. He kept his father's crew aboard and, at the same time, achieved his heart's desire. Today the unfaded colors of the heart and knife remind him of that dark and exciting night. BY TURNS Uncle Henry was train boy or "news agent" on the railroad. "I've handled more than a million cords of wood for those cussed engines," he declares. That was in the days of the wood-burning engines when everybody, even the passengers, helped pile wood onto the flat-car tender. Then he shipped for short coastwise trips in various schooners, worked in a grocery store and finally acquired his own grocery business — was a fireman in Portland when the engines (hand tubs) pumped water from reservoirs at the edge of the road in the days before hydrants were ever heard of. He was alway: interested in sports and, by the way, was one of the first group to introduce professional baseball in this city. And he is now the sole surviving member of that group._ Looking out of the studio windows the other day, while waiting for our turn to go on the air, Henry suddenly remarked, "You see that corner across the way? I stood there and sold papers telling of Lee's surrender and of the assassination of Lincoln." And it was from that remark that this story grew. Uncle Henry conducts a household hour from the Lyman B. Chipman market studios five mornings a week and five days a week plays the part of County Agent Robbins in presenting ^the United States Department of Agriculture talks — so we feel he's a real announcer. Have you any older? HENRY C. WING and his bride, both of WCSH, Portland, Maine. Mr. Wing, author of the above article, found "Aunt Doris" so sweet and competent in the studio he was happy when she consented to become Mrs. Wing. Marcella Missed the Bride THAT artist was mean to put a rolling pin on this picture. Don't you think so ? For one thing, H. C. and Doris haven't been married long enough for anything of that sort, and I ought to know. Here I, the little blond flapper of the Marcella column, had been looking forward to seeing Mr. Wing program director of WCSH. His letters are so interesting. And I arrived at Portland, Maine, just the day before the wedding. Let's see, that was June 22. If I had only arrived June 23 I might have been invited to the wedding. Wouldn't that have been thrilling. I love weddings. H. C. is tall and blond and has such lovely blue eyes. He told me that his wife was Aunt Doris to all the children of the Radio audience of WCSH. They met a year ago during the winter. "Eventually," said Mr. Wing, "we met and clicked and the kids lost their Aunt Doris. I am sorry that I can't find a better picture of Doris, but the local papers have cleaned us out pretty well, and I know you won't have time to wait until after the wedding. Here is one I have carried for a year or more — so, if you can return it I will be greatly indebted." Isn't that romantic? Isn't she cute? No! I am sorry to say I did not see her. She was just swamped getting everything ready for the wedding. Their honeymoon was in the White Mountains.