The $29.95 Life Lesson

Every child must learn certain things in this world if they are to navigate it and not risk their lives - don’t touch hot stoves, look both ways when crossing the street, and remember Mother’s Day (the most critical of all), among many examples.

One of the most valuable lessons I learned was because of a $29.95 CB microphone from Radio Shack I wanted. Back then - circa 1978 - CB radio was the big thing, the social media of our time. No screen captures or photos, just goofballs looking to “break” into a channel (why did we have to do that anyway?!) and start talking to a friend - hopefully of the opposite sex. Everybody could hear your conversation, so you might want to converse as cryptically as a Navajo code-talker of WWII, lest purposeful eavesdroppers get the gist. We would talk late into the night - even school nights, of course - trying to imagine paradise by the dashboard light - of CB radio-lit dials.

Instead of the handheld microphone you normally see in TV and movies, the one that came standard with my Realistic Navajo,  I wanted a powered base-station model -one that stood upright, and you just pushed a bar at the base to “key” the mic.

Radio Shack had one; it was $29.95.

Mom wouldn’t buy it.

Uh, what?

“You want it, go earn it”

She might as well have said that phrase in Swahili because my level of comprehension at that statement would have been the same. “Earn it?” Wasn’t just being her kid enough? Yo brethren, I had crossed a rubicon of life - when a child has to start earning things. It was cruel, but it was nature’s way.

Now, I had done odd jobs for pocket money—washing a car, cutting the lawn, and such; but never saved up for anything.

Yeah, maybe I was a bit spoiled.

More pleading got me nowhere; if I wanted it, I would have to work for it - fine!

Remember, back then, the minimum wage wasn’t much more than $3 per hour, and this kid worked odd jobs for whatever he could get. Jobs I could do would only get me about $3. Clearly, I had a lot of work to do if I wanted that microphone.

But the Radio Shack catalog worked its magic on me, beguiling me into wanting it even more, especially because the guy in the photo looked so happy and content while using it.

So I started accumulating money, albeit slowly, week by week, job by job. At some point, it was starting to become a contest with myself accomplishing the goal of $29 dollars and less about wanting something I thought was pretty cool. But work I did, pestering my mother and uncles for jobs and stashing the money at the St. Lawerence National bank, watching as my little bank book crept up with the tally of my hard work; once I got in the $20+ range, I knew it wouldn’t be long, and the anticipation was building up even more, like waters behind a closed dam.

Finally, the day came when I had the last three dollars in hand, and we went to the bank to get out the $25 I had accumulated, and since I was a good boy, got a sucker as well. I walked briskly down to Radio Shack just a few doors down, strode in cash and hand, and told the manager what I wanted - by their own store stock code, no less, knowing the product so well.

“Oh, we ran out of those….won’t be here for another week when our shipment comes in.”

An Olympic athlete, standing on the number one spot on the podium, awaiting their gold medal, couldn’t have been more surprised if told there was a mistake in the race’s outcome! What kind of cruel hoax was this?! I did the work, I saved my money, and I was supposed to be able to buy it, and now!

And to make things even more insulting, they had one on display, just to tease me, like a big fat cookie in Trevelino’s bakery window.

Returning home, I told my mother what had happened, and she demanded the money, saying if I kept it, I’d go blow it on this and that, and the money would likely be gone when the microphone came in; she was, in all likelihood, right.

That week passed as slowly as the days leading up to Christmas for a child.

The week finally transpired, so back I went, cash in pocket, peddling my bike like a madman, and quickly went into the store.

Yes, their shipment had come in!

The guy walked into the stock room in the back to get it for me, and I watched with all the anticipation of a lion coming across a hobbled gazelle.

“Weren’t you in here asking for it last Monday?” the clerk asked.

Yes, that was me, I affirmed.

“Actually, they came in the next day; I guess I had the date wrong.”

I couldn’t actually see it because a mirror was not in my view at that moment, but I think little puffs of smoke came out of my ears.

I quickly paid for it and had just enough to cover the tax, and just for a moment, I wondered if I wanted to spend all that hard-earned cash—oh hell yes, I did—and away I went, the proud new rightful owner of a CB preamp microphone under one arm, steering my bike with the other; I couldn’t wait to get back home and try it!

It was marvelous to open the box and carefully take it out; it was wrapped so carefully, like an electronic Faberge egg. I put the batteries in the base, hooked it up, and tested it, and much to my delight, my CB friends said it sounded so much better than the stock mic. I had ascended a step in the pecking order of CB enthusiasts.

I just found it to be so much more than a microphone. It wasn’t that expensive—there were more expensive ones on the market—and it wasn’t that it was designed by someone famous—it was rather plain.

But it was mine because I earned it, and my work made it happen. That was what really made it special. I just appreciated it so much more than if my mother had bought it for me.

Lesson learned, and a good and necessary one.

Thanks, Ma!