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12:15 program was Vesta reading “Intimations of Immortality” and “Thanatopsis,” and the 1:00 was Leo and the Tuxedoans and Miss Corinne. Ray did not give another talk. He had said everything he had to say the day before.
    That morning, four persons approached him and expressed an interest in sharing their talents via radio, including two more of his pals from the Sons of Knute lodge—a realtor and former Grand Oya named Walter “Dad” Benson and his brother Wilmer, who did impressions of people and barnyard imitations. He did a cow, a horse, a cat, a dog, a cowboy, a Jewish man, a colored man and an airplane for Ray. “Okay, it sounds good, we’ll find a spot for you,” said Ray, the voices were so realistic. The next day, more than thirty people dropped by and asked for the Radio Manager. Some of them held song sheets and seemed prepared to sing. Ray pointed them to Roy Jr. and said, “He handles the singers, the young guy in the white jacket with the fountain pens in his pocket. See him.” So they put the arm on Roy Jr. “To whom should I talk about getting on the radio?” they asked him. “He’s the boss,” he said, pointing to Ray, but Ray had grabbed his hat and ducked out.
    The third day, Ray had to close the restaurant. The lobby was full of people asking about radio, and they were too excited to eat. Their talent was on the verge of being discovered and they could hadly wait to start broadcasting.
    He told Leo, “I heard a ladies’ quartet yesterday who sounded like the night the orphanage burned down. How do you tell somebody they can’t sing?” Leo said, “You say that you’ll call them in a few days and then don’t.” But what if they think you only forgot to call, and they call to remind you? A person wants to admire persistence, but who has time to listen to it?
    â€œMaybe,” said Leo, “they would be satisfied with a speaking role. A small one.”
    The fourth day, it was clear that Minneapolis was wild about radio. The whole town had heard that Soderberg’s was the place to go to “get on the air.” Every day, a line began to form at 9 a.m. for the Noontime Jubilee and its popular “Meet Your Neighbors” feature, where Leo LaValley would come through the ferns with the big carbon-ribbon microphone in hand, hop down off the stage, and stroll from table to table, putting the mike down for folks to speak into. It was a real innovation—the voice of an ordinary person, such as the listener, carried to countless unseen homes as if he or she were the Governor! Miraculous! Whole families waited in line outside Soderberg’s for hours who had journeyed from distant towns, having alerted neighbors and friends to listen to their broadcast. People offered to pay money for the privilege.
    To speak through the air on the radio! It was so wonderful—and so awful. Many a man who had rehearsed the golden words in his mind found himself tongue-tied at the crucial moment, and sat down in shame and wept bitterly and had to be comforted. Many a man who had thought to tell a joke chucked it at the last moment in favor of a religious or patriotic sentiment befitting the occasion. (“This is Albert M. of Waseca. Hello. For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. My dear listener, if I can only persuade you of the truth of this verse, then I will have accomplished a great deal. Thank you very much.”) Some people stood up and requested prayers for their mother who had been ill and who was listening at home. Respect for the flag was expressed, and the need for vigilance, the superiority of Minnesota cheese and butter, the beauty of her lakes and rivers, the belief in democracy, the hope for a better future through scientific methods of agriculture. Bracing their hand on a chair, they spoke of hardship and its lessons—the value of good friends and a close