Queen for a Day

by Marty Roselius



Since our family didn’t have a television set, I often listened to radio programs on my transistor radio before bedtime. I could only receive a few stations, those that broadcast a signal strong enough I didn’t have to filter the program from background static. I enjoyed listening to a voice from some distant place, speaking to me, unreeling a tale about poor folks less fortunate than I. Stories that unfolded with a sad beginning—a family stuck in the throes of poverty, down on their luck, the father unemployed, medical problems, disability issues and other depressing situations. While concluding with a happy ending—help received from social services, a church support system, or selected to win a wonderful prize that would help them crawl out of the dark abyss of poverty and climb up one small rung on the social ladder.


The shows to which I am referring are the Salvation Army Show and the ever-popular Queen for a Day. On the Salvation Army Show the family would be rescued and the bread multiplied after receiving support from the Salvation Army and access to necessary social programs, leaving them forever indebted to those kind and dedicated folks. It always made me feel warm inside.


The Queen for a Day show came from a slightly different perspective, a game show format, with three women taking turns divulging tragic tales of poverty and destitution. The audience voted for the woman who had the saddest story. She would be crowned Queen for a Day and receive fabulous prizes guaranteed to pull her and her family up by their boot straps, and given at least a view of the bottom rung. 

Prizes certain to turn their life around, such as a new automatic washing machine and ten years supply of Tide detergent for a mom with a dozen kids, all under the age of eight with nothing but a washtub and scrub board for doing their daily laundry. Or a new wheelchair, complete with a black and white TV and a rabbit ear antenna for the mom who’s taking care of a disabled teenaged son she has to carry everywhere because her husband has a broken back from an industrial accident. Stuff like that.


Like I said, they always had a happy ending and gave me comfort as I contentedly slipped off to sleep even before the announcer signed off the air and the radio signal became an annoying buzz. I must have gone through a few batteries in that transistor radio. But lying in bed, listening to stories made me use my imagination. It allowed me to visualize in my own mind, creating vivid scenarios from the words spoken. Something kids don’t do too often anymore. It made me feel lucky too. Lucky our family had a washing machine, lucky we had a set of bunk beds so I didn’t have to sleep on the floor, and very fortunate I had a small family that included only one bratty little sister.


Thanks, Marty, for reminding us that some of the best programming is found on the radio!