The Radio Sorcerer Of The Redwood Coast

Dean Elliott was entitled to the honorific of “doctor,” which he refused to honoriff to himself, and he didn’t want you to do honoriff him with it either.  “The Latin root of doctor means ‘to teach,” Dean said,. “Doctoral degrees require an original contribution to a given field, except one. Medicine. I don’t practice medicine and I don’ t teach.”

Oh, but he did teach.  Maybe not in a classroom, although he had done that in an earlier time, which I’ll get to in a moment.  Consider his creds:

* Bachelors and masters degrees in Latin and Greek from Hamilton College,  a small college in upstate New York founded in 1794 with Alexander Hamilton as a trustee.

*  Member, Phi Beta Kappa.

*  A doctorate in mathematics from Northwestern University.

*  Military service in WW2 as a lieutenant commander in the Navy assigned to the Office Of Strategic Services, the predecessor of the CIA, where he taught code to agents who would be parachuted into German occupied France.

*  An accomplished pianist who earned extra money while attending Northwestern by playing piano in Chicago clubs, including with touring bands that  needed a pickup pianist, Benny Goodman’s and the Dorseys’ among them.

*  A godfather named Rudyard Kipling.

How did Rudyard Kipling get into the mix?  Damned if I know, but I can guess.  Dean was in his sixties when I met him in 1966. He was born in Governeur, New York, a town named for Governeur Morris, one of the signers of the Declaration Of Independence.  Dean’s father was a man of means and an anglophile.  He sent Dean to England to attend Harrow, a prep school on the order of Eton where privileged boys lived on bad diets and cold baths.  Kipling visited America now and then, and became pals with Dean’s father, enough of a pal to attend Dean’s christening and be named as Dean’s spiritual and moral guide.  Maybe Kipling influenced Dean’s father to give the lad the benefit of a British schooling, lousy food and all.

Okay, so how did a high school dropout like me get to know such a man?  Well, we both worked for the same small radio station in Eureka on California’s north coast.  Dean was the chief engineer.  I was an announcer/DJ/guy who emptied waste baskets and part time newsman.  I was just starting my broadcasting career.  Dean was finishing his.

At the time he was converting rhe station’s ancient Collins transmitter into solid state, which is like making a Lambroghini out of a Ford Escort.  He replaced the huge glowing tubes with equally huge transistors he’d designed and fabricated from old telephone transformers.  Those are the big gray things that look like garbage cans atop telephone poles.  When he was done, it only took seconds to get the station on the air instead of the usual half an hour to allow the tubes to warm up.  He also taught voice, piano, overhauled the organ for his Episcopal church and learned to play the recorder, the medieval predecessor to the flute.  He was active in the March Of Dimes and a promoter of the Republican party at a time when being a Republican was not seen as a character flaw.

Dean also had an on-the-air shift on Sundays playing classical music.  He loved the music but hated the shift, showing up for work in his Beethoven sweatshirt with a shopping bag containing a quart of Rainier Ale, a science fiction magazine, a bag of Fritos corn chips and a grim look on his face. It was not wise to talk to Dean at such times. The ale was against federal rules and station policy, but Dean had all the modifications he’d made to the station in his head and not on paper, which gave him unlimited job security, but he still had a corn chip on his shoulder about having to pull a record shift.

About that time I was dawdling about returning to school.  Hell, I had a high school GED, why bother?

“Because tough times are coming, that’s why!” Dean exploded at me. “You can either get an education or go on welfare!”

So I enrolled in College Of The Redwoods that fall and graduated Humboldt State four years later. I was working at the station the night of my graduation.  Dean showed up with two quarts of Rainier Ale to celebrate. 

His approval was my Phi Beta Kappa key.

-o-

Any sound and fury?

Mike, just a minor point. The first "doctorate" was granted by the University of Bologna in Italy and was in law, not medicine or some academic field. [You can see Portia referred to as "doctor" in "The Merchant Of Venice"]. Good story. --  HadleighSJD

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Nice. And so glad to see the Times again. Wish I'd had a Dean in my life. Glad you found him, or, he found you. – Penny

Thnanks.  Right now I'm going round and round with the editing function of this jewel of a program trying to match up the fonts.  I wish Dean was here.  He's figure it out in a jiff.

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One comment, not on your words per se, but on those quoted from the subject, Dean Elliott, where he says only the physician is called "doctor" without having contributed something original to his profession.  I have a doctorate in law (Juris Doctor degree) and while I believe I have made original contributions to the profession, it wasn't via any formal, peer-reviewed means, that is, like the physician, I have a doctorate without having had to write a dissertation and have it accepted by an academic board.  – Trog.

Thanks.   Noted and posted.

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'Bout damn time! – Brat

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Thanks, Mike!  Been far too long between TManTimes fixes here. -- Sum
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Are these new pieces? Good for you getting them out for your adoring reading public.  -- Karen

Sorta.  This one has been simmering in my computer for years.

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It's really nice to get something from you after a long time. Thanks. – Zoey

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Love it!! – Juli

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Enjoyed your story.  Your conversational style is easy on the brain. – Gambatay

I have to really work at seeming relaxed.

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Could you play "Misty" for me ?  -- Gerard

Can’t read music.  But then, neither could “Misty” composer Errol Garner.  Anyway, “Play Misty For Me” was a stinker of a movie.  Any disc jockey who could afford a Jaguar XK-120 and a redwood house in a radio market the size of Monterey, as Clint Eastwood’s character did, is selling nose candy for the Medellin cartel.  He also has a lousy radio voice.  However, he  is an accomplished jazz pianist.
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Nice article, as always, and good to hear from you again – SOY

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We all need a Dean in our life. Our world would be in much better shape. I always have a hard time holding onto my grumpyness after reading your articles ...always make me smile  -- Tammy

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It's really nice to get something from you after a long time. Thanks. – Z

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Love it!! – Juli

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Enjoyed your story.  Your conversational style is easy on the brain. – Gambatay

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An absolutely fantastic character sketch of a person, so real, I feel acquainted! --Ig Bear

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Love it!  -- Shannon

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Good read thanx for sharing !!  Much love  -- Renaldo