Rosalie waited until the red light flicked on above her uncle’s studio door. That light meant the magic had begun.
Through the wall, she could hear Uncle Frank’s smooth voice weaving through the airwaves:
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Next week, on The Old Time Radio Hour, we’re honored to welcome the one and only Judy Garland!”
Judy Garland! Rosalie’s heart fluttered. The real Judy Garland—right next door!
She pressed her ear against the studio wall. The studio sat across the driveway from her uncle’s home. The sound coming from it was warm, full, and alive. The hum of the microphones buzzed faintly through the plaster. She imagined Miss Garland sitting just feet away, wearing a glittering dress, her laughter rising like silver bells.
Twelve-year-old Rosalie closed her eyes and whispered, “Maybe she’ll sing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ Just once.”
Every Sunday evening, Uncle Frank’s house transformed for The Old Time Radio Hour. His living room dimmed, and all attention was given to the glowing “ON AIR” sign over the studio door in his adjacent garage. The little transmitter perched above the garage flickered with blue light—a tiny tower that reached up into the stars.
Mrs. Pinker, Rosalie’s mother, said the transmitter was “nothing but show,” but Uncle Frank told Rosalie it helped his voice “travel across the country, straight into people’s hearts.”
She liked that idea better. She and her mother lived next door to Uncle Frank, so she could visit whenever she wanted. Her dad had passed away when she was younger, and her uncle was almost like her father.
Uncle Frank never yelled when Rosalie lingered near the door. He’d smile and say, “Careful now, Rosie Posie. The sound waves are delicate things—they don’t like surprises.”
Then, he’d wink, and she’d giggle and skip back home, wondering what marvelous people he was talking to in there. She always wanted him to interview people like Walt Disney, Shirley Temple, and Bing Crosby, so she could meet them.
Sometimes he told her about his guests: the lion tamer who taught kindness to his cubs, the Broadway singer who practiced scales at sunrise, the ventriloquist whose puppet told jokes even when the batteries were dead.
Each story shimmered with the kind of magic Rosalie could almost see. She longed to meet his guests and hoped he’d let her sit in one day. When she grew up, she wanted to do her own interviews.
One morning, Uncle Frank arrived at their kitchen table with powdered sugar on his coat from a bakery box.
“Big news, Rosie!” he said, setting two pink-frosted donuts on her plate. “This Sunday night, Judy Garland herself will be on the show!”
Rosalie gasped so hard she almost spilled her milk.
“She’s going to talk about her new songs and—get this—she might even sing one live,” Uncle Frank said.
“Can I come?” Rosie asked.
He hesitated. “The studio’s awfully small,” he said. “And the transmitter hums when there’s too much excitement in the room. But how about this—you can listen outside the studio door or from the radio in your bedroom. That way, you’ll be the first to hear her before the rest of the world does.”
Rosalie didn’t argue. Uncle Frank never broke his promises.
All week, she imagined how Judy Garland would sound up close—whether her voice would make the radio glow brighter.
At first, Sunday night came wrapped in quiet. Then, the red “ON AIR” sign blinked over the garage, and the tiny transmitter light pulsed blue against the sky.
Rosalie settled at her bedroom window with Scarecrow, her dog, on her lap. She turned on the radio and twisted the dial until Uncle Frank’s voice filled the room.
“Welcome, Miss Garland. It’s a true honor to have you.”
There was a soft laugh—light, graceful, musical. Rosalie’s breath caught. That was her!
She pressed her hand against the radio. The air between her fingers tingled.
“Would you sing for us tonight?” Uncle Frank asked.
“Why, of course,” said Judy’s voice. “I’d love to.”
The next moment, a hush spread through the room—then came the first gentle notes of “Over the Rainbow.”
The sound was different than on any record Rosalie had heard. It shimmered and swelled, as though the melody were floating right out of the sky.
When the song ended, Rosalie whispered, “Thank you,” even though no one could hear her.
After the broadcast, Rosalie ran across the grass to Uncle Frank’s house. The night air buzzed faintly from the transmitter, like a sleepy beehive.
She knocked softly. “Uncle Frank? Is she still here? Judy Garland?” she asked.
The door creaked open. Uncle Frank stood inside, smiling—but the studio was empty. Only a faint trace of perfume hung in the air.
“She had to leave right away,” he said gently. “Tight schedule.”
Rosalie looked past him—the guest chair was turned slightly toward the microphone, an empty teacup beside it.
“Did she like the lemon cookies?” Rosalie asked. “The ones we baked?”
“She did,” he said, his eyes kind. “Said they were her favorite.”
Rosalie smiled, but a small seed of doubt began to bloom in her chest. Something didn't seem quite right.
Days passed. The town paper made no mention of Judy Garland visiting. No photographs, no announcement. Rosalie checked twice.
Then, one afternoon, while Uncle Frank was at the market, Rosalie wandered outside the garage. The transmitter still blinked faintly on its stand, humming like a heart.
Beside it sat a framed certificate that read:
FEDERAL RADIO LICENSE — WFRB
(Authorized to Broadcast Nationally)
It looked official, but when she leaned closer, she saw the seal was hand-drawn—in gold crayon.
As she walked in the studio, she noticed that the transmitter wires didn’t stretch into the sky at all. They ended behind a wall, next to a row of shiny old phonograph records labeled “Broadway Classics,” “Hollywood Voices,” and “Stars of the Silver Screen.”
Her heart thudded softly.
That evening, she waited for Uncle Frank in a rocking chair on the front porch of his home. He arrived with a bag of oranges and smiled when he saw her expression.
“You found the license, didn’t you?” he said, setting the oranges down.
Rosalie nodded. “It’s not real,” she said.
“No,” he said. “It’s not. But I wanted to make a real show—even if it only reached the end of the street.”
“So . . . you never talked to Judy Garland?” Rosalie asked.
He smiled gently. “Not with microphones,” he said. “But I talked to her through the songs. Through every dream she made people feel. That’s the magic of radio, Rosie—you can make someone’s voice travel through imagination alone.”
Rosalie thought about the night that she heard Judy's song, about how the air had truly shimmered. She knew that Uncle Frank meant well. He never meant to mislead her; the show had started as a way to cheer her up one lonely summer, and somehow it had grown into something larger than either of them expected. He’d never imagined that creating something wonderful for her could also become a secret too big to keep.
“Then I think you did talk to her,” she said softly. “Because I heard her.”
Uncle Frank’s eyes warmed. “Maybe we both did,” he said.
Years later, when Rosalie grew up, she built her own small studio—real license and all. On Sunday nights, her transmitter hummed softly above her roof with the wires firmly connected to the wall outlets.
“Good evening, listeners,” she’d say into her microphone. “This is Rosalie’s Old Time Radio Hour. When I was a girl, my uncle told me voices could travel through dreams. I didn’t believe him then, but I do now.”
She paused, smiling at the red light glowing above her door.
“And if you listen closely enough,” she whispered, “you might just hear Judy Garland, singing too.”
Copyright 2016 Jennifer Waters
