Posted on June 19, 2010 - by Hubba

The Shad Olson Show

I have said before that I do not intend for HH to be a political website, and my recent political activity notwithstanding, I mean it.  I am not here to join the red state/blue state, old state/new state debate.  Really.

Because I’m about to introduce and endorse a “conservative firebrand” (his words, not mine.)  I was reminded of him yesterday when I caught the tail end of the Jim Thompson Show while moving my pickup.

For several years, Shad Olson was an evening news anchor KOTA Territory TV, the illustrious old war horse of western South Dakota television.  He had a clear midwestern voice, good diction, and was otherwise unremarkable as far as I was concerned.  I have no idea if he’s good looking or not, I’ll leave that up to the girls in the audience.  After all, KOTA TV had Alicia Garcia and Amanda Greslin, I wasn’t paying much attention to Shad Olson.

Shad became more remarkable on April 15th of this year when he appeared at a Tax Day Tea Party Rally in Rapid City.  I don’t think anybody found even that terribly remarkable except for the local media, who began remarking to anyone who would listen how terribly unprofessional Mr. Olson was for appearing in public and giving a little speech about civic duties and such.  The Rapid City Journal trotted out their resident country boy to write a column explaining that golly gee, we folks in the media can’t be incitin’ patriotism and all, we just write the news.  I consider the RCJ’s resident country boy a good friend, but I’m still a little sore about that one.

Anyway, turns out Mr. Olson had been burning to incite more patriotism, or expound on his personal views about the state of the Union.  KOTA TV offered him the chance to apologize for his civic indiscretion or take the gate.  Mr. Olson took the gate.

Which brings us to the present.  I had heard that he planned on starting a local talk show, but had completely forgotten about it.  Hearing him yesterday on the Jim Thompson show reminded me.  In addition, hearing the man on radio, unscripted, I was pleasantly surprised at how witty, intelligent, and professional he sounded.

Now, I have not had a chance to listen to the show yet.  If you choose to listen, we could consider this our little adventure together.  The Decorum Forum, a blue state website, has posted a particularly unflattering review.  And based on his website, Mr. Olson seems to relish the ire of the left leaning populace.  In addition to labeling himself a “conservative firebrand,” Shad has a collection of articles with Red State Fogey titles like “Whatever Happened To Nice” and “Where Have All The Front Porches Gone?”  Not that I disagree with the principles, I’m just saying it seems like the man has sandbagged the fort and bought extra ammunition.

All that aside, I admire the man’s conviction and we seem to have a lot in common, both coming from home school households with no television.  (Wait, where did he work before he…?)  I think we’d get along swimmingly.  And in collection of articles on his website, the following was so charming that I had to post it here, with proper attribution-

Remembering Paul Harvey and the Dog Who Stole Christmas

Shad Olson
One of the rare, iconic masters is gone.  News of radio giant Paul Harvey’s recent passing was not shockingly unexpected, but sad, just the same.  I keep expecting to turn on the radio and hear that its all been a mistake, and that the incomparable Mr. Harvey was simply away on vacation somewhere, thinking up new ways to hold his audience spellbound.  Or maybe, he was just taking a hard-earned nap on one of those perfect mattresses he sold so well.  Or maybe, I just wish.  He was too good to lose, no matter why, or how soon.  Beyond the sorrow of a hero’s mortality, or the realization that an Everest-sized piece of the ‘good old days’ is really gone for good, last week’s announcement brought something else.  For me, it brought revisited memories of radio dreams, and a winter day nearly a decade ago when the larger-than-life, maestro of the airwaves gave me one of the proudest moments of my professional life. 

The year was 1999, and Paul Harvey, living radio legend, could be heard four times a day on the small town Nebraska station where I worked.  Like many a young broadcaster, I had more than a passing admiration for the man who wrote the book on radio news and then rewrote it again and again in ways that left his fellow craftsmen humbled and awestruck.  Decades before embarking on my own fledgling career, Paul Harvey was much more than just a voice in the box.  To me, and so many others, his distinctive daily visits provided the narrative of sepia-tinged early life in the Midwest.  Predictable.  Friendly.  Witty and warm.  Between lines of news copy seamlessly melded with pitches for stereos and work gloves, chocolate milk and locking pliers, his familiar dulcet tones were the soundtrack of weekend family picnics and trips to the lake; an outdoor accompaniment for pulled weeds and painted houses, and lawns, raked and mowed.  Equal parts daily devotional and civics lesson, his broadcasts were a parental preference that became a sons acquired taste. 

As with most of the hallowed few belonging in the pantheon reserved for truly original Americana, Paul Harvey’s style is beyond imitation.  From his minimalist brilliance with the scripted word to his inimitable delivery brimming with melodrama and wry humor, the Chicago master’s methodology is a rare case where flattery and emulation must never meet. With apologies to Elvis Presley and Coca-Cola, there are no waiting hordes of Harvey impressionists.  There would be no point.  For a broadcast journalist, simply landing a piece of radio copy in a Paul Harvey newscast would be a career highlight to cherish. 

Thanks to a little white dog named Conrad, it is a highlight I’ll never forget.

It all began with a shopping spree that couldn’t wait.  A few days before Christmas, despite a thermometer registering in the teens below zero (wind chill not included) my wife and I ventured downtown for that years edition of the single, habitually overlooked item to complete our holiday gift roster.  Unwilling to leave our months-old Bichon-Frise puppy home alone against a defenseless expanse of pristine carpet, we parked our trusty S.U.V. curbside, determined to leave the engine running and the heater blasting to keep both blanketed dog and idling machine from freezing solid.  The car was warm.  The pooch was warmer.  Wed be back in a flash.  What could go wrong? 

We would soon find out.

After ten minutes in the requisite store, wife and I hustled for the car, gift sacks clutched in freezing hands, anticipating the cozy interior of the waiting vehicle and eager to find our snuggly fuzzball, safe and sound.  Steps away from the goal we saw a white-fur blur of puppy exuberance, wriggling and wiggling in the front seat with the excitement of our return.  He jumped.  He danced.  He hopped and flopped.  He perched on the armrest.  He pounced.

And then we heard it.

Conrad had locked the doors. 

The electric clunk of the locking mechanism stopped us cold as we shared a look that instantly conveyed what we both knew.  In a town where few people locked their houses at night, and fewer still their cars in broad daylight, our only set of keys was in the ignition of the running car.  Since there were only two things to do, and only one that wouldnt include a service bill on Christmas week, we spent the next thirty minutes playing a comical game of puppy pantomime, trying to coax Conrad-the-amazing-security-dog, back onto the same toggle switch that had caused the mess.  No such luck.  Even a carefully reenacted exit from the store failed to reproduce the fateful paw print of moments before.  Not even close.

With frozen fingers and a heavy heart, I dialed the cell phone and reached for my wallet. 

The next day, $30 the poorer, I wrote a radio retelling of the puppy ordeal and delivered my bamboozled dose of deprecating idiocy to the hometown folk.  As an afterthought, I sent a copy to the Omaha bureau of the Associated Press.     

And now, the rest of the story…

On an afternoon, two days after hitting send on the fax machine, the stations chief engineer burst into my office, gesturing like a madman.  He motioned wildly at the portable radio behind my desk with a frenetic urgency previously reserved for reports of natural disasters and newly-minted world wars.
 
“On!  On! On!” he stammered.  “Turn it, ON!”

I complied with startled quickness and listened as the radio came to life with the final lines of a familiar dog story serving as a segment-ender for the master behind the microphone. 

“When they returned, the doggone dog had locked the doors.”

“For half-an-hour, they tried to get the dog to step again on the switch….”

“….pretended they were pawing and pawing.”

“Finally, they called a locksmith.”

And then, after a quavering dramatic pause had stretched across the miles of radio silence, traveling to childhood memory and back again, the legend spoke the words to my closing line with an effortless grandfatherly charm that turned mere words on a page into trademark radio magic:
 

“The pooch is in the doghouse.”

Pause.

“Page…….two!!!”

S.O.S.

©Shad Olson Show and SOS Radio Network 2010, all rights reserved

The Shad Olson Show is on 1150 AM KIMM at 8 am.  Let’s all give it a listen.

And now I’m done with politics.  Okay one more thing- I really wanted Chris Nelson to win the Republican Primary US House race.

There, now I’m done.