Eric Suher--Ghost of the Present

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The Legendary Ron Hall, late of WHMP, Northampton

There’s a song by the defunct Boston-based band, Big Dipper called, “Ron Hall.” The song has nothing to do with the enigmatic, legendary Northampton broadcaster Ron Hall formerly of WHMP. Yet, when I think of Ron Hall, that’s the soundtrack I hear. Big Dipper’s song was nervous and edgy. It was about a man who wrecked his house in the end. My Ron Hall was my neighbor for over a decade. He lived next door to me and kept to himself with his wife Barbara and their dog, a Scottish Terrier whose name eludes me. They actually had a succession of Scotties, all buried in a small patch of ground beside the apartment they lived in for years.

Ron and his wife were ghosts, specters who flashed in the night at weirdest moments—usually awkward ones. Despite my erratic lifestyle, they never complained of the noise, the crowd that revolved around me, or the late-night door banging, “open up, I know you’re in there!” They went about their mysterious business as if my life was no imposition on theirs—and it was. All things balance out. My life may have been erratic, but their life was simply put…weird. They lived in a sparsely furnished two room apartment with no air-conditioning and barely a fan in the dog days of summer. In the winter they were always bundled up—even in their apartment. At all hours of the day they would tramp up and down the stairs with their dog, going for walks or sitting in their car in the parking lot with the engine idling for long periods of time.

I moved to 158 King Street in Northampton for the first time in 1993, and then again in 1994 where I took up residency till 1998, and then again in 1999 till 2002. Ron and Barbara were constant tenants having lived at 156 King Street for nearly a decade. They moved once—next door (my old place at 158 King Street).

It was a self-contained building that offered nothing except a roof top patio that Ron would frequent in the summer—nude sun-bathing. His wife always wore a heavy coat whatever the weather and had a pallor of death about her. They entertained no one, cooked nothing but broccoli for themselves, and watched QVC constantly. One infamous encounter with Ron occurred when I cleaning my kitchen floor. He knocked on my door and asked if I was cleaning with something, I said “Ajax.” He replied, “I guess we’ll have to move.” I countered this with, “I won’t use it anymore if it bothers you.” He didn’t reply and vanished.

I had one encounter with Ron that was deep and meaningful. Augesten Burroughs’ book Running with Scissors had just come out. I asked him if he knew some of the characters in the book. He knew Dr. Turcotte (the “Dr. Finch”) and characterized him as someone far buggier than Burroughs’ depiction. He told me that Alphonse Turcotte was brilliant and an enfant terrible, and nobody crossed crazy like him. I was floored. Ron fingered somebody as crazy—he actually entered judgment about somebody other than himself. Who could be weirder than he and his wife in my book—nobody.

You see, Ron said little to anyone. While I judged him like crazy, Ron did nothing of the sort. He offered nothing in the way criticism. He never had an unkind word for anyone, or complained about the shit end of the stick that he had been given at WHMP. And boy, did they give him the shit end of the stick.

Ron was the anchor of the morning drive. He tirelessly reported on his off hours for a mere sound-bite of whatever was going on in Hampshire or Franklin County. For his efforts they cut his on-air time, benefits and livelihood. By the early 2000’s, Ron’s career was in jeopardy. WHMP had been bought out by a mega-corporation. They had no compunction about letting this weirdo go. He was buying time, day-by-day. He didn’t fit their mega-conglomerate expectations and he knew it. When the word came down that changes were to be made at WHMP, Ron had the clarity of mind to resign and move on.