An ‘American Idol’ before there were any

My mom was one of the original American idols. It was close to 60 years ago, when Simon Cowell hadn't even been born, let alone cast his first smug look at a contestant. But Rose Elkin was ideal material for a show that was the American Idol of its time and place.

Broadcast in the 1950s on WCAU-TV, Dividends for Homemakers was a local, occasionally loopy, but likable talk and gossip program for what were then known as "housewives" in need of some entertainment as they awaited their afternoon soaps (or, as my Aunt Zena used to call them, "the stories"). Dividends paid off nicely for faithful followers in at least one way: It offered local talent an opportunity to snare the spotlight and declare it their own.

"I'm going to try out," my mom declared one morning when I was 4, wiping her hands on an apron already encrusted with that morning's breakfast.

Chutzpah she had, in addition to an operatic soprano, untrained but rich, that made my father fumble for compliments whenever she serenaded the family at get-togethers. The daughter of Russian immigrants, she lived in a myopic age when a woman's sense of self was often left unfulfilled, and she spent most of her time on her boys and her husband. But now she was going to put the apron down for a morning.

She went to a studio not in Hollywood, but on City Line Avenue. The PTC transfer she clutched would take her on a series of buses from our home in Strawberry Mansion to WCAU.

Mom ended up passing the audition, and she was given a date to return for the broadcast competition. We applauded her rehearsals of her chosen number, "Kiss of Fire," a hit for Georgia Gibbs in 1952, as she cleaned up after my brother, Malvey, and me.

WCAU's answer to Ryan Seacrest was Bill Hart, a gentlemanly, lanky, and popular local host who greeted my mother at the station on the day of the broadcast. My father held court at home that day, taking care of us and shaking our 9-inch, black-and-white Philco whenever the screen started to roll.

We had just had a sloppily delicious breakfast prepared by my dad and were awaiting my mother's appearance when I noticed that my shirt was decorated with egg yolk and milk. I decided I'd better put on a clean one for Mom. Maybe I was ahead of my time in envisioning interactive television long before it became a reality, but I didn't understand that when she appeared on the screen, my mother wouldn't be able to see me. I wanted to make her proud, and I was not going to let a dirty shirt prevent that.

Soon afterward, we heard: "Ladies and gentlemen, here is Rose Elkin of Strawberry Mansion performing her rendition of 'Kiss of Fire.' " Suddenly Mom appeared on live television, larger than life even on a 9-inch screen. And she was sensational, showcasing a voice that had been relegated mainly to the kitchen and living room, where it was often drowned out by two kids wanting their cereal now. But here she was on television before hundreds, thousands, or who knows how many made up the show's audience.

Finally, the winners were announced, starting with third place. "And coming in second place: Rose Elkin of Strawberry Mansion!"

Second place? Surely there must have been a mistake. No one was better than Mommy. My father almost cried.

Mom returned home — by buses, of course — loaded with a basket of food stuffs, the prize for her second-place finish. (First prize was $100.) The first thing she did after her brush with fame was to unload the packages and boxes on the kitchen table, preparing to use the cake mix so the family could celebrate.

She never entered another contest, though she still regaled the family with her singing at gatherings. But how proud we were on that sun-drenched day in Strawberry Mansion: My mother had shown her talent to the world — or at least the part of it that was in the Philadelphia region and lucky enough to own a television set.

"You're number one with us," my father told her, grousing that the show "must have been fixed."

Just before she died in 2004, I reminded my mother of her Dividends for Homemakers triumph so many years before. Omniscient to the end, she replied, "I never told this you this, but I really loved that you changed your shirt for me that day."

Michael Elkin is a writer and editor who lives in Montgomery County. He can be reached at michaelelkin60@gmail.com.