A gentle voice in the night

By Michael Patrick O’Brien–

I’ve always been more of a night owl than a morning lark. This circadian orientation probably explains my unusual teenage interest, some fifty years ago, in the king of late night talk radio, based in Salt Lake City, Utah. 

Herb Jepko was the first person to host a nationally syndicated satellite-delivered radio talk show. After a difficult Arizona childhood, including adoption and foster care, Jepko discovered his life’s work—radio—while serving with the U.S. Army during the Korean War. 

After stints at various Southern California broadcast stations, he moved to his wife’s hometown, Salt Lake City. Jepko joined KSL, Utah’s powerful clear signal radio station that reached most of western North America. Soon, he was anchoring popular daytime programs for the broadcaster. 

Jepko, however, wanted to try something new. 

At the time, KSL signed off every day at midnight and did not start broadcasting again until six in the morning. Sensing an opportunity, Jepko convinced the station managers to start a late-night open mic call-in show during that overnight time slot. 

The program—initially called The Other Side of the Day but later renamed The Nitecap Show—was a hit, and soon reached most of the country. Contemporary news accounts indicate that former actor Ronald Reagan, then the governor of California, and singer Pat Boone were two of Jepko’s many fans. 

Jepko’s audience, however, also included the elderly, lonely, shut-ins, night workers, and insomniacs. They longed to hear a friendly nocturnal voice, and Jepko met that need quite well. Unlike much of talk radio today, he had a warm, friendly, patient, non-controversial, and conversational on-air style. 

The popular show also inspired formation of the Nitecaps International Association, with state and regional chapters. Members of these local clubs followed up on Jepko’s benevolent themes by volunteering to help people in need within their communities.

As a boy, I did not know about any of this until I met one of those shut-ins from my hometown. Her name was Pearl Kerns. Pearl and her friend Blanche used to eat Sunday lunch together at Andy’s Chuck Wagon, an Ogden strip mall buffet where my mother worked in the 1970s. I tell the full story in another blog.

Pearl and Blanche were very nice women, although the immature me was struck more by their odd couple appearance. Blanche was short and stout, Pearl was tall and thin. Unfortunately, soon after I met them, Blanche died and Pearl had a stroke.

Mom said Pearl lived a unique life. Before retirement, she worked many years in an office for the U.S. Navy. She never married—unusual for Utah—and instead cared for both her parents until they died a few years before I met her. 

She lived alone and returned to that empty home after her stroke hospitalization. She was disabled and confined to bed most of the time. Once a week, for several weeks, Mom loaded me into the car to check in on Pearl and bring her meals.

Pearl’s house, which she and her mother purchased after her father died, was long and linear—four or five rooms one right after the other. Whenever we visited, it was unbearably hot. She kept the heat on high year round. 

I was perplexed about how someone could be bedridden and still live alone. The self-reliant Pearl, however, seemed to pull it off. 

She kept a wheelchair near her bed and rigged up a rope to guide and steady her during trips to/from the bathroom or kitchen. Others probably visited and brought her meals too, but she did not seem to eat much. She liked just being at home.

Pearl did not sleep very well. She told me that most of the night she listened to the Herb Jepko Nitecap Show on her radio. I had never heard of it, but as a fellow night owl, I was fascinated. 

I tuned in for a few minutes when I could, usually on weekends or holidays when I did not have school the next day. What I heard sounded like a big happy family reunion. 

Callers sang or played music. Some read poetry. Others shared a recipe. Some talked about their families or grandchildren. Each call was limited to five minutes, a rule the host gently enforced with “Tinkerbell,” a music box that played the theme song from “Never on Sunday.”

After several weeks of listening, I decided to call in one late summer night. I was on hold for a long time as Jepko went from phone to phone talking to people all over the country. Finally, he said, “Now we have Mike O’Brien calling from Ogden, Utah,” and boom…I was on the air.

We chatted amiably. Jepko asked about my background and was intrigued that a high school student like me would listen or call in. He asked how I learned about the show. I told him about Pearl. 

Before long, Tinkerbell was playing and it was time to say goodbye. I hung up and ended my first—and last—interview on national radio. I had just rolled over in bed to fall asleep when the phone rang. 

Usually, when the phone rang at that hour of the night, it sent shockwaves through the house. Everyone feared bad news of a death or disaster. Because our phone still was right by my bed, I grabbed it quickly, before it rang again or chaos erupted in the house. 

It was Pearl. She heard my interview and called to tell me. “You sounded good on the radio,” she said. It was the last time we spoke. She died in 1982 while I was away in college at the University of Notre Dame.

The radio syndicates eventually deemed Herb Jepko’s show too non-controversial, and his audience too old. They bumped him off the air in favor of more confrontational hosts. Even the New York Times noticed, reporting mournfully that the decision had left “insomniacs muttering in the dark.”

Working with his son, Jepko tried—but failed—to resurrect the show a couple of times. He then moved on to other work, including as director of the Utah Humane Society. He died in March 1995 at age 64, just two years older than I am now as I write this article. 

Jepko is buried at Wasatch Lawn Memorial Park cemetery in Millcreek, near my home in Salt Lake City. I may just drive over there someday, wander around, find his grave, and thank him for being what Radio World newspaper once called “a gentle voice in the night.”

*Mike O’Brien (author website here) is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. Paraclete Press published his book Monastery Mornings, about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah, in August 2021. The League of Utah Writers chose it as the best non-fiction book of 2022.