Mavis had once been happy: married to her childhood sweetheart, ready to embark on a life of domestic bliss: housekeeping, cooking, child rearing. Not a very exciting sounding life to some, perhaps, but to Mavis, being married to Orville Jones, and his crackpot dreams to build them a dream home in Miami, around his cockamamie scheme to start a radio station, where advertisers would pay them to put on shows and mention their brand a hundred times a day, was all she ever asked for.
They nearly made it, too. The radio business was rough and tumble in those early days of the early 1920s; but it was Orville's passion, and she supported him to the hilt, even getting involved in the setting up and running of the technical, business and talent side of the operation. Often the acts and features were poor, or didn't even turn up. So it was that in a desperate attempt to fill some dead air, Orville had turned to his beautiful, dear wife to make up a character, anything, to talk away the minutes until the next commercial announcement.
Thus was Ginger Jones born: and soon, everybody with a radio set in Miami loved to listen in to the antics of the big fat, ginger haired, lovable girl-next-door - and laugh at her misadventures as she never quite got the boy of her dreams. They also loved the friendly, down-home way of she had of explaining the benefits and uses of all sorts of medicinal products sold by a big pharmaceutical concern that had outlets all over the State, the Hour’s all-powerful sponsor.
There was one person who loathed and hated Ginger, of course. Mavis Jones. Perhaps Orville's love would have made it bearable. But Orville was just a gravestone now, and a bunch of flowers she tended laid where he lay, every Sunday. Still, Ginger paid the bills, and she kept a lot of people employed, so while everybody on the payroll worked hard for her, she worked ten times harder for them, and for Orville's dream.