Hobo Ham Radio: Trashing Up The Airwaves

I lost my Nellie eighteen months ago. We had our secret spot along a tidal river. Perhaps you remember some of the old stories I told? Nellie learned a lot about life on these banks. And so did I.

My new canine pal came into our life very shortly after the passing of Nellie. A nearly solid black-coated shepherd, she bore more than superficial resemblance to my beloved – now gone – dog, at least when she was still young and smallish. She only has one eye. A patch of white fur on her chest. But none of the white “socks” of hair on her feet that Nellie did. Georgia Peaches could not be more different of a dog than Nellie if she tried.

Georgia and I duck into the woods off the main path, down a small dirt trail. This leads to the (my) picnic table on the river’s shore. I have taken down many a wire antenna with the sun setting across the water. Those trees have grown up in the nearly decade and a half I have been coming here. My antenna sits higher and higher every passing season.

My secret spot. That is what I have always called this place. On the busiest of days, I would come here, and no one would know I was here. Just me, Nellie, and my radio. Fifty degrees, blustery, and damp today. Yet, still a half dozen people passed me by in the couple hours I claimed the table. Things have changed. The world has changed. I can’t help but notice that the sparkle is gone from the picture I took. Drab and dreary.

It’s a rainy, drizzly day. I operate the (tr)uSDX out of a trash bag to keep it dry. Such a cute little radio. AM broadcast bleeds through on all frequencies. I fiddle with the various filters and attenuators, but I cannot sufficiently diminish the talk show that is contaminating my reception. I set the bandpass filter to a 500 kHz width, but I am still hearing several adjacent frequencies of strings of dits and dahs. The cacophony reminds me of the old days, a comment I mysteriously will not explain. Several people stop by wanting to see Georgia. It is a bad dog club out there today. All of the owners whose dogs are too nervous and jumpy and unsocialized to be able to come here on a busy day with beautiful weather. I can tell, they all want their dogs to meet my not-always-the-best-mannered-and-definitely-the-scariest-looking-mutt around. They figure I would not be afraid to let Georgie greet their puppies. And I am not.

I spend a few moments taking selfies. I don’t think dogs like to look at cameras. I feel like the ghost of Nellie played a little joke on us with this one…

I finally managed to get a decent shot of us. Georgia’s head appears to dwarf mine I notice. It is a bit of an illusion even though she is quite a big dog.

Georgia hides from the rain as best as she can. It is more or less a gentle drizzle and her raincoat is protecting her. I familiarize myself again with the little radio, scrolling through its many features. I never even bother trying to make a contact.

The rain picks up, and I figure it is time to pack. Just like losing my Nellie, the day is gray and bleak. But this selfie captures me quite well. I am older now. I am weathered. I am disheveled. I look a bit odd. A hint of wildness. I like what I see. Like an oak tree. As I sit by the banks of tidal river, at my secret spot, remembering my past, petting my present, stimulated by my future, capturing radiofrequency waves on a toy transceiver, with a wire in growing trees. A magic, sacred place. I am the vagabond tortoise whose always always home.

I miss you Nellie. I always will. Georgie is resting with her head against my thigh as I type this. Tired from a long day of being a shepherd, guarding our secret spot. I guess it is the three of us’ spot now.

Always with love,

KM1NDY