Originally published in the May 1987 issue of the Collecter & Emitter.
I guess it was back three months or so when some of the staunchest admirers of our own groat Q. R. Zedd learned that his pending offspring is sure to be a chip off the old block.
Zedd, holder of our only 1×1 callsign, A5A, and the world’s best DXer and all-around wonderful person, had let a few of us into the hamshack at Honor Roll Ranch, just a hoot and a holler south of town, to watch him work the Peter 1 Island DXpedition a few dozen times. Well, of course that was a great thrill, because the magnificent one worked ’em on all bands, all modes, all frequencies, and then sent a few signals out to Jupiter and back so those guys down there could get the thrill of working his delayed space echoes, and the half-dozen of us in the portable bleachers there in the shack at Honor Roll were throbbing with sheer joy at being allowed to be witnesses.
But little did we know, as Redd rolled back from the No. 1 operating position and reached for his latest gift can of Latakia pipe tobacco (a gift from that king over there someplace who’s a ham) — little did we know, I say, that epochal family events were just around the proverbial corner.
When what to our wondering ears should come but the clatter of Candies in the hallway, and what to our wondering eyes, etc., should appear but Tondeleyo herself, the darling girl, rather obviously with child and wearing an insouciant maternity frock of the most demure pink, which happened to match the excited color of her cheeks.
The faithful will recall that Tondelay, nee Schwartz, longtine nubile, blond QSL, secretary to Zedd and his constant companion on such trips as the activation of Atlantis some months back, is also the cutest graduate in the history of the Harvard Business College, the official sweetheart of the South Canadian Amateur Radio Society, and Southwest Packet Queen of 1987 (“the girl we would most like to connect with.”)
Tondelayo enters our story here, however, because she entered the hamshack that evening and quickly gave all of us enormously important news… news that would lead to an even more earth-shaking revelation only moments later.
Which gets us back to our plot, which is a good thing, because a few little digressions are one thing, but this has gotten ridiculous.
Anyway:
“Q!” squealed the darling girl. “Oh, Q! Our baby is stirring!”
Zedd finished lighting his oom-paul. “Stirring what?” he demanded through the acrid cloud of smoke issuing from the latakia, which, as pipe buffs know, is made from the finest aromatic tobacco roasted patiently in a tent over smouldering camel dung.
“How can he be stirring?” the great man went on with in-exorable logic. “He ain’t got no spoon.”
“I mean,” Tondelayo blushed, moving closer, “I can feel him in there! He is rolling around and bumping me and thumping and I don’t know what all!”
“You mean,” Zedd cried, cowing out of his chair, “our son has started making his presence known?”
Tondolayo again blushed from all the attention. After all, as cute as she still was, she had begun to resemble a sandwich bag with a watermelon in. “I feel him! I can almost hear him!
Zedd sprang to en equipment cabinet and pulled out a spare microphone (a Shure Model # CM17L, for the technical-minded), plugged one end into an audio amplifier, and hold the business end up close to Tondelayo’s tummy.
Sure enough, at once all of us in the room heard sounds of gurgling, thumping, and bumping coming from, Mommy’s middle.
We were not only transported with happiness, but virtually relocated.
We listened, rapt, to the sounds coming over the speakers in the hamshack. They sounded strong, happy, irregular, fraught with obscure meaning.
“THUMP!” came the sounds. “THUMP-TI THUMP! TI TI THUMP THUMP TI TI!”
“Good gravy!” Zedd screamed. “Liston to that!”
“THUMP TI THUMP TI! THUMP THUMP TI THUMP! “THUMP TI THUMP! THUMP TI TI! THUMP TI TI THUMP! THUMP THUMP THUMP! THUMP TI! TI THUMP TI TI! THUMP TI THUMP THUMP!”
We still didn’t get it. But Zedd did.
He ran to the operating position and turned the monitor on full-blast on one of the ten transmitters, and reached for the Bencher. His fingers flew, and the sound of his CW sidetone almost knocked us off the bleachers.
It was awfully fast, but W5MCJ got it down on his Big Chief tablet.
He passed it around for all of us to read: “Hello son U R 599 599 W A5A K” A pause, and then back from Tondelayo’s middle: “THUMP TI TI! TI THUMP! THUMP TI TI! THUMP TI TI! THUMP TI THUMP THUMP!”
I tell you. It was, as the kids would say, totally awesome.
But why were we so surprised?
What less could we expect? Genetics — as Homer Klott might say — is genetics.