Originally published in the January 1989 issue of the Collector & Emitter.
Momma Zedd had headed back to her home in Mena, Ark., on the Honda Interceptor trailing a 40-meter zepp antenna, and the aluminum Christmas tree, which loaded up great on 10, had been dismantled and put back in the attic of Honor Roll Ranch, just a hoot and a holler south of town. The Dom Perignon was gone and we were back to Coors.
Clearly the festive holiday season was behind us.
The great Q. R. Zedd, A6A, world’s greatest DXer and all-around marvelous person, was taking a break from his New Year’s task of working all stations (again). Cowboy boots hiked up on the railing of the porch of Honor Roll, the great man contentedly puffed one of his prized Four-Dot pipes, the gentle clouds of Latakia tobacco curling across the front yard and felling prize herefords in the nearby pasture. Tondelayo, Zedd’s nubile bride, QSL secretary and constant companion, curled in a hammock nearby, polishing the trophy she won some time ago as the cutest graduate in the history of the Harvard Business College. There was a warm winter sun, and the sound of a mockingbird somewhere imitating Zedd’s resonant voice calling CQ DX. What a scene it was! How lucky some of us were to be there to bask in the radiance of Zedd!
A car — a very dirty, very rusty, very decrepit 1960 Volkswagen — crept up the long dirt road from the country highway. We all wondered who it was.
“I wonder who it is,” said W5OU.
“I wonder who it is,” said W5MCN.
“I wonder –” began N5HZU.
“I get it, I get it,” Zedd cut in testily, removing his pipe from his teeth.
The battered Volkswagen limped to a stop in front of the porch. The door opened and then fell off the hinges, making a mild racket. This small, balding, wrinkle-faced gent clambered out, picked up the fallen door, and tried to stick it back in place. He managed to crush his thumb. Whining softly, he hopped around, first on one foot and then on the other. He was wearing sandals, which made hopping difficult. The rest of his letup consisted of a faded doubleknit jumpsuit covered with club patches and a baseball cap with an Edsel emblem on it.
“You lost, son?” Zedd called.
The man turned and crept nearer the porch, hat in hands. “Is this Honor Roll Ranch?”
“You see them antennas?” Zedd asked. “It’s either Honor Roll or the Voice of America.”
“Is Mr. Q. R. Zedd, A5A, the world’s greatest DXer, at home?”
“You’re looking at him, boy.”
We all thought the feller was going to weep. He came up the steps, skinny hand extended. “Oh, Mr. Zedd, this is the greatest thrill of my life!”
“Well, naturally,” Zedd said, shaking his hand. “Get off your knees, son, no need to grovel like that.”
“Mr. Zedd, sir, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sadd. I. M. Sadd. And I am your opposite.”
Zedd’s handsome profile wrinkled in perplexity. “Come again?”
“Well, Mr. Zedd, I believe you have worked all the DX there ever was?”
“Sure, you got that right.”
“Well, sir, I am the amateur radio operator who can’t work any DX.”
Zedd looked stunned. “You can’t work any DX?”
“Never,” Sadd sighed, wiping a tear from his eye. “How can that be?” Zedd asked in astonishment.
“Something always goes wrong.”
“Always?”
“I thought,” Sadd went on sadly, “things would change when the sunspot cycle started upward again. But no.”
“Son,” said Zedd, “you must be doing something wrong.”
Sadd whimpered a little. “I call CQ DX. I always get an answer from a 4 who wants to tell me I’ve got AC ripple, or a 3 wanting to tell me about his retirement.
“I listen. The other day I heard a G station. Everyone else yawns when they hear a G station. It shouldn’t be competitive. I wrote down his call and tried to make contact. When I stopped calling, he was working somebody from a Boy Scout encampment. I turned up my power and blew up the transformer in my power supply.
“I almost worked Mexico on 40 meters, but just about the time the station might have come back to me, there was a solar flare that blacked out communications for two days.
“Once I heard a Canadian station in the clear –”
Zedd cut in, stunned: You can’t even work VE?” “I can’t even work Idaho or Rhode Island!” Sadd cried. “Or Ohio or Tennessee or Texas, for that matter!”
The great man removed his Stetson and wiped a brawny forearm over his forehead in obvious amazement.
Sadd volunteered, “I would like to get WAS. But I’m from near Tulsa, I can’t even work Arkansas.”
“Do you have a list of the states you need for WAS?” Zedd asked.
“Yes,” Sadd said mournfully, and pulled out a typed list.
We all looked at it. Oklahoma and Kansas were scratched out.
“I need everything else,” Sadd admitted.
“Son,” Zedd told him, “you have a serious problem.”
“I run a 940 into an Alpha linear,” Sadd said. “I have a 7-element Yagi at 88 feet. I process my speech and computer-massage my CW and use a front-end filtering system and ARRL logbooks and a posture chair that cost me over $700. I’ve got a world clock that tells me the time in 316 countries and a computerized beam heading program and hardline to the tower and two funny hats with my callsign on the front. I’ve done everything. I still can’t work any DX.
“I thought I worked France once. My card came back ‘not in log.’ I imagined I worked a Russian once on 20-meter CW. After I didn’t get a card in three years. I wrote Box 88 and asked why. I got back this crummy letter in Russian that I still haven’t found anybody to translate. I asked my librarian if she knew anyone who could translate a Russian letter, and she told the FBI and I spent four years in federal prison.
“Once I got on a list. I really did. Just as he was getting to the fives, the master of ceremonies dropped dead right on the air. When someone else took over, they started a new list.
“I could have worked Italy once. I really could have. He came back to my call. I got so excited I threw up. Had to buy a new microphone.”
Clearly, Zedd’s noted compassion was aroused. He put a friendly hand on Sadd’s skinny shoulder. “Do you want me to help you work a few hundred, son?”
Sadd straightened up, pride flaring in his eyes. “No sir!” he cried. “What kind of a man do you take me for? Accept help in working DX? Let someone else get me on a list? Use a spotter? Employ someone else’s station? Take unfair advantage? Never!”
“At least let me Rive you one word of advice,” Zedd said quietly. When you call the DX station, call him six or eight times in a row. Keep the rf in the air. Make a commotion –”
“But,” Sadd broke in, shocked, “that would be ungentlemanly!”
Zedd stared at this interloper for a long minute or two. Finally the great man’s broad chest heaved in a sigh. “Yep. You’re right.”
Sadd stepped down off the porch, head hanging. “I just wanted to say hello, sir, and let you know that you are an inspiration to us all.”
“Hang in there, boy,” Zedd advised.
“Oh, I will!” Sadd said with a sweet smile. “I’ll never give up!”
“Atta boy.” The little man picked up his car door, put it in the Volkswagen on the passenger seat, climbed in, and drove slowly away.
“Boys,” said Zedd as the dust faded down the ranch road, “there goes a real gentleman.
“Too bad. If he’d just get a little pushy, he could probably work two or three hundred by next weekend.”
—KU5B