krazeehorse
Senior Member
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2012
- Posts
- 414
I copied this piece from a ham radio forum I frequent. It might be more interesting to the hams on here but it has some observations that go beyond the scope of that hobby. I hope you enjoy.
Voices in the Quiet
By Sharon Blake, KFØVGY
A short story
Someone on the air asked my age the other day. The question didn’t bother me — the number did. It’s strange how that happens. You live your life every day, doing what you do, feeling like yourself… and then someone asks your age and suddenly you’re face-to-face with a number that feels bigger in your mouth than it feels in your heart.
I wasn’t embarrassed by the person asking. I was unsettled by the quiet truth inside me: seventy-five. That’s not a small number. And hearing it out loud hit harder than I expected. Not because I’m ashamed of it, but because it made me wonder — not about what they thought of me — but what I thought of me. Do I still see myself the same way? Does that number match the way I feel inside? Does it redefine me in some way I don’t want?
Saying it was the hard part. Hearing it in my own voice. Letting it belong to me. And in that moment, I wondered: Am I the only one who feels this way? Or does everyone, at some point, pause between who they used to be and who they still are — caught for just a heartbeat between pride and uncertainty?
Because the truth is, it’s not the number that scares us. It’s the way it makes us take inventory of who we still are. Aging doesn’t take our value away. It reveals it.
The longer we’ve lived, the more we’ve learned — and in the ham community, that wisdom is the heartbeat that holds us together. So many of the steady voices on the air — the calm ones, the patient ones, the “give me a second and I’ll walk you through it” ones — belong to people who have lived a lot of life.
They remember when radios glowed warm with tubes, when antennas were built from whatever you had on hand, when learning meant burning a few fingers, flipping a few breakers, and sticking with it until that first signal pushed out into the world.
And many of them learned something that isn’t even required anymore: Morse code — an art form all its own. Copying code by ear wasn’t just a skill. It was rhythm, timing, intuition — a kind of musical communication that you felt as much as you heard. It took discipline and patience, but also a certain grace — the ability to hear meaning inside the noise. CW wasn’t just a test to pass. It was a craft. A rite of passage. A language built on rhythm and silence. Older hams didn’t just learn it — they mastered it. They carried that art forward so it wouldn’t disappear when the rules changed.
These are the voices who guide us, who steady the nets, who help the newer hams find their footing, and who remind us that nobody on this frequency is truly alone.
And then there are the younger voices — the ones jumping into this hobby with excitement and curiosity, reviving clubs, experimenting with new technology, bringing fresh energy into something that has been loved for generations. They ask questions fearlessly. They troubleshoot with YouTube and enthusiasm. They help build repeaters, redesign websites, and remind us the future of this hobby is bright. Younger hams look to the older ones for guidance — and older hams look to the younger ones for momentum. The hobby needs both. We all do. Ham radio survives when we meet in the middle and learn from each other.
And then there are the activities that keep this hobby vibrant — the contests, the challenges, the adventures that light up the bands all year long. There are the big DX contests, when the whole world comes alive at once. Signals from every continent spill across the bands, and suddenly you’re talking to Italy, Brazil, Japan, South Africa — all before your coffee cools. For a little while, borders vanish and the world feels wonderfully small.
There are the CW competitions — international Morse events where rhythm becomes communication, and tiny taps of a paddle cross oceans with elegance and precision. It’s proof that CW isn’t a relic; it’s a living art, kept alive by the hands and hearts of those who still treasure it.
And then there’s POTA — Parks on the Air — one of the happiest ideas we ever had. A radio, a battery, a wire in a tree… and suddenly the whole world comes looking for you. POTA brings out the kid in all of us: older hams savoring the calm of nature, younger hams loving the rush of a clean portable signal, and everyone enjoying the sunshine and the pileups.
Our people do them all. DXing, CW, POTA, ragchews, nets, building antennas, helping newcomers… because that’s the spirit of this community. Curious. Energetic. Skilled. Playful. Determined. Alive. Ham radio is big enough for all of it — and all of us.
And sometimes, I wonder… at what age is it all over for us? At what number does the world quietly decide we’ve had enough life, enough purpose, enough joy? Because if you ask an 88-year-old man who can still flirt with sweetness and spark — as if time never touched him — he’ll tell you the truth: it’s not over. Not even close.
The body may slow down, but the heart doesn’t. The spirit doesn’t. The part of us that wants warmth, connection, kindness, laughter — that stays alive as long as we do. If anything, age sharpens the desire to live fully. It deepens the joy we find in simple kindness. It makes every warm voice feel like a gift.
On the air, no one asks for your résumé. They just listen to who you are. We are the memory of what this hobby was, and the hands that carry it into the future.
And long after we become Silent Keys, our voices continue in the quiet — in the people we helped, the skills we passed on, and the warmth we left behind. Because ham radio is a home for the human spirit — a place where connection becomes legacy, and every voice lives on, even after the key falls silent.
You matter to this community — more than you know. I hear you.
73 — may we all keep finding meaning, connection, and purpose in the quiet spaces between the static.
Voices in the Quiet
By Sharon Blake, KFØVGY
A short story
Someone on the air asked my age the other day. The question didn’t bother me — the number did. It’s strange how that happens. You live your life every day, doing what you do, feeling like yourself… and then someone asks your age and suddenly you’re face-to-face with a number that feels bigger in your mouth than it feels in your heart.
I wasn’t embarrassed by the person asking. I was unsettled by the quiet truth inside me: seventy-five. That’s not a small number. And hearing it out loud hit harder than I expected. Not because I’m ashamed of it, but because it made me wonder — not about what they thought of me — but what I thought of me. Do I still see myself the same way? Does that number match the way I feel inside? Does it redefine me in some way I don’t want?
Saying it was the hard part. Hearing it in my own voice. Letting it belong to me. And in that moment, I wondered: Am I the only one who feels this way? Or does everyone, at some point, pause between who they used to be and who they still are — caught for just a heartbeat between pride and uncertainty?
Because the truth is, it’s not the number that scares us. It’s the way it makes us take inventory of who we still are. Aging doesn’t take our value away. It reveals it.
The longer we’ve lived, the more we’ve learned — and in the ham community, that wisdom is the heartbeat that holds us together. So many of the steady voices on the air — the calm ones, the patient ones, the “give me a second and I’ll walk you through it” ones — belong to people who have lived a lot of life.
They remember when radios glowed warm with tubes, when antennas were built from whatever you had on hand, when learning meant burning a few fingers, flipping a few breakers, and sticking with it until that first signal pushed out into the world.
And many of them learned something that isn’t even required anymore: Morse code — an art form all its own. Copying code by ear wasn’t just a skill. It was rhythm, timing, intuition — a kind of musical communication that you felt as much as you heard. It took discipline and patience, but also a certain grace — the ability to hear meaning inside the noise. CW wasn’t just a test to pass. It was a craft. A rite of passage. A language built on rhythm and silence. Older hams didn’t just learn it — they mastered it. They carried that art forward so it wouldn’t disappear when the rules changed.
These are the voices who guide us, who steady the nets, who help the newer hams find their footing, and who remind us that nobody on this frequency is truly alone.
And then there are the younger voices — the ones jumping into this hobby with excitement and curiosity, reviving clubs, experimenting with new technology, bringing fresh energy into something that has been loved for generations. They ask questions fearlessly. They troubleshoot with YouTube and enthusiasm. They help build repeaters, redesign websites, and remind us the future of this hobby is bright. Younger hams look to the older ones for guidance — and older hams look to the younger ones for momentum. The hobby needs both. We all do. Ham radio survives when we meet in the middle and learn from each other.
And then there are the activities that keep this hobby vibrant — the contests, the challenges, the adventures that light up the bands all year long. There are the big DX contests, when the whole world comes alive at once. Signals from every continent spill across the bands, and suddenly you’re talking to Italy, Brazil, Japan, South Africa — all before your coffee cools. For a little while, borders vanish and the world feels wonderfully small.
There are the CW competitions — international Morse events where rhythm becomes communication, and tiny taps of a paddle cross oceans with elegance and precision. It’s proof that CW isn’t a relic; it’s a living art, kept alive by the hands and hearts of those who still treasure it.
And then there’s POTA — Parks on the Air — one of the happiest ideas we ever had. A radio, a battery, a wire in a tree… and suddenly the whole world comes looking for you. POTA brings out the kid in all of us: older hams savoring the calm of nature, younger hams loving the rush of a clean portable signal, and everyone enjoying the sunshine and the pileups.
Our people do them all. DXing, CW, POTA, ragchews, nets, building antennas, helping newcomers… because that’s the spirit of this community. Curious. Energetic. Skilled. Playful. Determined. Alive. Ham radio is big enough for all of it — and all of us.
And sometimes, I wonder… at what age is it all over for us? At what number does the world quietly decide we’ve had enough life, enough purpose, enough joy? Because if you ask an 88-year-old man who can still flirt with sweetness and spark — as if time never touched him — he’ll tell you the truth: it’s not over. Not even close.
The body may slow down, but the heart doesn’t. The spirit doesn’t. The part of us that wants warmth, connection, kindness, laughter — that stays alive as long as we do. If anything, age sharpens the desire to live fully. It deepens the joy we find in simple kindness. It makes every warm voice feel like a gift.
On the air, no one asks for your résumé. They just listen to who you are. We are the memory of what this hobby was, and the hands that carry it into the future.
And long after we become Silent Keys, our voices continue in the quiet — in the people we helped, the skills we passed on, and the warmth we left behind. Because ham radio is a home for the human spirit — a place where connection becomes legacy, and every voice lives on, even after the key falls silent.
You matter to this community — more than you know. I hear you.
73 — may we all keep finding meaning, connection, and purpose in the quiet spaces between the static.
