Bob was definitely not your typical amateur radio operator. At 79 years-old he had outlived most of his friends. He and his wife had lived in the same large, white house at the end of the lane for over 50 years. To call the house "old" didn't do justice to the fact that it was maintained superbly and was the envy of nearly every homeowner in Middletown.

The local radio operators didn't quite know what to make of Bob. In many ways he was a dinosaur. He didn't own a computer, had never run packet or any digital modes. He had read that hams had put satellites in orbit but he doubted that was true. He didn't even own a 2 meter handheld transceiver, a fact that further estranged him from the membership of the local radio club.

It was rumored that every piece of equipment in his shack was homebrewed and while I wasn't certain about that, I did know that he didn't own a microphone. I discovered that tidbit when he answered my CQ one night on 80 meters. We had an enjoyable QSO that ended with Bob inviting me to bring my rig over for some repairs. In the course of our conversation I had told the old-timer that I would spend more time on CW if I could get rid of an annoying chirp in my Heathkit HW-16 transceiver.

A few nights later, I pulled up at Bob's QTH. Before getting out of the car I spent a few moments admiring the house. It was a lovely old place; they just don't build them like that anymore. I turned the collar up on my coat in an attempt to avoid the chilly autumn air. With the rig under my arm I rang the doorbell and noticed the front porch was decorated with pumpkins, gourds, and corn stalks that added to the charm of the country home. Bob's wife Stella, answered the door and directed me through the kitchen to the stairs that led down into the basement radio shack.

I couldn't help but comment on the delicious aroma of cinnamon and apples that wafted through the kitchen. Stella explained that she was brewing up a batch of her hot, spicy cider and she'd be bringing us a cup a little later. Grateful for the hospitality I headed down into the basement to meet Bob.

From the bottom of the stairs I could see that the radio shack was every bit as impressive as I had imagined it might be. There was a large desk on one side that served as the main operating position. On the opposite side was a long workbench with an abundance of test equipment, tools, and dozens of small plastic cabinets each with 24 smaller drawers that held countless parts and hardware.

Bob introduced himself and told me to put my sick radio on the workbench. He commented on the colder weather while he was removing the cover from the HW-16. I was busy looking around his well-stocked shack; a lifetime collection of radio and memories. On one wall was a large oil painting of the USS Missouri and below that were several framed photographs of a young, twenty-something Bob operating the wireless set onboard the battleship in 1944. Another wall was covered with more operating awards and achievements than I could count--many of them were from faraway countries. Apparently, Bob was a pretty serious operator.

The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. -Robert Frost

Within minutes the old-timer declared to have found the problem. A bad capacitor in the power supply circuit wasn't allowing the supply to deliver a steady voltage and the result was a chirp on my signal according to Bob. While he was searching through his component drawers for a replacement Stella entered the shack with two steaming mugs of hot apple cider.

As we sipped the tasty brew Bob and I talked about ham radio. It seems the old fellow had been licensed since before World War II. After the war he married Stella, moved into this very house and spent the next forty years working for the telephone company. When he told me he had an Extra class license I asked him why he didn't operate any mode other than CW.

"I started off using CW because the only equipment I could afford was CW-only equipment. There came a time when I could have afforded a modern, all-mode rig but I just couldn't see why I would want to do that", he continued, "I know it isn't everyone's cup of tea, but I enjoy CW. I figure it's something I can do that not too many others care to even try. I figure that makes it special."

"Take a look at this", Bob said. He pointed to a framed copy of a poem, 'The Road Not Taken' by Robert Frost. "Now it may sound silly to you, but fifty years ago I didn't have any money for expensive equipment. I couldn't even afford a new automobile until 1950. But when I would get home at night and fire up my homebrewed transmitter and pound brass, the other stations had no clue that I was a poor man. You see, CW doesn't care what color your skin is, it doesn't care what church you go to and it doesn't care who you vote for. CW doesn't care if you are college educated or a high school dropout. And it dang sure doesn't care how much money you make. I don't think my decision to run CW-only was all that odd. You might just say I'd taken the road less traveled."

"All that matters on CW is that you have a good fist and a clean signal. If you can muster both of those, kings and would-be presidents will chew the rag with you." As he said that, he showed me a scrapbook with QSL cards and handwritten personal mail from the late Barry Goldwater, K7UGA and JY1, the late King Hussein of Jordan. Stuffed in that scrapbook were dozens of other QSL cards, photos and personal letters from doctors, lawyers, astronauts and scientists the world over who shared a love of ham radio and of the code with this simple old man.

As we finished our cider, I was trying to think of something to say. In light of what I had seen this evening it seemed ridiculous that we thought Bob was an oddball just because he didn't own a two meter handheld or a computer. In fact, at that point it was me who was feeling pretty inferior until Bob broke the tension and said, "now that your rig is fixed, we ought to plan a regular schedule so you can get your code speed up, are you interested?"

And with that, Bob and I began a weekly schedule that we kept every Thursday evening for many years until Bob became a Silent Key.

As for me, I ended up selling most all of my gear. Now, the only equipment in my shack is equipment that I've built myself. I operate CW-only and mostly QRP except for Thursday evenings when I fire up that old HW-16 and pound the brass late into the night.

When the leaves begin to fall and the air turns crisp and cool, my wife makes spicy hot apple cider and I sit in my shack and admire that oil painting of the USS Missouri that now hangs over my operating desk.

I guess you could say that I, too, have taken the road less traveled, and I'm glad I did.