What Time Is It?

home brewing zulu time

de Bill K7WXW

IMG_1399

Amateur radio operators are obsessed with time. Maybe, more accurately, knowing what time it is right now. Usually we want this information in two or more ways or in two or more places. We want to join a net that starts at a fixed time, schedule an on-the-air meeting with another ham or see if our signal will get from point a to point b. We are always calculating the time somewhere else or the time difference between here and there.

We address time zones, daylight savings time (a particularly American oddity) and the-number-of-hours-between-here-and-there by using zulu time, also known as universal time. Zulu time is the same everywhere on the planet. There aren’t adjustments for daylight savings time or Nepal’s fifteen minute shift or time zones. Sunday at 4:00z is Sunday at 4:00z for everyone, everywhere. That makes it handy, for example, when scheduling a time to meet someone on the air and it doesn’t matter whether she is zero or six time zones away. Zulu time makes such things a lot simpler.

There’s one issue… I live in local time. To convert zulu to my time, I have a handy chart. Okay, it works but it isn’t handy. I wanted something that required less effort.

Which is why I spent yesterday and today designing a dual display clock. I decided to homebrew one after a web search revealed that my choices for a commercial version were either expensive: four hundred dollars for a LED dual display clock? really? Or fairly expensive and looking like, well, a cheap travel alarm. Seeing my options, I immediately thought, i can do better than that.

Parsimony isn’t always why I choose build over buy though it’s true that spending sixty or seventy dollars is less fun than coming up with a homemade alternative. Being cheap and fun-oriented, I found a kit clock and spent a couple of hours developing a dual display clock that uses two of them: deciphering schematics, figuring out what to modify, writing a list of changes, making a bill of materials, and ordering parts.

Puzzling out how to build something, making it, and then using what I’ve made is addicting. Home brewing almost always involves picking up some new skill, learning how to use a different set of tools or figuring out how to re-purpose other people’s castoffs. It is also a great way to connect with other people and hone practical skills.

IMG_1386Skills like working plexiglass. About a month ago, a neighbor put out a bag full of plexiglass scraps. She thought trash and I thought, project boxes, lots and lots of project boxes. The fact that I hadn’t ever made anything with plexiglass? how hard can it be? An internet search, a few online videos, and a visit to the local plexiglass supply store (did you know there are stores that sell nothing but plexiglass and stuff for making plexiglass things? me either.) and I was cutting and drilling.

The stand I made has a rough edge but the clocks look pretty cool mounted on it. Seeing my mistakes, I looked for a better way to make accurate drilling templates and cleaner cuts. That’s another thing I like about home brewing: when you find ways to make things work better, you can do something about it. If I buy that seventy dollar alarm clock-looking thing, it is what it is. Not so with my home built gear.

The home brewing process is the same whether I am soldering transistors or drilling acrylic. I specify what I want: what is this thing I am building supposed to do? I look to see what I can learn from what others have already done. After that comes design: the why, what, and how. The design products — schematics, drawings, parts lists, and so on —  are the basis for what I do on the bench. The last step is a non-step: when I have everything I think I need, I let it sit for a bit before starting.

That pause is important. Some of the best upgrade ideas happen after the design is finished and before soldering or drilling begin. New concepts float to the surface, along with oh my, that won’t work, will it? insights. I learned this from experience and saw good home brewers verify it; whether they are building a complex receiver or a simple box, they use the pause to catch mistakes and make improvements.

My dual time clock is on the shelf above my rig, doing what it is supposed to do. My investment? Six hours of design and build time, including a run to the hardware store, and about fourteen bucks. Mission accomplished: I filed my chart. I learned how to work plexiglass and a little about making and using drilling templates. Best of all, my new clock doesn’t work quite as well as I would like, which gave me an idea for an arduino based version with an LCD display. I just have to learn C first…

That Transmitter Could Have been Mine

From Internet

Not the same transmitter, but close.

Dave, was my father’s age, and a casual friend. We often met at the Braille Cafe for lunch. Dave was a Scotsman. He was forever telling me about the Scottish Clans and “slinging the haggis”. In time, the conversation always turned to radio, rehashing his experiences in the Army Signal Corps during World War II.

While we chatted another mutual friend, Pete, joined us. He, too, was a long-time ham, long enough to recall the government taking away the amateur radio bands during World War Two. And then the two of them urged me to earn my novice license.

The theory is okay, but Morse code is difficult for me,” I complained.

That’s what make Morse unique. It is difficult to learn. It’s not like someone overhearing a telephone conversation. Few understand the exchange.

Between the two of them, I caved. The following evening I dropped by Dave’s radio shack where he made a practice tape, dits and dahs at a very slow speed.

Two weeks later, the three of us gathered at Dave’s dinner table where they administered an ARRL approved test. An hour later, scoring with a passing grade on both theory and code, I was admitted to the ranks as an amateur radio operator. Of course, I enjoyed limited privileges – power output not to exceed 250 Watts, Morse only on portions of the 80-, 40-, 15-, and 10-meter bands. Actually, a very small segment of 10-meter allowed a novice to operate on single sideband. But I didn’t own a transmitter, so 10-meter or no, it made little difference to me.

Do you own a receiver?” asked Dave after we were finished.

Yes, I have a receiver.”

How about a transmitter?”

No, I don’t own a Transmitter.”

He said nothing more, but as I was leaving he followed me to the driveway and then asked me to wait. A few minutes later he reappeared pushing a hand truck bearing a transmitter the size of a foot locker.

This transmitter is from a World War II battleship and in its original condition. You will have to convert the input power over to 117 VAC. It’s still set for military frequencies. You will have to figure out how to make it work on the ham bands. It’s yours, if you want it. You’ll have to take the hand truck too. It’s heavy.

I turned him down. And now, after thirty years have passed, I realize the historical value of the transmitter Dave was offering me.

The realization came after my contact with a retired coast guard radio operator and reading experiences this man shared while he operated a powerful land based radio.

In one instance he received a distress call from a ship that was sinking. After learning his coordinates he put out a call for any ship that could come to the rescue. He found one that could be on the scene in four hours.

How long do we have?” the coast guardsmen asked.

Captain says two hours.”

There was nothing more could be done, so I stayed on frequency with him, chatting and taking personal message to family members and friends. I stayed with him until the radio room was flooded.”

I wondered if that transmitter resembled the one Dave offered me.

The only possible answer was to visit The USS Lexington which is open to the public at Corpus Christi,Texas. The Lexington manager responded to my email, informing me the radio room was not part of the tour.

Philip, the editor of K9YA Telegrah, a Chicago Radio Publication, authorised me to visit the USS Lexington on the Telegraph’s behalf. Their response was positive. They would provide an escort.

Three tall ladders stood between the hanger deck and the radio room. The only thing my escort knew about the radio room was where to find the door key and the light switch.

The room measured about eight by fourteen feet. Though the radios had long since been removed there was a panel in which about one hundred phone Jacks were mounted. Each jack was accompanied by a frequency. My escort couldn’t tell me the purpose, so I still don’t know if each jack provided a specific notch filter for that frequency, or what.

While there I searched for an exit. There was only one way out – the way I had come in. A sobering conclusion.

The radio operator is the last hope for a sinking ship. Is he obligated like the captain? I’m asking.

How I wish I’d taken Dave’s offer.

Toroid Whisperer

learning patience one turn at a time

de bill K7WXW

On the bench in front wire coils of me is a half-empty printed circuit board in a vise, that I am not working on right now, and a just-finished one, which I am. It is supposed to be a QRP antenna tuner, a piece of gear that matches antenna impedance, which can vary, to an unchanging radio impedance. While a careful physical inspection of my work doesn’t reveal any misplaced parts, solder bridges or other assembly calamities, the tuner isn’t tuning. It is doing nothing other than being about as passive as any grouping of passive components I’ve ever worked with. Signal in, nothing out.

I have a suspect or two. This kit involves winding and installing toroid inductors, something I’ve never done before. The instructions are straightforward but the details are daunting: counting turns of wire around a tiny ferrite donut, with taps along the way and making three sets of overlapping windings. I find it easy to miscount turns or put a tap in the wrong place and getting the enamel insulation off the 24 AWG wire so the coil can be soldered into the board at five points is a real challenge.

Unlike most components — capacitors, transistors, switches, lights — that a kit builder buys in ready-to-use form, inductors usually arrive as a ferrite core of some sort and a bundle of wire. The sight strikes fear into the heart of a new builder: winding inductors has such a longstanding reputation for being difficult that there are folks who get paid to make them for hams that don’t want to make their own. I am not one of those hams. So far.

Since getting my license, I’ve built half a dozen small kits like this antenna tuner. When I figured out that I wanted to explore home brewing, it seemed better to start with gear that someone else had already designed and which works if built as instructed. Kits provide a gentle introduction (or in my case re-introduction) to schematic reading, soldering, electronic components identification and all the other things that make up the how of building electronic gear. Kits were a good entry point for me; though I’ve had to do rework on every project, I’ve not had an unfixable failure. Yet.

This time, though, I am stumped. After trying and failing way more than once to correctly wind and install the two inductors in this kit, I am starting to think it’s time to call a toroid whisperer. I didn’t account for left vs right handed winding consistently, so some of the wire ends finished on the wrong side of the coil. I miscounted (twice) the number of turns to a tap. I wound one of them correctly (I think) but didn’t get all the enamel insulation off two of the wires, which I figured out after I had soldered three others in place. I am not sure what other variety of mistake is possible but it seems likely I will discover them all before I get this thing to work.

Toroid winding is a lesson in accuracy, patience and letting go. Especially letting go. When I find it hard to admit that I’ve made a mistake — like I did while winding these inductors — I end up investing a lot of time and energy making less-than-well-thought-out repairs. Let me spare the new toroid winder some pain: trying to fix a badly wound toroid is always a mistake. Even if you manage to move the tap into the right position or whatever — which is hardly ever possible – the end result inevitably has some other kink or nick that will haunt you later in a much harder to find way. The only thing than a not-working toroid is one that sorta works. So… lesson one is admitting when I’ve bungled something, stepping back from it, and almost always, starting over from step one.

Winding toroids also teaches that accuracy is paired with patience. Twenty-two turns is not twenty-three or twenty-one-and-one-half. Ending up inside the toroid is not the same as outside. When you make an inductor, if you get it wrong, the circuit doesn’t work as it should or doesn’t work at all. And the only way to get it right is to work slowly, methodically, and patiently. It is difficult to count turns or get wire to lie flat if you are in a rush and easy if you aren’t. A well-made toroid inductor is a physical manifestation of accuracy borne of patience: it has the right number of turns going the right distance around the donut with the right spacing. It looks like it was done by somebody who cares about doing things right as surely as one that doesn’t says the opposite.

The inductor sitting in front of me, which I have clipped off of the printed circuit board, does not have this look. I can see where I rushed the winding: it isn’t evenly spaced and doesn’t lay flat against the toroid. Under a magnifier I can also see where I left enamel on two of the leads, which means they weren’t making good contact in the circuit and at least two spots where I kinked the wire trying to correct the winding direction.

After clearing the printed circuit board through holes of the wire bits and solder left when I removed the inductors, I set it aside and start clipping the wire from around the each toroid. I will work on them during tomorrow’s bench session, after I read the instructions again, study the drawings and track down a fresh roll of wire. I will set aside an hour for each, rather than fifteen minutes, and check all the connection points with a meter before I solder either of them onto the board. I figured out a way to check the windings for direction and count: make a photo of the finished inductor, print an enlarged copy, and tick off the windings with a pen.

I imagine that this approach will greatly improve the chances of my antenna tuner tuning. Maybe I won’t need the whisperer after all.

Raspberry Pi Adventure (revisited)

MY Terminal Node Controller kit – PI-TNC – arrived last week. I don’t know how soon I’ll start assembling it. It’s will be the grand to our present day email. It’s wireless and very much slower. Due to bandwidth restrictions policed by the FCC our baud rate will be 1200 rather than tens of thousands. I’ve lost track. Next week I’ll publish a packet of an Arizona packet adventure that occurred in the 1990s. Pure hands-on fun.

sight unseen

the habit of trusting people

de bill K7WXW

Almost every piece of radio gear I own, outside of hand tools, a DVM and the task light over my bench, is used. I love a good bargain as much as the next ham but that’s not my primary reason for buying other people’s stuff.

I recently purchased a magnetic loop antenna from a ham in Oklahoma, whom I will call Sam. He’s decided to focus on portable operations that don’t involve lugging stuff up and down mountains; the loop is “excess to his needs”. I love being outdoors, have been putting together a backpack-sized kit for portable operating, and enjoy mucking about with antennas. We are a match made in heaven.

We exchanged emails. Sam offered a fair deal and I didn’t haggle with him. Before I dropped the postal money order into the mailbox, I sent an email to confirm his address. He replied, confirming his address and letting me know he had already shipped the antenna. I mailed the money order.

Wait… he’d already shipped the antenna?

Sam and I have not met. We’ve not had a QSO, live approximately 1900 miles apart, and only know each only through our postings to an email list to which we both belong. We are, by conventional measures, strangers. Yet he sent me an antenna without having cash in hand and I did the same thing going the other way. Are we crazy?

Perhaps. I do prefer Paypal to money orders and I checked his QRZ page to be sure that an enterprising con artist wasn’t using an unsuspecting ham’s name and call sign for a scam. That was the extent my diligence, a fact which an younger version of me finds quite remarkable. But our email exchange was so straightforward that the QRZ bio page check just confirmed my gut call: this is a honest guy, I don’t need to to anything else.

Truth is, most of my ham gear buying and selling goes this way.  Sure, I’ve encountered a few cranks, grouches and one or two outright thieves but mostly I deal with people like Sam, honorable folks that follow the golden rule.  And the pleasure of encountering them, even if it is only through email, is one of the benefits that the exam study guide didn’t cover.

And each one still surprises me coming, as I do, from a world which valued besting the other guy above just about everything else. I am fortunate: as a ham, people like Sam happen along often enough to suggest a different kind of world is possible. I am grateful for the reminder.

Thanks Sam. I hope I have a chance to work you on 40 meters sometime.

A Homebrew QRP Radio Station

A Two-Watt Transmitter – 40-Meters and 80-Meters.

The Radio Shack DX-392 Served As The Receiver.

The key is a US Navy Flame-Proof Key.

It may be twenty years since Ernie, KB7HCW, and I were busy building low-power radio stations and seeing what they could do. If Ernie hadn’t passed on we might still be at it.

Ernie served on 11 ships during 22 years in the US Navy. After retiring he earned an Electrical Engineering Degree and a second Class Radio Telephone License. I met him after he’d set up a shop for repairing CB radios. However, I’m not sure he ever fixed a CB. Instead, he and I spent our time playing, seeing how far we could communicate with “flea-power”.

This particular station is built for Morse code – CW. It still has the crystal we used for participating in the Idaho-Montana Section Net. We moved some messages, but we didn’t hurt anyone’s ears doing it.

We had fun fun fun.

 

Ground Bars and Bolts

By Bill

The ground bar is bolted down on the shelf. The grounding straps of tinned copper braid, between the bar and my rig, power supply and tuner, are done and installed. I am holding the last one, which will connect to the case of the filtered AC outlet box, in my hand. The filter is on the floor near the wall outlet, as planned. But it is not going to work. If I follow my original plan, the strap will be a four-foot long invitation to a ground loop. I set it on the floor and look around for my notebook.

Other design choices I made aren’t working out either. I start making a list. For example, to work behind my rig, I have to move the desk. To move the desk I have to get out a quarter-inch socket driver and unhook the copper strap that ties the ground bar to the rod outside. Inevitably I drop the bolt holding the strap and end up crawling under the desk to retrieve it. When I am done, I have to reverse the procedure. I try to skip over the dropping-the-bolt step. It is not, as they say, an optimized process. Or as I say, this is a drag, gotta fix it.

As an engineer, I learned quickly that paper designs failed in unexpected ways in the real world of voltage, screws, panels, and cable. As in what could have possibly been thinking when you designed that? Mostly, the stuff I built fails to work in small ways: screws that hard to reach, transistors pushed a little too close their specs, current requirements not quite met. I am not alone in this, for it is practically impossible to figure out beforehand how exactly the thing we are designing is going to be used until someone actually uses it.

A ground bar. A piece of gear can’t get much simpler than a copper bar with holes drilled in it, a couple of standoffs, and a fistful of 4-20 nuts, lockwashers, and bolts. Bolt the bar to the desk, secure each ground strap with a bolt, lockwasher, and nut. Easy, right? Not so much. The way I designed it, unbolting the main ground to get behind the desk is a giant hassle. The ground strap to the AC line filter is way too long for comfort. And with a single bolt, nut and washer per strap it takes two hands and two tools to work on a connection. This stuff clearly needs to be fixed. Should be easy.

My first inclination is to fix it now! But giving into this inclination almost always turns out, even in the simplest cases, to be a bad idea. Like most people, my first unvarnished solution to a problem is usually (never) my best one. It is rarely even my second or third best one. I don’t automatically trash the first thing that comes to mind, I just make it the first item in a list of possible fixes.

Bench engineers know all about engineering change orders. Even the best product designs don’t get through the design-build-ship cycle without them. ECOs are another version of my lab notebook: what is the problem, what is the fix, what does it affect, how much does it cost? An engineer that has to fill out an ECO form and get it approved by the people who have to live with the change – manufacturing, marketing, testing – is an engineer that has to think through the problem he or she is trying to solve. Whether I was the designer or the design team manager, ECOs were my antidote for the spontaneous fix.

I don’t have a marketing department and I manage all the manufacturing and testing around here. The only person that needs to sign off on what I do is me. If I end up spending a lot of time fixing the damage one of my fixes causes, I am pretty sure I know who screwed up. Since I don’t enjoy fixing my own mistakes, I’ve adopted the spirit if not the form of the engineering change order process.

In my case, I start by looking at my original design. What was I trying to do? I want to be sure I understand my original design goals. Then I make a list of the problems in the current design and I ask myself if any of the problems are a result of the original goals. If they are, and I can’t come up with a fix, I either live with the problem or I change the goal. If I start fixing stuff before this work is done I am pretty sure I am going to have another oh yeah I forgot I needed it do to this! moment sometime soon.

I start listing possible solutions once this work is done. And when the list is done, I set it aside for a bit, and on returning, try to improve the solutions. The list rarely has more than three or four choices; I just don’t have that many good ideas. A little work here and the best answer starts to stand out. Yes, I write all this stuff down. Why? Because I don’t like having the same bad idea more than once. This is my version of the ECO: a detailed lab notebook record of what I am fixing and why, without all the check boxes and signature blocks.

Sometimes I discover that I actually don’t know what to do next. When that happens, I set my list aside and go do the research I need to do. Better not to fix something than to try something, hoping things will turn out okay. Addressing the issues with the ground bar was straight forward but I decided to do a little research anyway. That research validated my ideas. I was good to go.

I worked through my fix list. The bolts are installed from the bottom of the bar with a lock washer and nut on the top side. Now they don’t need to be removed when I have to disconnect a ground strap. The ground that runs outside has a wing nut instead of a nut, so I don’t need a wrench or nut driver to take it off. I mount the AC line filter to the underside of the desk. Now its ground strap is six inches, rather than four feet, long. I can’t do much about disconnecting the outside ground every time I need to get behind the desk. That strap has to be as short as possible and unless I put the desk in the middle of the room, I will continue to need to move it to get to the back side of my gear.

After the fact, the fixes seem pretty simple and might hardly worth all the writing stuff down. Bill, that sure seems like a lot of work for a small problem. Couldn’t you just try something and see how it worked? Perhaps. But experience suggests that simple fixes are simple because they are thought through and thinking it through requires a record of what one is doing and why. Honestly? It took me longer to write about this piece about documenting the design process than it did to actually do it. That isn’t always the case. The chance of getting something wrong in a design goes up as the square (or worse) of the complexity. Building time into the process for making, testing and documenting changes at the front end saves a lot of confusion and frustration later.

I disconnect one of the ground connections to re-route it so it won’t block access to one of the antenna feeds. After I check everything against my wiring diagram, I plug gear into the new AC filter and the filter to the mains before pushing the desk back against the wall. Getting behind the rig is a lot easier than it was two hours ago, which was the goal. And three months from now when I am trying to remember why I did what I did, I have my notes. It works.

Writing It Down

Building a radio station from scratch is involves more planning and work than meets the eye. My friend, Bill, has demonstrated this in the  a series of articles that  follow.

By Bill

 

I need an entrance panel for my antenna feeds. Snaking them through a partially open basement window isn’t working out so well. I look over the ready-made options and decide to design and build my own. What I come up with will work electrically but I have a problem: I have no idea how to bolt it all together.

Figuring that out involves a notebook, one 6×12 inch sheet of aluminum and a pile of lightning suppressors, all of which are on my desk, next to the keyboard. I’ve been doing this for a while; it’s a hard problem. A bigger piece of aluminum would be better but won’t fit in the space I have, the components are oddly shaped and the whole thing has to go together in a way that allows me to easily attach and route cables. Every once in a while, I re-arrange the pile, make a quick sketch and write another note.

The notebook is a product of Mr. Sivak, my junior high school science teacher. To get a passing grade, our notebooks had to formatted in a certain way and include certain stuff: the hypothesis, lab setup, initial conditions, experiment protocol, and results. There was, being high school, a lot of grumbling in the ranks. More writing? More rules? More stuff that I will never use again? Me? My resistance faded when I figured out that keeping records of my experiments enabled me to understand why things worked the way they did.

In science class, the notebook trained me to capture information in a way that made it useful. It also taught me cause-and-effect: I did this and that happened. As a vo-tech student, it cut down on the number of times I made the same mistake.

Later when I was learning electronics on a tube trainer rack made up of a pre-built plug-ins – power supplies, amplifiers, oscillators and such – I used a lab notebook to keep track of my choices. Recording what I did mattered because passing the class involved (a) developing a  design by the deadline and (b) not letting the smoke out of the same type of plug-in twice while doing so.

In the years that followed I filled a lot more notebooks. I stopped doing engineering bench work, but I kept using lab notebooks. Whatever name I used for them, the essential components – initial conditions, hypothesis, setup, protocol and results – that made up my high school lab notebook didn’t change. Whether I was building or managing or monitoring, whether it was a new product or a new company, using this format to guide my decisions simply made whatever I was doing turn out better. The notebooks of my professional career helped me develop, test and, most importantly, assess and tune good solutions to complex problems, which is what I got paid to do.

Today, I am on the eleventh arrangement of the panel. I have solved a couple of problems that I didn’t know I had when I started. I notice that the difference between the tenth and eleventh versions is pretty small, so I probably have a design that meets my goals. But if I build it and find a new problem, the next version can skip past all the designs I have already tried and rejected. The sketching and note taking added about an hour to the process. From past experience, I am certain that hour will save me from having a, “wish I had thought of that before I started drilling” moment, and rework or starting over, later.

I decide to try one more arrangement of the panel. It looks familiar. Reviewing my notes, I see it’s a repeat. But flipping one of the components around solves a spacing problem that’s stumped me until now.

Finished! I make one last sketch. Later I will use some LMR400 coax I have (my worst case scenario) to make sure my cabling assumptions are okay. Finally, I will dimension the components and make a drawing that will serve as the panel’s drilling template.

After measuring each of the components and making the drill template, I make a final parts list so I know what I need from the hardware store. It will take just an hour or two to drill the aluminum and assemble the panel. With all the arranging and sketching, I am confident that my cabling problem is solved, I’ve addressed the lightning and static charge problems, and I have a way to review my design choices if I want to make changes. Not a bad day’s work.

Why should hams bother with lab notebooks? It’s a hobby. Diplomas, promotions and stock certificates do not hang in the balance. An hour writing is an hour not devoted to making contacts. But anyone who has invested days in building an improvised piece of gear that doesn’t work or fit or last knows my answer: I suck at making things up on the fly. Every hour of designing, paper testing and documenting saves me two or four or more hours of rework later. And six months later, when I don’t remember why I made the choices I made – whether it is an antenna setup or homebrew balun or the way I configured my radio – my notebook has me covered.

A Raspberry Pi Adventure

 

The thing on the left is a Raspberry Pi Monitor.  On the right is the Raspberry Pi computer. It’s not very powerful compared to those we are used to these days. Even computing power of a cell phone exceeds the Pi many times over. So why mess with it in this day and age? Because it opens the field for experimentation, new things to learn, new challenges, new things to accomplish.

A few years back I acquired an interest in the Pi and attended a few group-meeting at the University of Texas, Dallas. A software engineer seeking new ideas headed the meetup and I took a lot of knowledge home with me.

Along the right-hand edge of the computer is a double row of small vertical pins. The monitor has a matching plug that mates like a sandwich. I bought the monitor. When I plugged it in and turned it on the display was hard against the right margin. That didn’t hurt anything, but it bugged me.  I wanted it centered. I began experimenting with the placement code and after a dozen times the monitor turned dark.

In my search for the cause I discovered the codec (the black square just below the raspberry symbol) was hot enough to cook my breakfast. Shucks! Disheartened, I stored it in an iPhone box and thought about it for a few years.

Today, I ordered another Pi and a terminal node controller. When everything is assembled and I better understand what I’m doing I’ll start sending amateur radio messages without the Internet, drawing power from a solar panel and eventually joining up with the emergency communications (EMCOMM) and strut my new toy.

I won’t be using my cool monitor. I’m not sure what took the codec out, my coding or something in the monitory bit the dust.

So, the saga begins.