Back to nature

Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.

282-Alumni Picnic.

And so concludes the Fourth Annual 282-Alumni Picnic at Ellison Park (“EL-ih-sin”).
“282” is Local 282 of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union (“What’s ‘ah-two?’”), my old bus-union at Rochester’s Regional Transit Service.
The “Alumni” are retirees of Transit who happened to be members of Local 282.
Transit itself used to hold an annual picnic for all Transit employees. I went to one once, and it too was at Ellison Park. A bus was on-hand for display — for kids, I guess.
But Transit stopped doing that; perhaps because so many of its employees were members of Local 282, automatically making them freeloading ne’er-do-wells.
No matter the members of 282 were providing transit-service; we were in the way of the fat-cats collecting their bloated paychecks jawing at the coffee-machine they got free coffee from.
Ellison Park is a fairly large county park on Rochester’s east side, in the Irondequoit Creek Valley.
It divides essentially into two halves on either side of a highway.
The southern half is party-land; lodges galore for reserved parties.
The northern half is more wild; not as many party-lodges.
The 282-Alumni picnic was in the southern half.
Not many were at the picnic.

Irondequoit Bay and Irondequoit Creek Valley were once the outlet of the Genesee River, but glacial deposits blocked that.
The Genesee now takes a different course which Rochester grew up around.
The Genesee carved a cataract like the Niagara, and could be harnessed for water-power since it dropped so much.
Rochester was at first the “Flour City,” because it milled the deluge of flour from the Genesee Valley.
The Genesee Valley was the nation’s first breadbasket. Wheat was shipped up to Rochester on the Genesee Valley Canal (long abandoned), milled in Rochester, then shipped east on the Erie Canal.
But we all know that’s hooey. Rochester is Kodak-land, and began to fall apart with the passing of Mother-Dear.
That glacier-stuff is hooey too. Devil-talk!
Apparently the glacier dumped tons of sand where Ellison Park is now, and Irondequoit Creek carved through it.
Most of the hills are giant sand-piles, and in one spot the sand is exposed, eroding the hillside.
I used to climb it with Casey, our first dog.
I also ran hundreds of times there with Casey, although on the north part.
Casey caught many squirrels there — the “red tornado.”
—First we had to find the picnic.
“It’s over here,” I said, after parking our van. “I smell the heavy aroma of terbaccy-smoke.”
Most at Transit smoked.
When Transit made their Drivers’ Room non-smoking, they had to put in a lounge for smokers.
We non-smokers called it the “Cancer-Ward.”
The smoke would be so thick you couldn’t see.
We walked up and had Scarlett with us. I was greeted by John Blocchi (“BLOCK-eee”), the union recording-secretary, and still a Transit mechanic.
“Oh, what a pretty dog,” some said. “I used to have an Irish-Setter once; pretty, but too much.”
After a few minutes we wandered down a trail, but it disappeared in a swamp.
Back to the Lodge.
“I’m tryin’ to find a john,” I said. “I’m told I have a ‘prostrate’ problem.” (No matter getting to the park took over an hour on a pot of coffee.)
An older lady directed me to a Porta-John; the single Porta-Potty that served the entire picnic.
No latch on the self-closing spring door. Just hope no-one strides in. Plus the Porta-John was in the sun — an oven. (Where was the self-declared Porta-John expert to air condition that Porta-Potty?)
Finally we set out on a long hike — the whole idea with Scarlett, plus I ain’t much of a talker.
All the way out to the road, across, and into the north part, in hopes of finding some of our old hangouts.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” I said; about 3-4 miles.
But I know from experience I usually can do more than I think.
“I doubt if any of your Transit cohorts could,” Linda observed.
So we continued.
“I remember this path,” Linda said.
The racket of party-land was no longer audible; we were on the far side of a high sand-hill.
A deery scampered into an adjacent swamp, and it was hold-on-for-dear-life.
“We skied this path instead of the road, because the road was in sunlight, and would melt. The path was in shade.”
The path was well chopped up by horses from nearby Heberle (“Eb-er-LEE”) Stables.
And ya had to thread the steaming-piles — memories of the famblee-site.
The path emptied into a big grassy field wedged between the hill and the creek, so we walked along the creek back toward the highway-crossing.
At a place where an old unused road-bridge crossed the creek, a gang of 89 bazilyun dogs was frolicking in the water, retrieving soggy tennis-balls thrown by their owners.
“I bet this is the ‘Big-Dog Play Group,’” Linda said.
“Not on the porch either,” I said.
“They’re trying to set up a fenced Dog-Park in here, where dogs can run loose.”
“Yeah,” I said; “and who cleans up all the poop?”
We headed back toward the road-crossing to the southern part; back to the racket.
“A singer in a smoky room, A smell of wine and cheap perfume, For a smile they can share the night, It goes on and on and on and on. Don’t stop believin’, Hold on to the feelin’..........”
Well, that’s better than “Slide to the right; Boom-Chikka. Slide to the left; Boom-Chikka. Party-down; Boom-Chikka. Let’s party-down; Boom-Chikka. Get funky-down!”
“Boy, I sure am glad that ain’t my 282 brothers,” I thought.
Still on the north side we passed a Briggs & Stratton generator thumping lazily away.
“So this is ‘back-to-nature,’” I think. “Can’t go back to nature without hydrocarbons.”
We crossed the highway back into party-land; racket louder and louder.
“We must be coming back to the Alumni picnic,” Linda observed. “There’s a lady in a walker.”
Yep; I married a gallows-humor — a shark to get the Bluster-Boy all flustered.
‘Course, it ain’t hard.

PICTURE IDs
—1) “Blocchi” has already been mentioned.
—2) “Bill Lewis” was hired some time after me; and I never knew him that well. Just the name and the face — we never struck up a friendship.
—3) “Prentice” is Dick Prentice (“PRENT-iss”); he started a few months before me. I rear-ended Prentice once after a night-time lineup — about 5 mph. “WHAM!” —Slid on ice; I asked him if he appreciated the love-tap.
We were both driving 12s, the old GM fish-bowl, but only about 30 feet long. As such they were easier to drive; didn’t need as much swing.
But I hated ‘em. By the time we were drivin’ ‘em, they were JUNK; worn-out douchebags.
Both our buses had chromed metal bumpers, but they were already so banged up, we couldn’t see if the impact had caused any damage.
So we didn’t call it in. Risking weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.
—4) “Frenchy” is René Routhier (ROW-thee-yay). I guess he got the “Frenchy” nickname because he was French. He started a few years before me, and at stroke-time still had the beautiful ‘56 Chevy post he had hot-rodded as a teenager.
Cost him about $200, motorless. He put a 350-Chevy in it.
“Still got that ‘56 Chevy?” I asked.
“Sold it. Some guy bought it, and immediately listed it in Hemmings. Now it’s in Illinois.”
Like me, “Frenchy” was a bus-driver, and enjoyed the bus-line I hated, the 300 — mostly because -a) ya always got a 12, and -b) it threaded every driveway and parking-lot along the route.
“One time I was stuck behind you in my car, and you were driving slowly out Spencerport Road on the 3 with a 12. I couldn’t get by until ya turned up Long Pond. And that 12 stank!

Others in attendance not pictured are: -a) 282 Business-Agent Frank Falzone(“Fowl-ZONE”), and -b) union prez Joe Carey (“Carry”); otherwise known as “dumb and dumber” among Transit managers.
Well, I don’t think so. It’s those two against a staff of hundreds — managers that refuse to implement the decisions of an arbitrator, unless the Union sues. And that’s despite originally agreeing to abide by the decisions of an arbitrator.
It’s a bucking bronco, and I think “dumb and dumber” do fine.
“That dog one of the ones I snuck ya outta Park Ridge Hospital to see?” asked Frank.
“Nope! Them dogs are long-gone. This is number six; they were numbers two and three. We had two dogs after them” (Sabrina and Killian).
“That was probably the most memorable event in my recovery.”
“You and me both,” Frank said. “I felt like a naughty school-kid.”
Frank had snuck me out into the frigid hospital parking-lot to see our dogs Tracy and Sassy, who were in the so-called soccer-mom minivan. I was still in a wheelchair.
Frank was the guy who called the head-honcho at Transit a Bolshevik.
“Mindless management minions,” Frank said. That was my line.
Frank was the one that came up with “Deputy Dog;” I changed it to “Dippity Dawg.”
We had a jolly good time with the 282-News.

Others in attendance not pictured were Matt Shaw, Frank Randisi, Tom Hyder and Radical Dude.
-a) “Matt Shaw” is an ex-Marine on the union Executive Board — who engineered and proposed a union ‘pyooter system that got voted down by blowhards.
“Just keep pushin’, Matt. This union is still in the 20th century. No ‘pyooter at the union-office at all. Everything I got is electronic any more. These guys have no clue!”
-b) “Frank Randisi” (“Ran-DEE-zee”) is vice-prez of the Alumni, and is the one who suggested I was being billed too much by Q-Dental. The Alumni have negotiated lower pricing with Q-Dental.
“Didja get that straightened out, Hughsey?” he asked.
“Sentcha an e-mail, Frank. Even a jpeg of the kerrected form.”
“I never check my e-mail,” he said.
-c) Tom Hyder (“HIDE-er”), the Alumni Recording-Secretary, is the main reason the Alumni exists. His fingers are in everything — the main sparkplug.
-d) “Radical Dude” (my nickname) is Ray Dunbar (“DONE-bar”), the union vice-prez. He still drives bus; and I hope is the guy who succeeds Carey — who is retirement-age.
Dunbar (not a union-official at that time) and I were the main instigators of the dreaded “282-News;” and we used to pass it out at 4 a.m.; 400 copies, one of which went directly to the head-honcho’s office. He also circulated it to local politicos, who were calling up the PR-honcho to ask what was going on. We were running circles around that guy. Drove him crazy.

Another not pictured was “Smokestack Merkel” (“MER-kel” — Jerry Merkel); who smokes heavily and lacks all his teeth. —So that when he smiles, all ya see is gums.
But Merkel was the guy who accompanied us to Buffalo to see their light-rail system; a giant boondoggle that cost millions (primarily because it’s a subway bored through the dolomite rock of the Niagara Escarpment) and is only lightly used.
Merkel is also the one who proposed a giant Rochester rail-transit system, and got laughed out of a Rochester-Genesee-Regional-Transportation-Authority (RGRTA) board-meeting. The RGRTA was mainly fat-cats who thought bus-drivers, like Merkel, were utterly stupid.
I never thought his heavy-rail proposal would work for Rochester, but light rail might have. Them fat-cats were the ones that were stupid — with gas now at $4.00 per gallon. A transit-rail corridor still exists from Henrietta, but it’s partially obliterated.

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down (I also am the oldest). I also am loudly excoriated by all my siblings for preferring a professional camera (like the Nikon D100) instead of a point-and-shoot. This is because I long ago sold photos to nationally published magazines.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

“What’s ‘ah-two?’” is something my mother asked seeing my ATU (Amalgamated Transit Union) button.

RE: “Automatically making them freeloading ne’er-do-wells....” —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, noisily claims bus-drivers do nothing — and since I was a bus-driver, I am reprehensible.

RE: “Rochester is Kodak-land, and began to fall apart with the passing of Mother-Dear.....” —“Mother-Dear” is my deceased mother. We used to call her “Motor-Drive.” She took so many pictures with her InstaMatic, we used to say she was inflating Kodak stock.

RE: “That glacier-stuff is hooey too. Devil-talk!” —All my siblings are tub-thumping Bible-believing born-again Christians, and claim the Earth is only 6,000 years old. I don’t, so therefore am a disgusting affront to their self-proclaimed greatness.

We’ve had six dogs: “Casey” was the first; “Tracy” and “Sassy” (together) the second and third; “Sabrina” and “Killian” (together) the fourth and fifth; and “Scarlett” is the sixth — all Irish-Setters. Our last three have been rescue-dogs.

RE: “I’m told I have a ‘prostrate’ problem.” —My all-knowing, macho brother-in-Boston noisily claims every time I use the bathroom I have a “prostrate” problem. Actually, the gland is the “prostate;” but he noisily claims “prostrate” is how it’s spelled. He keeps telling me I should have it checked; unable to understand that I have already. I hit a urologist every six months, and -a) a while ago I had a biopsy; no cancer, and -b) about a year ago we went around-and-around at the Urologist about whether I go too much. I was told to not worry.

My brother-in-Boston claims to be a Porta-John expert; saying he majored in Porta-Johns in college, because that’s where the money is.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years.

A “deery” equals a deer.

RE: “Ya had to thread the steaming-piles — memories of the famblee-site.....” —Our family has a web-site which I call the “famblee-site.” We lob “steaming-piles” (horse-pucky) at each other on it.

RE: “Not on the porch either.....” —My brother-in-Boston is always telling me “get back on the porch,” if I can’t play with the big dogs.

“A singer in a smoky room, A smell of wine and cheap perfume, For a smile they can share the night, It goes on and on and on and on. Don’t stop believin’, Hold on to the feelin’..........” is Journey during the ‘80s.

RE: “A shark to get the Bluster-Boy all flustered......” —The “Bluster-Boy” is my all-knowing macho brother-from-Boston. He refers to my wife and I as bloodthirsty “sharks;” primarily because we tease him.

RE: “A night-time lineup......” —At night all the buses would line up, elephant-style, downtown, to allow passengers to transfer. Few buses were on the road after 9 p.m., and none after 12:30 a.m.

“The old GM fish-bowl” is the GM TDH “New Look” Series introduced in 1959. They were called “fish-bowls” because of their huge curved windshield. We had many when I started, and our 1200s (1966) were shorter wheelbase.

RE: “So we didn’t call it in.....” —If an accident wasn’t called in, we could be fired.

“Post” is the nickname for a two-door sedan.

The “350-Chevy” was the largest displacement of the vaunted Chevrolet “Small-Block” V8 motor. —The “Small-Block” was introduced at 265 cubic-inches displacement in the 1955 model-year. It continued production for years, first at 283 cubic inches, then 327, then 350. Other displacements were also manufactured. The Chevrolet “Big-Block” V8 was introduced in the 1965 model-year at 396 cubic-inches, and was unrelated to the Small-Block. It was made in various displacements: 402, 427 and 454 cubic inches. It’s still made as a truck-motor, but not installed in cars any more; although you can get it as a crate-motor, for self-installation. The Small-Block was an immensely successful hot-rod motor.

“Hemmings” is a classic-car magazine that lists classic-cars for sale.

After my stroke I was in “Park Ridge Hospital’s” rehabilitation unit. Falzone, etc., came to visit.

“The so-called soccer-mom minivan” is our 1993 Chevrolet Astrovan, since traded. My brother-in-Boston badmouthed it because it wasn’t a Hummer.

The “282-News” was a voluntary union newsletter I did during my final year at Transit before the stroke. I was the editor; and did it in Microsoft Word on our computer.

“Q-Dental” is the dental service that Transit retirees use.

“Light-rail” is essentially trolley-cars; self-powered cars (usually by electricity through overhead trolley-wire) that ride on track. “Heavy-rail” is trains.

“Rochester-Genesee-Regional-Transportation-Authority” is the authority that runs Transit — a state authority. It holds monthly board-meetings.