Notes from the Dark-Ages

Friday night (November 28, 2008) Linda and I were discussing the merits of a GPS navigation system.

The GPS navigation display on my cellphone, displaying our location. (I tried, people; but the display is not bright enough to register.) (Epson 10000 XL.)

I’m not a slave of technology for technology’s sake; but we used recent technology to locate three things:
—1) Linda’s mother’s abode in northern Floridy;
—2) The Orchard Park Veterinary near Buffalo for Killian, and;
—3) the location of a meet-and-greet in Buffalo where we picked up Scarlett.
RE: -1) Linda’s mother was with MapQuest maps to get to De Land. (The MapQuest directions were actually to Linda’s mother’s apartment, but got tossed into the back seat of our rental when they had me turning the wrong way up a one-way street.)
Our goal was to get to New York Ave., which The Keed could do without MapQuest directions.
RE: -2) Orchard Park Veterinary has a web-site, so I could see what their building looked like.
But Google-maps got me to the right road.
RE: -3) The Buffalo meet-and-greet added Google Street-Views, which gave an idea what the neighborhood would look like.
Our Google-maps were a bit deceptive, so I had to rely on the Old Directions Jones.
We ended up inadvertently following directions someone gave us over the phone.
And, of course, the actual house Google Street-Views displayed as the address we wanted was off.
Apply Old Directions Jones.
The other night I Googled “Sticky Fingers Barbecue” in Canandaigua, and got a locating map that had it way down the street — not at the corner it’s actually at.
I suppose that’s close enough for a REPUBLICAN, but it was almost a block off.
The old ‘pyooter mapping imprecision was at work; the bit where so many feet equal a step up in house number.
The Messenger had a ‘pyooter map that still had the storied Peanut Line.
“That railroad shouldn’t be there,” I said. “It was abandoned in the early ‘70s.”
One time a reporter noted a disputed landfill next to the Conrail mainline.
“It is not!” I said. “It’s now CSX. Conrail was sold and broken up a few years ago — the line across New York state, the one you’re reporting, went to CSX.”
And the Messenger map has the old Auburn through Canandaigua as New York Central, which it long ago was. But New York Central went into Penn-Central in 1968, and PC went bankrupt not too long after that. (It eventually went kaput.)
After which the Auburn became part of Conrail, and was partly abandoned.
What remains of the Auburn is now operated by Finger Lakes Railway.
But the Messenger map doesn’t have it marked that way. They still have it as New York Central — and the Peanut, though long abandoned, still exists.

If I am correct, a GPS navigation system links GPS locating with a ‘pyooterized map database.
That first attribute is very attractive to me — locating exactly where I am, and displaying it on a map. Like if I’m lost.
But I don’t want it telling me where to go; e.g. the wrong way up a one-way street.
After all, I’m the driver, not the GPS.
Storing maps electronically for display on a video-screen makes more sense than carrying an atlas.
Add a GPS locator and you’ve just scotched the dreaded pinpoint function in an atlas that took so long.
But my cellphone does all this stuff already.
It’s already a GPS locator (as most cellphones are nowadays, by law), and it gets the Internet from the satellite, or at least VZ-Navigator®; a downloadable GPS navigation system via the satellite.
I got it mainly to render coordinates for my weather-site; e.g. the mighty Mezz and the mighty Curve. Also our house.
But it’s also a GPS navigation system; the same as a GPS navigation system in a car. Plus it has access to a complete map database; i.e. ya ain’t loadin’ 89 bazilyun maps into your Tom-Tom.
So I turned it on this morning at our house, and it displayed what is pictured: our location on “Ontario St.”
We took the dog to Baker Park 15 miles away in Canandaigua, so I fired it up there.
VIOLA! There we are in Baker Park near Buffalo St.
I turned it on again behind the woods in the rear of the park.
There we are again; different map of Baker Park, and it has us behind the woods on the path along the fence.
Well, this is just great. Makes sense to me if a GPS locator can locate where I am on a map.
But I’m not having it talk to me. I’m drivin’!

I should say something about “Ontario St.” It’s actually Route 65; Ontario St. ends in Honeoye Falls.
Linda reports a post-office customer complains that his GPS has him living on Ontario St., when he actually lives on Route 65.
Drive out Ontario St. and it becomes only Route 65 at the Honeoye Falls line. Ontario St. is also Route 65 in Honeoye Falls, but becomes just Route 65 at the Honeoye Falls line.
Funny, it’s also Route 65, but the segment we live on is actually Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road.

RE: “Dark-Ages......” —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, claims I live in the dark ages, because I don’t have a GPS navigation system in my car. It’s a put-down.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years. She works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office.

“Killian” was our previous Irish-Setter, a rescue-dog. He died last May of lymphomic cancer at over 10 years. “Scarlett” is our current dog; another rescue Irish-Setter. She’s three-plus, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

Killian was treated for cancer at “Orchard Park Veterinary” near Buffalo.

“The Keed,” of course, is me.

The “Old Directions Jones” is my sense of direction, which works very well.

“Google Street-Views” is actual video display of the buildings (and addresses) on a street.

I wrote a short story about “Sticky Fingers Barbecue in Canandaigua” for my family’s web-site. They deliver with a Hummer (called the “Sticky Fingers Hummer”) that has a bumper-sticker on the back which says “I waste gas and run over children.”

The “Peanut Line” is the original independently-built Canandaigua & Niagara Falls Railroad, eventually merged into New York Central Railroad. It was called a “peanut” by a New York Central executive because it was so tiny compared to NYC’s mainline. It is now entirely abandoned, although a short stub out of Canandaigua to Holcomb remained in service until the ‘70s.

My siblings are all tub-thumping REPUBLICANS, and I’m not, so I’m reprehensible and stupid.

The “Messenger” (the “mighty Mezz”) is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired three years ago. Best job I ever had.

“Conrail” is a government amalgamation of east-coast railroads that went bankrupt pretty much at the same time as Penn-Central, a merger of the Pennsylvania Railroad and New York Central. Conrail included other bankrupt east-coast railroads, like Erie-Lackawanna and Lehigh Valley; but eventually went private as it became more successful. Conrail has since been broken up, sold to CSX Transportation Industries (railroad) and Norfolk Southern railroad. CSX got mainly the old New York Central routes, and NS got the old PRR routes.

The “Auburn”-Road was the first railroad across the state into Rochester. It took a rather circuitous route, and is now partly abandoned. A more direct railroad was built east from Rochester to Syracuse, so the Auburn (via Auburn) became a detour bypass. The direct route became the mainline of the New York Central Railroad, but NYC also owned the Auburn. (The direct route is now CSX Transportation.) The Auburn served many small farming communities (including Canandaigua), but became moribund. What remains is now operated by independent shortline Finger Lakes Railway, but the line into Rochester is gone.

“‘Pyooter” is computer.

The “mighty Curve” (“Horseshoe Curve”), west of Altoona, Pennsylvania, is by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. (I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.)

“Tom-Tom” is a brand of GPS navigation system.

“Buffalo St.” is the street in Canandaigua the mighty Mezz is on. Baker Park is also on it.

“Honeoye Falls” is small village we live near — about five miles away.

STORY-TIME

A nurse at Rochester General Hospital last Friday recounted her recent installation of a GPS navigator in her car.
They’re in a tunnel, and the GPS gets confused. “Turn left; turn right.” Where — into the wall?
“What’s wrong with a map?” I shouted.
“If I had a GPS do that, I’d turn it off!”

Here I am in faraway northern Floridy in a rental-car in search of my mother-in-law’s abode.
We had MapQuest directions along.
“What a minute!” I said. “They got me turning the wrong way onto a one-way street.”
The fantabulous MapQuest directions got tossed in the back seat, and The Keed took over.
Found her abode with no problem at all.
So much for fancy-dan technology.

Last Friday (November 21, 2008) I had a “Saturated Prostate Biopsy” operation (out-patient, ambulatory) done at Rochester General Hospital.

“The Keed” is of course ME.

Yavorek

One of the side-effects of the sun going down earlier each day, as it does approaching winter, is that we often begin supper before the Evening-News is finished taping.
So here we are last night (Tuesday, November 25, 2008) watching the ABC-Evening-News-With-Charles-Gibson live.
An unfortunate side-effect of live TV-news viewing is that we can’t zap the ads.
Sally Field, heavily made-up, and hair obviously dyed, is extolling the wondrous virtues of Boniva®.
“And my Doctor told me something very important,” she said.
“Well, my Doctor tried to tell me something very important,” I cried; “and I told him to get stuffed.”
This didn’t actually happen, but a pretty close approximation did.
It just so happens I had to visit my Doctor yesterday, a Dr. Yavorek (“ya-VORE-ick”) at Bloomfield Family Practice.
A medication was running out, and they wouldn’t renew it unless I did a checkup.
So I strode in the waiting-room, and a 74-year-old woman was spaced out on a chair.
“I don’t know, Dorothy,” Yavorek said. “Ya look bad to me; I think we oughta call the ambulance.”
Yavorek strode into the back: “Call the ambulance,” he said to his staff. “And get her back into an exam room.”
“So how ya doin’, Mr. Hughes?” he said, turning to me.
“Pretty good,” I said. “At least I ain’t gotcha callin’ the ambulance.”

Yavorek and I always have a good time.
In my almost 65 years on this planet. I’d say he is the best Doctor I’ve had yet.
But that’s coming off my last Doctor, my worst Doctor, the drug-pusher, old halitosis-breath.
My last doctor was affiliated with an HMO we joined back when HMOs were imperative.
Imperative in that Transit required it for my hospitalization insurance.
Old halitosis-breath was the one that told my wife I’d be a vegetable after my stroke.
Made me mad as a hornet. Don’t know how cogent I was at that time, but “I’m gonna prove you wrong, Doc!”
Yavorek came along after halitosis-breath quit, and it was apparent we could choose another medical-provider — e.g. no longer the faraway HMO that treated you like a number.
We were assigned a new Doctor at the HMO, but she quit in a couple months when she saw she couldn’t practice the Hippocratic Oath.
And so Yavorek, whose first assignment was to science out my “episodes.”
I got referred around, wore a heart-monitor one night, and finally a neurologist suggested the episodes might be a side-effect of the calcium-blocker blood-pressure medication I was taking.
End of calcium-blocker.
He also referred me to a Physical Therapy for balance, and they said the best way to control blood-pressure was to get back in shape.
Well yeah, of course. I thereafter dropped about 25 pounds using their treadmill.
Not too long ago we dropped the cholesterol medication too; although Yavorek was for it.
“I’m told a brain-injured person like me might need more cholesterol than the average person,” I said.
“Sounds like your wife has been hittin’ that Internet again,” Yavorek said. “How am I supposed to be a revered medical icon if my patients are always researchin’ everything I do?”
“Ya could drop the cholesterol medication, and we’ll see what happens. Your cholesterol is only marginal anyway, and that dosage is tiny.”
Another visit we pursued my widdling.
Around-and-around we went.
“I gave them guys at Urology Associates the third degree.”
“I’m sure you did,” Yavorek said. “I’m glad it wasn’t me.”
“They told me two-to-three times a night was average for someone my age, and also did a prostate biopsy.”
Our third visit was to see Yavorek to determine whether my wife’s tumor warranted follow-up.
“Not me this time,” I said; “my wife.”
Follow-up determined it was cancerous lymphoma, and that was beaten back at Wilmot Cancer Center.
So yada-yada-yada-yada in the exam room yesterday.
“So what do you do in your spare time, Mr. Hughes?”
“I write junk to get my siblings all upset. It’s slam-dunk easy.”
“I won’t go there,” he said.
We walked out of the exam room to do bloodwork.
The ambulance crew wheeled a yellow gurney down the hall.
“Holy mackerel!” I said to Yavorek.
“Have ya got a splint?” the ambulance techies asked. “She’s got a broken clavicle.”
“Nope. But she also complained of chest-pains, and looked awful.”
Probably fell.
“I just ate a peanut-butter sandwich,” I said.
“Maybe we should do the blood-test tomorrow morning as a fasting blood-test,” Yavorek said.
The ambulance crew wheeled the lady out. “Excuse us,” BANG! “Excuse us,” THUMP!
“I’ll call the hospital and tell them you’re coming,” Yavorek said.
“Please call my son,” said the lady, rattling off the phone-number.
I get the impression her appearance, and chest-pain, were more her broken clavicle.
But she did look awful.
If Yavorek had blown it, it’s better to err as he did.
Otherwise the lady could sue him up the patooty.

RE: “Before the Evening-News is finished taping.......” —Every night we videotape the news so that we can view it later while eating supper.

“Zap the ads” is to Fast-Forward the ads to avoid viewing.

“HMO” equals “Health-Maintenance-Organization.”

“Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993).

RE: “Old halitosis-breath.....” —My previous Doctor had bad breath — probably periodontal disease. He’d come in my exam room, shake my hand, and exhale; just about knocking me out cold. —He loved to prescribe drugs; probably over-medicated me.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

RE: “Episodes......” —Almost three years ago I was experiencing dizzy-spells (“episodes”), but not any more. They’re why I retired.

“Widdling” is urination.

My wife of 40+ years is “Linda.” She had lymphatic cancer, but it was treatable — she survived. She still has it — i.e. it will return sometime — but no evidence thereof at the moment.

Monthly Calendar Report for November 2008

‘32 hi-boy roadster of Dennis and Debbie Kyle, of Huntington Beach, CA. (Photo by Peter Vincent.)

The November entry of my All-1932 Ford hot-rod calendar may be one of the greatest hot-rods of all time.
But maybe not. It’s just that that “Stroker” vanity-plate rings a bell.
There are others, of course: like “California Kid” and the Milner coupe from American Graffiti.
But California Kid is a ‘34 Ford with flames, and I’ve never really liked flames.
Or pin-striping. Hot-rodders always did that, as did Penske/Donohue on their Trans-Am Camaro in the late ‘60s.
And to me the ‘34 isn’t as fabulous-looking as the ‘32.
And the Milner coupe is a Model-A; and five-window as opposed to three — which to me look better. (California Kid is a three-window coupe.)
The car pictured is a hiboy roadster — purest of the pure.
About the only thing wrong is the surfeit of louvers.
They’ve even louvered the gas-tank, probably making it non-functional.
People put imitation beer-kegs, and real beer-kegs, between the frame-rails in front of the radiator. Moon Equipment Company began making imitation beer-keg fuel-tanks — and the gas-cap was a wheel knock-off.
They were used in racing; and held only enough fuel for a run or two.
The car pictured can have a beer-keg fuel tank, and the owners, Dennis and Debbie Kyle, can install various wheels. The headlights also are detachable.
The car is an old racecar; speed-trials at Bonneville Salt Flats in 1978.
Amazingly, this car isn’t photographed at Bonneville, unlike so many other cars in this calendar.
It’s photographed in southern California, about the only place it could be driven and enjoyed.
That’s because it’s a topless roadster; i.e. it better not rain.
I’ve been to southern California. It hardly rains at all. (When it does, there are mudslides.)
It has a 327 Chevy Small-Block, and a Halibrand Quick-Change rear, which is visible.

Bam-bam-bam-bam! (Photo by Mike Usenia.)

The November photo of my All-Pennsy Color Calendar is a picture of the same train that was on the April entry of my All-Pennsy Color Calendar, two Pennsylvania Railroad Decapods on the front of a Mt. Carmel ore-train in 1956.
The Mt. Carmel ore-trains, in the middle ‘50s, were the swan-song of Pennsy steam-powered freight locomotion.
Pennsy would lash four Decapod steam-locomotives on a heavy ore-train; two on the front, two pushing on the rear.
That’s four crews. Steam-locomotives couldn’t be MU-ed like diesels.
The train would then traverse the uphill Mt. Carmel branch to Mt. Carmel, PA to a connection with the Lehigh Valley Railroad.
The iron-ore was for processing, probably at the steel-mills in Wilkes-Barre, Scranton or Bethlehem.
The 2-10-0 Decapod was the quintessential Pennsylvania Railroad steam freight locomotive, designed mainly for lugging up torturous grades.
The boiler and drive-pistons were HUGE; Pennsy men called them Hippos.
And unlike SuperPower high-speed steam freight locomotives, as developed in the ‘20s (the Dek is late teens), they were all drive-wheels, and no trailing-truck to support the firebox. (Although there was a two-wheel pilot-truck in the front.)
Driver size was only 62 inches; not extremely small (I’ve seen them at 56 inches: “pie-plates”), but not large enough to allow adequate counter-balancing.
With those unbalanced drive-wheels clear back beneath the cab, up-and-down hammering would occur at speed.
A Dek might get 50 mph, if you could stand it.
But with the full weight of the heavy locomotive spread over 10 drive-wheels, they could pull anything.
The Deks were immensely powerful, and reflected the railroad’s need to drag heavy trains over its challenging route profile.
But the Dek could be too much for itself.
-A) With a firebox of only 70 square feet, it could run itself out of steam. I have an audio recording of one stalling in Tyrone, PA on the mainline.
It’s uphill, but not very steep.
-B) I also have a photograph of bent drive-rods at trackside, behind a crippled Decapod.
The rod had twisted like a pretzel.
Being steel forgings, they could do that without breaking. The breakage was at the drive-pins; enough to throw the rod off.
Sometimes the drive-pin itself might shear, or a cylinder-head might blow off.
Norfolk & Western Railroad was more state-of-the-art when it came to steam freight locomotion. They would power two driver-sets with one boiler, an “articulated.” Being one boiler and one firebox, it could operate with one crew.
The effort of two Decapods with only one crew, and Norfolk & Western was always shooting for greater efficiency — like Pennsy they developed and built their own locomotives. Their articulateds used less fuel per ton-mile.
But Pennsy had so much traffic they could afford double-crewing — and less efficient engines. Norfolk & Western had a lot of traffic too (it served the prolific Pocahontas [“poke-uh-HON-tus”] coal region), and their profile was even more challenging than Pennsy.
Pennsy tried to merge with Norfolk & Western, but that was scotched. Pennsy eventually merged with arch-competitor New York Central, but that (Penn-Central) went bankrupt in two years, and belly-up six years later.
The failed Penn-Central and other bankrupt east-coast railroads were merged into Conrail by government fiat, but that became independent as it became more successful.
Meanwhile Norfolk & Western merged with Southern Railway to be competitive with CSX Transportation in the east.
CSX was itself the merger of many eastern lines into Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad, a successful coal road like N&W.
Conrail was eventually broken up and sold. First it was to go to CSX, but NS wanted a piece of the action.
So Conrail was broken up; most of the ex-NYC lines going to CSX, and most of the ex-Pennsy lines going to NS.
Pennsy’s old electrified New York Division had become part of Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor, so Conrail had to use another route to access the New York City area; namely Reading (“REDD-ing” not “READ-ing”) and Central of New Jersey.
NS uses that route.
The yards in Newark, etc. across the Hudson from New York City are still a Conrail operation; joint CSX and NS.
So now Norfolk Southern operates what is in effect the Pennsy, with its VAST traffic flows.
The cardinal rule I have at the mighty Curve (part of the ex-Pennsy main’s ascent of the Allegheny barrier), is wait 20 minutes and a train passes.
Sometimes it’s longer, but then usually a burst of trains occurs.
Often I see two at-a-time.
The mighty Curve has three of the original four tracks remaining — I’ve seen all three occupied.
“Milepost 238.8, track three; no defects.” Whup; here comes another, westbound uphill at Brickyard Crossing. We ain’t leavin’ yet.

The next three calendar pictures are equally good, perhaps better than the Decapods — but the Deks are Pennsy steam in a bucolic setting.
The piks are only arranged that way so that one isn’t stepping on another.

Commonwealth Aircraft “Boomerang.” (Photo by Philip Makanna©.)

The November 2008 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar has a Commonwealth Aircraft “Boomerang.”
Never heard of it. Well, of course not. It’s Australian, not north American.
I had to research the “Boomerang.” It was the Australian response to the inability of the Brits to supply enough fighter-aircraft to the Pacific Theater, and the prolific American aircraft industry supplying the north American military first.
The Boomerang is apparently a redesign of the successful Commonwealth Aircraft “Wirraway” trainer in Australia.
At first, the Wirraway was going to be updated, but it was totally redesigned for improvement.
It uses the Pratt & Whitney Twin-Wasp R-1830 1,200 horsepower radial engine used in the American Grumman Hellcat naval fighter — the motor apparently manufactured in Australia under license.
The Boomerang is small and maneuverable, but was slow and unfavorable at high altitudes.
Yet it succeeded with radial-engine technology, unlike the American water-cooled V12-powered fighter planes.
Of course, the U.S. Navy did quite well with radial-engine technology, and the radial-engine guys were bending incredible horsepower out of their motors.
So much the Army Air Corps gravitated toward radial-engines: the Pratt and Whitney R-2800 Double Wasp engine of 2,535 or more horsepower in the Republic P-47 Thunderbolt.
The Mustang, etc. might look more streamlined, but the P-47 was a sledgehammer.
Apparently only two Boomerangs are left — this is one.
They were replaced by superior fighter technology in the Pacific theater: e.g. the Mustang and the Spitfire. American industry especially was gushing airplanes.

Loaded Norfolk Southern coal-train threads an ice-encrusted cut in Ohio. (Photo by Willie Brown, NS engineer.)

For November, my Norfolk Southern Employees calendar has a loaded Norfolk Southern coal-train negotiating an icicle-encrusted cut near Powhatton Point, Ohio.
The train is powered by a single unit, SD40-2 #3331.
I had to research #3331 to see what it was, since I can no longer discern an SD40-2 from an SD60, etc.
#3331 has apparently done helper-duty on Horseshoe Curve (the “mighty Curve”).
In fact, it may be doing it now; I’ll have to see if I see it next time at the mighty Curve.
SD40-2s are antiques; built in the ‘70s-early ‘80s.
A diesel freight locomotive might last 15-20 years, about the same as a bus — but the SD40-2s have lasted way longer, Steam locomotives might last 30 years, but were much more labor-intensive.
SD40-2s have been used as helpers on The Hill a long time.
I asked Big Mike Kraniak (“CRANE-eee-yak”), a railfan supreme, and proprietor of Tunnel Inn in Gallitzin, PA (“guh-LITZ-in”), the trackside Bed & Breakfast we always stay at when visiting the mighty Curve, if he had any idea when the SD40-2s might be retired.
He allowed that the reason they’ve lasted so long is because General Motors (Electromotive Corporation) allowed outside suppliers to make replacement parts for the SD40-2. (General Electric won’t — their Dash-9 freight locomotives.)
This made it possible for the railroad to keep the SD40-2s running at low cost.
#3331 in this picture is dragging a loaded coal train near Powhatton Point, Ohio.
Powhatton Point is a location in Ohio next to the West Virginia panhandle that goes up next to Pennsylvania.
Looks like an ex-Pennsy line up to Steubenville, connecting to an old Pennsy main to Pittsburgh.
It’s only a single unit, so it’s probably downhill from the coal loader to the mainline.
But maybe not, it could be mainline too, but I think it would warrant more than a single SD40-2 if it was.
Like perhaps two SD70Ms or GE Dash-9 road units.

“Factory shop-order.” (Photo by Richard Prince.)

The November entry of my All-Corvette calendar has a “factory shop-order” 1967 Corvette.
You can tell by the six taillights.
The racing-stripe is also “factory shop-order,” and it has a wooden Nardi steering-wheel and American Racing wheels.
What this means is the Corvette factory installed these options per “factory shop-order.” —They’re not normal options.
That six taillight rear has to be a special modification of the body-mold, unless the taillight holes are just cut-outs in the rear panel.
That could be easily done, but if any sort of recess is required for those taillights, the mold for that fiberglass-reinforced plastic rear body-panel had to be modified per special order.
This “factory shop-order” Corvette was a special order for Bob Wingate, a salesman at Clippinger Chevrolet in southern Californy, who sold more Corvettes than anyone.
It also looks like the car may have been photographed at Long Beach Drag Strip; one of the most famous drag-strips on the planet.
Oil refineries are in the background, as they are at Long Beach.
Six-taillight Corvettes were fairly common. I saw a few; and always wondered if it was customization by the owner.
Perhaps not.

Oh-oh............ (Photo by Martin Zak.)

I almost skipped the November photo of my Audio-Visual Designs black & white All-Pennsy calendar.
I only included it because it’s a sterling example of what rail photographers dreaded most in the ‘50s when diesel-locomotives were replacing steam.
A steam-powered train is visible far away, but as it approaches, a diesel-locomotive (“growler”) is on the point — horror-of-horrors!
You get this now. Railfan excursions are often powered by restored steam-locomotives, but they often have a diesel behind in case they break down — or the diesel may make the excursion possible.
Not always the case, but often is.
Norfolk & Western 611 (a fabulous 4-8-4 restored steam engine, since retired) broke down once on an excursion out of Buffalo.
“Ya gotta expect this kind of thing,” the crew said. “That steel is over 50 years old.”
My brother-from-Boston and I were chasing it, and it crippled where it was supposed to turn; far from Buffalo, in Girard, PA — a break in the framing for the trailing-truck.
The entire consist had to sit for hours until a diesel could rescue it.
The last steam-engine came off of Pennsy in 1957. This picture is in March of that year.
The steam-engine is a 4-8-2 Mountain, the standard steam freight engine Pennsy used on its Middle Division across Pennsylvania for years.
The diesel (#8624) is an Alco RS11. Alco is no longer in business.

The November entry of my Three Stooges calendar is not worth running.
It’s one of those laughable movie stills, this one of Moe and Larry fixing to perform medical service on Curly.
Larry is sharpening large butcher-knives, and Moe is aiming a giant hypodermic needle at Curly’s forearm.
Moe is mugging for the camera, and Larry is looking devilish.
Curly is probably saying “Wub-wub-wub,” but looks like he’s singing an opera aria.
He has his hand over his heart, and mouth open as if singing “Oh, solo-mio!”

The “Penske/Donohue Trans-Am Camaro” is the Chevrolet Camaro racing-car entered by Roger Penske (“PENN-skee”) and driven by Mark Donohue (“don-uh-HUE”) in the Sports-Car Club of America’s (SCCA) Trans-American racing series for pony-cars. Donohue won a few championships, and the Penske/Donohue car was dominant.

From 1928 until 1931 Ford’s offering was the “Model A;” it replaced the Model T. In 1932 Ford introduced a V8 powered car, and its four-cylinder car was the Model B. —These cars are the basis of all hot-rodding.

A “five-window coupe” is a coupe with five windows separate from the windshield. A “three-window” has only three windows. “Five-windows” had a small window behind each door.

A “hiboy” is a car at standard height on the frame-rails — not dropped, as in “channeled,” where channels were built into the car-body to allow it to be sit lower on the frame; although the front-axle may have been dropped, giving the car a rake, dropping forward toward the front. A “hiboy” also lacks full fendering, but may have individual motorcycle fenders.

“Bonneville Salt-flats,” next to Great Salt Lake in Utah, is a vast open flat area where top-speed runs can be made, but the running surface is salt.

A “roadster,” at that time, was an open car that only seated two, and lacked a convertible top. Since then, open two-seaters with convertible tops are called “roadsters.”

The Chevrolet “Small-Block” V8 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 larger 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.

A “Halibrand Quick-Change rear” was a special modification of the standard Ford “Banjo” rear axle (called that because it looked like a banjo). A small cover-cap could be removed allowing quick change of the differential gears, so the rear-axle could be tailored to the application. —A higher ratio provided more git; and a lower ratio provided faster top-end speed. They were made by Halibrand.

“Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad, no longer in existence. It merged with New York Central Railroad in 1968 as Penn-Central, and that tanked in about eight years. “Pennsy” was once the largest railroad in the world.

A “Decapod” (“Dek”) was a 2-10-0 steam freight locomotive.

“SuperPower” was an application of steam-locomotive engineering made available by Lima (“LIE-mah,” not “LEE-mah”) Locomotive Works, of Lima, Ohio in the late ‘20s. The idea was create a boiler-firebox of sufficient size and capacity to generate steam at continuous high speeds.

“70 square feet” was a standard Pennsy firebox size, 70 square feet of grate area (the area coal was spread on). SuperPower was running around 100 square feet — almost the size of a living-room.

The “Pocahontas coal region” is a large area of West Virginia and eastern Kentucky underlaid with coal.

An “articulated” is a steam railroad locomotive with two-or-more (usually two) driver-sets powered by one boiler, “articulated” in the sense the front driver-set was on a hinge independent of the rear (which was solidly mounted to the boiler), so the locomotive could track through curves — especially crossover switches — despite it’s extreme length. —At first “articulateds” were Mallets (“mal-LETT” or “mal-EEEE” [the French pronunciation]), a French principle whereby steam was used first by the rear driver-set, and then used again by the front driver-set. But eventually Mallets became passé, and fresh steam was used to power both driver-sets. More than two driver-sets (Erie Railroad had triples) used too much steam, and ran out. But that was around the turn-of-the-century. Later on a boiler might have been built big enough to power three driver-sets; but “articulateds” never got larger than two driver-sets.

“Conrail” was a government amalgamation of east-coast railroads that went bankrupt pretty much at the same time as Penn-Central, a merger of the Pennsylvania Railroad and New York Central. Conrail included other bankrupt east-coast railroads, like Erie-Lackawanna and Lehigh Valley; but eventually went private as it became more successful. Conrail has since been broken up, sold to CSX Transportation Industries (railroad) and Norfolk Southern railroad. CSX got mainly the old New York Central routes, and NS got the old PRR routes.

The “mighty Curve” (“Horseshoe Curve”), west of Altoona, Pennsylvania, is by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. (I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.)

The “Allegheny barrier” is the northeast-to-southwest range of mountains across Pennsylvania (and farther south) that was a barrier to west-east commerce in the early 1800s. This was because it was unbreachable with the technology available at that time (usually canals). There were no gaps — no low points to thread a canal through. —Early railroads also found them a barrier, since crossing them required steep grades that made railroading impossible. Early railroads did not have the grading technology now available. Pennsy’s Horseshoe Curve was a grading trick that made a railroad crossing of the Allegheny barrier possible.

RE: “Milepost 238.8, track three; no defects........” —I have a railroad radio scanner that monitors the Norfolk Southern operating channels. “Milepost 238.8, track three; no defects” is a machine broadcast from a trackside defect detector, that the train-engineer monitors after the train passes the defect-detector. I can monitor this transmission too, with my scanner. Hearing “Milepost 238.8, track three; no defects” I know a train has passed the defect-detector at Milepost 238.8, and the train is on Track Three (uphill). 238.8 is the defect-detector at “Brickyard Crossing;” actually Coburn Road in Altoona, but next to an abandoned brick-yard.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. A bus lasted about 15-20 years.

“The Hill” is the Pennsylvania Railroad’s crossing of the Allegheny Barrier. The eastern (westbound) climb was the steepest, and about 12 miles. Bottom-to-top was a climb of over 950 feet; a 1.75% grade; 1.75 feet up per 100 feet forward — not very steep, but steep enough to often require helpers. Horseshoe Curve is part of it.

A “drag strip” was a quarter-mile straight, level two-lane auto-race track for drag-racing; which is standing-start to finish over the quarter-mile. Drag-racers are now getting over 300 mph from a standing-start by the end of a quarter-mile. —Drag-racing was especially popular during the late ‘50s and throughout the ‘60s.

“Long Beach,” CA.

“Alco” is American Locomotive Company of Schenectady, NY. For years, American Locomotive Company was a primary manufacturer of railroad steam locomotives. (It was originally a merger of many steam locomotive manufacturers.) —With the changeover by railroads to diesel-locomotives, American Locomotive Company brought out a line of diesel-electric railroad locomotives much like the railroads were switching to, and changed its name to “Alco.” Alco tanked a while ago; they never competed as well as EMD.

November 22, 1963

“If you were alive 45 years ago,” the radio-announcer said; “you probably know the significance of yesterday’s date.”
“Of course I do,” I thought to myself. “Yesterday was the date of president Kennedy’s assassination.”
I was in my sophomore year at Houghton, and was just leaving a class, probably in WC-5, in the basement of the John and Charles Wesley Memorial Chapel-Auditorium (we had to write this all out lest the college go completely bonkers), walking up the steps from the basement to the east entrance.
Word was spreading like wildfire.
President Kennedy had been shot, and was probably dead.
I stepped into the cold outdoors, stunned.
It was a gray overcast day, typical of November weather in Western New York.
Washington D.C. was far away, at least 500 miles.
Yet events were happening that effected me where I was.
It seemed like the dream had been punctured.
President Kennedy was not working out like we dreamed.
Too much a realist, party to the interplay of Washington politics.
But he represented a break from the exorbitant ‘50s; post-war extravagance and chest-beating.
He was Catholic; our first Catholic president.
Tub-thumpers were loudly beating the drums of the Papacy running the country.
But such was not to be.
Kennedy was more a politician — not a religious elitist.
He came to Philadelphia once in 1962, on July Fourth, to help celebrate Independence Day.
I drove up there myself in the puke-green ‘57 — don’t know how I finagled this.
I cheered as Kennedy drove by far away on Market St. in the presidential open-top Lincoln.
He was my president; representing a break from the overblown ‘50s.
His assassination symbolized the end of the dream; perhaps a return to the ‘50s.
Giant B-36s droning overhead in echelon formation. 89 bazilyun gallons of av-gas to fuel the “Big Stick.”
I worry about Obama; also a break from the past, just like Kennedy.

“Houghton” is Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I didn’t graduate with their approval. Houghton is a religious liberal-arts college.

RE: “Tub-thumpers” and “not a religious elitist.......” —All my siblings are tub-thumping born-again Christians.

The “puke-green ‘57” was our family’s 1957 Chevrolet BelAir four-door sedan. It was actually two-tone green, but the lighter color was more yellowish, like vomit.

RE: “Don’t know how I finagled this........” —My parents were probably not around. I can hardly see them approving my taking their number-one vehicle alone.

“Market St.” is a main east-west drag in Philadelphia.

Medical-procedure number-one

So concludes medical-procedure number-one (Friday, yesterday; November 21, 2008).
Medical-procedure number-one was a saturation biopsy of my “prostrate.” (“Saturation” meaning 30 samples, as opposed to only six in biopsy number one.)
Actually, it’s prostate biopsy number-two. Although I’m sure the almighty Bluster-King will loudly claim prostate biopsy number-one never existed — like my living in Rochester throughout 1967, it was just a dream.
I’ve only started pursuing urinary issues since the Bluster-Boy started foaming about it two years ago, not the past 20 years on my own.
Unfortunately my biopsy was performed at a hospital, instead of a proper abandoned minimall clinic.
And it was performed at Rochester General Hospital, instead of the vaunted Boston healthcare system 400+ miles away.
The actual biopsy was only 15 minutes, but it blew the entire day.
We came prepared; magazines to read, and doggy in daycare.
The actual procedure was scheduled at 11:30 a.m., but we were to report at 9:30 a.m.
After checking in: “Please take a seat in our waiting-room. We have television if you care to view.”
Oh sure; Rachel Ray a-bellowing.
“This salad only takes five minutes to prepare.”
“Stuff all ingredients in blender, and apply chain-saw.”
BR-ZAPPPPPP-AAAA! “Only 89 bazilyun calories. I like to eat!”
After reading all about Illinois Central’s banana trains, I was called into a pre-surgery waiting-room, to have an IV hooked up.
“Wait a minute,” I thought to myself, looking across the room.
“That sounds like Hank Moran (‘More-ANN’), an old bus-driver at Transit.”
“Big poke,” the nurse said. “This is only electrolytes and saline solution, but the IV is also a way for the anesthesiologist to administer anesthesia.”
After a while the anesthesiologist strode in and suggested general anesthesia for the procedure.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“I was suggested a lower level of anesthesia so I could direct my wife home.”
“That’s monitored-anesthesia, ‘MAC,’” what I was suggested at first, the level of anesthesia for my colonoscopy.
“Ya’ll recover more quickly with general anesthesia, Mr. Hughes. Your wife shouldn’t have any problem. We understand.”
“No ya don’t,” I said. “I been married to this lady almost 41 years, and know how it is.”
“She shouldn’t have any problem, Mr. Hughes.”
“Negatory! She’s automotively challenged. You’re not! You have no idea. I gotta question everything, so she can make it home. She’s drivin’, but it’s actually me. ‘Right turn coming up; get in the right lane.’”
Finally, after 45 minutes or so, I was wheeled into the actual operating room.
“Just skooch yourself over onto this here table, Robert.”
I guess at that point the general anesthesia was administered — I remember a nurse saying “so close.”
Lights out; back in the recovery-room after the procedure. Moran was next to me, although a curtain was between us.
“That you, Henry?” I finally asked.
“Yeah, Moran!” he said. “Who are you?”
“Bob Hughes; we drove bus at Transit,” I said.
Unable to see him at all, but I recognized the voice. Moran was one of my dreaded Transit friends.
“I’m retired now,” he said. “28 years of driving bus.”
“Well, I only did 16&1/2 years; but then I had that stroke,” I said. “Did another job after that, but retired from that. So I’m retired too.”
Moran walked out; he was discharged (“Take care of yourself, Bob.” “You too, Henry”), as I was to be soon, my widdling being my ticket to leave.
I had to widdle into a urinal-bottle; “congratulations, Mr. Hughes. 250 milliliters. Way to go!” (Cue fireworks and 1812 Overture!)
Discharged into a wheelchair, and wheeled out to the old entrance; lotsa yammering about new versus old entrance. “No loop in the new entrance. Ya drive right past to the old entrance; the one with the flagpole in the loop.”
(Excuse me; the new entrance had a loop — Linda negotiated it.)
It was pushing five p.m. when we got to Honeoye Falls, but we managed to get our dog.

Medical-procedure number-two will be when Linda has a small growth removed from an inside sinus for biopsy. (There may be other medical-procedures, but I don’t know them at the moment. We’re not young any more.)

My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who badmouths everything I do or say (the “almighty Bluster-King” [the “Bluster-Boy”]), noisily insists the correct spelling of “prostate” (the gland) is “prostrate.” He noisily insists I avoid his advice to “have your ‘prostrate’ checked,” as if I haven’t already — and that my living in Rochester all through 1967 was “just a dream.”

RE: “Unfortunately my biopsy was performed at a hospital, instead of a proper abandoned minimall clinic.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston admitted his colonoscopy was performed in a storefront clinic in an abandoned minimall, and was therefore superior to mine, which was performed in a hospital. And that the Boston healthcare system is far superior to that where we live.

RE: “Doggy in daycare......” —Our dog, Scarlett, was boarded during the procedure, since we were sure it might take all day.

“I like to eat!” is something my blowhard brother-from-Boston once said. He weighs almost 250 pounds.

RE: “After reading all about Illinois Central’s banana trains.....” —I’m a railfan, and have been all my life. I had along a railfan magazine. Illinois Central Railroad. (May no longer exist.)

“IV” equals intravenous.

RE: “We drove bus at Transit......” —For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

RE: “Dreaded Transit friends.......” —My siblings all abhor the fact I was just a bus-driver; that I was just being a lazy, no-good layabout.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years. Because of the anesthesia she had to be my driver home.

“Honeoye Falls” is a small village near where we live, about five miles away. It also is the location of Honeoye Falls Veterinary Hospital, where we boarded our dog.

RE: “We’re not young any more......” —We’re both almost 65.

DL-109

Reading FP-7s #s 900 and 901. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” years ago with the Kodak Hawkeye camera I inherited from my father.)

Eons ago, I think Fall of 1961, I rode a railfan excursion with my paternal grandfather and sister, on what at that time was Reading (“REDD-ing” not “READ-ing”) Railroad’s Wilmington branch.
The railroad still exists, but now is some shortline.
The old Reading line out of Wilmington, DE is fabulously scenic.
It follows the valley of the Brandywine River (Creek, whatever) up into Pennsylvania.
It even has a fabulous horseshoe curve near Granogue (“greh-NOHG”).
It was tight enough to see the end of your train as you negotiated it — we were in the last coach.
The railroad wound all over as it climbed the valley out of Wilmington. The Brandywine had a drop in elevation that was harnessed by E. I. du Pont de Nemours to make gunpowder. It was the basis of the mighty DuPont Company.
The railroad didn’t start with the Brandywine, but merged next to it.
Two Reading FP7s, #s 900 and 901, were on the point.
I think these two units still exist and are operable, although owned by a rail preservation society.
They were gorgeous; black with a single narrow green stripe and gold pinstriping.
It was a fabulous trip. Rode all the way up the river to where the branch merges with another line that skirted St. Peters.
Lunch was in a park, if you cared hike through brambles to the picnic area.
We didn’t.
The crew was giving walk-through tours of the FP7s. (We all did this.)

Reading GP-7 #662, to drag us back to the junction. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” years ago with the Kodak Hawkeye.)

A single GP7 coupled to the back of the train to drag us back to French Creek Junction.
On the way up, we passed through Coatesville (“COATS-ville”) and under the mighty Pennsy arches. In Coatesville was the Lykens Steel plant.
New-Haven DL-109s were on the property for scrapping.
I had never seen a DL-109 before — didn’t even know they existed.
May not have been a DL-109 even; may have been something else. Alco had a DL-100 series; e.g. the DL-103, DL-107, and even the DL-110; although only one was made (the 110 was a B-unit). —Probably someone on the train said they were DL-109s.
Apparently it was Alco’s first attempt at a diesel passenger locomotive — “DL” stands for Diesel-Locomotive.
Before the gorgeous PAs, certainly one of the best-looking diesel locomotives of all time.
The DL-series had a three panel windshield — I suppose to distinguish it from earlier EMD E-units — and was styled by Otto Kuhler.
It also had A-1-A trucks like the later PAs and the EMD E-units; that’s center axle unpowered.
It also used two engines like the EMD E-units; but they were only six-cylinder 539s; same motor as the RS-1.
The E-unit used two V12s. —The Alco PA was only one engine, a turbocharged V16 of 2,000 horsepower.

New York, New-Haven & Hartford DL-109 #0749 at Old Saybrook, CT, 1950.

The DL-100 series was also 2,000 horsepower, but two engines.
Pretty as it was, the Alco PA wasn’t very reliable. Something would go wonky and cripple its train, tieing up the railroad. —Something would have to be sent to rescue the train.
I never even heard of the DL-100 series. So I have no idea how reliable they were.
That excursion on the old Reading Wilmington Division was something I’ll never forget, and my first knowledge of the Alco DL-100 series.

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the Kodak Hawkeye.......” —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). The “Hawkeye” is my first camera, inherited from my father. It used VeriChrome-Pan 120, but generated rectangular negatives.

“FP-7s” are four foot longer versions of the EMD F-unit freight-diesel — a passenger version thereof. “EMD” is Electromotive Division of General Motors, GM’s manufacturer of diesel railroad-locomotives. Most railroads used EMD when they dieselized; although many now use General-Electric diesel railroad-locomotives.

The “GP7” was first in a series of EMD road-switcher units, a long hood with the engine cab toward one end, but not at the end (like a switcher). —Railroads came to prefer the road-switcher format over cab-units, because visibility was better in either direction, as opposed to only forward with a cab-unit (e.g. an F-unit, or an FP). The primary locomotives purchased nowadays by railroads are road-switchers, except now the hood in front is lopped off in height to increase visibility forward. —The GP units were four axles. Another EMD version of road-switchers is the SD unit — but they are six axles. GPs (“Geeps”) are no longer available; it’s all six-axle units. (“GP” stood for General-Purpose; “SD” stood for Special-Duty.)

“Alco” is American Locomotive Company of Schenectady, NY. For years, American Locomotive Company was a primary manufacturer of railroad steam locomotives. (It was originally a merger of many steam locomotive manufacturers.) —With the changeover by railroads to diesel-locomotives, American Locomotive Company brought out a line of diesel-electric railroad locomotives much like the railroads were switching to, and changed its name to “Alco.” Alco tanked a while ago; they never competed as well as EMD.

The “PAs” were Alco’s second attempt at a passenger diesel-locomotive.

BossMan

BossMan is leaving the mighty Mezz, thus ending a long and storied career, that began long before my relationship.
BossMan is Robert Matson (Houghton 1980), Executive Editor of the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper.
He’s leaving to become head-honcho of Public Relations at Finger Lakes Community College near Canandaigua.
BossMan started as a reporter back when the newspaper was owned independently by the Ewing (“YEW-ing”) family, and George Ewing Sr., was head-honcho.
The Ewings sold, and now the Messenger is owned by Gatehouse Publications.
When BossMan started, in fact when I started, the Messenger was just a small daily newspaper in Canandaigua; but since then it bought the Post weeklies, and built new offices.

—1) My relationship with the mighty Mezz began when Rochester Rehabilitation arranged a post-stroke interview to consider my working there as an unpaid intern.
The reason newspaper-work was suggested was because of my doing my bus-union’s “282-News.”
By then Matson was Executive Editor, and I interviewed with him.
I’ll never forget his comment “seems normal to me.”
This was despite any stroke-effects I may not have been aware of.
Shortly after I began I was given their weekly Community-Page by Editor Kathy Hovis (“HO-vis”).
The Community-Page was much like the 282-News, except I was paginating with Quark instead of Word.
Quark was much better.
Kathy was also allowing me to exercise editorial judgment.
To me this was a tremendous leap on their part.
Kathy would go on vacation, and the page was mine.
Kathy moved on, and the Community-Page might have been delegated to someone else — or vaporized (I forget).

—2) My employment began about two years after the internship, but was probably more Joy Daggett than Matson.
Joy needed another paste-up person — one was leaving — and I said “I bet I could do that.”
For a couple years I did paste-up, and apparently recovered at the same time. (E.g. I was no longer being cabbed to the Messenger — I got my Driver’s-License back.)
But I got doing beyond paste-up; mainly ‘pyooter-functions allied to paste-up.
We also began paginating the Sunday Stock-Pages, using an Associated-Press feed over a modem.
I would come in Saturday afternoon around 4 p.m., and do the Stock-Pages.
I’d hang around until 2 a.m. when the Sunday newspaper started rolling off the presses; so I could stop them if something was grievously wrong.
“STOP THE PRESSES,” I’d yell. “There’s a mug-shot smack in the middle of a story!”
We were also doing color-separations for the front pages.
Those seps came from our cranky old PC, that frequently needed rebooting.
I also got so I could reboot the mainframe. It would hang, and need to be rebooted.
The color seps also had to be registered to the pasted-up pages to make sure nothing obscured.
“Whoa,” I’d yell. “This pik is stepping on the copy. All color seps need to be resent.”
A page-editor would look at my find and dicker (i.e. relocate and/or resize the picture).
Finally I allowed to Joy I thought I could do OCR scanning, and she thought I could too.
So she showed me how, and I began figuring it out.

—3) The new offices were built, and the Messenger ‘pyooterized.
With that, paste-up was disbanded, and a few who had done that departed.
But not me.
I had OCR scanning to do.
The Executive Vice-President was fixing to lay me off, but I was giving Matson one-to-three Letters-to-the-Editor per day.
I also was OCR scanning a slew of other stuff.
A stringer-story would appear, and “Do you think you could scan this so we could run it today?”
Drop everything! Boom-zoom. “Here it is.”
So I think Matson interceded. “Why would I ever want to lay off this guy? He’s giving me reams of copy.”
I later went on to do the daily obituaries — a ‘pyooter function I could do with Quark.
Boom-zoom. Ready-to-run!
They also started me doing the Weather-Almanac info: sunrise, sunset, moonrise, moonset.
I was doing it from a Farmer’s Almanac, and thought it was imprecise.
One day I came out of our house, and said “what’s that moon doing up there? I had it setting four hours ago.”
So I Googled celestial events, and came up with the Naval Observatory site, with events for Canandaigua.
BossMan was impressed.
At last the Weather-Almanac was right; more than just filler.
No one had ever blown it in before, but “what’s that moon doing up there?”

—4) BossMan’s most memorable act was almost doubling my pay-rate so I could get off Social-Security Disability.
SSDI limited my monthly income, so an increase in hours meant a large reduction in income.
Matson wanted to increase my hours, but SSDI made that impossible.
So finally, “What would it take to get off SSDI and go full-time?” BossMan asked.
An increase to my pay equal to what I was getting per month from Social-Security divided by the average number of hours in a month.
So we figured out what pay-rate that would require, and it almost doubled my pay-rate.
“Okay, we’ll do it!” BossMan said.
The people at Social-Security were completely buffaloed. Never before had anyone appeared before them wanting to discontinue SSDI.
But that’s what we did. To me this was an incredible leap on BossMan’s part.
I did full-time at the mighty Mezz for at least three more years — probably more.
During that time I set up a new system for doing the daily stocks, wrote various computer macros that streamlined functions, and started computer filing stuff that repeated so we didn’t have to retype it.
I also became part of the Messenger’s technical geeks, I suppose because I was more-or-less ‘pyooter-savvy.
I began doing the newspaper’s web-site: iterations two and three. (I think they are now on iteration number-five.)
Iteration three incorporated all the Post sub-sites, which was what I was doing at first.
But then the webmaster and I swapped, and he began doing the Post sub-sites, and I began doing the Messenger site.
It was a bucking-bronco. Often our web-service would crash mightily in flames (muck up, or worse yet lose our copy entirely), but that sucker was flyin’ or else. It better fly; that thing reflected my input. It also was our Internet face.

So now Matson is leaving. I sure hope without him that newspaper can be the class-act it was.
The fact he had the moxie to take on a stroke-survivor leaves me in awe.

The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired three years ago. Best job I ever had.

“Houghton” is Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I didn’t graduate with their approval. Houghton is a religious liberal-arts college.

The “Post weeklies” were about nine suburban weekly newspapers from Post Publications. When the owner retired he sold Post Publications to the Messenger.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and did out-patient post-stroke rehabilitation at Rochester Rehabilitation.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. We employees were unionized in the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union, Local 282 thereof. During my final year at Transit I did a voluntary union newsletter called the “282-News” that caused weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among Transit management. It was great fun; and I did it with Microsoft Word — although it required a lot of time.

“Quark and Microsoft Word” are both computer word-processers, although Quark is far more involved, and can be used to generate actual newspaper pages. “Pagination” was the actual generation of a page in a computer. “Paste-up” is attaching waxed text-gallies (and pictures) to a page-dummy, which is then photographed when complete, to make a large negative a printing-plate can be made from (“burned”). —Paste-up was much more antique than total computerization. Better yet is direct-to-plate (direct from computer to printing-plate), but such technology is incredibly costly. The Messenger was generating newspaper pages in a computer, and then sending those pages to the large negatives printing-plates could be burned from.

RE: “Cabbed to the Messenger......” —Because of my stroke, I was unable to drive; I no longer had my driver’s license. To get to the Messenger at first, I used livery services.

“Color-separations” (“seps”) are negatives for color inks — the Messenger used four colors: cyan, magenta, yellow and black (“CMYK”). —The color seps at that time were computer generated, but the black was pasted up. (For that reason, they had to be registered on a light-table to make sure all were in alignment [e.g. the pasted-up copy wasn’t stepping on a picture].)

A “PC” is the Personal-Computer most everyone has these days; a Windows PC. The “mainframe” was our old monster from days of yore; a computer, but not what they are nowadays.

“OCR scanning” is Optical-Character-Recognition scanning, generating a text file from a computer-scanned document. A text-document is scanned, and computer software recognizes the fonts/letters therein, generating a text file.

A “stringer” is a reporter that doesn’t actually work at the newspaper’s offices — they were usually freelancers.

RE: “Three more years — probably more.....” —I was employed by the Messenger almost 10 years, then retired.

A “computer macro” is a recorded computer function, like typing, that performs that computer function when activated; a tiny program.

RE: “Sub-sites.......” —Each Post paper had its own sub-site that was part of the overall MessengerPost web-site. The Daily-Messenger site was also a sub-site.

GTO

1965 Pontiac GTO convertible.

Forty-three long years ago yr fthful srvnt got himself in deepest doo-doo making fun of the Dean-of-Men’s son’s Pontiac GTO at Houghton College.
The Pontiac GTO was the first of the so-called “muscle-cars,” smallish cars with big souped-up engines.
Although a case can be made for the earlier Chrysler 300 series — but that was a full-size car with an extremely powerful engine (300 horsepower).
The first GTO was the 1964 model-year; the midsize Pontiac Tempest with the 389 cubic-inch motor usually found in full-size Pontiacs.
The GTO nomenclature was stolen from Ferrari: Grand-Touring-Omologato. Ferrari had a so-called GTO model. GTOs were supposedly street cars homologated for racing — cars that met special rules; like a luggage compartment.
(Ferrari made a mockery of the GTO class; essentially racecars built to meet the GTO rules, as opposed to street cars homologated for racing.)
The Pontiac GTO had a questionable reputation.
Very fast and powerful in a straight line, but a handful in curves.
Detroit hadn’t made the effort to make them handle; and I don’t know as they could have — the rear axle being poorly located, and car weight being unbalanced.
The NASCAR boys got the chassis layout to handle, but extensive modifications were needed.
Like better locating the rear axle with track-bars.
I almost got thrown out of Houghton on a tight-pants rap.
That was the time of the early Rolling-Stones, so the dress of ne’er-do-wells was determined by them.
But that was my Sophomore or Junior year.
I was dragged before the Dean-of-Men and told to bring my wardrobe into alignment with Christian standards.
Easier said than done; but by my Senior year the college had apparently decided to graduate me.
The Dean-of-Men’s son, whose last name was Mills (I forget his first name) bought a new 1965 Pontiac GTO convertible — he was in his early 20s.
Despite triple two-barrel carburetion, he was using that GTO as his daily-driver. So when snow started it loaded up with road grime.
I had a 1958 Triumph TR3, and was apprised that ferrin cars were much better than Detroit-iron.
Which they were, I guess.
Except Detroit-iron had more powerful motors.
The better alternative came when Detroit motors were melded with ferrin chassis; e.g. the AC-Cobra.
That was the old AC sportscar with a Ford Mustang V8.
But such cars weren’t available in quantity.
Yet the Pontiac GTOs were.
My brother-in-Boston has a 1971 454 cubic-inch Chevelle; what muscle-cars became as the decade advanced: very large motors in mid-sized cars. The result of a horsepower race.
I drove it once; so he could retrieve his Harley.
Mega horsepower!
I was in awe. “People used to race these things,” I thought to myself.
“How in the world do ya wide-open-throttle when it quakes and shakes just at idle?”
Wide-open-throttle would just spin the lightly-loaded rear-tires creating gobs of tire-smoke.
But of course that was the whole idea.
My friends and I used to measure the rubber-stripes laid down by cars. We once measured one 578 feet long on a hill supposedly laid down by a ‘59 Chevy six. (The Blue Bomb once did 17 feet.)
GTOs were street-raced by Degraded Yooth sporting long side-burns and dangling cigarettes languidly from their lips.
An impromptu drag-race from a traffic-light was winable, and a GTO might get 140 mph on the expressway.
—Tromping the ferriners.
But on a curving road the GTO was in the trees.
The front-end would plow, and if compensated with throttle, the rear broke loose and the car spun off the road.
The Dean-of-Men’s son was driving his GTO all over campus, and it was covered with road grime.
One day he parked it somewhere, so I furtively snuck up and scrawled “Cheap American Trash” in the road grime.
It went the whole length of the car — letters about 18 inches high — and I think I did both sides.
Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth!
Somehow I was fingered for this dastardly deed, so was trotted up before the Dean-of-Men, and also his son, who was markedly mad.
I might have scratched the paint, I was told.
That’s true, but I think he was more incensed I had successfully made fun of his precious car.

“Houghton College” in western New York, is from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I didn’t graduate with their approval. Houghton is a religious liberal-arts college.

“Triple two-barrel carburetion” is three two-barrel carburetors in a row, an application that allowed an engine to breathe better and generate more horsepower. Earlier cars used carburetors to mix fuel, but now fuel-injection is used, since it’s more precise in meeting emission-requirements. —At that time the average V8 engine might have a single two-barrel carburetor.

“Ferrin” equals “foreign.”

The “Blue Bomb” was the 1953 Chevrolet I learned to drive in — so-named because it was navy-blue.

Automated parking-garage

Yesterday afternoon (Friday, November 14, 2008) I had a pre-admission appointment at Rochester General Hospital — about an hour away.
The appointment is to update all the admission junk prior to my “prostrate” biopsy next Friday, which is being done at a hospital this time — not Urology Associates of Rochester.
“Welcome to the Carter St. Parking-Garage;” which wasn’t there 12-13 years ago, when we last were there.
The Carter St. Parking-Garage was built where the old Carter St. parking-lot was, behind the hospital. One level became about four or five.
Rochester General Hospital was where I first was after the stroke. I was there over two weeks — and had 89 bazilyun tests that determined the reason I had a stroke. The reason I’d had a stroke was a patent foreman ovale, an unclosed passage between the upper chambers of my heart.
It had allowed a clot to pass toward my brain.
Rochester General Hospital wanted to do open-heart surgery immediately to close the PTO.
But we held off. The open-heart surgery was done about two years later when I had better command of my faculties. And it was done at Rochester General Hospital, a Cleveland Clinic heart hospital (although I don’t think it was then).
That was the last time we visited RGH; although I think I visited there to see Matt Ried, the webmaster at the mighty Mezz, when he did cancer-treatment. (He had testicular cancer; was operated on, and had radiation. —I guess he recovered; returned to work, and is now in Denver.)
“Please take ticket!” said a disembodied female voice from the movie “2001.”
I took a tickey and parked the Bathtub — and then began my search for the pre-admission appointment.
I managed to find the right place on the first try; using the old deduction waazoo. The right place was named something other than pre-admission. “Ya mean I got the right place on the first try?” I said to the receptionist, a grizzled veteran with a heavy Russian accent.
“What do you weigh, Mr. Hughes?”
“192,” I said.
“Well our scale says 200.”
“That’s your scale. I go by the one at the YMCA. You’re also weighing my sneakers and jacket.”
Blood was drawn, and an EKG performed.
“Do you find yourself out of breath if you exercise?”
“I run,” I yelled.
“Ever smoke?”
“Never have; never will; never in a million years!” I said.
Various nurse-practioners were trotted in.
“Park in the Portland Ave. parking-garage, and follow the directions for your procedure. Use the green elevators.”
“I’ve yet to ever see a green elevator.”
“And if you wanna be able to direct your wife home, ask for mild sedation, not general anesthesia. You have a choice.”
The nurse spouted off something about MAC; some abbreviation of the sedation used.
“To me, ‘MAC’ is my computer; I get loudly excoriated for using a MAC.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” she said.
“To me,” I said; “the Messenger is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, a place I worked almost 10 years. We had people gunning us all the time; they were called the ‘grammar-police.’”
“Yada-yada-yada-yada” for about two hours.
Finally I was released to the Carter St. Parking-Garage, and as I walked out I noticed a glitzy slot-machine thingy that said “prepay here.”
Engage technology-jones; the same thing I tried to do years ago at an Altoony Sheetz to order a sub with a touch-screen.
I made it two steps (out of about seven), when suddenly the almighty Bluster-King bellowed “I speak English” to a cowering waif behind the counter.
So much for an interesting technical challenge; the Bluster-Boy had butted in; displaying little interest in fielding a technical challenge.
I managed to complete my sub order with the touch-screen a month later with no difficulty when I rode motorbike to the mighty Curve myself.
After the stroke I couldn’t even set my digital watch, but that all came back. “I bet I could do that,” I told Joy Daggett at the mighty Mezz regarding the OCR scanner.
“I bet you could,” said Joy, and she proceeded to show me: “Here, watch me,” she said pulling levers and knobs galore.
Needless to say, I figured the sucker out myself.
“Hey Quark-Man.......” I used to say to Matt Saxon.
“Well, we got this here manual, son,” he’d say.
“Get outta here with that manual! Real men don’t use manuals. Just show me!”
“Insert parking-ticket in slot,” said disembodied voice.
Okay, I see two slots. The one at the right refuses my ticket, so must be for bills.
The one at left gobbles my ticket, and then says I owe four smackaroos.
“Insert cash or credit-card. Pick button for what yaz wanna use.”
I insert my Visa in the ticket-slot, and it gobbles that. Apparently my card was charged four bucks, but no receipt, and the tickey was spit back out along with my Visa.
“Please return ticket on exit.”
But this is the parking-ticket I started in with — do I get a checkout slip?
I drive to an exit, but no tickey-taker machine; it’s a staff exit.
Back away, go around, and find another exit (one of many) that has a “prepaid and credit-card” machine.
Okay, try that. “Please insert ticket,” disembodied voice says again.
I shove in my parking-ticket and up goes the gate, letting me out.

This is a reprise, more-or-less, of a thing I wrote at Houghton in the ‘60s about the flat-topped ex-Marine security honcho trying to slurp a canned soda at our original campus-center — which was a house.
This was back before pop-tops, when canned sody was only accessible via a motorized church-key, that cut drinking-holes in the can-top.
Mr. ex-Marine strode in, purchased a canned sody, and put the can in the hole-cutter.
He managed to get one hole cut in the can-top. “Suck-suck-suck!” Red face.
“John, ya gotta cut another hole in the can-top!”
“Oh, I’ll be all right.” Suck-suck-suck!
Finally he reinserted the sody-can in the hole-cutter, but failed to rotate the can. He cut the hole in the same place the first hole was sunk. Suck-suck-suck!
“John, ya gotta rotate the can!”

My wife is worried the Portland Ave. parking-garage may have the same automatic machines the Carter St. garage has; and hopes I am conscious enough to operate them. Some can do this and some are challenged — much like the Bluster-Boy at the Altoony Sheetz.

“Prostrate” is how my blowhard brother-from-Boston noisily insists “prostate” is spelled. —He noisily insists I have never pursued frequency of urination.

The “almighty Bluster-King” (the “Bluster-Boy”) is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost three years ago. Best job I ever had.

The “Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub.

“Altoony” is Altoona, PA, location of the “mighty Curve” (“Horseshoe Curve”), by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. (I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.) “Sheetz” is a large convenience-store operation based in Altoona. It has outlets all over Pennsylvania. —My brother and I had ridden motorbike there after the stroke.

“OCR scanning” is Optical-Character-Recognition scanning, generating a text file from a computer-scanned document. A text-file is scanned, and computer software recognizes the fonts/letters therein, generating a text file. “Joy Daggett” was the lady in charge of technological functions at the newspaper. “Matt Saxon” was a Graphic Artist. “Quark” is a computer software application for creating pages with text and/or pictures.

“Houghton” is Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I didn’t graduate with their approval. Houghton is a religious liberal-arts college. —During my senior year, I wrote a humor column for the college newspaper.

E-mail to WXXI

For me it’s the Saint Saëns Organ Symphony. (Take it up to about a minute everyone.)
I had a stroke October 26, 1993; fairly serious, but I recovered fairly well from it.
Shortly after my return home from various hospitals, someone, probably Mordecai, played the Saint Saëns Organ Symphony on WXXI.
“WHOA!” I said. “I recognize that. Soon-or-later an organ-blast will occur. It occurs here. Here we go everyone!”
I was introduced to the Saint Saëns Organ Symphony while a student at Houghton College in the ‘60s. Houghton has that fabulous pipe-organ, but it’s more appropriate for Bach or the Widor Organ Symphony.
The Saint Saëns Organ Symphony is rather turgid and overblown.
A guy named Baxter played it for me on his hi-fi.
Baxter was in ecstasy; conducting as it went along.
After graduation I bought the recording myself, and essentially learned it; as one does with just about every musical piece they appreciate.
This is the long prelude; then the organ-blast.
Every time I hear it played, I remember that “whoa” moment. It always chokes me up.

Radio-station WXXI, the public-radio FM classical music station in Rochester, NY, we listen to, has asked its listeners to detail their favorite classical piece, and why it turns them on. —Mordecai Lipshitz was afternoon announcer at that time. He has since retired.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993. It was caused by a Patent Foreman Ovale (PTO), a hole between the upper chambers of my heart, allowing a clot to pass to my brain.

“Houghton College,” in western New York, is from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I didn’t graduate with their approval. Houghton is a religious liberal-arts college. —They had a fabulous pipe-organ.

Harold Baxter, Class of 1966; a music-major (I think). He lived in a rooming-house, and had a massive record-collection and a hi-fi.

snippets

One of the consummate joys of working out at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA is that I get to hear amazing snippets from the infamous “Marcy, it’s everywhere” file.

FOR EXAMPLE
—1) The exercise-gym at the YMCA plays a boombox tuned to WDVI (“The Drive”), 100.5 FM, although it’s probably an HD feed.
“And now, presenting the lineup for S&S Limousine. First we have the Chargers and Chrysler 300s!”
“Next we have the magnificent land-yacht that holds 36 people! Granite floors, and lap-of-luxury seating!”
“36? Izzat all?” I thought to myself. I drove buses that seated 53; but they weren’t the lap-of-luxury.
The seats were green fiberglass-reinforced plastic, and hard.
And the floor was rubber on plywood. And if the frame warped or broke, the floor warped with it. We had one bus where the floor looked like ocean waves.
I think a so-called “soft-seater” held 49; and ya had to watch out getting up because a luggage-rack was right over your head.
Our buses were 40-feet long with a 33-foot wheelbase. Our bus-routes had to accommodate a mighty swing.
“30-foot wheelbase,” it crowed.
For cryin’ out loud; try to drive anywhere with that sucker.
My father died in ‘94, and our family got chauffeured to the cemetery in a stretch-Lincoln owned by the funeral-home.
Despite my recent stroke, I rode shotgun beside the stretch driver.
The turn into the cemetery was a sharp hairpin.
“NO WAY are we gonna make that turn,” I said. —The stretch had at least a 20-foot wheelbase; perhaps more.
“We’ll be all over the grass.” (It was raining.) “The rear will clip the hairpin, and the front will swing out,” I said. (Old bus-driver waazoo.)
When our niece got married they hired a stretch-limo. Thankfully I never saw it. I don’t know as the groom did either, as he was rather soused.
Almost killed his best man.
Same guy that carves the Thanksgiving turkey with a chainsaw.

—2) I’m walking down the main drag in front of the YMCA, shortly after exiting.
A 200-pound bespectacled Harley-momma is walking toward me from the other direction.
All-of-a-sudden: “Dat-da-da-Dah-Dah! Dat-da-da-Dah-Dah! Dat-da-da-Dah-Dah! Dat-da-da-Dahhhhhhhh.”
A “Ride of the Valkyries” ringtone.
(If my cellphone ever did that, I’d stomp it.)
Harley-momma unholsters her cellphone. “I can’t believe you were such a rat to put that thing away before ya took me for a ride!” she screamed.
“Okay,” I thought to myself. “Put away for future reference. I don’t believe the stuff I hear.”
All I could think was I sure am glad I’m not married to such a person.

—3) This isn’t so much a snippet as a traffic-incident; the sort of thing that rarely happens, but when it does, I can write it up, causing weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.
I drive out of the YMCA parking-lot, west on Park Ave., under the twin railroad bridges, and then south toward the parking-lot of the West Ave. Shopping-Plaza. (I wrote this plaza up earlier.)
Granny blue-hair is ahead of me in a silver Subaru Forester.
We enter the parking-lot, and Granny sweeps far to the right, clear into the parking area.
I angle left to pass Granny, but then Granny makes a sudden sweeping move to the left, right in front of me, unsignaled of course, intent on parking in the handicap-slot of the Medicine-Shoppe Pharmacy to our left.
Since I wasn’t charging at 15-20 mph I could avoid her without drama; just a slight tap of the brakes.
She never demonstrated any knowledge that I was behind her. And sure used enough swing to make her turn — enough for a semi.
As they used to say at the bus-company pertaining to the driving of others: “EXPECT ANYTHING!”
No sign of a Dubya-sticker, but “Don’t blame me; I voted for Big Mac and the ‘Cuda.”

“Marcy” is my number-one ne’er-do-well — she was the first I was e-mailing stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. A picture of her is in this blog at Conclave of Ne’er-Do-Wells. —Once Marcy asked where I got so much insane material. “Marcy, it’s everywhere,” I responded. (The “Ne’er-do-Wells” are an e-mail list of everyone I e-mail my stuff to.)

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

RE: “Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.....” —My siblings all noisily insist I’m an accident waiting to happen; since I can write up each (and rare) traffic-incident.

RE: “Since I wasn’t charging at 15-20 mph......” —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, insists you can — and should — do 15-20 mph in a parking-lot, which I say is too fast. He once dropped his motorcycle on top of himself in a parking lot when doing 15-20 mph toward an oncoming car. He broke many bones.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right. “Big Mac and the ‘Cuda” are John McCain and Sarah Palin.

Actual pheasant this time.......

......Not some strange bird dressed in an iridescent dark-blue Vietnam vet jacket picked up in some steamy Saigon boudoir.
I’m headed up Stirnee (“Stur-neee”) Road yesterday (Monday, November 10, 2008) toward the Stirnee Road parking-lot of the so-called elitist country-club.
I’m in the Bathtub, intending to hike our dog around the paths.
There is a sharp curve where the northerly road turns east-northeast.
You have to allow for it.
Do it wrong and you end up in a yard.
I slow for it, sweep around the curve, and there it is, smack in the apex, an actual pheasant waddling across the road.
Since I couldn’t see it until my turn, it’s only about 10 feet in front of me.
I have no choice but to run it over — ker-thump!
Memories of the time I split a possum with the FZR400 about 5 a.m. in the dark on my way to Transit.
Looking rearward I saw the pheasant fluttering into the sky. Stunned I guess, but still able to fly.
Memories of the time I clobbered a deer with an artic.
No sign of the deer when the dippity showed up — the deer must have got up and walked away.
I must have brushed the deer aside; didn’t actually run it over.
I got away a half-hour late, and those flunkies at Transit had me make the trip anyway.
—A half-hour late.
“Hey, where ya been? We thoughtcha were never comin’.”
No matter my passengers showed up a half-hour late to work. “We Transit-managers don’t ride the bus. Never in a million years! But keep that fat paycheck a-comin’.”
Like the time I had my Park-and-Ride bus cripple on my deadhead trip out I-390 to Avon (“AH-vahn;” not “AYE-vahn” [like the cosmetic]).
It pumped out all its tranny-fluid.
They knew that sucker was leaking ATF when they sent it out.
But what difference does that make?
It’s my problem. Better yet it only leaks when floored.
So I won’t see it in my precheck.
So here I am crippled on the shoulder of I-390. I set up my reflective triangles, with my four-ways a-flashin’.
The truck (T-14) appears with its 55-gallon drum of ATF, but they decide it ain’t worth fillin’; it’ll only cripple again — they see the leak.
So they decide to get me another bus; the cripple will need the hook.
Finally, about 45 minutes after my cripple, my replacement-bus shows up.
Did they decide to cover me, so my passengers wouldn’t wait 45 minutes in the cold?
Of course not! I would make the trip 45 minutes late — “just keep that fat paycheck a-comin’.”

“An actual pheasant” refers to a previous encounter with a bird that I thought might be a pheasant, but probably wasn’t.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin” as in “ow”) Park, where I run and we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. We are residents of one of those towns.

The “Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub.

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s three-plus, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

The “FZR400” is my 1989 Yamaha FZR400 motorcycle; 400 ccs. Motorcycle number-four; I’m now on motorbike number-six.

“Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993).

An “artic” (“r-TIK”) was a two-section (“bendable”) bus powered by one motor. The second section was a trailer connected to the first section by drawbar/bellows. It had a single driver. —The motor was in the first section. (They were my favorite ride.)

“Tranny-fluid” and “ATF” are automatic-transmission fluid. The transmission needed ATF to operate. (Our buses were automatic-transmission.)

“The hook” is the tow-truck.

Graduation day

So concludes our final session (session six) of dog obedience training with Scarlett at Lollypop Farm (yesterday, Sunday November 9, 2008).
A session wherein dog-training by a stroke-survivor with compromised speech shown through.
To train a dog, you have to immediately “praise-praise-praise” for the dog doing as desired.
As a stroke-survivor I can’t speak immediately; in fact, I can hardly speak at all.
It’s more body-english; certain positions and looks that engender dog reactions — e.g. a certain look will prompt “sit.”
There is, of course, the verbal “sit” command, which Scarlett confuses with submission, including “down.”
“Reward your dog immediately when he/she does what you want.”
Um, yeah sure. I can hardly talk. I can, but I’m not inclined to.
The instructor congratulated herself that “everyone finished the whole class.”
Well, not exactly.
The lady who browbeat her enthusiastic but confused dog wasn’t there.
But that’s only one of eight. All the rest finished.
“Your dog is confused. That’s why she’s barking at you.”
“Immediate praise-praise-praise.”
BOINK!
Down-sit-down-sit (bouncy-bouncy). I can’t respond fast enough. There’s always a delay; often no verbal response at all.
“These people don’t know that,” Linda said. “All we can do is go through the motions.”
“Yeah, but now what? I never heard what we’re supposed to be doing.......”
The class was confined to a room. That’s eight dogs in a room — a surfeit of distraction.
Perhaps the most successful exercise was to walk your dog around the room.
A fair approximation of heeling; except Scarlett was much faster than the others, and hot to check butts.
Scarlett always loves walking with me, but that’s because I let her be herself and lead.
She always stopped at the doors. “This is out. Are we done yet? I want out!”
Finally we were dismissed.
“If you want to sign up for the Advanced class, online only.”
Yank-uh-pull. “Let’s go!”
Now for the good part; our hike along the abandoned right-of-way of the Rochester, Syracuse & Eastern.
We went the other way; across the highway, and into the woods.
It’s more rural. The RS&E was passing through open countryside. No adjacent houses; no backyards.
“Somewhere this line turned south,” I said, but all I could see was a long straightaway that climbed a slight grade toward the end. (We were headed east-southeast.)
We passed a runner with his black lab on a leash — fear of aggressiveness — but nothing happened.
We turned around and began the long hike back to Lollypop.
Yank-uh-pull.
Off into the boondocks in search of critters.
“That’s a path, you monster.” BOINK! “Oh no ya don’t. This way!”
I guess in our case the whole import of this class was dog-socialization: contact with other dogs and people.
“About all I can do is walk my dog,” I said.
After returning home (no Weggers) I walked the dog.

“Scarlett” is our current dog; a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s three-plus, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

Lollypop Farm is the Rochester area Humane Society and animal-shelter. It offers courses in dog obedience training.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech.

The “Rochester, Syracuse & Eastern” is a long-abandoned interurban railroad east of Rochester that skirts Lollypop. —“Interurban” in that it was a special railroad designed to move passengers in outlying areas. It used self-propelled cars often powered electrically via overhead trolley-wire, but usually the cars were bigger than regular city trolley-cars. —The Rochester, Syracuse & Eastern was more than the ordinary interurban line, since it was double-track. Most interurbans were single-track. The RS&E could run much faster, but it never went beyond Syracuse. It’s abandoned right-of-way (grade), was made into a hiking trail.

“Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store near Lollypop.

Walkies

Yesterday (Saturday, November 8, 2008), as is usually the case on Saturday mornings, I took our dog to the so-called elitist country-club for a long hike on the trails.
Linda works at the post-office Saturday mornings, so we can’t run together at the park.
A few months ago we were able to start out together — me to the park, and Linda to the post-office.
But as daylight got shorter, that became impossible.
It would still be dark when Linda left.
Even after the return to Standard Time, it was still dark when Linda left (about 7:30 a.m.).
So I’d eat breakfast, take a nap, and then take the dog to the park about 10:30 a.m.
The dog seems to love the hike more than running, since it’s longer and more on trails.

—1) The wooden platform bridge that washed out last August in a downpour has been replaced.
The Boy Scouts replaced it last weekend with two discarded telephone-poles as cross-beams.
All they did was nail a deck of 2X8 treated planks on top, making a platform bridge much like the one that washed away.
Trouble is, it’s about twice as big as the one before (which was good-size; it coulda supported a pickup), and about three feet above the path.
It needs steps. It’s a huge jump, both on and off.
Often I have to sit just to get off it.

—2) A large gaggle of furiously honking geese flew over our heads — geese returning north in a “V.”
Reminded me of the Famblee-site.
The V was being led by a goose with a handicap-tag.
“Hey, where ya goin’?” said one goose in the back. “Who made you leader? North is that way. You got us headed south!”
“I’m the Ride-Captain,” the lead goose bellowed. “I know where I’m goin’ ‘cause I read the map!”
“Would it kill ya to ask for directions?” another goose asked.
Look out below. GUACAMOLE ALERT!

—3) While walking the paths, a man strode out of the woods-brush.
“Woof-woof-woof-woof! We’ll have none a’ that! I’m the guard-dog here,” Scarlett said.
Later, one path skirts the West Pond, and fishermen were out in a small rowboat.
“Woof-woof-woof-woof! Never saw that before.”
“Bark first; ask questions later!”

—4) -a) Hiking the East Pond Trail we came upon “Pookie,” being walked by an elderly couple.
All-of-a-sudden Pookie was yanking every which way, trying to check out our dog.
“Don’t worry. He’s friendly,” the old man said as he got dragged down a slope.
“Well, I don’t know about this one,” I said. She can be aggressive, especially toward Lotharios.
“I g-g-got the wr-wr-wrong l-l-leash,” the poor man shouted, desperately trying to hold on.
It was an extendible, but at full extension.
(“I got this fantabulous extendible leash on the personal recommendation of Bob Hughes,” my old friend Matt Saxon once said at the mighty Mezz. “But it’s got me wrapped around a tree!”)
“He’s only a puppy,” the man said.
Well, at nearly 100 pounds, it was an awfully big puppy; an extremely strong yellow lab. Yank-uh-pull!
“We’ll let you pass first,” his nervous wife said.
They tried to get him to sit off the path, but Pookie was having none of it.
“He sure is bound-and-determined,” the wife said, trying to corral a wildly bouncing monster.
Both dogs did gigantic lunges; determined to check each other out.
No aggression, but I had to pull mightily to get by.
-b) We encountered Pookie a second time, but this time they tried to be prepared — and we were in a flat area.
They again tried to get Pookie to sit off the trail to the side, as I approached.
But again Pookie would have none of that — yank-uh-pull-uh-lurch. Lunge-BOINK!
“I know all about it,” I said, as I yanked by.
“It ain’t easy being an older person with a young dog. This dog was born in 2005; me in 1944.”

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s three-plus, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin” as in “ow”) Park, where I run and we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. We are residents of one of those towns.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years. Like me she’s retired, but she works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office.

The “Famblee-site” is our family’s web-site at MyFamily.com.

“‘Hey, where ya goin’?’ said one goose in the back. ‘Who made you leader? North is that way. You got us headed south!’ ‘I’m the Ride-Captain,’ the lead goose bellowed. ‘I know where I’m goin’ ‘cause I read the map!’” all refer to my all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say. He rides motorcycle with a group of guys from his area, and is the self-appointed “Ride-Captain.” Once he took over driving from my father bellowing “I know where I’m goin’ ‘cause I read the map!” —My brother has and uses a handicap-tag.

RE: GUACAMOLE ALERT! —Goose-poo looks like guacamole.

The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost three years ago. Best job I ever had. Matt Saxon, a graphic-artist, was a fellow employee during my employ.

Reflections on a historic election

—1) “Historic” yes, in that for once I had to wait in line.
Our polling-place is the West Bloomfield Town Hall up the street, a converted old church — no steeple.
Every time before when I voted there, it was boom-and-zoom; in-and-out in about five minutes.
Signature in the book after determining our election-district (there are two in West Bloomfield), and then crank the ancient mechanical voting-machine.
This time I arrived about 10 a.m., as usual, but there was a line of about 15 people.
“I hafta get back to work,” a nervous Granny muttered, butting in. “I’m voting for Big Mac and the ‘Cuda.”
Too bad my mother wasn’t around. No one ever butted in on her, no matter what their politics.
An old geezer waddled in, driving a walker with an oxygen kit. —At least five walkers were visible; everyone seemed to be driving walkers, but not this kid (I’m 64).
Then Joe the unlicensed plumber strode in.
“That Obama is the Devil incarnate,” someone observed. “Our nation is going down the tubes.”
“I guess we gotta set up coon-traps at the White House.”

—2) RE: “You got your wish, Dewd......” —Well, not exactly.
The gumint is now entirely Democratic, which I think is frightening.
No checks-and-balances of a Republican opposition — which leads to gridlock, I admit.
But perhaps gridlock is better than one-party rule.

—3) There are two reasons the Republicans lost:
-a) The economy has tanked, entirely under their administration.
To solely blame them is only partly true.
A lot more than REPUBLICANS, and Barney Frank (gasp!), are responsible for the lending crisis.
But the end result is the electorate rises up and says “throw the bums out!”
“Replace ‘em with another set of bums.”
My blowhard brother-in-Boston noisily claims it’s all Barney Frank’s fault.
Yep; the fatcats in the mega-banks and on Wall Street are entirely blameless.
NASCAR-Dads United never liked that guy anyway. He’s the antithesis of macho Harleyness, a “queer,” for cryin’ out loud.
So since NASCAR-dads can only accommodate one single person for a bad event, we’ll just blame Barney Frank for the whole stinkin’ kabosh.
Us fatcats are entirely blameless — it’s all Barney Frank, I tell ya!
-b) George Stephanopoulos of ABC-News made an interesting observation.
“The reason McCain lost was because Republicans stayed home.”
Turnout by Democrats was way higher.
A number of factors could be at play:
-The fact McCain was not a tub-thumping REPUBLICAN; witness the fevered rantings of Rush Limbaugh.
-Republicans probably thought the election was lost anyway, the economy having tanked under their watch.

—4) Palin-drones
My wife was reading an article during slow-time at the post-office.
McCainiacs feel the biggest mistake McCain made was naming Sarah Palin to be his running-mate.
She was so ill-prepared, McCainiacs were embarrassed and their campaign become two campaigns: that of McCain and that of Palin.
No wonder in the final days of the campaign McCain was showing up with Joe Lieberman, the guy he shoulda named his running-mate. And Sarah-baby was off on her own, somewhere else.
The final nail-in-the-coffin was when those guys impersonating the president of France, called up Sarah, and she thought it was real.
Maybe not, but she came off with egg on her hottie face.
Ya don’t influence Pooty-Poot with legs!

We live in the small rural town of “West Bloomfield” south of Rochester in Western New York.

“I’m voting for Big Mac and the ‘Cuda” is a bumper-sticker my brother from northern Delaware photographed.

“You got your wish, Dewd......” is something my blowhard brother-in-Boston said to me regarding the downfall of the REPUBLICANS. All my siblings are tub-thumping REPUBLICANS, goosestepping to Limbaugh, and since I’m not, I’m reprehensible and stupid.

RE: “Barney Frank (gasp!)......” —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, thinks his Congressman Barney Frank is disgusting, and the root of all evil.

I call my brother-in-Boston a “NASCAR-dad.” (He has a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and is heavily into the Harley schtick.)

My wife of 40+ years is “Linda.” Like me she’s retired, but she works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office, which can be extremely un-busy.

“Legs” is a ZZ Top song about slutty women. My siblings all said Sarah had “legs;” that she was “hot.” “Pooty-Poot” was president George W. Bush’s nickname for Vladimir Putin.