Monthly Calendar Report for December, 2010

It’s hard to decide which of two calendars to make number-one.

―The December 2010 entry of my own calendar is the most fantastic shot I snagged during my first Faudi (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”) train-chase, a double off the overpass at Lilly, PA.
It was the only double we saw, or rather what I call a “double,” two locomotive front-ends.

Photo by BobbaLew.

My July picture of the Executive Business Train.

My picture of the Executive Business Train (at left) was also a double, but not two front-ends.
—But the December 2010 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is also incredible.
The Lockheed P-38 is one of the best WWII propeller fighter-planes, and the calendar picture is fantastic.
So I think I will make it number-one.
My own calendar is also fantastic, but I can’t always make it number-one.



Lockheed P-38 Lightning. (Photo by Philip Makanna©.)

—The P-38 is one of the most fabulous airplanes of WWII.
It was designed by Hall Hibbard and Kelly Johnson at Lockheed, a supreme hot-rod.
It was designed in 1937.
At that time the Army Air Corps (there was no Air Force yet) required fighter-planes to be single engine.
The P-38 got by by being called an “Interceptor” instead of a fighter-plane.
It could carry twice the armament of Air Corps allowances, and boomed-and-zoomed.
A prototype P-38 set a cross-country speed-record on February 11, 1939, Burbank, CA to New York City in seven hours, two minutes, but crash-landed due to carburetor-icing.
It only had the Allison V12 motor, but turbo-supercharged, and two at 1,425 horsepower each (I get a lot of different horsepower figures, from 1,000 up to over 1,700; but 1,425 from two different sources).
The airplane had counter-rotating propellers for offsetting the engine-torque imbalance a single propeller exerts.
The engines were also counter-rotating; the only thing that had to be changed was the sparkplug sequence.

Photo by BobbaLew.

The only P-38 I’ve ever seen.

The last airshow I attended, the Geneseo Airshow in the late ‘90s, had a P-38 in it; the only one I’ve ever seen, which is why I went.
It may have been the one pictured in this calendar; although that one has been restored, and looks great.
The Geneseo P-38 was awful, badly in need of restoration, but at least it was airworthy.
I watched it circle, and land, and taxi.
The pilot shut off the motors after parking.
“AHA!” I shouted. “Counter-rotating props. I remember that!”
I even had a model of one, my only WWII fighter-plane model.
It was yellow plastic and unpainted.
I never painted anything, for fear of making a mess.
All I did was apply the kit’s decals.
What little paint it would have needed was a few small markings, and anti-glare coatings.
I also have a video of a restored P-38 flying, and also a video of a P-51 Mustang.
To me the P-38 and the P-51 are the most gorgeous of the WWII propeller fighter-planes.
And Lockheed did well to get as much performance as they did out of that Allison V12.
The Mustang had a much stronger Packard-Merlin V12.
Pilots loved the P-38; fast, stable, responsive and maneuverable.
Although they were so fast they were encountering tail flutter at high speeds.
P-38s also suffered engine reliability problems.
No matter, they’re what I’d want.



Holy mackerel! (Photo by BobbaLew.)

―The December 2010 entry of my own calendar is one of the best train-photos I ever snagged; two head-ends approaching the overpass in Lilly, PA.
The photo was taken with Phil Faudi, the railfan extraordinaire from Altoona, PA, who supplied all-day train-chases for $125. —I did one two years ago, alone, and it blew my mind.
He called them “Adventure-Tours.”
Faudi had his rail-scanner along, tuned to 160.8, the Norfolk Southern operating channel, and knew the whereabouts of every train, as the engineers called out the signals, and various lineside defect-detectors fired off.
He knew each train by symbol, and knew all the back-roads, and how long it took to get to various photo locations — and also what made a successful photo — lighting, drama, etc.
I let Phil do the monitoring. I have a scanner myself, but I left it behind.
Phil knew every train on the scanner, where it was, and how long it took to beat it to a prime photo location.
My first time was a slow day, yet we got 20 trains. Next Tour we got 30 trains in one nine-hour day.
Phil is gonna give it up; fear of liability suits, and a really nice car he’s afraid he’d mess up.
We (Phil driving) were probably in South Fork or perhaps Portage, both towns west of Allegheny Summit, and both have branches past coal-tipples. The branch east out of South Fork is to a major coal-tipple. The line east out of Portage is the original Pennsy alignment, since bypassed, but still active as a branch. There is a coal-tipple along it too.
A coal-train had been loaded, and was now out on Track One of the old Pennsy main. It had to be moved toward Altoona, so up the West Slope, through the tunnels at Gallitzin (“guh-LIT-zin” — Allegheny Summit), and then back down toward Altoona.
It was on-the-move; Phil got it on his scanner — which tipple I don’t remember.
Phil also heard the engineer of an eastbound stacker calling out a signal on Track Two approaching South Fork.
Off we roared toward Lilly, which has a highway overpass over the old Pennsy main.
We drove out onto the overpass, stopped in the center, and “You get out, Bob. I’ll park down there and walk back up. We may get a double.”
Phil was walking back up as the coal-train approached, really hammering, far away on Track One.
“We’re gonna get a double, Bob,” he said. “Get ready!”
The coal-train got closer, moving slowly, and suddenly there was the stacker on Track Two.
BAM! Got it!
Two head-ends at once; first time ever.



Jeffries’ 1933 Ford two-door.

―The December 2010 entry of my Oxman Hot-Rod Calendar is a 1933 Ford two-door sedan, once the daily-driver of customizer Dean Jeffries.
Normally a two-door sedan would be of little interest to me, also a 1933 Ford.
The good Fords of that time are the ’32 and ’34; although the ’32 is more classic, a vertical grill-shell. —The ’34 was scowling at you (I prefer the ’32).
The two-door sedans are usually moribund. Much more desirable are the roadsters and coupes (especially three-window).
But this is a really great-looking hot-rod, chopped and channeled and sectioned.
“Chopping” is to hacksaw 3-4 inches out of the window-posts, and then weld everything back together, to lower the roof.
“Channeling” is to install 4-8 inch channels in the body-floor, so it can sit lower on the frame-rails.
“Sectioning” is to hacksaw horizontal 4-8 inch strips out of the body-sides, and then weld everything back together, to lower the overall body-height.
Getting everything to fit together after all these body-modifications was probably a struggle, but it was Jeffries.
That radiator-grill probably had to be sectioned too, along with the hood-sides.
Doing all this also scrunches the driver-post. The driver may have been driving from the back seat.

Cheesecake (that’s Jeffries at right — that’s also his ’46 Mercury).

Jeffries was born in 1933 into southern California, and became part of the post-war so-Cal (southern California) custom-car scene.
He dropped out of high-school at age 17, and gravitated into car-painting and pinstriping, after serving in Germany in the Army.
He became a major influence in custom-car culture; his paint-jobs were rather elaborate.
Jeffries was one of the first to do flame-paint, which this car has.
Jeffries was also into fabrication — building cars. He also did metalwork and car customizing.
This car was his daily-driver, gorgeous, and a rolling advertisement for his skills.

A ’50 Ford coupe by Jeffries (sure; get this thing in your driveway).

First 51 south through Stanley, VA. (Photo by O. Winston Link.)

―The December 2010 entry of my O. Winston Link "Steam and Steel" calendar is a wonderful mood-shot, a Norfolk & Western freight-train crossing the main drag through Stanley, VA.
In utter darkness — I bet it’s after midnight.
The locomotive is a Y-class 2-8-8-2 articulated compound.
“Articulated” means the locomotive chassis is two segments. The rear driver-set is on the second segment, solid to the boiler — the locomotive boiler (and firebox) is mounted to the second segment.
The front driver-set is on the front chassis segment, which is hinged to the rear segment.
This allows the front segment to angle into turns, crossovers, and switches.
If the locomotive chassis wasn’t articulated, the long driver wheelbase would lateral off curved track.

Pennsy T1.

If it’s not articulated, it’s a “duplex.” Pennsy had duplexes; its curvature in the midwest was open enough to accommodate duplexes. —Duplexes, like articulateds, have multiple drive-pistons; e.g. 4-4-4-4 (the Pennsy T1, pictured above).
“Compounding” is to use the spent steam from one set of drive-pistons (or single piston), to power other drive-pistons. In Norfolk & Western’s Y-class the spent steam from the rear drive-pistons powered the front drive-pistons.
Or sometimes the spent steam from one cylinder of a two-cylinder locomotive might power the opposite piston.
Or the spent steam from the outside drive-pistons might power a center piston (or pistons) of a three- (or four-) cylinder locomotive.
Such locomotives never became the norm; center cylinders were hard to work on.
The valve-motion was inside the driver-set.
With two outside cylinders — the norm — the valve-motion was easily accessible.
Compounding was all the rage about 1900.
But no one could really make it work.
Many railroads purchased compound articulateds, and then converted them to “simple;” the boiler powering all four drive-pistons directly.
Only Norfolk & Western made compounding work; they had numerous Y-class locomotives.
There are many details of this photograph I notice, because they are the world I was born into.
Although they may not be visible in a column-width blog photograph.
—1) Of particular interest is that telephone-booth to the right.
When was the last time you ever saw any such thing?
I have a cellphone myself.
Phone-booths are a dinosaur.
—2) Also of interest are the streetlights.
The bulbs are incandescent in flared metal housings.
Now they are self-lighting sodium-vapor, or something else.
A similar streetlight was in front of our neighbor’s house where I grew up.
It would light up the wall in my front bedroom.
I needed that light to keep away monsters.
That’s late ‘40s/early ‘50s.

Photo by Ian Britton.

—3) There is a different railroad-crossing sign behind that phone-booth — it’s not the X illustrated at left.
It indicates a two-track railroad-crossing.
I remember when stop-signs were yellow, not red. With reflective glass buttons; the background wasn’t reflective.
You had to know the stop-sign was there. They didn’t stand out; they weren’t instantly recognizable.
Railroad-crossing signs are now more-or-less standardized; like the X-sign pictured.
Although there are variations specific to conditions.
Often a second sign will be there indicating the number of tracks.
That’s incorporated in this Link sign.
But the unknowing might not know it’s a railroad-crossing sign.
—4) Also of interest are the Coke-signs part of restaurant signs.
Ya don’t see that much any more.
Apparently Coke at that time partially paid (or fully paid) for a restaurant sign if their moniker were incorporated.
The “Burns Restaurant” sign to the right has the Coke-moniker in it, as does the “Lunch” sign to the left.
Ya don’t see signs like that any more.
—5) And how about that black ’49/’50 Chevy parked on the right side of the street?
A lot of such cars were around in the world I was born into.
It might even be a “Fleetline” (fastback); although I think not.
General Motors built a lot of fastbacks in the ‘40s and early ‘50s.
My paternal grandfather’s ’42 Chevy was a Fleetline.
By the 1953 model-year the General had given up on fastbacks.
They looked kind of doughty anyway.
For 1953 the General’s postwar body was sightly upgraded.
The first car I ever drove was a ’53 Chevy, Powerglide automatic transmission with tinted glass, our first auto-tranny and turn-signals.
It was my parents’ car.
My second doctor had a fastback ’50 Chevy; it was lemon-pea green.
He took me to the hospital in it after I crashed my bicycle head-on into a maroon ’47 Ford.
The Ford was going very slowly; me probably faster on my bicycle.
The people inside were gawking at houses, and didn’t see me.
All I needed was a bandaid on my head. My bike was totaled.
This isn’t the world I was born into; the buildings are all late 19th century.
The world I was born into was more modern; a suburb.
Buildings from the ‘30s and ‘40s.
Look carefully and you’ll see a policeman walking the left sidewalk — in front of the luncheonette.


We’re slowly downhill from here. The last calendar is moribund.



1970 Cougar Eliminator. (Photo by David Newhardt.)

―The December 2010 entry of my Motorbooks Musclecars calendar is a really great picture, but only a Cougar.
It’s a great-looking car, but I never thought much of Cougars.
Apparently nor did others — not many sold. Eliminators are rare.
The Cougar was Mercury’s version of the Mustang; it uses much of the Mustang body — like the roof.
It was supposed to be a luxo version of the Mustang, and stooped to various styling tricks, e.g. disappearing quad headlights, and sequential rear turn-signals.
It kept getting bigger-and-bigger. It eventually began using the Ford Torino intermediate body; no longer the Mustang.
I drove a Torino once, a 302 Windsor V8. Very placid.
The Mustang kept growing too. By the 1971 model-year it was ridiculous; overblown and bloated.
The original Mustang was about the right size.
The best Eliminators had the 351 Cleveland V8. Also available were the much larger CobraJet V8s.
But the CobraJet motors were allegedly wimpy, or had that reputation.
A GM or Chrysler musclecar could often beat.
The 351 Cleveland was the best version of the Small-Block Ford V8; an even better design than the Small-Block Chevy.
It had more open valving, splayed valves, and was rated at 300 horsepower.
The Cleveland was the engine in the Ford Mach I Mustang — although the Mustang was faster because it was lighter.
The Ford Cobra-Jets were heavy — too much weight on the front-end.
Such an arrangement understeered — plowed.
In good tune an Eliminator could beat a GM or Chrysler musclecar in a straight line.
But they quickly fell out of tune; or so it seemed.
The really good Ford hot-rods had the lighter Cleveland V8, e.g. the “Boss 302” at 302 cubic inches (below).
They were better balanced.

Photo by David Newhardt.

That’s Wood back there. (Photo by Bud Rothaar©.)

—The December 2010 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black and white All-Pennsy Calendar is only there because it has photographer Don Wood far back in it.

Photo by Don Wood©.

Wood has just taken the best photograph he ever shot (at left), two Pennsy Decapods (2-10-0) on the heavy Mt. Carmel ore-train.
The first Audio-Visual Designs black and white All-Pennsy Calendars, in the late ‘60s, were all Wood.
Wood lived in Elizabeth, NJ.
He roamed all over the northeast, documenting the last of Pennsy steam usage, which concluded in 1957.
Particularly NJ and central PA. East of Harrisburg Pennsy was electrified, but west of Harrisburg was not electrified, so steam was still in use.
Pennsy was one of the final holdouts for steam-locomotive usage.
Steam was also in use north of Harrisburg, particularly the Mt. Carmel branch, where Pennsy dragged heavy ore-trains up to interchange with Lehigh Valley Railroad.
It was on this branch where Wood snagged his greatest picture, and this Rothaar shot is the same train, although moribund compared to Wood.
Wood is now dead, as is Rothaar.
Both were probably using heavy Press-Graphic cameras with the 4-by-5 inch black and white negative, state-of-the-art at that time.



Ummmmmm........... (Photo by Henry Stange.)

—The December 2010 entry of my All-Pennsy color calendar is almost laughable.
It’s only justification is that it’s Pennsy from 1950.
And it’s color.
Pennsy was slow to switch to diesels.
That’s because the railroad moved so much coal, the fuel for steam-locomotives.
Pennsy’s first diesel was an Electromotive Division “SW” switcher with an eight-cylinder Winton 201A engine in 1937.
Her number was 3908, and she was re-engined in 1958 with a 567 V6, still 600 horsepower.
Pennsy bought an EMD NW2 in 1941, plus an EMD SW1 and nine Baldwin VO-660s in 1942.
By 1950, when this picture was taken, Pennsy was on its way to full dieselization.
Steam-locomotion was still in heavy use, often in road-service.

Photo by BobbaLew.

S-12 #8761.

This picture reminds me of one of my photos (at left), a picture I took about 1959 at Edgemoor Yard north of Wilmington, DE, #8761, a Baldwin-Lima-Hamilton “yard-dog” built in 1952.
I lived in northern Delaware at that time.
It’s a 1,200 horsepower S-12.
I took it because it was all I could get.
Nothing was moving on the adjacent Pennsy NY-to-Washington main.
This calendar picture looks the same.
Like nothing but this brace of switchers showed up on the Pennsy line east of Logansport, IN.
Slogging switchers rarely rated photography. What we wanted was road-power boomin’-and-zoomin’.
In my youth that was a GG1 (“Jee-Jee-ONE;” I only say that because a friend was mispronouncing it “Jee-Jee-Eye”) on a “Red-Apple” passenger express — see below.
The first diesel locomotives I ever saw were Baldwin road-switchers on PRSL.
“PRSL” (Pennsylvania-Reading [‘RED-ing,’ not ‘READ-ing’] Seashore Lines) is an amalgamation of Pennsylvania and Reading railroad-lines in south Jersey to counter the fact the two railroads had too much parallel track. It was promulgated in 1933. It serviced mainly the Jersey seashore from Philadelphia.
PRSL is where I first became a railfan.
The Baldwin road-switchers are what replaced steam-locomotion on PRSL, which means I was lucky enough to witness steam in revenue service — that was late ‘40s and early ‘50s.

Model S-12 #8761.

I notice Bowser is making an HO model of the exact Baldwin switcher I photographed, #8761.
Do I buy it or not? 80 bucks.
No model railroad to run it on, nor do I want one.
All they do is collect dust.
I certainly have been involved in enough model-railroad layouts.
I had model-trains of my own (Lionel), and helped a young neighbor friend build a giant HO model-railroad layout in 1959.
What I really want is an HO GG1, the greatest railroad-locomotive of all time.

Photo by BobbaLew.

This thing was doin’ at least 80.

I certainly saw enough of them — the real thing — and every time I did they were doing 80-100 mph!
8761 is coupled to a Dupont covered-hopper. The overpass to a giant Dupont plant is visible.
Northern Delaware is mainly Dupont.


I should do one final picture from MY OWN calendar.


(Photo by BobbaLew.)

It’s at Horseshoe Curve near Altoona (“al-TUNE-uh), PA, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to.
Horseshoe Curve is now a national historic site. It was a trick by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades — the railroad was looped around a valley to stretch out the climb. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child. —I’ve been there hundreds of times, since it’s only about five hours away.
EMD GP9 #7048 is visible at left in the cover-picture.
7048 replaced a Pennsy K4 Pacific, #1361 (below), 4-6-2, that was to be restored.
1361 had been in the Curve viewing-area since 1957, being built in Altoona.
1361 was severely deteriorated, but they got it running.
It didn’t even have a stack-cap, so its boiler-barrel was half-filled with snow-melt.

Photo by BobbaLew.

K4 #1361.

1361 crippled, so plans were afoot to fully restore it.
This included many new parts.
The locomotive was moved to Steamtown in Scranton, PA, for restoration in their shop.
But restoration was bog-slow.
1361 was in bad shape.
Even the smokebox had to be rebuilt.
Years passed, and eventually Railroaders’ Memorial Museum in Altoona, owners of 1361, gave up.
1361 was too far gone.
Getting it running would cost a fortune.
This cover-picture is an old picture, 2005.
7048 is rusted, but still has its red keystone icon.
7048 has since been repainted, but no keystone yet.
Horseshoe Curve is now operated by Norfolk Southern Railroad.
They operate the old cross-PA Pennsylvania Railroad line.
Pennsy merged with New York Central Railroad in 1968 as Penn-Central and that failed.
Penn-Central was merged into Conrail (Consolidated Railroad Corporation) by the government with other eastern bankrupt railroads, and eventually Conrail cut loose from government involvement.
It significantly streamlined and rebuilt, and became profitable and private.
Conrail was broken up in 1999. Most of the ex-Pennsy lines went to Norfolk Southern, and the ex New York Central lines went to CSX (railroad).
The passing train is downhill.
That’s an EMD SD70M on the point, followed by a GE Dash 9-40CW.
Horseshoe Curve is a fabulous place to watch trains, smack in the apex of a horseshoe-shaped curve.
It’s a giant amphitheater, and trains are so frequent you’ll probably see one if you wait 20 minutes.
And it’ll be right in your face.
The train-engineers blow the horn at waving train-watchers.
And climbing is wide-open; assaulting the heavens!
The Curve is also a hill; 1.8% up-and-down.
That’s 1.8 feet up for every 100 feet forward.
Not very steep, but steep enough to often require helper locomotives, both climbing and descending.
Descending is “dynamic-braking;” turning the locomotive traction-motors into generators. —They provide braking action at the locomotive.
If braking failed, the train might run away downhill into Altoona. It’s happened.
The Curve is deteriorating as a tourist-draw.
It used to be the parade of steam-locomotives kept down the brush with their ash.
With diesels the brush grows, and it’s volunteers that cut it back.
Everything is grown back up. It’s no longer possible to see the legs of the Curve.
And of course one leg is higher than the other — the southern calk.
The brush was cut back a few years ago, and trees felled.
But it’s growing back.
And Norfolk Southern isn’t Pennsy, which seemed proud of the Curve.
I’ve always been pleasantly surprised by this picture.
I’ve shot hundreds of photos at Horseshoe Curve, and this was the only one that worked.
My eye for a photograph isn’t that good, so what I do is just shoot. Shoot and see if it’s any good. Shoot with abandon.
It helps no one was in this picture; it’s a view I try to repeat.
7048 is in the picture, and that tree to the right frames the moving train.


My Oxman hot-rod calendar also has an additional picture, but I don’t think it’s worth doing, because it’s a Chuck Foose dream-car.

Brick-and-mortar stores

“This program-segment brought to you by Coupon-Clipper” (or whatever), another ad on the supposedly non-commercial public-radio station we listen to, Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi, the classical-music FM station out of Rochester.
Well, it’s easier to take than all the cutesy high-energy yammering out of other radio-stations, the strident bellowing of Conservative talk-radio hosts, and the dirty jokes of the smash-mouth in-your-face stations.
“Supplying online printable coupons for major national chain stores, and also brick-and-mortar stores.
“What’s a ‘brick-and-mortar’ store?” I ask.
“What if I don’t need bricks and/or mortar?”
Reminds of my time at the Messenger newspaper in nearby Canandaigua.
An editor once said “all the news that fits,” a bastardization of the N.Y. Times motto: “All the news that’s fit to print.”
It reflected what was happening.
A blizzard of stories got delivered to our newspaper every morning via satellite.
The page-editors would pore through them, and pick out what little they could fit to a page.
Other stories, of course, were locally written. They usually led.
What came over the satellite was filler.
A page-editor might pick this-or-that, but what mattered in the end was that it fit.
Often it was cut to fit; the satellite stuff was cuttable.
“Sounds like......” (whoever), the head-honcho said.
He then told me “We don’t care if you read the paper, just buy it.”
My wife uses the Messenger as mulch.
The long-ago Sports-Editor Steve Bradley, who gave me the nickname “Grady” (see at right), used to complain he was only generating fish-wrap.

• “Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi” is WXXI.
• For nearly 10 years after my stroke (1996-2005) I worked at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper. Best job I ever had.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.

Hurd Orchards

Time to name names.
We are in receipt of our annual pre-Christmas Hurd Orchards flyer, “gifts from the farm.”
Seems I blogged this before, but I don’t think it was Hurd.
A similar online insanity.
A gift of simple pine-cones arranged as a display for some insane amount, perhaps $200 or more.
My wife was stunned.
“I can get pine-cones free from the forest-floor, and assemble them for sale. Maybe I should,” she said.
“Dress the arrangement up with florid prose, and sell it for a fortune!”
“A sucker is born every minute,” I said.
“Although your offering won’t have the ‘Hurd Orchards’ imprimatur,” I added.
“I guess that counts for something, like maybe $200 or more for a display of pine-cones!” I said.
We perused yesterday’s flyer.
Many preserve offerings were $35. Some were $50 or more, some $70.
The cheapest was $22; “Handmade, succulently delicious, fresh as the summer sun and delightfully pretty.”
$22 for a single 12-ounce jar of jelly!
Although it’s tied with French rooster-ribbons.
For cryin’ out loud!
I don’t pay anywhere near that at Weggers, although their jelly is not “handmade, succulently delicious, fresh as the summer sun and delightfully pretty.”
Nor is it tied with French rooster-ribbons.
“Shouldn’t it be ‘Freedom rooster-ribbons?’” I asked. “And what does the rooster think?”
You can bet this kid will not fire up Hurd Orchards online.
We didn’t see the $200 pine-cone offering this year.
I hope no one bit.

• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at.

Toy-expert

Yesterday morning (Friday, November 26, 2010) we had our radio on, tuned to Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi, the classical-music radio-station out of Rochester we listen to.
The national news came on at 7 a.m.
I forget what they were reporting about, but a “toy-expert” was brought in to give an opinion.
“Toy-expert,” we both cried.
Probably the main reason our marriage has lasted almost 43 years is we think alike.
“I wonder what a ‘toy-expert’ is?” I said. “What does is take to become a ‘toy-expert?’”
The female toy-expert began yammering.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada!”
Years ago, at the Mighty Mezz, I wondered what it took to be an expert.
My good friend Bill Robinson, who was in the cubicle next to mine at that time, picked right up.
I’ll be kind enough to not detail his response, lest someone blow me in for inappropriate content.
The gist of what he said was that you had to be a jerk to be an expert.
Every Christmas a lady weighs in on the local TV about unsafe toys.
Toys that threaten the livelihood of our children.
Her implication is the toy-manufacturers have no shame; that child-safety is second to profit.
I’m 66 years old.
During my childhood I had an Erector-set.
It was loaded with tiny nuts and bolts, etc., that could be perceived as a choking-hazard.
Yet here I am! I managed to survive despite that lady not being around at that time. —To get my mother all riled about profit and child-safety.
What riled my mother was Commies; that they might hit our sleepy suburb with an Atomic Bomb.
And “Secular Humanists” taking over our church.
That choking-hazard Erector-set was the best toy I had.
I built who-knows-what with it, and thereby became rather handy.
My 1972 Chevrolet Vega was sort of an Erector-set.
I generally fix lawnmowers myself.
I wonder what a “toy-expert” would think of an Erector-set?

• “Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi” is WXXI.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost five years ago. Best job I ever had. Bill Robinson was an editor there during my employ. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)

Hemi versus Fuelly

The January 2011 issue of my Classic Car Magazine has an interesting comparison, a fuel-injected 1957 Chevrolet Sport-Coupe versus a Hemi-powered 1956 Desoto (“hem-EEE;” not “hee-MEEE”).
The ’57 Chevrolet is the darling of the collector-car world, the car everyone wants.
They are so in demand, their prices are skyrocketing. ’57 convertibles sell for over $100,000.
What makes all the Tri-Chevys (1955-1957) so popular is their Small-Block V8 engine, introduced in the 1955 model-year at 265 cubic inches.
It was a revolutionary engine. It had a lightweight valve-gear that could be revved to the moon, 5-6-7,000 rpm, higher than anything else at the time.
The Small-Block became the desire of hot-rodders; cheap and available, and responsive to hot-rodding.
It retired the Flat-head Ford V8; flat-head because the engines were side-valve, like lawnmower engines.
Previously the Ford Flat-head had been the engine-of-choice among hot-rodders.
Lots of speed-equipment had been available for the Flat-head.
But the Small-Block skonked all that.
Fuel-injection in 1957 was mainly to give the Small-Block breathing ability.
It wasn’t electronically controlled, as most fuel-injections are now.
In fact, it was very rudimentary; about the same as the earliest vacuum-controlled fuel-injections installed on Volkswagen Rabbits in the ‘70s.
It was constant, much as the early F.I. Volkswagens were. —Rather than timed intermittently.
Fuel-charge delivery to each cylinder could be made equal. With carburetors the closest cylinders (e.g. center) ran rich, and the farthest cylinders ran lean.
Carburetion was messy and dirty, which is why everything now is fuel-injected.
The earliest fuel-injections on Chevrolets had long intake ram-tubes. Length was tuned to maximize charge intake — the air-column in the intake tube resonated.
283 cubic inches displacement, 283 horsepower. That’s one horsepower per cubic inch; phenomenal at that time.
But early fuel-injection was a beast — no one could work on it. It was beyond the comprehension of most mechanics.
Many F.I. cars were converted to carburetors.
The other supreme Detroit V8 was the Hemi; which means hemispherical combustion-chambers.
Normally all the valves in an engine, both intake and exhaust, were in a row parallel to the crankshaft.
The row could be canted toward the intake-manifold, but that tilted the exhausts in the wrong direction — that is, if the exhaust manifolds were on the opposite side of the cylinder-head.
But the Hemi turned engine-valving 90 degrees.
The intake valve could be aimed at the intake manifold, and the exhaust valves the opposite direction.
This required a hemispherically shaped combustion-chamber, what Chrysler called “FireDome.”
It also required two rocker-arm rods per cylinder-head — most engines only had one. —The Chevy Small-Block had none; ball-stud rockers.
Hemis were extraordinarily heavy; those monstrous cylinder-heads were cast-iron.
Three versions of the Hemi were brought to market.
#1) The earliest Hemis debuted in the 1951 model-year, and lasted through 1958.
They first debuted in Chryslers, but ended up in Desoto and even Dodge.
Chrysler gave up on the Hemi; it was too costly to manufacture.
But in the early ‘60s the NASCAR boys wanted a Hemi-head on the large displacement Mopar B-block, the so-called “Wedge” motor.
A Hemi breathed exceptionally well at high speed, generating gobs of horsepower.
#2) This led to iteration number-two, the so-called “elephant-motor.”
426 cubic-inches, hemispherical cylinder-heads.
Buddy Baker (at left) was the first to average over 200 mph for the world closed-course record.
This was done at Talladega Superspeedway in Alabama.
His car was a Hemi-powered Dodge Charger, although it was the wing car (the “Daytona”).
#3) Is the most recent “Hemi,” although to me this is just Chrysler Corporation cashing in on the earlier Hemi’s reputation.
Although it is a Hemi, and counters one of the early Hemi criticisms: incredible engine-weight.
Its cylinder-heads are cast-aluminum, instead of heavy cast-iron.
I don’t know about the engine-block.
To me, comparing a ’56 Desoto to a ’57 Chevy is comparing apples to oranges.
Attractive as it was, the ’57 Chevy was essentially basic transportation. The Desoto is more a road-cruiser.
And the Desoto Hemi is not the incredible Hemis of the 300 series Chryslers.
Seems they would have been more appropriate.
Richard Lentinello, head-honcho of the magazine, had an interesting opinion.
He panned the ’57 Chevy as “vulgar.”
I agree.
Better, in his opinion, was the ’55 Chevy.
I agree with that too.
In his humble opinion, the ’55 Two-Ten hardtop was the greatest of all the Tri-Chevys.
He even says the ’53 and ’54 Chevys were better-looking than the ’57; and to me they were turkeys.
The ’55 is the car I always dreamed of having throughout high-school, college, and even later.

Photo by BobbaLew.

The prettiest Tri-Chevy of all.

I have included an old photo (about 1961) of a ’55 Two-Ten hardtop, a really great car.
It started as a six, but the owner converted it to a 283 Small-Block with a floor-shifted four-speed Corvette tranny.
It really was fabulous, but he traded it for a ’58 Corvette, a mistake in my opinion.
The ’57 wasn’t bad. My parents had a few.
Two ’57 Chevys at the same time, both Bel Airs, one a four-door sedan, and one a four-door station-wagon.
The sedan was a PowerGlide six; even slower than our PowerGlide ’53 (also a six).
The wagon was a 283 Power-Pak; four-barrel carb, and dual exhausts.
I was smitten when we got it; our first car with a V8 engine, and a fabulous motor at that.
And they got it mostly as a second car for me. —The ’53 had failed inspection, and was junked.

Photo by BobbaLew.

Redemption.

WOW! The 283 Power-Pak Small-Block was a siren-song.
I’d drive home from work summers during college, all the windows down and back-glass up (as pictured), full-blast on the radio.
“Duke-Duke-Duke-Duke of Earl. Duke-Duke-Duke of Earl, Duke-Duke-Duke of Earl, Duke-Duke-Duke.......”
I used to wanna drag-race it; it was good for eighty in Lo, on the secret quarter-mile marked on Shipley Road in northern Delaware.
Its power was frightening, although I’m sure it would have been creamed on the drag-strip.
It broke loose when I tried to lay rubber — both rear tires!
It became the family car after I graduated college, which means my father never maintained it, and its silver paint blotched as silver paint often does.
In the photo above, the el-cheapo rim-protector tires are obvious. My father usually got used tires from a junkyard.
My father got a third ’57 later, a PowerGlide six two-door hardtop he hoped to restore.
But my mother made him sell it.

Photo by BobbaLew.

A ’55 business-coupe at Cecil County Drag-o-way in summer of ’65. (C/modified production is probably a 283 four-speed — that’s the owner-driver at right).

Comparing a ’57 Fuelly to a ’56 Desoto is a joke.
The Desoto comes off better.
Attractive as a ’57 Fuelly is, it’s more of a drag-racer.
Work on it after every blast down a quarter-mile drag-strip.
That’s work on it every 1320 feet.
Ya don’t get groceries in such a thing, or drive it 50-60 miles to the beach.
Driving such a car over highways would be fearsome.
What if it breaks down far from home?
You’re on your own.
A mechanic could fix a crippled Desoto.

• The Chevrolet “Small-Block” V8 was introduced at 265 cubic-inches displacement in the 1955 model-year. It continued production for years, first to 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.
• RE: “Side-valve....” —The cylinder-valves are beside, and parallel, to the cylinder-bore; i.e. down in the block. The top of the cylinder is covered by a flat casting (“Flat-head”).
• RE: “Constant” fuel-injection, versus fuel-injection “timed intermittently.....” —“Constant” fuel-injection provides a constantly pumped fuel flow to the injectors. “Intermittent” is tiny pulses of fuel to the injectors per timing.
• RE: “The exhaust manifolds were on the opposite side of the cylinder-head.......” is what is seen now, but the late ‘40s Cadillac flat-head V8 engines had the exhaust manifold on top, in the same location as the intake manifold. —It’s a nice idea, but it limits port size.
• In an engine with “ball-stud rockers,” the rocker-arms, which turn valve-actuation 180 or so degrees, and thereby make overhead valves operable with a central camshaft far away down in the engine-block, are not on a long shaft parallel to the crankshaft. Instead they are on individual ball-studs; studs with a ball on the end the rocker rocks around. (There is no rocker-shaft.) —Everyone went to ball-stud rockers after Chevrolet (and Pontiac, who developed them).
• “Mopar” is Chrysler’s parts division. The generic name for Chrysler Corporation is “Mopar.”
• RE: “Wedge motor......” —The B engine-block had wedge-shaped combustion-chambers, not hemispherical. Most engines had wedge-shaped combustion-chambers when overhead-valve (as opposed to flat-head).
• “Tranny” is transmission.
• “PowerGlide” was Chevrolet’s first automatic transmission. (Automatic transmissions were rather slow early on compared to a standard [shifted] transmission.) —PowerGlide had only two speeds: Lo and High.
• “Carb” is carburetor.
• “Drag-racing” is standing start-to-finish over a flat quarter-mile strip of level asphalt. Most street-cars could hit 80-120 mph or more. Dedicated dragsters were much faster, and were pushing 200 in the middle ‘60s when I attended. Now they’re over 300! —The drag-strip I went to was Cecil County Drag-o-way in northeastern MD, just south of DE. That drag-strip is now defunct.
• “Lay rubber” is to lay down a stripe of tire-rubber to the pavement from spinning drive-tires. The engine had to be powerful enough to break a tire (or tires) loose.

Junior

(Photo by Chuck Wainwright.)

Yesterday (Wednesday, November 24, 2010), the day before Thanksgiving, after working out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, I patronized the mighty Canandaigua Weggers to do our weekly grocery shopping.
I don’t do everything there — my wife gets quite a bit from another supermarket.
But there are a few things we only get at Wegmans, e,g. milk and produce.
Milk is usually cheaper there — Shoppers Club. And their produce is usually better.
But not always. Yesterday’s bananas were stridently green.
It was horrible.
Mano-a-mano with the bumper-cart ladies in search of Thanksgiving fixin’s.
I wondered if the Pilgrims could handle it.
“HEX-KYOOZE-me; I was just trying to get through.”
I knocked over a display of large candles in Ball jars.
Or rather, I was shoved into it.
Every aisle intersection was a right-of-way issue; “You first.” “No, you first.”
Except it wasn’t the right-of-way allowed in traffic law.
Right-of-way seemed to be a function of the heft of the cart-driver, and the size of her cart.
“Me first. You and that wussy cart can wait.”
“I’m not moving. I have to look at this spice rack. You can just wait, little man.”
Comely teenyboppers, who obviously hadn’t been in Wegmans in years — it’s not the mall — were angrily texting their friends via cellphone, accompanying Mom in her hunt for provisions.
“Lessee, we still need yams, and cranberries, and stuffing-mix.”
“Mom, can’t we just go to McDonald’s and get a turkey-melt?”
“Beep-boop-beep-boop!”
“She wants stuffing-mix. What a loser!” FLIP!
On the way in I noticed the 55+ magazine outside in the free magazines rack.
A smiling silver-haired dude was on the cover.
On the way back out, I happened to notice it again.
“A Publisher’s New Life,” it blared.
“Wait a minute,” I thought. “That looked like George Jr., my old boss.”
For almost 10 years (1996-2005), after my stroke in 1993, I worked at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper. It was the best job I ever had.
When I started the head-honcho was George Ewing Sr. (“you-ing”), the newspaper’s publisher.
Sr. had purchased the Messenger in 1959; when I was in ninth grade.
Sr. eventually retired before me, and handed over management of the newspaper to his son, George Jr., who was already its owner.
Sr. died a couple years ago.
Jr. was head-honcho toward the end of my employ.
His office-door was always open, and we got along quite well.
“People complain about this place,” I once told him; “but not me. I previously worked at Transit, and that place was a zoo.
Compared to Transit, this newspaper is Heaven.”
Jr. had to sell the Messenger not long after I retired.
It needed modernization, and no one in the Ewing family was interested.
Jr. is now 58; I helped him celebrate when he turned 50.
He wanted to go back to teaching, which I guess is what he did before the Messenger.
But age works against him.
So he decided to go back to college to complete his Masters Degree.
Jr. is one of the neatest people I ever met.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 15 miles away. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.)
• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.
• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

Rollout........

........yesterday (Tuesday, November 23, 2010) was at 5 a.m., which my good friend Gary Coleman (“coal-min”), also like me a Transit retiree, says is a disgrace to the Transit retiree code-of-conduct.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS — “Transit”) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Coleman is right, of course, since every run I had pulled out very early in the morning; usually no later than 6:45.
My worst pulled out at 5:05, which meant getting up at 3 a.m.
I was doing this for two reasons:
— 1) To allow time for breakfast, etc; perhaps 45 minutes.
— 2) To allow 30-40 minutes travel-time to the Barns.
The idea was to not be late for work, so I was usually arriving about 4:45.
Late would have been after 4:55; we were supposed to report 10 minutes before pull-out.
We were paid 10 minutes to pre-check our bus, which was hardly enough.
By reporting at 4:45, -a) I was never late, and -b) I could more thoroughly pre-check my bus.
Which in my case was make sure all the wheel lug-nuts were tight.
Quite often they weren’t, in which case I was directed to the Tire-Room.
Tightening everything might gobble 10 more minutes, but I wasn’t about to have a wheel come off.
It was easier when we lived in Rochester.
There I was about five minutes from the Barns.
That meant I could work runs with perhaps a five-hour break between “halves” (segments).
Such work was usually school-trips or Park-and-Rides. Park-and-Rides were the cream of the pickin’s.
Good clientele, and a scenic ride.
School-work was okay, but only in the morning, when the school-kids were too sleepy to be a problem.
By afternoon there were wired — monsters.
I had one run that took middle-school students downtown after school.
Many times I returned to the school with a discipline problem.
It was all I could do.
They were good after that because they wanted to get home.
Sometimes they were so desperate they jumped out the side-windows of my bus. The side-windows swung open from the top as a safety-measure.
Especially if they saw a fight was brewing on the sidewalk.
But in the morning they were too sleepy. I did a lot of morning school trips.
But after we moved to West Bloomfield I could no longer do work assignments with a five-hour break.
I was now 30-40 minutes from the Barns.
To do such work meant long trips to-and-fro, or staying downtown, which wasn’t possible.
I had to start doing regular city bus-runs, which made the clientele worse, and took out the time off for school off.
Driving school-work meant if school was off, you were off. Yet you were still getting eight hours of pay — per contract.
With that it was possible to work only four hours in the afternoon, yet collect eight hours pay.
With regular city-bus runs that was no longer possible.
School vacations didn’t apply.
Our early rollout was because we had to deliver a car to a car-wash place at 8 a.m.
The car-wash place was in nearby Canandaigua, 20-30 minutes away.
“Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.
We probably coulda got up 15-20 minutes later; we arrived at the car-wash place at 7:55. (We were also allowing for breakfast.)
It wasn’t open yet; but they arrived just before 8 a.m.
People are probably wondering why we couldn’t wash/wax ourselves.
Well we did before, but now we’re old.
I figure it’s better to farm it out than waste a whole day or more doing a sloppy job.
The car-wash place is also doing doll-ups for dealers.
They have what’s needed for black plastic trim. We always ended up with milky wax-smudges on that.

• I had a stroke I pretty much recovered from.
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, somewhat from downtown. The Barns were large sheds the buses were parked inside. Regional Transit’s operations were conducted in buildings adjacent to the Barns. (We Transit-employees always said we worked outta “the Barns.”)
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. We previously lived in Rochester.
• RE: “Now we’re old....” —We’re both 66.

Two things

—1) Three hours and at least 30 miles for a simple blood-draw:
My wife had a medical appointment at Strong Hospital in Rochester, 10:30 a.m. yesterday (Monday, November 22, 2010).
I also needed a backup blood-draw for a PSA test (prostate-specific-antigen).
An earlier PSA blood-test delivered a high PSA level, and possible factors could inflate the PSA level.
So we needed another test.
Strong Hospital has a lab that could do the blood-draw, but if I did it there I’d be a walk-in, one of many, so who knows how long I’d have to wait.
So we passed.
We decided we’d hit another lab on the way home, maybe 15 miles from the hospital.
But first we’d have to patronize a supermarket for groceries, the Hylan Drive Wegmans.
It was 12:54 when we arrived at the second lab.
The door was locked, out-to-lunch.
Lunch 12:30 to 1:30.
Pass!
Back to home to rescue our dog.
I figured I’d let my wife out, and continue to lab number-three, my doctor’s office 4-5 miles east.
I arrived about 1:08.
Their door was locked too — out-to-lunch.
Lunch 1 p.m. to 2 p.m.
Back home.
Fiddle e-mail until 2, then back to the doctor’s office.
Can’t do it. No scrip for the blood-draw.
Back home; try again — this time with the scrip.
By now it’s past 2:30, and I’ve already done about 25 miles.
Success this time.
Back home; 4-5 miles more.
I’ve been trying to do this simple blood-draw since about 11:40.
—2) Former bus-driver:
We are at the hospital for the medical appointment.
My wife reports she is experiencing slight constipation.
“And what are you taking for it?” the doctor asks.
“Nothing,” my wife responds. “Nothing but the food I eat. Lots of roughage.
Okay, now switch characters. Make me the patient.
I report I’m experiencing slight constipation.
“And what are you taking for it?” the doctor asks.
“Absolutely nothing!” I shout. “I wouldn’t dare. No pills for this kid! Never in a million years!”
It’s similar to the response I make every time someone asks if I ever smoked.
And whether I drink soda or beer.
“I wouldn’t touch that stuff with a 10-foot pole!”
What matters here is not that we both abhor medication.
It’s the difference in our responses.
My wife responds like a normal person.
I, on the other hand, respond like a former bus-driver; all strident and prickly.
You had to be that way to successfully drive bus.
Some blowhard passenger would attack you verbally telling you you’re stupid and worthless.
My silent reaction was usually “NOW WHAT?”
Unfortunately the way to respond to such blasts was out-blast the miscreant.
“Go siddown! I drive, you sit!”
And “What are you? Some kind of nut?”
My blowhard brother-in-Boston started noisily badmouthing me verbally when I disputed his recollection of directions.
He became incensed, and went ballistic.
Who was I to have the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to question his all-knowing superiority?
But it was the former bus-driver in me.
I was getting the same torrent of ad-hominems, put-downs, and name-calling I got driving bus.
“Now what?
Go siddown and shaddup!”
A good friend of mine, also a retired bus-driver, was being noisily badmouthed by other Transit retirees for the dirty condition of his car.
“I bought it to drive it; not wash it,” he snapped.
That’s an old bus-driver. Fire back at the slightest provocation. Shoot from the hip.
Our persnicketiness made us difficult to manage.
We’d fire back at every management pronouncement.
One day a manager was telling me we bus-drivers were paid too much.
“You’re telling me that?” I snapped. “You’re collecting over 60,000 bucks per year, twice what we make, to drive a desk.
You don’t even collect fares. Wherein are you contributing to the profitability of this organization?”
I, of course, found such blasts rarely worked on passengers.
The miscreants would wick it up and threaten me.
I tried a different tack.
“What prompted that?” I’d ask.
It always worked.
My father used to scream at me when I was a teenager.
What I did back then was disengage and go silent.
Made him madder still.
He started on me again after I started driving bus.
“What prompted that?” I asked.
Bam! Shut him right up. He was utterly dumbfounded.
I had thrown him a curve — he was expecting me to tune out like I had in the past.
But I fired back, with bus-driving experience.
As for my brother, I did what I would have done driving bus: quit, if things had gotten bad enough.
They never did.
Despite being a little guy, I could usually parry blowhards with guile and cunning. —After all, I was the ship-captain.
I once protected a pretty girl from loathsome creeps.
“Can’t you guys give her a break?” I asked.
They sat back down, cowed, and left her alone.
Miscreant bus-passengers eventually get off.
My brother isn’t a bus-passenger.
So I did what I woulda done driving bus.
I quit — I walked away.

• My wife of almost 43 years is “Linda.”
• “Strong Hospital” is a large hospital in the south of Rochester.
• “Hylan Drive” is a four-lane street next to a shopping mall in suburbs south of Rochester.
• “Wegmans” is a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS — “Transit”) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

Artics

(“arr-ticks”)


An “Artic.” (Photo by BobbaLew)

Over 16&1/2 years of driving bus, I liked driving the artics (pictured above) most of all.
From 1977 to 1993 I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
In my humble opinion, the artics were the best-riding bus we had.
Other buses often accelerated better, but might ride like lumber-wagons.
436-bus was especially strong. I used to say it was the one I’d wanna steal.
It went like stink, but was all wonky when I got it.
I wrote it up for worn suspension-bushings, and thereby got the driver who usually had it all bent-outta-shape.
436 was still a beast after it was fixed, but was no longer the regular assignment on that driver’s run.
It became part of the Park-and-Ride rotation.
Anything else I could floor through an expressway flyover.
But not 436.
It was too strong — it woulda spun into the boonies.
Our 400-series Park-and-Ride buses were 8-71 unturbocharged V8 motors with a three-speed automatic tranny.

GM fishbowl (not RTS).

They were fishbowls, but soft seats and no standee windows; i.e. suburban Park-and-Ride buses.
The artics were not GM.
They were M-A-N, a German design.
But they were manufactured here is the USA under license.
Articulated meant the bus was hinged in the middle; two bus segments with an accordion bellows between.
I.e. One driver for a bus 60 feet long.
The front segment had the motor under the floor; the rear segment was a trailer.
The idea was to combine two bus-runs into one, but it wasn’t that successful.
Those two bus-runs might carry 60 people, and I started out with that, but ended up with about 30 after five months.
I was leaving about 10 minutes earlier than the Fairport bus-run, and picking up the East Rochester bus-passengers about 10 minutes later.
You also had to make allowances with an artic.
They were so heavy and slow ya had to start accelerating through a traffic-light before the light changed.
You also had to drive slowly over dips lest the whole bus start pogoing, center (hinge) up while each extremity bounced down.
Another hairball was the trailer steering. Turn a tight corner, and the trailer steered out and sideswiped anything in the adjacent lane.
I saw it happen once; the bus-driver didn’t even know she’d hit anything.
Transit management forbade sharp right turns with an artic, but that didn’t cover everything.
Better was the bus-driver being aware. Ya didn’t start a corner until all adjacent traffic cleared.
And then there was traction on wet and snow-covered pavement.
Wet was okay, but on snow-covered pavement the drive-wheels would start spinning.
The heavy motor-weight wasn’t over the drive-wheels like on regular buses.
I remember my first time with a city-bus in 18-inch-deep snow.
The thing kept going, and the back-end was baldies.
I was amazed.
But not an artic.
Management tried snow-tires at first, our first use of snow-tires.
Didn’t work.
Management then tried retractible chain-wheels, that spun chains under the drive-wheels.
That worked, but only three buses had them.
I arranged with the morning “train-out” man, for one of those buses for my run.
I had a steep hill to climb, a private road, that was never salted or plowed.
The worst problem, although supposedly, because I never had it, was braking.
The artics had some gizmo for additional braking, that when activated (a toggle-switch) apparently put additional braking (electronic or hydraulic; whatever) into the drive-wheels.
Transit management would come on the radio all-call, and tell us all to switch off that additional braking if the pavement was wet.
Use your brakes hard enough, and I suppose that could lock your drive-wheels; sending you sliding.
That never happened to me — I wasn’t using the brakes hard enough.
Other bus-drivers suggested using your rear-door interlocks to stop your bus.
I tried that once, and what it did was lock the bus’ rear-end.
Not this kid!
What I was doing was allowing engine compression to decelerate my bus; braking was only additional — and marginal.
Same with the artics; although I also dutifully switched off that additional braking when commanded.
But I didn’t have to.
I loved the artics.
Best ride was mornings from far-out Hamlin.
Toward Rochester, and then get on Interstate-390, head for the passing-lane, and hammer-down.
An artic would cruise at 60 or so.
Hammer-down all the way into Rochester, about 7-10 miles.
I was supposed to loop in the parking-lot of the Hamlin town offices, but one morning it had snowed quite a bit, so huge plows were clearing the parking-lot.
They had built up a huge ten-foot berm, so I had no place to turn.
And I couldn’t back; ya don’t back an artic.
So I just aimed 90 degrees at the berm, and drove right through it! Head-on; just blasted it.
We didn’t ride up on the snow; just plowed right through it.
An artic was heavy enough ya could.

• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “8-71” is eight cylinders, 71 cubic inches displacement per cylinder.
• “Tranny” is transmission.
• “GM” is General Motors — they had bus-manufacture.
• “M-A-N” is Maschinenfabrik Augsburg-Nürnberg.
• “Fairport” is a suburb east of Rochester; “East Rochester” another suburb to the east of Rochester, but closer than Fairport. —Both suburbs were served by the same bus-line, so that a bus in from Fairport could serve East Rochester on the way in. Previous to artics, each suburb was served by its own Park-and-Ride.
• “Baldies” are bald tires — no tread.
• RE: “Retractible chain-wheels.....” —The chains weren’t actually on the tires; they were on retractible chain-wheels that slung the chains under the tires. A toggle-switch would put the chain-wheels down, and start them rotating.
• The “‘train-out’ man” was the employee that assigned buses. —Each bus-run was called a “train;” language from trolley days.
• RE: “Interlocks.....” —When you activated a door, the nearest brakes would set into a parking-mode. Most city-buses had “rear-door interlocks;” quite a few also had “front-door interlocks.” The fronts apparently activated only the front brakes, and the rear the rear brakes.
• “Hamlin” was a rural farm-town far west of Rochester, perhaps 20+ miles out.
• “Interstate-390” is the main interstate into Rochester from the south, and then it wraps around the west side of Rochester to where it ends.

Geese

Giant chevrons of geese fly overhead as I walk my dog up the street.
Hundreds of noisily honking geese in V formation.
Dutifully following the ride-captain.
Migrating south for the winter.
Reminds of my family’s web-site.
“Hey, where ya goin’?” one goose honks.
“Yeah, who elected you leader?” another goose squawks.
“Would it kill ya to ask for directions?”
“Lead, follow, or get outta the way!” the lead goose bellows.
“I also don’t need no directions. I know where I’m goin’.”
“We’re supposed to be headed south. You got us headed west.”
“Honk-honk-honk!”
“Nobody else is headin’ this migration. I am the maximum poobah of geese.
What are you, some kinna liberial? Shaddup and follow, or ice-flow for you, baby!”

• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s five, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't too bad.)
• “Liberial” is how my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston noisily insists “liberal” is spelled. (Recently it’s “liberila” or “libieral.”) —He is often the “ride-captain“ leading his buddies on motorcycle-rides (he rides a Harley), and claims to be all-knowing.

NASCAR rush-hour

Yesterday (Tuesday, November 16, 2010) we had to get up at 20-of-6; not too bad, but oh-dark-thirty for old folks like us.
We had a medical appointment at Strong Hospital at 8:30.
Strong Hospital is 40-45 minutes away, and 8:30 a.m. means driving NASCAR rush-hour, when anything can happen, and usually does.
We usually get up at 6 a.m. on Tuesdays, since that’s Trash Day, and we have to assemble recyclables into our Blue Box.
But I had already done that the night before; 20-of-6 was to allow time for breakfast.
Breakfast glommed in a big hurry, we started out about 7:45, 15 minutes later than intended — perhaps it shoulda been 5:30.
I turned north onto Route 65; oncoming traffic was over a quarter-mile distant.
But I’m accelerating from a standstill; 20-30-40-50 mph.
Within seconds the oncoming traffic was right on my bumper, glowering at me.
She had been doing at least 60 — Route 65 is posted at 40 mph past our house; it’s a residential area, with frequent deer.
Route 65 turns sharply west, then north, and then back northwest. All are turns I slow for; especially the first.
It was a white Subaru Outback; the driver was pounding her fist onto the steering-wheel.
Route 65 empties onto a long straightaway after the last curve, so Sube-lady started lunging for a place to pass, swinging her fist at me.
But the straightaway is hilly, and had oncoming traffic.
“Lady, I’m doing 60!” I shouted. Route 65 at that point is posted 55 mph.
Finally she roared past, crossing a double-yellow line.
I waved.
She would be first to the office coffee-machine, and get her free donut.
She could stand around eating her donut, and call her daughter via cellphone to complain about the old folks in the Sienna that nearly made her miss her free donut.
Past Honeoye Falls (“HONE-eee-oye”), and Rush, we get on Interstate-390, the main road into Rochester from the south.
Interstate-390 is posted at 65 mph, so I wicked up to 65.
Immediately people started blowing by; so fast they had to be doing 80-90 mph.
A NY State Trooper was in one of those turnarounds in his navy Crown Vic.
He was monitoring traffic.
No one slowed for him; I guess they felt they didn’t have to. After all he’s giving 10-15 mph over the speed-limit, or so I hear.
It’s NASCAR rush-hour; just keep it moving.
Crack up and we’ll attend; jaws-of-life if needed.
I was impeding traffic by doing the speed-limit.

• “We” is me and my wife of almost 43 years, “Linda.”
• RE: “Old folks like us.....” —We’re both 66.
• “Strong Hospital” is a large hospital in southern Rochester.
• We live on State Route 65, a rural two-lane highway, more-or-less north into the east side of Rochester.
• “Honeoye Falls and Rush” are small villages to the west of where we live. Honeoye Falls is nearest at about five miles away, and Rush about 4-5 miles northwest of that. Rush has an interchange onto Interstate-390.
• “Crown Vic” is a Ford Crown Victoria four-door sedan, the car police often use for pursuit-cruisers.

I need a magnifyin’ glass

“Gotta get my magnifying glass out to read these here Sunday comics,” I said.
The Mighty Mezz, the beloved Daily Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua, where I worked almost 10 years following my stroke, the best job I ever had, is being squeezed by the cost of newsprint.
Evidence of this is squeezing six pages of Sunday comics onto four pages.
Each page is 20&1/2 inches by 11 inches, so a single double-sheet (four pages) is 20&1/2 inches by 22 inches.
During my employ the Messenger bought its Sunday comics as part of a package.
Now they print them themselves. Probably cost less.
Six pages is one full 20&1/2-inch sheet by 22 inches, plus a half-sheet at 20&1/2 by 11.
Going from six to four pages dumps that half-sheet.
The whole time I was at the Mighty Mezz I heard about the exploding cost of newsprint.
I’m sure other factors were at play, mainly getting news from other sources, particularly television and the Internet.
I’m guilty of this myself.
Although I remember the TV news often stealing stories from the Messenger, and then reporting them as if they had done the spadework themselves.
The Messenger was mainly local, so their competition was the local TV news.
The Internet is more national, although it could do local with a local output.
But I don’t see anything yet, although the Messenger is now a local Internet output. —They were during my employ, when I did their web-site.
So how do you compress six pages of comics into four pages?
Mainly shrinkage.
Some can be run full page-width; e.g. Peanuts and Beetle Bailey.
Each are around 9&3/4 inches wide, although Peanuts is 4&1/2 inches deep, and Beetle Bailey only 3&1/2.
Some were switched to vertical, e.g Doonesbury and Blondie.
Doonesbury is 13&3/4 inches deep, Blondie is 15 inches deep.
That leaves holes on the right side of each page about 6&1/2 inches wide.
We have a slew of comics to still run, assuming we don’t delete any; e.g. Dilbert, Spiderman, Shoe and Prince Valiant.
Also B.C. and Garfield among others.
So shrink each comic to fit, a simple computer function.
Except in so doing you make the text inside the word-blurbs so tiny, ya need a magnifying glass to read ‘em.

• “Canandaigua” (“cannon-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• I retired from the Messenger almost five years ago.

Become a Facebook “friend” and disappear

I have 40 Facebook “friends.”
My Facebook is a result of a Facebook fast-one, or so I think.
An old friend invited me to be a Facebook “friend;” I got an e-mail.
“But to become a friend, you have to have a Facebook of your own.”
Well okay, I guess. It’s just an invite from an old friend, little knowing I was thereby opening up myself to a wide audience on the Internet.
“Welcome to Facebook,” another friend said.
“WHAT? What’s going on here?”
Um, well okay; I guess it’s not worth walking away from.
But I feel like I got hornswoggled.
So began Facebook; an app that locks my machine occasionally, and no longer posts my blogs (e.g. this) as working links.
Facebook suggested a slew of potential “friends,” most of whom previously worked at the Canandaigua Daily Messenger newspaper during my employ.
I retired about five years ago.
I kept getting “posts” by all these people — posts of little import, like “I just belched,” and “my back hurts.”
Finally, I “unfriended” quite a few, but I keep getting “friend” invites.
People I drove bus with, people I went to college and high-school with, old newspaper employees.
I’ve “befriended” a few, but now it’s why bother?
“Befriend” someone, and never hear from them again.
There is one I hear from a lot, but that’s only one out of 40.
There are a few others I occasionally hear from, but most have disappeared.
500 million Facebooks, or whatever it is.
How many of those millions have disappeared?
I might glance at it once a week, but I feel e-mail is much better.
Although my e-mails often go into the ozone.
I never click the Facebook ads on the right — I don’t trust ‘em. Phishing for my identity information.
And I never “like” anything. (Like some business — Facebook seems to have been taken over by business.)
And what sense does it make to be the first to “like” some screenshot I uploaded to PhotoBucket?
For cryin’ out loud, Facebook!

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. After that I worked for the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost five years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• “PhotoBucket” is the image site where I post and store my picture-files.

“Crown Him with many crowns.....”

The Novocaine numbing has finally disappeared.
Yesterday (Friday, November 12, 2010) was my most extensive dental-work in over 30 years.
It was preparing two large molars for crowns, and inserting a permanent crown to replace a temporary crown installed earlier.
30 years ago it was pull four impacted wisdom-teeth.
It was a struggle.
Blood and gore and pliers drenched in saliva.
My poor dentist was embarrassed a tooth broke while he tried to pull it.
We did one side at a time, separated by two weeks.
“So break the other one,” I told him. “It makes it easier.”
We used that dentist for eons.
He was okay, but he wouldn’t modernize.
“What’s that I hear?” Ticka-ticka-ticka-DING!
“Sounds like a typewriter.”
The dentist’s receptionist was embarrassed.
One day “BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-WHAM-BANG-BANG-BANG” from out back in his office.
He walked in to look at my teeth after a cleaning.
“What were you doing back there? No wonder little kids hate going to the dentist.”
“Working on someone’s false teeth,” he said.
“Well, I hope they weren’t in anybody,” I said.
My Transit retiree club, “The Alumni,” negotiated reduced pricing with Q-Dental.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees (Local 282, the Rochester local of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union) of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit management retirees ran roughshod over union retirees — a continuation of the bad vibes at Transit, management versus union.
Transit had a club for long-time employees, and I was in it. It was called the “15/25-year Club;” I guess at first the “25-year Club.” But they lowered the employment requirement, and renamed it “15/25-year Club.” The employment requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years.
My employ there ended with my stroke; and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then. The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
It isn’t just a social club.
It has bylaws, officers, and an Executive Board.
In many ways it’s just like our union-local, except it entertains issues of interest to retirees; like Medicare, healthcare, and diabetes and Alzheimer’s.
What happens is I have dental insurance as a retiree from Transit.
But it’s peanuts — it doesn’t pay much.
It’s Blue Cross. They pay their part, and then I’d pay the rest.
With my old dentist that cost me $50-$60 for a cleaning.
But with Q-Dental, as an Alumni, it might cost me $40 or less.
Q-Dental was also closer — in Henrietta.
My old dentist was a 45-minute trip into Rochester.
So I said goodbye to my old dentist and his antediluvian technology, and tried Q-Dental.
What tipped the balance were three things:
—1) My previous dentist did a difficult filling on the outside surface of a molar right at the gum-line.
What he did was sloppy; it fell out in about three years.
Q-Dental refilled it, and did a much better job; smooth and professional.
It was Dr. Yeager.
—2) Q-Dental did a full-mouth digital X-ray before they did anything else. My old dentist was still X-ray film. Q-Dental displays the X-ray on a laptop. My old dentist still used a light-table. Dark ages versus new technology.
—3) Recently I noticed something sharp poking through my gum where my wisdom-teeth had been pulled out long ago.
My old dentist just harumphed and said he could do nothing about it.
He claimed it was jaw-bone.
“Fiddlesticks,” Q-Dental said (Yeager); “that’s just a root-fragment. We should extract that.”
We pulled it; it was tiny.
The jagged edge was gone.
I felt like my old dentist was covering up.
So yesterday we began setting up.
Gallons of Novacaine; the whole right side of my mouth was numb.
Begin hours of grinding. We’re grinding down two big molars, including the 89 bazilyun fillings therein.
“Close your eyes, Mr. Hughes. Pieces of filling fly,” the dentist said.
“You’re making faces. Does it hurt?”
“No, I’m just drowning.” (A girl manned a sucker-straw.)
“Now, please rinse out your mouth.....”
“Um, sure Doc,” slobber-drool. “Sorry about the floor.”
It was a struggle to stay in position; my neck hurt.
Drill-drill-drill!
Finally it was over. Temporary crowns were cemented in place, and the earlier temporary crown replaced by a permanent crown.
$844! No wonder he drives a Mercedes.
$422 last time; that’s one crown. We paid that before.
With my old dentist it probably would have been over $1,000 just for two crowns.
I’m trying to avoid false-teeth. —Success so far.
Back outside, errands to run; despite talking like wadded cotton was in my mouth.
I was unable to eat for a long time; too sloppy.
Supper was a struggle.
I looked in the mirror.
“Where’s your new crown?” my wife asked.
“Oh, that’s it. No fillings.”

• “Crown Him with many crowns” is a religious hymn.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• “Mr. Hughes” is of course me, Bob Hughes, BobbaLew.
• “My wife” of almost 43 years is Linda.

No crustaceans for this kid!

Left-to-right: Mark Sciera, Paul Zachmeyer, Jim Douty, David Brown, Gary Coleman (standing), Paul Rafici, Ron Palermo, Norb Dynski, Charlie Littlejohn, Lee Clements, Dick Thompson. All except Brown, Coleman and Littlejohn are retired bus-drivers. The others are management. I don’t know about Rafici. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“Do you need a bathroom?” I asked a fellow retiree.
“This is it, right here,” I said, pointing to a large pool in the lobby of the restaurant.
We noted the 6-to-8 inch goldfish swimming languidly through the gurgling water.
“Din-din,” he said.
“I ain’t eatin’ no sushi,” I snapped.
That’s an exchange between football players Doug Flutie and Terry Bradshaw in an ad.
Flutie takes Bradshaw into a restaurant and shows him the sushi-bar.
“I ain’t eatin’ no sushi,” Bradshaw shouts. “Where I come from they call that stuff bait.”
It was one of our occasional luncheons of Regional Transit retirees, both hourly and management.
At Grand Super Buffet in Henrietta southeast of Rochester.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993, 17 long years ago, ended that suddenly.
We sat at a long table, 17 of us.
A young girl took our drink-orders — most were diet, mine wasn’t.
“This is a buffet,” someone said. “They won’t serve you. You have to serve yourself.”
We sat quietly for a while, jawing amongst each other.
Finally, after about 15 minutes. “That’s it,” I said. “I ain’t waitin’ forever.”
I got up, and apparently others followed.
We headed for the buffet tables.
“What are those things?” someone asked.
“I don’t know,” I said; “but do you see them little tails comin’ outta the back end?”
“I wouldn’t trust ‘em,” another said.
“How do I know they’re not deep-fried mice?” I said.
We moved on.
“What are them things?” red and round.
“Look like deep-fried eyeballs,” I commented.
PASS!
Ahead were the shrimp.
“No crustaceans for this kid!” I barked.
“I only eat endoskeleton; no exoskeleton.”
I spooned macaroni-and-cheese onto my plate.
Finally, no steaming exotica.
A lot ended up on the counter under the sneeze-bar, and on the floor.
The cheese was stringy and soupy — the macaroni was drowned.
After sitting back down at our table, I ate the macaroni.
“Too bad my dog’s not here. She could lick that plate so clean they could put it back in the stack.”
“Now you tell me why in the wide, wide world we wouldn’t invite you after remarks like that,” someone crowed.
There had been confusion about this shindig.
I didn’t know it was occurring until last week, and only after friends asked if I was attending.
I fired off e-mail inquiries.
Yes, there would indeed be a luncheon, I was told; but no details.
One thought another invited me, and that one thought the other had.
Finally, “Am I even invited to this shindig? I know I don’t fit in that well.”
“Grand Super Buffet in Henrietta, 11:30 a.m. Why would you ever think you’re not invited?”
We all looked fairly spry, though getting old.
One friend had two strokes. He’s mentally with it, despite a partially paralyzed left-side — and no left arm.
He also has difficulty getting words out, as do I.*
Another had part of a leg amputated, and is using a prothesis.
Another friend is hobbling around with troublesome knees, and was saying his doctor wanted to replace just about every joint in his body.
Together we’re supposed to attend a model-train show at local college next month, but I worry.
It’s in a college field-house, a large show.
I get around fine, but I worry about him.
Thankfully, he’s ornery, so will want to get around.
But I may want a wheelbarrow, or a shopping-cart.
Most depressing was a former road-supervisor showing up with a full oxygen-rig.
Road-Supervisors at Transit didn’t drive buses. They rode around in cars, supervising bus-drivers and settling arguments with passengers.
“Hey, how ya doin’?” someone asked.
“Okay, I guess. I wake up every morning.”
“Why the oxygen?”
“Oh, COPD, emphysema.”
(I think he used to smoke.)
Suggestions were taken for a future luncheon, and the former road-supervisor hoped he could make it “depending on my doctor-appointments,” he said.
“Yeah, ain’t that the truth!” I said. “The only reason I’m here is because today (yesterday, Thursday, November 11, 2010) was open. One doctor-appointment was yesterday, and tomorrow is my dentist.
I have to wedge these things in.”

* My stroke slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)

• “Henrietta” is a suburb south of Rochester.
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s five, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't too bad.)