Urology Associates of Rochester

Eons ago, perhaps 20 years or more, I was referred to Urology Associates of Rochester by a doctor I called “the pill-pusher.”
This was because my PSA was highish; not dangerously high (“high”), just highish.
PSA is the percentage of Prostate-Specific-Antigen (“PSA”) in one’s blood, an indicator of possible prostate cancer.
It has to be monitored at my age — at that time I was in my late 40s; now I’m 67.
I won’t name any names.
Just that I also called this doctor “the halitosis-king.”
He had bad breath.
He was also kind of a dud; probably my worst doctor over the years.
I didn’t look forward to seeing him.
He also is the one that told my wife I’d be a vegetable after my stroke.
It made me mad.
My reaction was probably pure gibberish, but I declared I would prove him wrong.
And I guess I have, pretty much.
“Pill-pusher” because he was always prescribing expensive medications to deal with slight medical ills.
It was noticed my blood-pressure was also highish; again not dangerously high, just borderline.
So the “pill-pusher” prescribed a hyper-expensive calcium-blocker, that later had a dangerous side-effect.
About five years ago I began having so-called “dizzy-spells.”
They’re why I retired from the Mighty Mezz.
It felt like my heart had stopped, allowing blood to drain from my head.
Around-and-around we went. Various tests.
Finally a neurologist said these episodes might be a side-effect of my calcium-blocker blood-pressure medication.
So I stopped taking it.
No dizzy-spells since — although I’d rather be retired.
That neurologist also referred me to Lake Country Physical Therapy in Canandaigua, where it was suggested the way to control blood-pressure was to get back in shape.
I could agree with that.
At 225 pounds I was flaccid and out-of-shape.
Obese.
I used to run footraces in my 40s.
130-140 pounds; I did okay.
My fastest 10K footrace was 38:40, not extraordinarily fast, but not bog-slow.
That’s about 6:14 per mile.
Middling.
I’m used to being active.
But my stroke put a damper on it.
You also fall quickly behind with no exercise.
“What that doctor should have prescribed was a gym!” my wife said.
Of course a gym isn’t a kickback from a pharmaceutical company.
Or so it seemed.
225 pounds is almost 40 pounds ago, and now I work out at the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym.
187 pounds is not 140 pounds. What I’d rather be is 140, but 187 is not 225.
I also can still run; what I say is my 67-year-old knees still let me.
But I’m bog-slow. I footrace occasionally (no more than 5K), but I’m down to over 12 minutes per mile.
I’ve been visiting Urology Associates of Rochester ever since that first referral; about twice a year.
My PSA has been up-and-down.
Two prostate biopsies have been performed, both with no indications of cancer.
My latest PSA was way down.
What I always say is “I look terrible, but I’m not the one with cancer.”
My wife has cancer, but supposedly it’s not a death-sentence.
It’s treatable.
Actually, she has two cancers: -a) Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, and -b) metastatic breast-cancer.
The Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma appeared about three years ago as a hard tumor in her abdomen.
That was poofed with chemotherapy.
The metastatic breast-cancer did not have a primary site; it never appeared in her breasts.
It was first noticed in her bones, where breast-cancer metastasizes.
We knocked that back with Femara®, the trade-name for Letrozole.
Femara is an estrogen inhibitor. Her breast-cancer was estrogen-positive.
Her breast-cancer just about disappeared.
Nevertheless, tumors of some sort were growing in her abdomen, and restricting urine-flow through her ureter-tubes, kidney to bladder. We were also doing breast-cancer chemo, which stopped the Femara.
We were referred to a urologist at Strong Hospital, but the poor guy was harried. He was backed up with 89 bazilyun patients.
His suggestion was we not do anything until we saw kidney-damage.
To us, this was silly. The idea was to prevent kidney-damage.
So now what?
“Well, there’s always Urology Associates of Rochester,” I said. “They’ve always done well by me, and seem to have their heads screwed on pretty straight.”
“But are they up-the-wall?” my wife asked.
“Not that I’ve ever seen,” I said.
So off we went yesterday (Tuesday, March 29, 2011) to Urology Associates of Rochester.
An appointment with Melanie Butler, MD; no referral needed.
“Is this a second opinion?” Melanie asked; she had called the day before.
“Well, not exactly,” my wife said; “but I won’t be going back to that Strong urologist again.”
“This is new,” she said to me. “They’re actually doing research in advance. At that surgeon two weeks ago (a previous appointment), outside our exam-room, he paged my oncologist. Nothing had been done prior to our showing up.”
Yada-yada-yada-yada for at least 45 minutes.
For me the signature of their attitude came when I said “run all that by me again.”
Melanie had to repeat to me everything she had just said to my wife.
And she didn’t mind a bit.
Melanie suggested we stick with Strong, but suggested other urologists. (Urology Associates of Rochester is Rochester General.)
Urology Associates of Rochester couldn’t work easily with Strong; previous cancer-treatment had been at Wilmot Cancer Center, part of Strong Hospital (“will-MOTT;” as in “Mott’s Applesauce”).
“What a shame,” my wife said. “She’s the best doctor I’ve seen so far.”
—Two phenomenal-avoidances driving home; I’m the taxi-driver.
-1) We’re driving east on Brighton-Henrietta Townline Road, and a black ‘80s El Camino turns into a driveway right in front of me, unsignaled of course.
The El Camino then arrowed back toward the road.
I came to a complete stop.
“You coulda kept goin’,” my brother would bellow. “That guy was no threat to you.”
“Retired bus-driver,” I’d say. “If someone pulls a questionable move in front of you, you STOP.
You don’t just assume he’s no threat.
You also try not to scare anyone. No telling what a scared driver could do. He might involve you in an accident.”
-2) We’re now driving east on Jefferson Road between Winton Road and Clover St. (another two-lane road).
The two lanes of Jefferson become four and then six at Clover St.
I signal to change lanes, and suddenly a giant white Chevy Express van lunges in front of me. I guess he presumed I was signaled to turn right into a driveway.
I had to execute a gigantic swerve to miss him.
“Did you see that?” my wife shouted. “He pulled right out in front of us!”
“Too bad I couldn’t give him a hearty hello,” I said.
Proof yet again ya don’t just assume a turn-signal means ya can make a move.
I had that happen driving bus. Almost got T-boned — by a driver that had his signal on by mistake.
“Ya can tell I drove bus,” I said. “Our rule was ‘EXPECT ANYTHING!’”
—Today’s mail (Wednesday, March 30, 2011) had a flyer from Great Northeast Mulch and Topsoil.
“Means I gotta get my mulch,” my wife said.
“That presumes you can,” I remarked. Over the past couple weeks I’ve witnessed great pain and debilitating fatigue.
“I’ll do that,” my wife said. “I’m very determined.”
This is the person I’ve been living with over 43 years, the Iron Lady.
It’s probably what got me where I am despite a stroke; “That vegetable-stuff is pure baloney — I ain’t listenin’ to that!
And nobody tells me I can’t ride motorcycle.”

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over five years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years.
• “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.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about three-four hours per visit.
• “10K” is 10 kilometers, 6.2 miles. (5K is five kilometers, 3.1 miles.)
• “Strong Hospital” is a large hospital on the south side of Rochester, NY; one of two large hospitals. “Rochester General” is the other. Wilmot Cancer Center is part of Strong.
• Brighton and Henrietta are two suburbs southeast of Rochester. “Brighton-Henrietta Townline Road” is on their border. “Jefferson Road” is even farther south, a main east-west highway through Henrietta. It crosses both Winton Road and Clover St., main north-south highways out of Rochester.
• “My brother” is my macho brother-in-Boston, who loudly badmouths everything I do or say. A Rush Limbaugh wannabee.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke ended that.

What an incredible toy this thing is

“I bet this thing will shoot video,” I thought to myself, as I fiddled my Droid-X® SmartPhone (pictured at left), in the locker-room of the Canandaigua YMCA, after working out in their Exercise-Gym.
It downloads my e-mail, and reports any missed calls.
I don’t take it into the gym with me.
Supposedly that’s verboten, although many do.
People are pumping away on a treadmill, and all-of-a-sudden the “Ride of the Valkyries” ringtone.
And Blondie shrilly badmouthing her husband to Ma, cellphone clamped to her ear with her upraised shoulder.
After checking my e-mail, I went to the app-screen.
There was “camcorder.”
I fingered it.
All-of-a-sudden an image of the locker-room floor was on the display.
“What an incredible toy this thing is,” I said to the guy next to me.
“That one of them there SmartPhones?” he asked. “Start your dinner from across the universe?”
“YEP,” I said. “That’s the locker-room floor.”
I noticed a red button on the display.
I triggered it,
All-of-a-sudden the thing was recording the floor.
I stopped the recording, and deleted it via menu options.
I should note I had a stroke long ago, October 26, 1993, so I’m always running on seven cylinders — what’s left.
I’m also 67 years old; well beyond the age I should be fiddling with these things.
“Don’t die yet,” I said to my wife back home.
“This thing will record video, and it looks pretty good,” I added.
My wife has cancer, but it’s supposedly treatable, although I worry.
Next morning I took my SmartPhone outside, and recorded our dog exploding out our back gate across our wide backyard to another fence that surrounds our property.
She smells deer outside, and goes back there to serenade ‘em.
I got the recording, viewed it once, but after that into the ozone. “Can’t view file,” it said.
“Huh?” I said.
I tried again next morning, got the recording, viewed it, and “That’s a keeper,” I said.
But two icons of that video were on the display-screen, one just sound but no video.
Okay, delete the one with no video, but that apparently also deleted the valid video.
So I lost everything. (Thank you, Droid!)
So why two icons of the same video when there’s only one video?
I won’t go into the total reboot I had to do the day before.
As usual, no manual. The old waazoo: “Try this and see what happens.”
Apply noggin; see that red button on the screen? I bet that’s a “record” button.
It was.
It successfully recorded the YMCA locker-room floor, a video which I later deleted.
So try again; perhaps someday we will batter this toy into submission.
I tried again this morning, but this time the dog arrowed off toward our garden, to check where a bunny-rabbit had escaped at 3 a.m.
She can’t get into our garden.
So far the sun has been out every morning I tried; perhaps it will be out tomorrow morning (Tuesday, March 29, 2011).
My sister (age 65) in Florida (Fort Lauderdale) is considering buying a Droid, so the dog video will be for her.
She’ll buy one — it will tip the balance. She has grandchildren.
No grandchildren for us. Only a dog that gets us oldsters up at 3 a.m. to chase bunny-rabbits.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about three-four hours per visit. —About 900+ calories per visit.
• “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.
• “App” = applications (computer software).
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost six, 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.)
• “Reboot” is to restart the computer from off.

Seen at Boughton Park

“This phone is not operational — use your cellphone.” (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—Which is why it’s here.

• Nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin” as in “wow”) Park, is where I run and we walk our dog. It’s about three-four miles from where we live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield south of Rochester in Western New York. It’s very rustic and natural; hardly developed at all.

Day of reckoning

“We have determined that the cable modem provided to you for use with your Time-Warner Cable RoadRunner service needs to be replaced.
Within the next week we will send you a new cable modem and installation instructions on how to replace your current modem. We will enclose a convenient pre-addressed self-mailer that will allow you to send back the current modem once you have replaced it — all at no expense to you.
It is important that you replace the modem as soon as it arrives. Your current modem will be deactivated soon after your new modem is delivered.”
UH-OHHHHHHHH..........
Fear and loathing!
Tamper with my Internet, and you’re taking all the fun out of my life.
After all, these blogs get posted via the Internet.
That includes “MPNnow” as well as this here BlogSpot.
We also know that nothing is easy when it comes to technology.
Our new cable-modem finally arrived via UPS, along with contorted instructions, a CD operator’s-manual in 15 languages, cables, connectors, wires, everything but the kitchen-sink.
The day-of-reckoning was yesterday, Friday, March 25, 2011.
Again, fear and loathing.
Time-Warner said make the change after 11 a.m.; that was when our new modem would be required.
It’s 9:30 a.m.
I fire up my Internet.
Nothing. All my 10 historied Internet-tabs are “try again.......”
“I thought they said 11 a.m.,” I remarked. “It’s 9:30, and it looks like this old modem is already dead.”
I switched to working offline, keying in something else.
For that I don’t need Internet.
I’d be going to the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym in about an hour — I’d be away at 11 a.m.
Either -a) my wife would do it, or -b) I’d try it myself when I got back.
There were all those undecipherable instructions, prompts, etc.
They made it sound like nothing would work with the new modem, e-mail, Internet, the whole stinkin’ kibosh.
Start from Square-One. Set up everything all over.
Um, guys, I ain’t a techno-maven. I don’t do this every day.
While at the YMCA my wife unplugged the old modem, and installed the new one.
VIOLA! Plug-and-play. She had Internet on her PC, wirelessly from our router.
So would I have Internet on this here rig?
I fired it up when I returned from the YMCA about 3:30, then fired up my Internet-browser.
Again, VIOLA! All 10 historied Internet-tabs fired up.
No on-screen prompts, no installation.
What was all that drama about?

• My wife of 43+ years is “Linda.” She retired as a computer programmer.
• “MPN” is Messenger-Post Newspapers, from where I retired. The Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper was the best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years. (“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.) “MPNnow” is its web-site. (The Messenger bought the Post weekly newspapers, suburban weeklies around Rochester, when their publisher retired. There were nine Post weeklies.)
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about three-four hours per visit.

Pull the plug

Photo by BobbaLew.

Yrs trly is considering deactivating his Facebook.
A friend showed me how. It’s not rocket-science.
I previously thought it wasn’t possible; that there was no exit.
Not bailing on Facebook altogether; just deactivating the Facebook with my actual name on it, and doing what my wife did, activating a Facebook with a faux name.
This is because Facebook is so public, unlike my family’s web-site, which is also social media, but private: you have to be invited.
Facebook is frustration galore. It has locked this machine, and every time I fire it up, it’s slightly different.
My friend nailed it. They change formats like he changes underwear.
Beyond that, I’ve never been able to figure it out.
Everything my sister-in-law in Delaware, among others, posts appears on my Facebook. —Other “friends” don’t.
I’ve looked at my account-settings, and it seems I’d have to be a techno-maven.
Gobbledegook galore. Sharing and whatever!
Also there is the Facebook word-limit; anathema to a word-generator like me.
And most of what I’ve read is pointless: “You go girl” and “Burp!”
Often I wonder if what I read was posted from a SmartPhone. Their keyboard is near impossible.
I have a SmartPhone myself, and its keyboard is so frustratingly tiny, it limits what I type. —My SmartPhone gets my e-mail, but I rarely respond.
A SmartPhone keyboard might be good for five or six words. A real keyboard, like what I’m using now, is much more useful and friendly.
And if I try to post a reasoned argument on someone’s “wall,” Facebook goes ballistic. —It can’t do it; too many words!
Okay, I can accept that.
For the sake of occasional social interchange, I can accept their silly word-limit.
But what about all the useless ads on their right margin?
Rochester Bucket-List, and who is searching you; lithesome lassie with megacleavage revealed.
And ads aimed at my interests — railfanning for example.
I never click ‘em. How do I know if some ne’er-do-well is fishing for my identity?
One time an ad flew on Facebook of a stupid screenshot I took, as if it was a viable photograph of mine.
Laughable!
Those clowns will do anything!
So goes my legitimate Facebook.
I suppose I’ll have to notify all my Facebook “friends” of my new faux Facebook. —It’ll be the same profile pik; an American flag (as above).
I have 42 “friends.”
They will hear by e-mail.

• My wife of 43+ years is “Linda.” She retired as a computer programmer.
• I’m a railfan, and have been since age-two (I’m 67).

Plethora of pop-ups

For the past couple weeks my sister-in-law in Florida, the so-called “movie-lady,” has been trying to find us a copy of “Tron — Legacy” to download and watch.
We hardly watch movies, but this sounded interesting. We had seen “Tron.”
My sister-in-law e-mailed a link. I clicked it.
My Internet-browser is Firefox.
It was suggested to me years ago by a friend in Massachusetts, an old college-mate.
BlogSpot.com (this site) was also going to switch.
I had been using Microsoft Internet-Explorer, but it became somewhat undependable.
And BlogSpot was no longer going to support it.
So I installed Firefox, “FoxFire” to my siblings.
I have other browsers. I still have Internet-Explorer, which I keep for sites that don’t work with Firefox.
But most now do.
I also have Apple’s Safari®, which came with OS-X when they stopped using Internet-Explorer. (My first OS-Xs had Internet-Explorer.)
Microsoft had given up upgrading Internet-Explorer for the Macintosh.
But certain sites wouldn’t work with Firefox — this seemed primarily true of my railfan sites.
But those sites seem to have moved beyond Internet-Explorer, which could be kind of inferior.
People seem to think the computing-world is Microsoft; comparable to cereal being General Mills.
But I drive an Apple Macintosh, much the the chagrin of my siblings.
The Mighty Mezz computerized with Apple Macintosh; they might still be using it.
It’s the computer-platform with which I’m familiar.
Safari seems to be an Apple Macintosh thing. If I click an e-mail web-link it opens Safari.
I suppose I could make Firefox my default browser, but I don’t care.
I use Safari so little, let it open the e-mail web-links.
Seems harmless.
Since I use Firefox, I have it set to block pop-ups.
It doesn’t actually block them.
What it does is array them behind the main web-page, so you don’t see ‘em.
Minimize the main web-page, and there it is; it had been invisible behind everything else.
“Firefox blocked a pop-up from appearing with this page.”
Yes, indeed it did, unless I minimize the page.
Then, “Meaning-of-Life; just enter your Social-Security number.”
Safari was never set up; I never set it to block pop-ups.
I clicked my sister-in-law’s movie-link, and suddenly “This computer is severely infected! Clean your computer; click this link, only $10.95.”
“It is?” I said. “I ain’t cleanin’ nuthin, until it becomes bog-slow; and that’s a job for Mac Shack.
I managed to kill that pop-up, but suddenly an exercise-video was blaring at me.
Not Richard Simmons or Jillian, but “Hup-two-three-four!” —Redemption through sweat.
So much for freebie movie-links. Nothing is ever free.
And I always unclick e-mail boxes; I get enough e-mails as it is.
Plus my daily e-mail from JC Penney, which I don’t think I solicited.
“Look what I’ve been missing!” I said to my wife, as I killed the pop-up exercise-video.

• “We” is me and my wife of 43+ years, “Linda.”
• “OS-X” is Apple’s current computer operating system; OS-10. (OS-X has been in different versions; I started with the first, and and now up to version 7.)
• I’m a railfan, and have been since age-two (I’m 67).
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over five years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years. (“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.)
• “Mac Shack” is a local Apple Macintosh service-center in the Rochester area.

Unrestored Corvettes

Aztec-gold ’56. (Photo by Richard Lentinello.)

Here I am trumpeting Classic Car magazine again, in this case their May 2011 issue, #80.
I can’t help it. They always seem to dredge up really great classic cars.
They seem to have a soft-spot for unrestored original examples, that is, as delivered by the factory, not gussied up beyond reality by the restoration process.
In this case it’s Corvettes.
Corvettes are a special breed.
The so-called American sportscar.
They handle fairly well, are only two seats, and are made to go like stink.
The first Corvettes were rather moribund, especially as first marketed.
A glitzy body on an antediluvian chassis.
One is pictured above, a ’56.
In 1955 the fabulous Small-Block Chevy V8 was introduced, an engine almost European in character.
It would rev to the moon, and responded extremely well to hot-rodding.
The Small-Block was fitted to the Corvette, making it a desirable car.
Gone was the old Stovebolt-Six.

Zora Arkus-Duntov.

The appearance of early ‘Vettes attracted Zora Arkus-Duntov, who had developed a hemi-head for the Ford Flat-head.
Perhaps he could make the Corvette a really great sportscar.
Duntov developed various means of hot-rodding the Small-Block V8.
I remember his Duntov cam, a camshaft that transformed the Small-Block.
With a Duntov cam, the Small-Block would breathe, and thereby generate much more horsepower.

Photo by Richard Lentinello.

Dual quads.

The ’56 pictured has a souped factory version of the Small-Block; two four-barrel carburetors (see photo at left).
But the early Corvette was not right.
Duntov still had a lot of work to do.
The chassis was essentially that of a ’53 Chevy, solid rear-axle on leaf rear springs, the infamous Model-T tractor-layout.
The Small-Block transformed it, but only in a straight line.
Throw a corner at it, and it was over its head.
Ask it to stop, and you were in trouble.
Duntov wasn’t able to bring Corvette out of its humble beginnings until the 1963 model-year, the early Sting-Rays, the so-called “C2s,” the second engineering of the Corvette.
To me this is the finest Corvette; Duntov at his best.
At that time everyone was trying to do independent-rear-suspension (“IRS”), antithesis of the Model-T tractor-layout.
The center differential was solidly mounted to the car, and independently-suspended half-shafts came out each side.
No longer was the heavy center differential part of the rear-axle; no longer could its momentum impede suspension action.
And by disconnecting the left wheel from the right wheel, no longer was the opposite wheel effected by bumps to the other wheel.
IRS was a siren-song; still is, more-or-less.
But its main advantage compared to the Model-T tractor layout was taking out the momentum of the center differential.
Even the Model-T tractor layout can be made to handle extremely well.
The current Mustang is Model-T tractor layout, but would benefit from independent-rear-suspension.
The current Corvette is independent-rear-suspension, as were Duntov’s Sting-Rays of 1963.
But Duntov’s earliest IRS was rudimentary.
It used universal-joints at each end of stubby half-shafts — IRS for the masses.
To me, Duntov’s mid-‘60s Corvettes are the most desirable, 1963 to 1967.
I’ve pictured one below, a ’65.


Original ’65 fuelly. (Photo by Jeff Koch.)


My hairdresser’s ‘Vette, before he bought it.

My hairdresser had one, a red ’67 convertible, also pictured.
But his wasn’t unrestored original; the ’65 is.
Nevertheless, when my hairdresser retired, and remarried after his wife died, I considered buying his Corvette.
A red ’67 convertible four-speed is extremely desirable, but I had no place to put it, and it would have cost a fortune.
Beyond that, it was another internal-combustion engine to maintain.
I had enough already.
Next was the so-called C3, Zora’s falling for the Manta-Ray concept-Corvettes.
1968 through 1983.
Still the same chassis as Zora’s Sting-Rays, but an all-new body.
But Corvette was losing its way.
To make it competitive, Duntov was levering in the Chevy Big-Block, a massive power-generator, but heavy.
It threw off the Corvette’s balance. The lighter Small-Block was not as powerful, but in the Corvette offered better balance.
But even then the Corvette was becoming less a sportscar, and more a boulevardier.
Many Corvettes were sold with air-conditioning and automatic-transmission, hardly raw sportscars.


’71 Big-Block. (Photo by Richard Lentinello.)

I’ve pictured a ’71 Big-Block.
At least it’s a floor-shifted four-speed tranny.
But I can imagine tossing it into a corner.
That front-end will plow under all that heavy motor weight.
The Manta-Ray Corvettes are desirable, but not as desirable as Duntov’s C2 Sting-Rays.

25th Anniversary edition. (Not my neighbor’s car.)

My neighbor up-the-street has a C3, a ’78 Silver-Anniversary edition with the two-tone silver and gray paint.
I haven’t actually photographed it yet. He has it stored in his garage under a fabric cover.
It’s one of the boulevardier Corvettes with auto-tranny, but I’m glad he bought it.
He’s 71 years old, and recently had heart-bypass surgery.
It makes me wonder if I shoulda bought my hairdresser’s Corvette.
At least his Silver-Anniversary edition is the L48 350 cubic-inch Small-Block.
185 horsepower — not intimidating, but not wimpy.
He used to have a Trans-Am Pontiac, and regrets he sold it.
I guess his Silver-Anniversary ‘Vette is recompense.
It’s depressing to think his ’78 was already a 10-year-old design.
That design lasted clear until 1983.
Duntov retired in 1975, relinquishing command of Corvette to Dave McLellan.
The C4 debuted under McLellan in March of 1983, a 1984 model.
I call it the disco-‘Vette.
Later came the C5, which a friend says looks like a shampoo-bottle.
It’s big.
Now we have the C6, and still the same chassis as the C4, although fiddled some.
Duntov died in 1996, still a fervent supporter of the Corvette. People say he is the Corvette’s father.
His employ with General Motors came after loving the styling of early ‘Vettes, but abhorring their sickly underpinnings. —And writing them about it.

• 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. The “Big-Block” could be immensely powerful, and the “Small-Block” was revolutionary in its time. —At first the V8 introduced by Chevrolet in the 1955 model-year was not called the “Small-Block.” That came after the “Big-Block” was introduced.
• The Chevrolet overhead-valve inline “Stovebolt-six” was introduced in the 1929 model-year at 194+ cubic inches. It continued production for years, upgraded to four main bearings (from three) for the 1937 model-year. In 1950 the Stovebolt was upsized to 235.5 cubic inches (from 216), and later upgrades included full-pressure lubrication and hydraulic (as opposed to mechanical) valve-tappets. The Stovebolt was produced clear through the 1963 model-year, but replaced with a new seven-main bearing (as opposed to less — like four) inline-six engine in the 1964 model-year. The Stovebolt was also known as “the cast-iron wonder;” called the “Stovebolt” because various bolts could be replaced by stuff from the corner hardware.
• The “camshaft” is what actuates the cylinder-valves; in the Chevy Small-Block 16 cams are on the camshaft — it rotates — to open the cylinder-valves; eight intake and eight exhaust. (Springs close them.) —Re-contouring the cams can make the valves stay open longer, or open more abruptly.
• “Tranny” = transmission; “auto-tranny“ = automatic transmission.

Carrie and Facebook

“Well, here goes,” I said to myself, as I sent Carrie a Facebook “friend” invite.
Carrie was one of many people who’ve sent me Facebook “friend” invites I’ve avoided.
That’s mainly because I don’t do much with Facebook. I don’t dare. It’s locked this machine, and generally fights me.
Too many unknowns are going on in the background, so I never know what it’s doing.
Facebook is a nice idea, but it never worked as well as my family’s web-site through MyFamily.com.
Facebook is similar, although with Facebook I have 42 “friends.”
With MyFamily I had only eight, just immediate family-members.
Carrie has over 900 Facebook friends.
That’s the most I’ve ever seen.
I thought my brother-in-Delaware was in uncharted territory with over 400.
At the other extreme, I have an aunt in south Jersey with only one friend, and that’s my brother-in-Delaware, who set up her Facebook.
The fact I even have a Facebook is due to a fast-one on their part.
I got a Facebook e-mail friend invite from an old friend. So I responded — couldn’t hurt.
“To accept a Facebook friend-invite, you must have a Facebook of your own.”
I should have backed away.
Now I can’t; there’s no exit.
All I can do is not look at it, which I don’t.
Maybe once every two weeks or so.
I have Facebook friends who look even less; some hardly ever.
Yet I have “friend” invites galore.
What’s the sense of my responding favorably, when they never fiddle it?
Carrie was a photojournalist for MessengerPost Media, apparently during the final years of my employ there, and after I retired. (I retired five years ago.)
I never actually knew her, although I flew many of her pictures on the MessengerPost web-site, which I was doing before I retired.
Facebook asked me to “friend” numerous ex Messenger employees. I had to “unfriend” some.
I was getting bombarded with social-interchange I had no interest in.
Plus Facebook can’t seem to handle more than a few words. That scotches word-generators like me.
Carrie is pushing 36; that’s way younger than me — I’m 67.
1975; that means she was born nine years after I graduated college.
She gets to harvest the fruits of our profligacy: an atmosphere fouled by hydrocarbons.
And global-warming; possibly rising oceans.
I wonder if she gets to wear a breathing-pack? By then I’ll be gone.
I’m not actually a Boomer; born during the closing years of WWII.
But right at the cusp of the post-war Baby-Boom; the people that sought redemption and life-meaning by burning gasoline and coal.
So now Carrie is out on her own, no longer employed by the Messenger.
I hope she makes it as a self-employed professional photographer. I tried long ago, and gave up.
I know how photography can become drudgery, babies and wedding-shoots. It’s not the redemption it could be.
I gave it up because buyers didn’t seem to care what I was doing — what I thought looked good didn’t matter to buyers.
I also gave it up because I felt I didn’t have “the eye,” the ability to imagine how a picture would look when printed.
I don’t think Carrie has that problem. I know I was always flying her stuff on the MessengerPost web-site. Her “eye” seems much better than mine.
The ability to cut out distractions, like a water-tower or wires, poles exiting people’s heads, etc.
And color-temperature; the fact a camera doesn’t do what the mind does, like color-correct a snow-image.
I developed some of that through experience, but still feel like I’m shooting “and see how it looks.”
Some of my photographs sold nationally long ago, and I do a photo-calendar for a bed-and-breakfast.
But that calendar is by default.
They liked what I had, so asked if I could do a calendar. It wasn’t a “sale” on my part.
So now I’m friends with Carrie, her 940th, and my 42nd.
This was prompted by the old Facebook waazoo; that I couldn’t comment on one of her pictures without being a “friend.”
Plus, what little I knew of Carrie encouraged it. I sure flew enough of her pictures on the MessengerPost web-site.

• “MessengerPost Media” is a result of buyout of nine suburban Post weekly newspapers, by the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I worked almost 10 years following my stroke. (I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.) —It was the best job I ever had. (“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.) —MessengerPost Media had a web-site, and toward the end of my employ I was doing it.

Iron Mike’s Military Exchange

(“Robert J. Hughes” is me, BobbaLew.)

“I see I am the owner of a small-business,” I said to my wife; “‘Iron Mike’s Military Exchange.’”
A credit-card solicitation had arrived in our mail, addressed as pictured.
“What brought that on?” my wife asked.
“Who knows,” I exclaimed.
Am I dealing with Hitler Wehrmacht paraphernalia, glittering daggers and iron crosses?
Many years ago, when I was about 11 or 12, I remember wandering into a war-surplus outfit in an old airport hanger, whose prize was the actual plexiglass bubble machine-gun turret from atop a B-17 bomber — or maybe it was a B-25 or B-26.
It lacked the machine-guns, but was gorgeous, the real thing.
I have no idea what happened to that turret, but I wanted it.
I’d put it atop my house, and imagine blasting enemy planes out of the sky.
“Messerschmitts at 12 o-clock high!” I’d yell. Ratta-tatta-tatt-tatt-tatt-tatt!
Eons ago, back during the ‘70s, when we lived in Rochester, I used to patronize Mack’s Army-Navy on Main St. —I bought my jeans there.
When Mack’s tanked, I switched to Archie’s Gob-Shop out W. Main near Broad St.
A while ago I bought a tee-shirt from a military exchange for working out at the Canandaigua YMCA.
It had a distressed rendering of the old stars-and-stripes insignia used on Air Force planes in the ‘50s.
Was that the connection?
Did some errant computer-program link me with that tee-shirt outlet?
The credit-card company, a bank, demanded an immediate response.
They will get one.
They get to pay postage for an envelope full of junk.
It’s not my postage; it’s theirs.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about three-four hours per visit. (“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.)

Silly boy

Photo by BobbaLew.

A new refrigerator-magnet, depicted above, has joined the eclectic collection on the freezer-door (pictured at left) of our refrigerator.
It’s a Pennsylvania Railroad K4 Pacific steam-locomotive, 4-6-2, a refrigerator-magnet acquired during our recent visit to Station-Inn in Cresson, PA (“KRESS-in”).
Station-Inn is a bed-and-breakfast for railfans.
We stayed there because Tunnel-Inn, in nearby Gallitzin (“guh-LIT-zin;” as in “get”), the bed-and-breakfast we usually stay at in the Altoona, PA area (“al-TUNE-uh;” as in the name “Al”) wasn’t open yet.
Altoona is the location of Horseshoe Curve (the “Mighty Curve”), west of Altoona, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to.
The railroad was looped around a valley to climb the mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use.
I am a railfan, and have been since age-two (I’m 67).
The viewing-area is smack in the apex of the Curve; and trains are willy-nilly. Up-close-and personal. —I’ve been there hundreds of times, since it’s only about five hours away.
We visited the Altoona area to chase trains. (This was last month; the Curve was closed.)
After staying at Station-Inn, we prefer Tunnel-Inn. Station-Inn is almost Third-World, and furthermore Tunnel-Inn is right on top of the railroad.
Station-Inn is on the street that fronts the railroad, that is, across-the-street from the railroad.
Tunnel-Inn is trackside where the railroad tunnels under the summit of the Allegheny mountains.
The real difference is accommodations. Tunnel-Inn seems more civilized. Furthermore Tunnel-Inn can sleep two in one bed. Station-Inn is two single beds.
My wife and I have been sleeping together since married — that was over 43 years ago.
At Station-Inn: “I hope he’s all right over there. I can’t hear any breathing.”
At Tunnel-Inn: “I guess she’s still alive. I feel a warm body next to me, and she’s breathing.”
The K4 Pacific came to symbolize the Pennsylvania Railroad.
It’s an old design, yet very pretty.
The K4 Pacific was developed in the late ‘teens. Pennsy never developed modern steam power in the ‘30s. They were investing heavily in electrification.
What they did was doublehead the K4s to compete.
That’s two locomotive crews.
They could afford to. Pennsy was extremely profitable. It was the main conduit for midwestern freight to the east-coast megalopolis.

Photo by BobbaLew.

A Pennsy number-plate. (Actually this is plastic.)

Most attractive about the K4 was its red Keystone number-plate on its front smokebox door.
I always got the feeling that was Raymond Loewy (“low-eee”), the industrial-designer who did things for Pennsy.
Originally the K4 had a red circular number-plate, but that keystone could be an icon, much like Loewy’s Lucky-Strike cigarettes icon, or the Coke-bottle (also Loewy).
And the K4 was extremely well proportioned.
I saw other railroad steam-locomotives, mainly Reading Railroad (“REDD-ing;” not “READ-ing”). But they were ugly compared to Pennsy steam-engines.
The early K4s were prettiest. They had a horizontally-slatted cowcatcher, and the headlight was at the top of the circular smokebox-front like a Cyclops eye.
That was the best place to put it.
Centered was okay, but not the best place.
Later the slatted cowcatcher was replaced with a giant heavy casting with a drop-coupler. It wasn’t as pretty.
And then the front-end “beauty-treatment” was done; putting the electric generator on the smokebox front with a platform below to work on it.
The headlight was moved atop the smokebox in front of the smoke-stack, still frontward and up top, but no longer on the smokebox front.
But there was always that gorgeous red keystone number-plate.
Reading engines didn’t have that.
I got so I always looked for that red keystone on an approaching train, on the Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines, where I became a railfan.
“Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines” (PRSL) was 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.
An onrushing red keystone meant I was gonna see a great-looking engine.
“Looks kinda delicate and almost feminine,” I always think to myself, seeing this refrigerator-magnet.
It’s those spindly spoked driving-wheels. The drivers on a K4 weren’t solid castings; they weren’t the more modern box-pok (“box-poke”) drivers.
They were the spoked wheels locomotives had been using as drivers since about the 1840s.
Flanged steel tires meet the railhead, but the wheel-centers were spoked castings.
Still, the drivers on a K4 were huge, 80 inches in diameter. 72 inches is six feet; 80 inches is almost seven feet. That’s taller than men that don’t play professional basketball.
A K4 was hardly delicate and feminine standing next to it, a throbbing, panting monster.
That boiler-vessel is holding back hundreds of pounds of steam-pressure.
Yet I could stand next to a K4. I was terrified of thunderstorms, but I could stand next to a throbbing steam-locomotive.
“Mommy, Mommy, look!” I’d cry. “A train is up there in the station. Let’s go see it!”
“Into the bank, Bobby. I got no time for those filthy old trains. I don’t know what you see in those things, silly boy. You’re driving me crazy!”
I should explain some of the other things on our refrigerator-door.
Primary is a line-drawing done long ago by my nephew Tom, probably about six at the time. (Tom is now almost 26, and is also a railfan like me.)
I posted it because he had correctly interleaved the letters of the Pennsylvania Railroad emblem — extraordinary for someone his age.
“MPN” is Messenger-Post Newspapers, where I worked almost ten years after my stroke. It was the best job I ever had.
Driving bus paid more, but it was dreadful. A post-stroke job-counselor wanted to get my job back driving bus, but I told him to forget it.
“Isaac” is our HVAC contractor.
We have other business-cards posted: “Certified Appliance Repair,” “The Door-Doctor” (our garage-door), “Miller Plumbing,” and “Ranchanna Kennels” (where we board our dog).
I also have a number of picture postcards posted of steam-locomotives — they were received over the years.
There also is a cartoon I received from my sister in Fort Lauderdale about Irish-Setters — our dog is an Irish-Setter.
My wife has also posted a picture of me on an old motorcycle I traded long ago. It was motorbike number-four; I’m now on number-six.
That picture ran in the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper early during my employ.
I had been told my stroke ended my motorcycling, but I wasn’t listening to that!
The picture on the refrigerator-magnet is credited to Andy Fletcher, and is probably a water-color, but on a side-elevation blueprint. No way in a million years could you get back far enough to get a true side-elevation of a steam-locomotive — not with a camera, anyway. Go back about 1,000 yards with a super-strong telephoto, and you might get things fairly flat. Closer than that, and the smokebox curves away, and the tender does the same.

• “Doublehead” means two locomotives in tandem.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit-bus for Regional Transit Service, the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke ended it.

Continuing U-Scan follies

“I don’t know why I even bother with them things,” I said to my wife as I returned to our car with groceries I had just bought at Mighty Tops in nearby Canandaigua.
Every time I shop Tops I use their “U-Scan” self-checkout terminals.
“Actually I do know why,” I added.
“It’s because they’re technology, and I always feel compelled to whup them into submission.”
Years ago, not too long after my stroke, I rode motorcycle with my brother to Altoona, PA (“al-TUNE-uh;” as in the name “Al”).
Altoona is the location of Horseshoe Curve (the “Mighty Curve”), west of Altoona, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to.
The railroad was looped around a valley to climb the mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use.
I am a railfan, and have been since age-two (I’m 67).
The viewing-area is smack in the apex of the Curve; and trains are willy-nilly. Up-close-and personal. —I’ve been there hundreds of times.
I had gotten back to riding motorcycle, surprising my stroke-therapists, and had even taken a long trip to Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Delaware, via New York City and the New Jersey Turnpike.
80 mph in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
But Altoona, even though it’s only five hours away, had always been too much. It was always raining or something.
With my brother joining me, I decided to try it.
My brother is a macho Harley guy, a blowhard who noisily badmouths everything I do or say.
He reminds me of Rush Limbaugh.
In Altoona we patronized a Sheetz convenience-store to purchase subs for dinner.
I noticed a computer touch-screen gizmo for ordering sub-toppings.
“Hmmmmnnnnn; looks interesting,” I said, as I started fiddling it.
“I SPEAK ENGLISH,” my brother loudly bellowed, rudely butting in.
The terrified store-clerks ducked behind the counter.
I never got to try that touch-screen gizmo until I rode down there alone.
“Welcome to Tops,” the U-Scan bubbled. “If you have a Tops ‘favored-customer’ keytag, please scan it now.”
“BIP!”
Amazing. We’ve successfully negotiated Step One. Quite often the U-Scan won’t crunch my favored-customer keytag.
“Welcome, Tops ‘favored customer!’”
I wasn’t using my reusable shopping-bag. I was using a Tops plastic bag that clutters landfills 700 years.
This was a plus. If you try to use your reusable shopping-bag, the U-Scan goes ballistic. It assumes you’re trying to rip off the store.
I’ve been told the platen your shopping-bag rests on next to the U-Scan is actually a scale.
If you have the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to set your reusable shopping-bag on the platen, that U-Scan decides you’re stealing.
An al-Qaeda terrorist.
“Call Security!”
“Please scan your first item!”
I hit the produce button; I had bananas.
“Please enter the produce-code onto the keypad, press ‘done’ when finished, and place your item on the scale.”
“BIP!”
“Please place your item in the bag.”
I did.
Then again, “Please place your item in the bag.”
“I just did!”
“Please call attendant!”
Uh-ohhhh....... Penalty-box alert! The sign of complete and utter failure, where a young attendant races headlong to my side, lest I leave the store with purloined bananas, than glances at me furtively like I’m a technically-challenged old geezer in way over my head, and angrily clears the U-Scan, eyeing me as stupid.
How many times have I thrown up my hands in frustration and hiked over to a human checkout?
.......Rather than face the wrath of the dreaded attendant.
—And how many times has the attendant gotten to hear “NOW WHAT!”
“The attendant is not here!” I said to myself.
She had left her monitoring post.
Minutes passed.
The U-Scan was glaring at me; the infamous black “Call Attendant” screen.
Perhaps the U-Scan could activate store-wide alarm-sirens when wronged.
“Whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop! A U-Scanner is trying the steal two pounds of bananas not paid for. Bring in the goon-squad!”
Suddenly the attendant returned. She cleared my “Call Attendant” screen.
I get the feeling U-Scan terminals aren’t saving Tops much money, not when they have to pay an attendant.
I also get the feeling Danny’s U-Scans, if he had ‘em, wouldn’t be so untrusting of human nature.
I’ve seen this at his Service-Desk.
I show up at Weggers hoping to get back $5-$10 for purchase of aged fruit that spoiled in my refrigerator, and my money is cheerfully returned. —No questions asked; no third degree.
$5 here, $10 there; over the day it isn’t gonna add up to a fortune.
Danny can still drive his Ferrari.
It isn’t worth losing a customer over $5-$10.

• My wife of 43+ years is “Linda.”
• “Mighty Tops” is the Tops supermarket-chain based in Buffalo we occasionally buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.
• “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.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• “Danny” is Danny Wegman, the head-honcho of the giant Wegmans (“Weggers”) supermarket chain, the major supermarket institution in the Rochester area, although it now has stores all over the northeast, and is expanding. His father (recently deceased) founded the chain. Danny owns and drives a Ferrari.

One-on-One

“There are two things you should know before we start,” I said to the comely young girl who exited the bowels of the Verizon store on Jefferson Road in Henrietta, the old Krispy Kreme.
She was aloof, yet very informative.
I got the feeling she was thinking “what’s this old geezer doing fiddling a Droid-X SmartPhone?” as she confronted me.
“I’ll have to show him the power-switch!”
“—A) You’re dealing with a stroke-survivor. As such, my speech can be compromised. In fact, you’re hearing it now: difficulty slinging words together for what I’m trying to say here, resulting in halting speech and stony silences.
—B) My ability to read manuals is compromised. Most of what I learned about this phone was by intuition. Usually the manual is just a starting-point.”
I find I have to mention these two things lest the listener think I’m angry.
“I’ve gotten so I can do a few things with this phone, like make phonecalls, use the calculator and alarm-clock, YouTube and the web, and even the events-calendar to some extent.
But if I try to find the geodesic coordinates of where I’m standing, VZ-Navigator, which was on my old phone, wants a fee.”
“You won’t need that,” she said. “Google-Maps.”
“Show me,” I said, handing her my phone.
We fired up Google-Maps, an app that was already on my phone.
It showed the exact location of where we were on a map, in this case along Jefferson Road.
“Cool,” I said.
I tried it again at home. It showed my location on a map, but not the geodesic coordinates.
“Okay,” I said. “We tried making this phone a hot-spot, but my laptop, a MAC, (which I had along) won’t connect. Looks like Verizon wants a fee.”
“They do,” she said. “About $20 a month.”
“What about tethering?” I asked. I had brought along a USB cable.
“Even more,” she said. “About $40 a month.”
“So it sounds like I need a Verizon USB receiver to get Verizon Internet on my laptop. I currently have RoadRunner to my house, but notice it slows to a crawl at certain times, like when others on the cable might be playing Internet video-games. —I was hoping Verizon Internet might solve this, especially if it’s 4G.”
“Except Apple is not working with Verizon. It’ll hafta be 3G. That’s the only thing Apple does currently.”
“Okay, my current browser is FireFox, and has 10 historied tabs running all-the-time.”
“Stick with RoadRunner,” she said. “We’re gonna charge you for exceeding a megabyte-limit. It’ll add maybe $500 to your monthly bill. That’s crazy!”
“Or as they say in the Unclaimed Freight ads: ‘IN-S-A-A-A-NE,’” I said.
She laughed.
“Okay, next question,” I said. “When I bought this phone, I set up a GMail account. I’ll be a son-of-a-gun if I can get it on my laptop.”
We fired up the GMail app on my phone.
It had maybe four messages, most from the GMail team, on how to add glitz.
“This is the http address you gotta use. Crank that into your laptop’s browser, and you’ll get your GMail account,” she said.
“Let’s try it!” I said.
“You won’t get Internet in here. Your laptop won’t get GMail,” she said.
I tried it later at home. Same hairball I previously got; it wants me to join. I don’t want to toss my AppleMail account.
Plus it says the user-name I propose is not available.
Well of course it’s not. That’s the user-name on my existing GMail account.
“And it’s not satellite-Internet,” she added. “It’s satellite-Internet over the Verizon network.”
“Same as my brother-in-law,” I said; “and he’s Sprint.
No wonder downloads to this phone take so long,” I said.
“Well, not that long,” she said, as I fired up my MyCast Internet weather-site on my phone, about a second or two.
“Slower than RoadRunner,” I said.
“Well, Google fires up quickly. That’s only two things; the logo, and the search-bar.”
Some other site might be multiple things — more loading time is needed,” she said; “and you’re doing our network.”
“And my phone is not 4G, and can’t be,” I said. “It’s 3G.
“The 4G Androids aren’t available as Verizon yet, maybe next week.”
“Next week?” we chuckled.
“Yet despite being a stroke-survivor, I ain’t about to give up on this phone,” I said. “It’s that much easier to use.
My old phone was jumping through hoops for every function, especially the calculator.
I was thinking of upgrading to 4G, if -a) it was actually satellite-Internet, and -b) I had any idea what to do with this thing.
But now you’re telling me 4G Droids aren’t available yet, and it isn’t actually satellite-Internet. And even if it were, using Verizon-Internet would kill me financially.
Thanks. You did good,” I told her as I left.
It was nice to not deal with a viper.

• “Henrietta” is a suburb south of Rochester, NY. “Jefferson Road” is a main east-west road through it. There was a “Krispy Kreme” on it, but that tanked and was replaced by Verizon in the Krispy Kreme building.
• RE: “Old geezer.........” —I’m 67.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)
• “RoadRunner “ is Time-Warner’s Internet service; Rochester RoadRunner.
• RE: “The Unclaimed Freight ads......” — Unclaimed Freight sells furniture, and is a local advertiser in the Rochester TV market. They end all their silly ads with “our prices are IN-S-A-A-A-NE!

The dreaded change to Daylight-Savings-Time

“Dreaded” only because my wife’s computer, a Windows PC, often throws a hissy-fit.
Usually it hasn’t done the time-change.*
Both our computers — mine is an Apple Macintosh — get their time from the time-server in Boulder, CO, National Institute of Standards (NIST).
I was shown long ago how to do that by the ‘pyooter-guru at the Mighty Mezz.
First we set up my MAC here at home back then — the Messenger was using MACs during my employ.
We then set about doing the same for my wife’s Windows PC; wasn’t that hard.
So now both our computers are synchronized to the Atomic Clock in Boulder, the source for correct time.
When the time-signal put out by NIST “Springs Ahead” to Daylight-Savings-Time, everything except my wife’s computer follows.
Both our cellphones and our alarm-clock get their time from the satellite, which uses Atomic-Clock time.
Last night (Saturday, March 12, 2011) I reset everything that doesn’t. What I do is synchronize my digital wrist-watch to the Atomic-Clock time on my Macintosh.
When I got up at 3:30 a.m. our alarm-clock had “sprung forward.”
I see my MAC has done it too, as it always does.
I stopped using “Apple-Time,” since it was always a few seconds fast.
Now I hafta reset our DV recorder so it doesn’t get Oprah (Ugh!). —Oh-PRA! —Oh-PRA! —Oh-PRA! —Oh-PRA!
And my wife has to reset her computer.
Come-on Gates; it ain’t rocket-science!
And every time we switch to Daylight-Savings, we hear about tampering with “God’s Time.”
Ahem, “God’s Time” is that delivered by your sundial.
Dawn arrives in Boston much earlier than in Canandaigua.
The four “Standard-Time” zones in this nation are the doing of the railroads; they were sick of times varied along their routes.
In Baltimore it might be 4:30 p.m., but in York, PA north of Baltimore it might be 4:20, and in Harrisburg it might be 4:15.
In New York City it might be 4:30 p.m., but in Buffalo it might be 4 o’clock.
How can you schedule anything amidst such madness? Time in Philadelphia might be 4:30, but in Huntingdon, PA it might be 4:15, and in Altoona it might be 4:10. —And in Johnstown it might be 4:06.
*We have decided the legions at Microsoft, in their infinite wisdom, know Daylight-Savings-Time is not in use everywhere. So you are required to manually switch it on.
Jobs and his cronies at Apple decided Daylight-Savings-Time is in use in most places, so they programmed an added hour to the time-signal.
The NIST time-signal is neither here-nor-there, so isn’t sending a Daylight-Savings-Time time-signal. —Except perhaps to the satellite.
Cellphones get the satellite time-signal; perhaps all MACs as well.
What if I’m in Hawaii, where Daylight-Savings-Time is not used?
Do I hafta dial my cellphone back?
Are the tables turned? All MACs in Hawaii are wrong?

• My wife of 43+ years is “Linda.” Like me she’s retired, and she retired as a computer programmer.
• “Gates” is Bill Gates, head of Microsoft.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over five years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years.
• “‘Pyooter” is computer.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY southeast of Rochester. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.
• “Jobs” is Steve Jobs, head of Apple.

Off to the great land of the shadow of the mighty DeLand water-tower

(Fasten seatbelts, everyone.
This is the longest blog yrs trly has ever written — almost all keyed in too.
Primarily because I had nothing else to do this long visit, and otherwise would have gone completely crazy from sheer boredom.)

Photo by BobbaLew.

The DeLand water-tower.

For those who weren’t reading this here blog three years ago, “the shadow of the mighty DeLand water-tower” is where my wife’s 95-year-old mother (“Big Dorothea,” her name is “Dorothea;” “dar-uh-THEE-uh;” as in “thing” and “dark”) lives in DeLand, FL.
She lives by herself in a tiny two-room apartment in a retirement community in DeLand, not “assisted-living” yet.
My wife’s father died of a stroke about 20 years ago.
Her mother recently turned 95 (last Valentine’s Day), but we were unable to visit for various reasons.
We try to visit on her birthday.
The retirement center is hard by the DeLand water-tower, pictured above.
She lives about 900 miles south of us, a long airplane flight.
We can only stand visiting a day or two, a day flying down, a day or two visiting, and then a day flying back home — three or four days total.
It was a trip from the Great White North to no long underwear. Nor down jackets nor knitted woolen hats — nor gloves.


Linda’s mother (right) and Linda (left). (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I find these visits dreadfully boring. I have to sit quietly with my hands folded.
Linda’s mother growled at me long ago.
But I suppose she’s decided I’m okay, after we’ve stayed together over 43 years.
I now have a $5,000 CD in my name held by her.
(There are other CDs for various children and grandchildren.)
Our marriage was thought to be a mistake. The scuttlebutt then was I had got my wife-to-be pregnant.
But I hadn’t, and here we are 43+ years later.
So I guess I wasn’t so bad after all.
“At least it’s a direct flight,” I said, wedged into a tiny coach-seat on our flight down.
Cattle-car accommodations.
Rochester-to-Orlando, no change of planes.
Rochester airport had wi-fi, but it took over and messed up this machine.
It replaced all my Firefox Internet tabs with some airport setup screen.
Thankfully, I’ve been backing up to an external hard-drive, so I have to retrieve everything when I get home.
(See Day-three — I won’t have to.)
The airplane also had wi-fi, but that too took over this computer.
They also wanted $6.95 for a two-hour session.
Are they kidding?
If it were free, I’d play with the Internet, but even for only $6.95 it’s not worth it.
If I were actually doing work via the Internet, I’d spring the $6.95.
But I’m not, so fah-ged-abow-did!
Back in the sleeve this laptop went, and back into underseat stowage.
At Orlando we had already reserved with Hertz, their cheapest model, a Chevrolet Aveo.

Photo by BobbaLew.

Our rental car, strident yellow.

“Made in America?” my wife asked.
“It’s a Chevy,” I said; ”but I doubt it. Mexico or Korea, or maybe Japan.
No way could The General compete “Made-in-America” in this market niche.
I’ve yet to see a Kruze-Kontrol,” I said.
Not that I need it.
“Must be the el-cheapo model,” my wife commented.
“Well it is,” I said. “All I need is four doors.
Heaven forbid I show up to your mother’s in a Hertz fun-collection Corvette.
Or a Mustang, with only two doors and a back seat designed for toddlers.”
“Take time to get familiar with your rental-car,” the Hertz instructions said.
Like how to open the trunk.
Minutes passed, at least four separate unlocks.
Finally pay-dirt. I found a small plastic handle that popped open the trunk.
Then there was getting out of the facility.
I followed exit-signs until I came to a darkened intersection in a shadowy abyss with no exit-sign.
“Welcome to National Car-Rental,” lower level.
Into the steamy bowels of the lower level I drove, and executed a flourishing U-turn smack in the middle of the garage.
“If you look under this beam, you’ll see an exit-sign to your left.”
Now you tell me!
Exiting the airport, I kept having to merge left out of right-most lanes that turned into exit-ramps.
Must have done it at least five times.
And then on the B-line and the Greeneway, more right-most lanes becoming exit-ramps.
I had to cut off one dude to keep going.
And then the map where the Greeneway intersects Interstate-4 was out-of-date.
Used to be the Greeneway ended at Interstate-4, but not any more.
I had to slam on the brakes to make Interstate-4, lest I keep going west on new highway. (My intent was north on Interstate-4.)
Then there was the pizza-journey in DeLand that night at Linda’s mother.
Suddenly, “Left, here; left, LEFT!
“Can’t now,” I said. I had already started turning right.
“Left into that plaza, Bob. The pizza-joint is right in this little plaza.
“Keep quiet, BobbaLew; even though you’re past the plaza-entrance.”
I turned left on a street, and paraded slowly in front of of the plaza.
No pizza-shop.
“Alright, turn right here; right, RIGHT!
Whadja do that for?”
“Easy now, BobbaLew; even though you were already well-past the place you should have turned.”
Over to Woodland Blvd., the main drag through DeLand.
Past Stetson University, and east toward Daytona.
“I see a Papa Johns,” I said.
It least it was a pizza-shop of some description, although not the one we were looking for. —I felt we were wandering around in the wilderness.
Next was getting back out on Woodland Blvd.
Lots of traffic both ways; it was pitch-dark.
Finally an opening.
I headed left, but a median-divider appeared in front of me, yet no indication you could only turn right.
Thank goodness I wasn’t on motorbike.
Over the median we drove, obvious out-of-towners.
“Thanks for telling me,” I yelled.
Where we come from, if you can’t turn left a sign tells ya.
But this is Florida.
You’re on-your-own!
And everywhere, blatting macho Harleys, sans helmets.
DeLand is near Daytona, and Bike-Week was this week.
“She’ll make 100,” I declared as we left for the night.
“Oh, I don’t know,” my wife said. “My aunt started falling apart in her late nineties. Mini-strokes, whatever.”
“Seems pretty spry,” I responded.
“But she’s already had a heart-attack, and gets dragged to the hospital for whatever reason every time we go to Altoona” (“al-TUNE-uh, PA; as in the name “Al”).

Day Two: (Day One of our visit.) The wars begin.
“I think what I’d rather do is eat breakfast out; pancakes,” I said.
“Well here; I’ll getcha some money!”
“Mother, we’ll pay for it ourselves,” my wife declared.
Sputter-pop-fizzle; “you’re my guests!”
“Let’s not start,” my wife said. “There’s no reason you have to pay for everything. We’re gonna be here two whole days. We were hoping we could take you out to eat for your birthday.”
“Well,” sputter-pop-fizzle. “But-but-but......
Well, I hope you’re happy. It’s a miracle,” she said, reprising a previous complaint.
“Only one day? When Carol comes, she stays for two weeks. Thank goodness for Carol! (Linda’s brother’s first wife, one of at least four; the one he should have never left. [‘He sure messed up his life — I don’t know what I did wrong!’]) —You think you could visit more than one day when you’re retired.”
Ahem, our dog is in jail. And she doesn’t like it. She whimpered at us as we left. “Don’t leave me in this zoo, you guys....... You’re my family.” (Whimper.)
The day ground slowly by; first an IHOP, and then my keying in this monster in our guest-room while Linda visited her mother.
I’m glad I brought this laptop. Keying in this blog at home would have taken days, and it gave me a way to kill time.
I managed to key in a whole day’s worth, and then waddled over to the apartment.
But I was sleepy after about 45 minutes. (Utterly bored.)
I got up to go back to our guest-room for a nap; dinner would be after that, and Linda would join me back to our guest-room.
It was approaching five o’clock.
Behind all this is the fact my wife has cancer, supposedly not a death-sentence, or so we are told.
In other words, it’s treatable — manageable.
A while ago we met some lady at Wilmot Cancer Center in Rochester, NY (“WILL-mott;” as in “Mott’s applesauce”) who had been jerking around with breast-cancer 17 years.
Actually my wife has two cancers.
The first is Non-Hodgkins B-cell lymphoma.
It appeared about three years ago as a large hard tumor in her abdomen.
CHOP-chemotherapy (cyclophosphamide, hydroxydaunorubicin [doxorubicin], Oncovin [vincristine], and prednisone) poofed it, but you’re not actually cured.
Lymphoma keeps coming back.
Senator Fred Thompson has it.
Second is breast-cancer, although there was never a primary site.
It never initiated in her breasts.
It just metastasized into her bones, etc.
We beat that back with Femara®, the trade-name for Letrozole.
Her breast-cancer was estrogen-positive, and Femara inhibits the formation of estrogen.
No more breast-cancer in her bones, and small skin-tumors disappeared.
Linda seemed to be deteriorating; “I have to feel well enough to even eat out.”
She has to take pain-medicine (Tylenol) every four hours.


The infamous risque fountain. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

On the way to Linda’s mother’s apartment late that afternoon, I passed the infamous fountain (pictured above) that caused so much trouble.
The one with the bare-naked mermaid gayly cavorting with 89 bazilyun dancing dolphins.
The mermaid was having a bad-hair day.
The women at the retirement-center are appalled.
Their dirty old husbands might get aroused by that bare-breasted mermaid.
“One of these days I’m gonna put a brassiere on that mermaid!” they say.
The fountain was almost off. Water was not gushing vertically out of the pool (see picture).
“Harold, leave that fountain alone! Quit staring at it! How come we never get past without you stopping?”
“Tell ya what,” I said, as we started for our supper restaurant.
(This was after a noisy verbal donnybrook about who would pay.)
“How about if I just use streets I know where I’m goin’?” I asked — which means no input from shotgun riders, leading me into confusion.
Silence. Linda’s mother was no longer shouting belated instructions at me. All I had to do was get to Amelia, which runs parallel to Woodland Blvd., the one with all the restaurants.
Minnesota gets me to Amelia, almost 3/4-mile from the retirement-center.
Coming back Minnesota I turn right at Kansas St., the mighty DeLand water-tower.
Without distraction I can get around DeLand fairly easily.
“I just know the way the center-bus goes to the supermarket; Wisconsin, Boston.....” Linda’s mother said. —All over creation.
I detected a harumph from the shotgun seat — suffer in silence.

Day three; visit with Jerry, Linda’s only brother, otherwise discerned as a complete and utter failure.
I don’t consider him that.
To me he’s a breath of fresh air; a diversion from sheer boredom.
He’s 69, and not retired yet.
Plus a techno-geek.
I set my smart-phone alarm to 6 a.m., so we could eat breakfast with him.
It was a slam-dunk! (First time ever.)
I also deleted three default alarms, all off, that came with my smart-phone.
I’m getting so I can drive that thing, despite only running on seven cylinders — traumatic brain-injury, my stroke in long-ago 1993.
Guess I better not turn it off. It might have to be on for the alarm to work.
I’ll just plug the little dear in so the battery doesn’t run dry.
(It worked.)
But I’m frustrated with how long 3G satellite-Internet downloads take; I’m used to the blazing speed of cable-Internet connections, and I’m told my Droid can’t do 4G.
After breakfast with Jerry at nearby “Gram’s Kitchen” with the grizzled biker-crowd, wherein Linda’s survival was discussed, among other sundries (like Jerry’s moving to DeLand).....
In honor of Bike-Week, their menu suggested a “Biker Special” for breakfast, which included a nine-ounce N.Y. strip-steak, home-fries, bacon, etc. I renamed it the cholesterol-special.
......we returned to Linda’s mother’s apartment to -a) try getting the Internet wi-fi on thIs computer from my Droid as a hot-spot -b) prepare for Jerry’s departure for work, and -c) video-record Linda’s mother on Linda’s camera (which can video-record) talking about “non-controversial topics” (if there are any at all).
Verizon (my cellphone service) apparently wants a fee; so even though we made my Droid a hot-spot, I couldn’t join.
Jerry’s phone, on-the-other-hand, is already paying the fee.
So could I connect this computer to his phone?
I did.
Jerry suggested “tethering” was a waste, that if a computer will wi-fi, wi-fying to a hot-spot made more sense.
Even to tether, Verizon would probably want a fee. (But maybe not.)
The idea is to see if switching to satellite-Internet makes more sense than cable Internet. —I’ve noticed that -a) satellite-Internet often doesn’t receive in a building, and -b) cable-Internet is often bog-slow if others on our cable are playing Internet video-games (producing interrupted YouTube videos).
I was able to reconstruct all my historied FireFox Internet tabs via his phone (see above). I have ten; thus reversing the damage Rochester airport’s wi-fi had done.
We then set about recording Linda’s mother jabbering about “the old times,” times when Jerry and Linda were “so cute,” i.e. before they grew up becoming complete failures.
“Who was my third-grade teacher?” Linda asked.
“Why that was Mrs. Stowell,” Jerry said. “She accused me of cheating on a test.”
“And remember the time we sold sand door-to-door in the abandoned paper-cups we found at the old cheese-factory?” Linda asked.
“I was so embarrassed,” Linda’s mother said.
“And we were the first family with TV, which made us very popular,” Linda’s mother added. “The only other family that had TV at first was the Wrights at the other end of town.”
“I was 10,” Linda said.
“Ya mean they weren’t coming to see us?”Jerry said.
“I remember all them Risely kids coming up to watch Sky King.” (Anyone remember Sky King? First he flew a Twin-Beech, then a twin-engine Cessna 310, then an Aero-Commander.)
“I also remember how I used to go out back in Mama’s store, grab all the returned pop-bottles, bring ‘em back out front, and hand ‘em in for deposit,” Jerry said.
“All we got on that TV at first was snow,” Linda’s mother said.
At least this effort to video-record was fairly successful.
Linda suggested the day before she was going to do this and was met with stony silence.
“She won’t live forever,” Linda had said.
But she may outlive her daughter.
“You kids sure have a lot of fun with them gizmos, ”Linda’s mother said, as we each fiddled our separate techno-toys.
“Comp-yoooo-ters! she said; “I sure am glad you understand ‘em. Not me; I’m just dumb!”
I was handed an ancient InstaMatic film-camera with a supposedly non-functioning flash to take a snapshot of her two children with her.
“It won’t work in here,” I said. ”We have to go outside.
In here faces will be shadowed.”
“Just shoot, even in utter darkness. Don’t open them curtains! They’re drawn to take out the window-light. Anyway, that there window-light hurts my eyes.”
“It won’t work in here. We have to go outside,” I said, a little louder.
“It won’t work in here. We have to go outside,” I said, bellowing.
“Well, I guess we gotta go outside; he won’t take it in here!” Linda’s mother complained.
Okay, just go though the motions, that way Linda’s mother can wail what a complete and utter failure she is with a camera.
They all sat back down, and I aimed.
I pushed the button.
NOTHING!
“How do you even work this thing?” I asked.
“Ya gotta switch on the ‘on’ switch,” Jerry said.
“On” switch on, aim again, and FLASH!
“Well I’ll be, ”Linda’s mother bellowed. “How did that happen? I thought that was defective.”
Jerry left for work.
”Now ya gotta shoot the rest of the roll so I can take it out and develop it, if anyone does film any more,” Linda’s mother said.
“Wal*Mart,” Jerry said. “They still do film for those not doing digital photography.”
“We can drop it off, ”Linda said. “It doesn’t have to be Jerry.—He’s trying to go to work.”
Next was payback time: robbing Peter to pay Paul. Linda’s mother taking us out to eat at a smorgasbord.
(42+ smackaroos to treat us for dinner, but can’t afford a taxi to take her to the dentist she loves.)
We then set out for the new Holiday House for their smorgasbord.
No longer the original Holiday House we patronized so many times when down here in the past.
The original Holiday House still stands, but was taken over by son-in-law Cook, owner of the property; although the original Holiday House had previously been owned by the Cook family.
A long discussion ensued about who owned what, although I detect a cat-fight among the Cooks.
“So where are we goin’,” I asked; “the original Holiday House or the new Holiday House?”
I had seen both out along Woodland Blvd.; first the original Holiday House, then the new Holiday House farther out, which had previously been China Buffet.
Discussion made it sound like we were going to the original Holiday House, that Cook’s was our smorgasbord destination.
I had to do I grandstand; confusion was reigning.
Wait a minute, I shouted. “Where are we goin’? Original or new?”
“Why Holiday House, of course; the new one!”
Wasn’t crystal-clear to me.
Sorry I had to do a grandstand.
Cook’s wasn’t even open yet; “Open in five weeks.”
In the new Holiday House I chose the deep-fried tilapia; ”All I can eat is fish.”
I was then handed a slab of fish about six times larger than what I usually eat, and we never deep-fry it.
It covered my entire plate.
I had to get a second plate for vegetables.
I decided I could do dessert, and negotiated with the server.
”I can probably eat half that chocolate-cake wedge, and I don’t even know if I can eat that.”
Three layers, with a massive sugar-hit of chocolate icing.
I ate everything — my mother survived The Depression.
But as the “Kid from Brooklyn” shouts, “I walked outta that place stuffed!”
Our total bill was $42.18, which Linda’s mother would pay.
Now the tip.
I was figuring it on my Smart-Phone calculator. “Which will it be, 15% or 20%?”
20% was eight-something; we ratcheted back to 15%, $6.30.
”Oh that doesn’t sound right,” so maybe $7.50.
But $6.30 is what flew, despite our server being “wonderful.”
Amazingly, Linda’s mother paid by credit-card; I was expecting a $50 or $100 bill.
Heaven-forbid that retirement-center have wi-fi, except that secret mysterious router of “Thelma,” which I haven’t tried yet.
Just about every one I’ve seen at that retirement-center is slowly pushing a walker, or scooting rapidly about in a power-chair.
“Outta the way, Dora. Comin’ through!”
I bet Thelma is the only one of hundreds of residents at that retirement-center that’s computer-savvy.
But “I ain’t usin’ no walker! Start usin’ one a’ them things and ya become dependent on it.”
Which is why I think she’ll make 100, unless something weird happens, like a stroke or a heart-attack.
Which is also why I try to avoid bifocals — the last of my high-school class that doesn’t use ‘em.
I need magnification if the print is tiny; but I have the display-rez on this computer at the smallest text-size: 1920 by 1200. —I can read it.
To bed, finally.
Linda helped her mother get her mail — something about getting it after 5 p.m., “so Tony can sort it, if he has time.”
She gets her mail in a retirement-center box, and it might be a day-or-two late if Tony is swamped.
After that she walked back to her mother’s apartment, to help eat a lemon pie Jerry had made.
The next day was another day.

Day four; back home.
“I sure hope we can make it,” I said. “That’s 2-3 hours in a cramped cattle-car seat at 30,000+ feet.
Ya can’t bail — there’s no escaping.”
And Linda’s mother is 900+ miles from where we live.
I worry about my wife even being able to do this.
But we’ve made it so far. (Although it may be the last trip for Linda — sitting that long is asking for trouble.)
I tried the mysterious “Thelma.”
She wants a password. (ANNNNNT!)
—Thunder-and-lightning last night.
The next time we experience thunder-and-lightning will be in May, or maybe even June at home.
We heard thunder outside rumbling toward our guest-room, so I looked outside the door, and saw lightning-flashes illuminating the night sky.
In Florida I guess thunderstorms are fairly frequent.
It started raining.
It was still raining lightly this morning as we left the guest-room, I guess the rain predicted by our server at Holiday House.
—Breakfast at Big Dorothea’s.
“Whatcha want, Bob?” Linda’s mother bubbled.
“I got corn-flakes, puffed-wheat, lotsa bran and prunes. Coffee, toast, orange-juice...... I gotta have my hot cuppa coffee; tee-hee!”
“Scrambled eggs, I guess,” I said quietly.
“Real eggs?” my wife asked. —We only eat Egg-Beaters® at home.
“I doubt if two eggs worth of cholesterol over eons is gonna kill me,” I commented.
“Want a banana, Bob?”
“Bananas that ripe go on our mulch-pile,” I thought to myself.
The coffee was instant; coffee-flavored dishwater.
And it wasn’t “carmelo-lotto, chocolate lotto,” Kid-From-Brooklyn again.
Not that I patronize Starbucks. All that I want is a cuppa coffee, not some fancy-dan overpriced cappuccino.
At home I make it myself; gourmet coffee custom-ground at the store, then brewed through drip-filter with boiled Brita-filtered water.
I hafta let it cool. No creme, no sugar, and no whipped-creme topping with chocolate mini-chips.
But decaf.
I drink it black.
— Finally, 11 a.m.; departure-time.
But not without a tearful remonstration that we find a church.
“At least she held off to the end,” Linda said.
Then back to Orlando airport.
We managed to find Hertz rental-return without drama, reversing a long-ago return to Avis that led us into the ozone.
PANIC-ATTACK! Linda’s driver-license was missing or misplaced.
TSA went ballistic. Thugs were brought in. 67-year-old Linda with cancer was a possible Al Qaeda terrorist, intent to bomb our flight home into oblivion.
An RTS retiree picture ID was brought out, along with her Medicare-card and her credit-card. (She’d lost her Social-Security card long ago.)
“Not good enough,” they said. “You’ll hafta sign a form certifying your identity, plus answer a few questions your husband can’t answer.”
I backed away. “I don’t hear nothin’,” I shouted.
After about 15 minutes of various formalities, with no questions, Linda was allowed to accompany me home.
“All I wanna do is go home,” she said. “I distinctly remember putting back my license at Security in Rochester.”
Our seats on the flight home were an upgrade, the safety-seats over the wing where you have to be able to lift 40 pounds and get people out of the plane “in the unlikely event of an emergency.”
A flight-attendant asked if we could handle the responsibility.
“Don’t worry, Bubba,” I thought. “I drove city-bus, and am therefore very ornery. I’ll get our butts outta this plane if I hafta.”
These seats have more footroom — I was considering upgrading to Business Class to make our flight back home more bearable. $90 each.
Linda said no.
But the safety-seats are more bearable than coach-seats. Space has be designed in to allow passengers to escape.
Those two safety-seats were the only two available side-by-side, and we selected them in error. They were $40 extra.
That was at an AirTran airport kiosk.
For $40 extra I cancelled the kiosk seat-assignment.
“See attendant for boarding-passes!”
A nice bilingual clerk took over to fiddle our seat-assignments.
He needed photo-ID.
I took out my driver’s-license, and Linda went to take out hers.
Linda’s was missing.
“Don’t worry, ma’am; you’ll find it,” but after 5-10 frantic minutes she didn’t.
“So what picture-ID do you have?”
89 bazilyun cards were unholstered, including an RTS retiree picture-pass that gets her a free bus-ride.
Also her Medicare card and her (our) credit-card.
Her Social-Security card, acceptable ID to the TSA, went missing long ago. —And she doesn’t carry her birth-certificate.
Finally, the clerk said it was all okay — ”We’re gonna get you home, ma’am” — and assigned our seats.
“Tell ya what,” he said. “I’ve assigned you those safety-seats no extra charge, so you can sit together.”
By now, Linda was completely frazzled; like I might be a steadying influence.
“More blog-material,” I said.
When we got back to Rochester, we asked if the errant driver-license had been picked up.
It had.
But it was no longer in the terminal, and might have already been mailed home — “Your address is on it.”
So, home at last, and Linda seemed to do okay.
Back to “the frozen tundra,” as Garrison Keillor says.
Except it was 40 degrees.
Hardly any snow was on the ground when we returned, and none to brush off our car. (One time it was drifted in.)
In fact, I skipped the long-underwear on return.
We did not get the dog — Linda suggested she was too bushed to handle an excited dog.
The dog’s reservation was until Friday anyway; our flight got in about 5:30 p.m. Thursday.
Reflections
—Clock bells:
It appears Linda’s mother’s retirement-center has installed a clock-bell system much like what we had in college in the ‘60s.
It isn’t actually bells. It’s a giant P.A. horn that broadcasts a center-wide ringing of the hour.
Bong-bong-bong-bong. Bong-bong-bong-bong. Bong-bong-bong-bong. Bong-bong-bong-bong. —BONG; BONG; BONG; BONG; BONG; BONG; BONG.” “
Our college had a bell-tower.
It’s a symbol of the college.
It only has one actual bell in it, and it’s rather puny: “Dink!”
The only time I heard it ring was when President Kennedy was assassinated.
Otherwise, the bell-tower had a giant P.A. horn.
The center’s clock-bells sound just like our college.
—Is Bike-Week worth doing?
Well, I guess so, if you’re into the macho Harley gig, sans helmets.
Or into the cholesterol-laden pig-out menu.
“Here, see this? SMASH! This is your brain after falling off your Harley.”
—”I’m not used to being considered an asset,” I said on the plane. “Your mother growled at me long ago, but now I seem to be an asset.
What I’m accustomed to is being considered a liability, a drain on everyone, an utterly reprehensible scumbag.
But now I have a $5,000 CD in my name.
And this despite my being a silent old grump.
Someone your mother avoids, because I’m so speechless and bored.
What I’m accustomed to is being a drag on all-and-sundry; even you.”
—What about Linda’s mother?
She’s right at the border for assisted-living.
Her eyes are useless (macular degeneration), and she’s hard-of-hearing.
But she will probably hold out as long as she can. —Until she dies or burns out her apartment.
“I can’t eat in that Dining-Hall. I don’t like what they serve.”
—Can we do this again?
Depends on our health.
-Which in my case is slightly tenuous.
I seem okay, but am getting older.
-Linda is currently more marginal than me, I guess.
Some days up, some days down; we never know.
Such long flights, etc., are extremely fatiguing, even though the flight is only two-and-a-half hours.
Involved is a surfeit of challenges, all of which I can usually handle on-my-own; but they fag out Linda.
Linda is currently sick, not the person she was three months ago.
She has to take pain-medication on a rigid schedule.
Where she’ll be in a year is debatable.

• “Linda” is my wife of 43+ years.
• “The General” is General Motors.
• “Bob” is me, Bob Hughes, “BobbaLew.”
• Altoona is the location of Horseshoe Curve (the “Mighty Curve,” pictured at left), by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. The railroad was looped around a valley to climb without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. I am a railfan, and have been since age-two (we’re both 67). The viewing-area is smack in the apex of the Curve; and trains are willy-nilly. Up-close-and personal. —I’ve been there hundreds of times, since it’s only about five hours away. —Every time we visit Horseshoe Curve seems Linda’s mother ends up in the hospital.
• “IHOP” = International House of Pancakes.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and am fairly well recovered.
• “Tethering” is hard-wiring a connection from your Smart-Phone to receive satellite-Internet on your computer. (Your Smart-Phone is receiving satellite-Internet.)
• The Internet-browser “FireFox” will history multiple Internet sites (as tabs).
• 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 ended that. —As a Transit retiree both my wife and I get photo-passes that entitle us to free bus-rides.
• “TSA “ is Transportation Security Administration,” the federal bureaucracy that administers airline passenger safety at airports.