Gathering of Iggles II

(Visible left-to-right) Ron Palermo, Vern Smith, Dave Brown, and Tony Coia (“KOY-yuh”). (Visible in foreground, backs facing the camera) Jim Douty (“DOW-dee;” as in “wow”) and Joe Libonati (“lib-uh-NOTT-eee”). —All are ex bus-drivers, except Smith (ex mechanic) and Brownie (retired management). (To the right of Libonati is not a Transit retiree.) (Photo by BobbaLew.)

(“Iggles” equals “Eagles” — in Philadelphia the Eagles football team is known as the “Iggles.”)
The other day (Thursday, March 31, 2011) was our annual outback pancake breakfast of Transit retirees at Maple Tree Inn in the wilds of Allegany county (and that’s how the county spells it).
Maple Tree Inn is extremely rural, and is only open a few weeks a year, when sap is running in their sugar-bush of maple trees.
Maple Tree Inn attracts patrons worldwide. You get a breakfast of all-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes, with real maple syrup from their sugar-bush.
Although many of their clientele are broken old codgers pushing walkers, in wheelchairs, and with oxygen-pacs.
Their parking-lot is often crammed, usually with luxury tour-buses disgorging creaky seniors from retirement-centers.
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.
I liked it at first — it was only supposed to be a temporary job.
What I liked about it most was the joy of successfully operating large highway equipment without drama, buses.
Most weighed nine tons, and were 40 feet long.
They kept giving me every experimental bus, because I would write up a gigantic evaluation.
I also could arrange my hours to advantage.
There was also the deal Transit did a lot of school-work.
Transit carried a lot of school-students; they operated like regular city buses, picking up students at regular bus-stops.
So if school was closed you were off.
Yet you were guaranteed eight hours of pay per day.
So you could potentially get a full week’s pay for only driving a half-week’s worth of work.
But I was tiring of it.
Our clientele could be dangerous and frightening — you were always parrying thugs.
I had to tilt toward suburban Park-and-Rides to avoid the madness of downtown bus operation.
And when we moved out of Rochester, to here in West Bloomfield, I was no longer five minutes from the Barns.
I could no longer work the type of work I had been doing, which required closeness to the Barns.
Our move meant switching to regular city bus-runs, with no time off for school off.
And less pay. Working just the rush-hours required overtime. The runs I had been doing had been rush-hour.
Our retiree group is not union or official; it includes both hourly and management.
But not upper management, those in the Administration Building, the so-called “Crystal Tower.”
The management in our group are from Operations, the lower-level grunts that helped get the buses over the road.
Most were ex bus-drivers themselves, and knew what we drivers were up against.
Upper management was more detached — they were driving desks.
And collecting their bloated paychecks.
Buses might break down, or lose their air-conditioning; but that didn’t matter as much as that paycheck.
The Crystal Tower and Operations were separate worlds. —And never the twain should meet!
“So how did it go?” my wife asked when I returned home about 3:15 p.m.
(My wife did not accompany us — sadly, she’s never been to Maple Tree Inn.)
“I ate a record six pancakes,” I said; “but I feel like I’ve driven to Altoona (‘al-TUNE-uh;’ as in the name ‘Al’).”
Altoona is the location of Horseshoe Curve (the “Mighty Curve”), west of town, 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.
This of course begs the question of why I’m so burned out after driving maybe four-five hours.
Others my age can drive over eight hours.
Probably from concentrating so hard.
Driving bus made you that way; it was the only way to avoid crack-ups.
“Oh Dora, look, look, a bus! PULL-OUT! PULL-OUT!”
Suddenly I’m supposed to stop nine tons of hurtling steel on a dime, yet not throw any of my passengers out of their seats.
We were always trying to predict what the other guy might do.
“Ever get the idea, Hughsey, all we were doing was cutting slack?” said my friend Art Dana (“day-nuh”), since deceased, also a retired bus-driver.
“Back off for the NASCAR wannabees, plus the utterly clueless idiots.”
(Art was the retired bus-driver from RTS with fairly severe Parkinson's disease. Art's wife was gone, so he lived with his sister in Pittsford. He was 69. Art and I had similar interests, hot-rod cars and trains.)
Last year I ate four pancakes, the first time two — but I had eaten breakfast that time. (I think I have done this gig four times.)
I learned to not eat breakfast before one of these pancake gigs.
Plus the pancakes are very light and thin.
I’ve eaten pancakes where they were so leaden and greasy I could only manage one.
Another (official) Transit retiree organization holds quarterly meetings at a restaurant.
I abstained from eating breakfast at home, so I could order pancakes and sausage there.
But their pancakes were so leaden and uncooked, NEVER AGAIN!
Four Maple Tree Inn pancakes equal three Perkins or IHOP pancakes.
Four was probably enough, but a little skimpy. So I had six.
Plus two sausage patties.
But that’s not what I’m used to eating — cereal. At the YMCA Exercise-Gym yesterday (Friday, April 1, 2011), working out, I felt out-of-gas.
I had arranged to pick up my friend Gary Coleman (“coal-min”), a retired road-supervisor and ex bus-driver, who usually rides with another retired bus-driver who had to bail because of a medical appointment.
Coleman had two strokes, which retired him from Transit.
He has recovered fairly well, but not as well as me. —He can’t drive.
Coleman really likes doing these shindigs — he’s often the arranger and notifier.
I didn’t want him to miss out because he didn’t have a ride.
“Road-supervisors” were management that supervised bus-drivers, investigated accidents, and intervened in passenger disputes.
I guess Coleman was okay; I never interacted with him.
Coleman had driven bus, so he knew what we bus-drivers were up against.
Coleman lives way out in the country in an adjacent county, even more rural than me.
He lives with his wife and father-in-law. His wife still drives bus for RTS.
My getting him involved a long drive of two legs.
First was to nearby Canandaigua (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”), where I’d intersect the highway he lived on.
“Canandaigua” 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; 25 minutes.
My route to Canandaigua is indirect to avoid a speed-trap in nearby Bloomfield village.
I have been nailed so many times by that speed-trap, I decided to go to Canandaigua in a roundabout way and avoid it.
All it is is a downhill out of Bloomfield village on which your car will speed up if you’re not paying attention.
And Smokey is there taking radar pictures. A toll-taker.
If all I’m doing is driving to Canandaigua, the trip is easy.
But as the first leg of a trip it’s grating.
The second leg was from Canandaigua up to Gary’s place, north of Palmyra, NY; about 35 minutes.
I was to call Gary when leaving, but got voicemail. Gary’s cellphone had performed a hairball.
Gary called me back, but by then I was driving; and I don’t do anything with my phone while driving. It’s a distraction. (It’s also against the law in NY.)
After picking up Gary, we drove about 40-45 minutes to our group’s assembly point in Henrietta, a suburb south of Rochester.
We arrived early, and not many showed up.
Then about an hour down to Maple Tree.
I pretty much knew the way — I’d been there before, and it’s near where I went to college.
But we drove in caravan; a conga-line of three vehicles: Palermo in the lead, followed by Vern Smith, who had never been there, in his huge Ford van, and then us.
I was driving our 2005 Toyota Sienna van, which could carry four more if we needed it. But it was just Gary and me.
Others had driven there themselves; there were nine of us total.
Smallest contingent ever; last year was about 25.
Other times were 20 or more.
All we needed was a single circular table.
Then began about two hours of socializing over pancakes.
Much of the talk was about trains.
Vern is a railfan, and so is Brownie.
And Gary is pretty much. His father worked for the Lehigh-Valley railroad.
Around-and-around we went about various railroads throughout the area, and “what was that abandoned railway-bed we crossed coming down into Nunda (“none-DAY”)?” asked Vern.
“Why that was the Pennsy Rochester branch, Rochester to Olean, NY, (“OLE-eee-anne;” as in the name “Anne”) built on the towpath of the old Genesee Valley Canal,” I said.
My college was nearby, and the Pennsy Rochester branch also went through my college town; the railroad was abandoned in 1963, my freshman year.
The Genesee river valley was the nation’s first breadbasket, and a canal was built up to the Erie Canal in Rochester to deliver wheat — the Genesee Valley Canal.
The “Genesee River” (“jen-uh-SEE”) is a fairly large river that runs south-to-north across Western New York, runs through Rochester, including over falls, and empties into Lake Ontario. The falls could be harnessed for water-power to mill wheat. At first Rochester was called “the Flour City” (now it’s “Flower City”).
The railroad was not Pennsy at first; but later Pennsy merged it.
Socializing over, it was back home — to Rochester and then out to Gary’s.
Down into Nunda, up over the hill, and then down into Mt. Morris.
(I should probably pronounce “Nunda” again. Hillary Clinton blew it as our NY senator; it’s “none-DAY.”)
We went our separate ways, Libonati to see the far-out land his friend would build a house on, Vern over to Groveland, and Palermo just flat disappeared.
I was just Gary and me, again.
We retraced our route out, first Nunda, and then Mt. Morris, where we’d pick up Interstate-390 toward Rochester.
In Mt. Morris we encountered a scrawny teen dressed as the Statue-of-Liberty; flowing green gown, and pea-green spikes emanating from his head.
He was advertising a tax-service — I’m told Liberty Tax Service — prancin’-and-dancin’ and jukin’ and jivin’ all over the corner with his iPod.
I considered stopping to take his picture — I could have videoed him with my DroidX.
But all I did was exclaim “Marcy, it’s everywhere!”
I had to explain Marcy the Gary.
“Marcy” is my number-one Ne’er-do-Well — she was the first I was e-mailing stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. —At one time she asked how I managed to dredge up so much insane material to write up, and I responded “Marcy, it’s everywhere!”
Through Mt. Morris we named every railroad, abandoned and active.
“That’s the old Pennsy,” I said, pointing to a dusty trail.
“And this used to be the Lackawanna main to Buffalo (“lack-uh-WAN-uh;” as in “wand”), I said. “It used to go down to Dansville, and eventually Hoboken for New York City.
Now it’s Genesee & Wyoming. In fact, they built a branch off it up to that new salt-mine,” I added. “That’s new railroad over there.”
Back on Interstate-390, I was low on gas.
We got off on what I thought was Route 15 up to East Avon (“ah-vahn;” as in “ah” and “wand” — not the cosmetic)
But it wasn’t.
It went up to Geneseo (“jen-uh-SEE-oh”), an old college town.
I haven’t been though Geneseo recently, and it’s much more built up than it was even a few years ago.
I kept looking for the white-horse statue that would signify East Avon, but came upon “entering Geneseo” signs.
I lost my bearings; or as Gary kept saying, “we were misplaced.”
Highways through and around Geneseo have always been undecipherable; we had to do at least two flip-flops.
Finally I was on a road I knew.
Gary called his wife, whose father grew up near Geneseo.
We got on Route 39, and were to continue on Route 39.
I didn’t know route-numbers, but 39 went through Geneseo proper — and farther west, it seemed.
Gary wanted me to turn where Route 39 turns, but I went straight.
“This road goes back to I-390,” I said.
Gary saw the I-390 sign too.
Back on interstate-390: “Now I gotta get to Route 441.
We had driven to the Henrietta meeting-point on Route 31; 441 is the road into Rochester Gary’s wife takes to get to work at Transit.
441 goes into Rochester (more-or-less), while 31 goes south of Rochester.
“That power-line is on the old Peanut right-of-way,” I said. “And on the other side of this valley is the abandoned right-of-way of the Lehigh Valley mainline to Buffalo — probably the best railroad across lower New York ever built; two tracks, good for 60-70 mph cruising.”
Finally Rochester, I-390 to I-590, then Interstate-490 east to Route 441.
“441 is Penfield Road, right?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“I know Penfield Road.”
441 starts as limited-access, more-or-less, except it has intersections at grade, and traffic-lights.
Then it merges into the old Penfield Road, and enters the village of Penfield, which is east of Rochester.
Penfield Road is west-east, four lanes through Penfield.
It remains four lanes quite a way.
I was in the right-most lane.
All-of-a-sudden my lane disappeared; no warning signs, or I didn’t see them.
“Thanks for telling me!” I shouted.
“Sorry,” Gary said.
“Not you,” I said; “the lack of signage.”
By now 441 was out in the country; no more four lanes.
Finally Route 21, the road Gary lives on.
We turned south, and Gary called his wife.
“We’re about to turn in,” he said.
In his driveway, and there was his wife Mary standing outside in an RTS blue bus-driver uniform.
“How long has it been since I’ve worn that monkey-suit?” I thought to myself.

• “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.”)
• “Hughsey” is me, Bob Hughes, “BobbaLew.”
• “IHOP” is International House of Pancakes.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. Adjacent is the rural town of East Bloomfield, and the village of Bloomfield is within it.
• “Genesee & Wyoming” is a shortline railroad that acquired many properties throughout the Lower 48. Genesee & Wyoming was at first a local shortline owned and operated by the salt-mine company in Western NY; it served mainly those salt-mines. The old Delaware, Lackawanna & Western (DL&W; the “Lackawanna”) main to Buffalo was one of G&W’s earliest acquisitions. The DL&W past Dansville was abandoned, as was much of it toward Hoboken.
• The main intersection in East Avon has a full-size white-horse statue on one corner.
• The “Peanut Line” is the original independently-built Canandaigua & Niagara Falls Railroad, eventually merged into New York Central Railroad. It was called a “peanut” by a New York Central executive because it was so tiny compared to NYC’s mainline. It is now entirely abandoned, although a short stub out of Canandaigua remained in service into the ‘70s.