Thursday, June 30, 2011

House-calls

Yesterday (Wednesday, June 29, 2011) a Visiting-Nurse looked at a small swelling on my wife’s forearm and said “Ya know, ya probably oughta see a doctor about that. It looks like it might be phlebitis.”
Phlebitis being inflammation of a vein. My wife has had numerous intravenous inserted, an invitation for phlebitis.
Engage wheels of setting up a medical appointment, in this case good old Bloomfield Family Practice, in my humble opinion the best doctors we’ve ever had.
But it’s not like the old days. Bloomfield Family Practice doesn’t do house-calls.
Anyone younger than 50 would laugh at the concept of house-calls.
The doctor shows up at your house in his pea-green ’52 Chevy Fleetline fastback, rings your doorbell, and walks in with his tiny black satchel.
No, you phone the medical-establishment and arrange an appointment to see the doctor on his own turf.
Okay, but in my case that’s five miles away.
And I get the same things I did as a child.
“Take a deep breath.” The doctor listens to your lungs with his stethoscope.
Wherein does that have anything to do with phlebitis?
It’s part of the drill — the motions you go through. A sort of religious pursuit.
The black satchel was the doctor’s pill-case.
“I think your son has a bronchial infection, Mrs. Hughes. For that ya need these sulfa drugs.”
Pill-case opened, the doctor would extract a tiny vial of sulfa-pills from his array.
That’s not how it works nowadays.
Bloomfield Family Practice calls in a prescription to Rite-Aid of Honeoye Falls.
Drive all the way to Rite-Aid pharmacy; that’s nine miles from Bloomfield Family Practice.
Another quarter-inch of rising sea-levels to flood Florida and Manhattan.
And unbreathable air for our children.
See the doctor equals increase your carbon-footprint.
Used to be our bread was delivered by a bread-truck, as was our milk, and/or our dry cleaning.
Now we’re down to pizza delivery; and be sure to tip the driver.
Or it’s me that does the trekking.
The auto-teller at my bank is my car.
And it’s us visiting that medical-establishment.
That ’52 Chevy is junked!

• “Bloomfield Family Practice” is the doctor -office in nearby Bloomfield. It’s affiliated with Thompson Hospital in Canandaigua. (“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. Adjacent is the rural town of East Bloomfield, and the village of Bloomfield is within it. “Bloomfield Family Practice” is within the village.)
• Our pharmacy is “Rite-Aid of Honeoye Falls.” (“Honeoye [‘HONE-eee-oy;' rhymes with 'boy'] Falls” is the nearest village to the west to where we live, a rural village about five miles away.
• My name is Bob Hughes.

Monday, June 27, 2011

They’ve done it again


(Photo by BobbaLew.)

The overly zealous guardians of the Stirnee Road (“stir-nee”) parking-lot at nearby Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”) have blessed our car with yet another parking citation.
This is the second time.
This is despite our having the needed parking sticker (see illustration).
But dear me, it’s on our windshield instead of a side-window as required (by law?).
I put it there (awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity) because all our remaining non-opening windows, including side windows, were partially obscured by factory window tinting.
I also didn’t know of their side-window requirement.
That’s all I need. Some money-hungry towing company towing my car away despite the fact it’s legal — that we are long-time residents of West Bloomfield, part-owners of the park, and we have the required parking permit.
In fact, years ago I was a member of the Boughton Park Board, volunteer administers of the park.
So I suppose I gotta drag yet again up to the West Bloomfield Town Clerk, get another sticker, and scrape off my reprehensible error in our windshield.
And install my new sticker in a tinted side-window, where I hope the zealots will see it.
What next, Boughton Park on Facebook?

• “Boughton Park,” is where I run and we walk our dog. It only allows taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. We are residents of one of those towns (West Bloomfield).

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Going GREEN

“The Railroaders Memorial Museum is going GREEN:
The Standard will NOT be USPS mail delivered in the future. All copies will be in PDF format at www.railroadcity.com or it can be direct e-mailed to you when you sign on with our e-mail marketing program by going to www.railroadcity.com; fill out form at bottom of page and click submit.”

I’ve seen it a thousand times!
Send bills electronically via e-mail, statements via e-mail, everything via e-mail.
And so goes the Postal Service; what Granny has depended on since time immemorial.
COMPUTERS! I wouldn’t touch one of them things with a ten-foot pole! I sure am glad you understand ‘em.”
Yrs trly prefers e-mail. In fact, I online everything if I can.
Bill-pays, special orders, charity, purchases. Although I online bill-pay via Canandaigua National Bank; that way it’s ME initiating the bill-pay, not some money-hungry payee going bonkers.
If anything can go wrong, it will.
I’ve seen it happen.
A friend parrying some dude in India who could barely speak English, because automatic bill-pays were mistakenly overdrawing her account — going bonkers.
That’s not happening to this kid!
I initiate the bill-pays myself. And it doesn’t matter if it’s e-mail billing, or paper, I ain’t usin’ the payee’s site.
To me, “going GREEN” means the payee wants to avoid postage, and printing bills on paper.
“Going GREEN” just makes it sound nice.
I will probably go to getting my Standard e-mail, and eventually my bills, although doing so just shoves the cost of printing to me, if I print them.
Even if I don’t print, my computer has to still work, and that’s not a given. —Paper bills from a biller seem to always work.
If I print, I’m still cluttering the landfill, or my bluebox. And slaughtering trees.
They can call it “Going GREEN” if they want, but to me that’s just dressing up a pig. (Cue Sarah Palin.)

• “Railroaders Memorial Museum” is a railroad museum in Altoona, PA (“al-TUNE-uh;” as in the name “Al”). Altoona was once the shop town of the Pennsylvania Railroad; it was founded about 1846 by the railroad, and eventually thousands were employed by those shops. —I’m a railfan, and have been since age two (I’m currently 67). (Pennsylvania Railroad no longer exists, and it’s Altoona shops are pretty much now closed.)
• Years ago the Pennsylvania Railroad was the largest and most powerful railroad on the planet. It called itself “The Standard Railroad of the World.” —For which reason Railroaders Memorial Museum’s newsletter is called “The Standard.”
• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 15 miles away. (We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester. )—“Canandaigua National Bank” is the locally-based bank therein.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Voicemail follies

The supplier of our landline telephone service is good old Frontier Telephone — I guess what Rochester Telephone eventually became.
We hardly use it; we use our cellphones.
But for old folks who refuse to call a cellphone, we need it.
There also are all our contacts who still use our landline phone-number.
We use Frontier’s voicemail service, and have ever since our own voicemail machine tanked.
Frontier’s voicemail was being “upgraded“ (their word).
I will post their exact notification, word-for-word, OCR scanned.
On June 21, 2011 follow these steps:
Dial 585-955-9500; when prompted for PIN enter the last four digits of your phone number. Follow and complete the tutorial to customize your new mailbox including setting up your new PIN.”
So, do I dare do this?
First of all, society is not very tolerant of stroke-survivors with slightly compromised speech.
I tried the phone-number, and got a machine demanding I do my PIN-number.
First mistake, I used my previous voicemail’s PIN-number instead of the last four digits of our landline number as required.
I tried again, and their system threw me into the ozone.
I was obviously a ne’er-do-well bent on stealing messages, an axis-of-evil.
Naughty-naughty! “Too many tries!”
So much for that. Try again the next day!

That time I tried the last four digits of our phone number, although I probably had it wrong.
I was doing it from memory, and stroke-effects were mucking things up.
After a few tries I was again tossed into the ozone.
Okay, call Customer-Service at Frontier, what I was trying to avoid.
I’ll bet they got deluged about their voicemail upgrade.
What happened? Where did the penguin atop our TV go?”
“I’m trying to ‘upgrade’ my voicemail, and I ain’t gettin’ the tutorial. I may even be locked out! Your system is not friendly to stroke-survivors.”
The dude reset something. “Well send out a tech!”
“I’m not even sure I’m using the correct phone-number. Do you have it?”
I had to look it up myself on my cellphone, which has it memorized.
“How about if I hang up and try again?”
That time it worked. The so-called “tutorial” began.
(Since when are instructions a “tutorial?”)
First we recorded our identification, what messaging would say to a missed call.
Then we recorded our “greeting,” which in our case was to say we were unavailable.
“That’s it; you’re all set up. Ready-to-roll.”
What about resetting my PIN?
Apparently not a step.
Our PIN is currently the last four digits of our landline number.
And the other morning I called our landline from my cellphone and let it go to voicemail.
No identification; just the greeting.
“Uh-ohhhhhh; another old fogey challenged by our fabulous technological progress......”

• For years “Rochester Telephone” was the supplier of telephone service in the Rochester area. As telephone-service atrophied, it became “Global Crossing,” which was bought by (or became) Frontier Telephone when Global Crossing failed.
• “OCR scanning” is Optical-Character-Recognition, a computer software that scans a printed text-file, and generates matching computer text.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)

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Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Cellphone follies

The other day (Tuesday, June 21, 2011) my wife had a string of three medical appointments at Strong Hospital starting at about 8:30 a.m.
Since my wife is automotively challenged, I drive her to them.
They also are about 45-50 minutes away — plus it takes 10 additional minutes to park at Strong; that is, 10 minutes from arrival at Strong to check-in for the appointment.
The first two appointments, one of which was an actual doctor’s appointment, would take about an hour.
The last appointment might take five hours or more, so I figured I’d drive back home via various errands.
And return later after she called.
She called about 2:30, and would be finished in the time it would take for me to drive in.
So I started in.
My cellphone rang as I pulled into the loop in front of Strong’s main entrance.
Since I don’t answer my cellphone while driving, I had it in my rear pants-pocket.
But I figured it was her — no sign of her at the main entrance.
But I can’t easily extract my cellphone when I’m belted in.
After about eight rings, it went to voicemail.
I was also circumnavigating the loop, a challenge with only one hand.
Finally I extracted my cellphone and fired up “missed calls.”
It was my wife of course. I hit the call-back button.
I then triggered the speakerphone button; NOTHING!
This has happened before. I tried again: NOTHING!
“Hello? Hello?” My wife was answering my call. No speakerphone, but I could hear her on the earpiece.
“This thing is not helping me any,” I shouted. “I toggle speakerphone, and nothing happens!”
So now I’m circumnavigating the Strong loop one-handed with a cellphone in my non-steering hand.
Which I don’t like doing, plus it’s also illegal.
“Sorry Officer, I tried to fire up hands-free speakerphone, but it refused.”
Her release was delayed of course. Hospital time.
Kill about 10-15 minutes. I exited the loop, hung up my cellphone, and headed for faraway River Road.
My wife would call from the lobby-exit.
So here I am motoring out River Road, and my cellphone rang.
The idea was I’d not have to answer my phone; the fact she called signaled she was at the lobby-exit.
But I tried to answer anyway, since my cellphone was already out.
Its touch-screen has two incoming phonecall options, a stripe to answer the call, and a second to send it to voicemail.
I tried the answer-stripe; NOTHING!
Ring-ring!
It’s not answering.
I tried again; NOTHING!
I suppose this is progress for our technologically advanced society.
Not being able to answer your phone.

• “Strong Hospital” is one of three large hospitals in the Rochester area.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, about 45-50 minutes southeast of Rochester.
• RE: “When I’m belted in.......” —Seatbelts.
• Cellphone use while driving is illegal in New York state.
• “River Road” is about three miles southwest of Strong Hospital, and parallels the Genesee River. (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.)

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Monday, June 20, 2011

Stodgy old Heatwole

(“heat-wall”)


A ’52 Chrysler. (Photo by David LaChance.)

The August 2011 issue of Hemmings Classic Car Magazine is a hodgepodge of somewhat interesting car-articles.
But the one that stood out for me, and it wasn’t that good-looking, was a 1952 Chrysler Saratoga sedan.
That’s what Eugene Heatwole had.
Except his was two-door; the featured car was four-door, but it was Heatwole’s color, pukey green.
Stodgy old Eugene Heatwole.
A big-wig in the Dupont Company, in northern Delaware — northern Delaware is mainly Dupont.
Heatwole was also a member of Immanuel Baptist Church in downtown Wilmington, where my family were members after we moved to northern Delaware.
By then I was a teenager — reprehensible and threatening to most adults.
I remember an Immanuel deacon once telling me I was degraded.
Me a threat? Hardly.
What I was was a dork. More a pansy. I wouldn’t hurt a flea.
But of course the people I hung around with, as teenagers, were reprehensible.
Teenagers, after all, have boundless energy, and no social sense at all.
I remember the church pastor making an effort to “reach out to youth.”
It crashed.
Pilloried by his penchant to judge us abominable.
Immanuel Baptist had a surfeit of Dupont big-wigs, and most thought we teenagers were abominable.
But not stodgy old Eugene Heatwole.
For whatever reason, Heatwole and/or his wife, decided to befriend us teenagers, threat-to-social-order that we were.
I’m sure we were a handful; far more energy than Heatwole.
Our axis-of-evil comprised mainly of three guys, with a fourth somewhat involved.
They were me, Donnie Chapman, and Ted Hinderer (“hin-der-RRR”), the fourth being Arnold Fogelgrin (“foh-gull-GRIN”).
Chapman, Hinderer, and Fogey were all students at Pierre S. Dupont high school, Class of ’62, and residents of Wilmington city.
I was also Class of ’62, but from the northern suburbs.
There were also girls, chief of which was Alice Larson, who had the hots for me, beautiful blonde Sandy McDonald, the make-out queen, and a bespectacled girl named Barbara, who was stoic and practical, whose last name I can’t remember.
There was also my sister, about a year-and-a-half younger than me. She was friends with Barbara’s younger sister named Beverley.
I had no interest in Alice Larson, who was a loose cannon. I was forever shutting her off.
Hinderer worked at his father’s bank, already employed, though not yet a high-school grad.
There were others, namely some blowhard girl who Arnie had the hots for. This girl always acted like we Three Musketeers were beneath her.
—Although she was also a student at Pierre S. Dupont high school.
She was also a make-out queen.
See how far ya can go, yet keep the guy outta your pants.
There was also Gary McConalogue, half-brother of Alice. McConalogue was a greasy punk, an Elvis wannabee. Probably the most threatening of our cadre, he was always brandishing switchblades, face a permanent scowl.
Heatwole’s means of transport was his tired old ’52 Chrysler.
This was ’60 or ’61, so a ’52 Chrysler by then was an old car.
There were other adults, but Heatwole was maximum leader.
Heatwole was the great gray-haired stone face, the one most like the adults at Immanuel that abhorred us.
In fact, I think Heatwole was a deacon.
Hayrides, sledding, youth conventions; Heatwole took us everywhere.
Like the Classic-Car feature car, his car was also Fluid-Drive.
Interesting to me, it had three pedals, and took consummate skill to operate.
Heatwole picked right up, and showed us how it worked.
Ya started on a clutch, and automatic upshifts after that were when ya backed off the gas.
I guess it had a fluid coupling; lotsa noisy revs but not much oomph.
Fluid-Drive was Chrysler’s first attempt at automatic transmission.
The car was also a “Hemi,” (“hem-eee”), Chrysler’s fabulous V8 motor introduced in the 1951 model-year.
“Hemi” means hemispherical combustion chambers, with valving at each side of the combustion-chamber.
Most engines have their valves in a row, which makes the ports contorted. —Especially the exhaust-ports, if ya biased the intake-ports toward the carburetor.
With uncontorted ports, a Hemi could breathe extremely well at high speeds, so was the choice of hotrod dragsters.
“Pop the hood!” I said to Heatwole. “It’s a Hemi.”
I’m sure Heatwole is dead by now — he was probably in his early 50s with us ne’er-do-wells.
Hinderer married my sister, but became a hippie of sorts. That marriage failed.
Fogelgrin also married, and went to work for Delaware Power & Light.
—He was soon electrocuted. So much for Fogey (“foh-gee;” as in “get”).
Chapman I have no idea what happened.
I went on to college, probably the only one of our evil cadre that did.
Heatwole quit his job with Dupont, and started selling antiques with his wife.
The Chrysler was traded for a Peugeot.
I saw Heatwole again after college, in his antique-store in downtown Wilmington.
I didn’t actually talk to him, but I tried to signal how important he was.
Immanuel Baptist moved out of downtown, but soon split.
That pastor became a speaker-in-tongues.
Members thought this Devil-speak.
My parents switched to a different church.

• For over thirteen years, I and my family lived in south Jersey. Then we moved to northern Delaware, where my father had a better job. That was in December of 1957 — I was almost 14.
• There have been three Hemis. First was the version that debuted in the 1951 model-year. I lasted through 1958. During the ‘60s the second version was introduced: hemispherical cylinder-heads on the HUGE Chrysler B-block. Not too long ago the third version was introduced, taking advantage of the fabulous Hemi reputation. Although it still has hemispherical cylinder-heads, and is very powerful. —The Hemi was extremely powerful at speed, although very heavy with its wide cast-iron cylinder heads. (Recent Hemis have much lighter cast-aluminum cylinder-heads.) Drag-racers preferred the Hemi, because it could be so powerful at speed. People were still racing the early version when I was in college in the middle ‘60s.
• My parents were tub-thumping Christian zealots. (Non-believers were going straight to Hell, so were unworthy.)

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Apehangers



The July 2011 of my Cycle World Magazine has an article titled “Planet of the Apes.”
A comparison of a Harley Davidson Street-Bob and the Victory High-Ball, both of which have so-called “apehanger” handlebars.
Photo by Jeff Allen.
Harley (left), Victory (right).
The Harley isn’t that extreme, only about a 12-inch rise, so-called “mini-apehangers.”
The Victory is more extreme, 15-inch rise. Not as extreme as true apehangers — see illustration above.
As one who rides motorcycles, I’ve always had no use for apehangers. They ruin control.
To better turn a motorcycle, you need leverage from the elbow, which apehangers ruin.
This article is sure to prompt angry blustering from the macho Harley crowd.
Plus sonorous blasts of ear-splitting thunder from unmuffled exhausts.
Apehangers are part of “the Look.”
Full-throttle blasts with arms reaching high to apehangers.
The Look is attractive to me, but ruins control of the motorcycle.
You better hope your angry blast can be arrow-straight.
With apehangers you won’t be able to change lanes suddenly.
Years ago I was in a parking-lot next to a main highway.
I heard an angry unmuffled blast coming.
Sure enough, apehangers.
The grizzled rider was reaching for the sky — the ultimate expression of extreme machoness.
Straightline full-throttle blasts between traffic-lights; no curves.
Hotrod cars are similar.
The transmission floor-shifter is also sky-high.
To get to the actual shift-knob required a reach into the stratosphere.
It also was part of “the Look,” and required a car be an open roadster — a coupe wouldn’t allow the sky-high floor-shifter.
Function required a really short shift-lever. My TR3’s shift-lever was about three inches high. It had been hacksawed short, with a bolt hammered in, wrapped with electrical-tape — the taped bolt-head was the shift-knob.
Shifter throws were about three inches. A sky-high shifter would be well over a foot.
Just motoring, the driver might shift grabbing the sky-high lever about halfway down from the knob.
But for “the Look” ya grabbed the knob up high.
So too with apehangers.
And since the clutch and throttle controls are up high, ya can’t compromise.
The most famous motorcycle of all time, “Captain America” from the movie “Easy Rider,” has apehangers, although not extreme, but on extended handlebar mounts.


Captain America.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Broken toe

Yrs trly has a broken little toe.
Stubbed it on our bedroom chest-of-drawers in the dark getting up to let our dog out in the night.
Not the first time.
First was many years ago in 1959 when I was 15.
I was a stablehand at a boys camp in northeastern MD, and a horse stepped on my foot.
It sort of put me out of commission as a horseback rider, although I could ride bareback.
Saddles were out — that is, stirrups were out.
Finally I was taken to Elkton (“elk-tin”) Hospital in the camp’s navy-blue ’52 Plymouth stationwagon.
That Plymouth was the first all-metal stationwagon ever marketed.
Prior stationwagons were wood-sided.
Elkton Hospital was a return to civilization. Camp was rather rustic, although we had cabins.
The x-ray revealed I had a broken little toe.
Nothing was done.
Nothing was out of alignment, so we just let it heal.
The break was painful for a few weeks — we were near the end of camp.
In 67 years on this planet, I’ve only had three bone-breaks.
Two were broken little toes (probably the same toe), and one was a broken collar-bone when I fell into my bicycle’s steering-stem after my stroke.
All were no cast, no traction.
My toe hurt a little after the stub, but kept hurting.
It reminded me of the 1959 incident.
Finally I went to the good people at Bloomfield Family Practice, the best doctors I’ve ever had, Vincent Yavorek, M.D. (“yuh-VOR-ick”) and Chip Logan, Physician’s Assistant.
“Was that you I just saw, motoring around in a classic Z-car?” I asked Chip.
“Yes it was,” he smiled.
“The car I never bought, but should have,” I said.
“I could still see that oily black pillar of smoke towering above the Battleship Arizona, so I bought a Triumph.
One of the worst cars I’ve ever owned, totally unsuited to pillar-to-post.
I shoulda bought the Datsun 240Z — it was a great car.”
Chip wiggled my toes around — the right little toe was obviously swollen.
“That hurts,” I said, as he worked the toe upward.
“So what do we do?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just let it heal; everything is in alignment.”
He wrote out an x-ray requisition at Thompson Hospital to see if it was broken.
“It’s broke,” he called back. “You’re in for two-to-three weeks. Go easy on it.”
The one who suffers is not me, it’s our dog.
I’ve usually walked her a lot.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• 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.
• “Thompson Hospital “ is the hospital in nearby Canandaigua. “Bloomfield Family Practice” is affiliated with Thompson. (“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.)

Friday, June 17, 2011

Hospital time

The other day (Tuesday, June 14, Flag Day) my wife’s port was to be installed at Strong Hospital.
Be at Strong Radiology at 10:30 a.m.
My wife has cancer, but supposedly it’s not fatal.
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.
A port is a gizmo to infuse chemotherapy, etc.
It avoids setting up an intravenous, poking around for veins.
It’s under her skin, and is also a so-called “Power Port.” It can flow great volumes of medication.
Poking around for veins has been getting harder and harder.
Especially now that my wife has lost weight.
Once six pokes were needed to set up an intravenous.
Pokes were often excruciatingly painful.
Just recently my wife was near death — in my humble opinion.
We had to bash people over the head to get Wilmot Cancer Center (“will-MOTT;” as in the applesauce) to realize my wife was in bad shape.
We’re doing fine; my wife seems much better, more herself.
She was hospitalized at Strong, and during hospitalization a PICC-line was installed.
A PICC-line is also a way to more efficiently infuse chemo, and avoid intravenous.
But it has outside connections, which can become infected.
A port is all inside. It’s accessed by a needle.
Both have a tube direct to her heart.
The port was much more complicated than we expected.
But it’s safer; it’s not subject to infection.
Our cancer-doctor was leery of PICC-lines, and we were too.
So out it came.
Making a 10:30 appointment at Strong is leave our house at 9:30 or so. It takes at least 45 minutes to drive to Strong; often longer if it’s NASCAR rush-hour. Another 10 minutes to park.
For that reason, I took my wife to the main entrance, she got out, and I went to park the car.
That made it possible for her to check in at Radiology about 10:25.
I arrived there myself about 10:35-40; we were now on hospital time.
About 10:55 my wife was called and directed to a bed in Radiology.
“What are you here for?” she was asked.
I thought this stuff was supposed to already be known.
Reminds of my visit to a dentist where an aid said I was there for extractions.
“You’re not extracting anything,” I screamed.
“Two crowns, and that’s it. You can just put your extracting tools back in the drawer.”
(No wonder the wrong knee gets replaced, or a good leg amputated. —Suppose I was unable to fend for myself?)
My wife’s port would be installed, and I would wait in the corridor.
A slew of other errands were planned for our return, including my visit to a doctor in Bloomfield to determine if a stubbed little toe should be x-rayed; that was at 3:30 p.m.
Hours passed. (I had brought along magazines.)
Finally about 12:45 I realized my doctor’s office was out-to-lunch 1-2 p.m., and after 2 p.m. was too late to cancel my appointment — I couldn’t gamble.
I called the doctor’s office and rescheduled my toe appointment for the following day.
(That presented possible conflicts, like picking up a loaner so our car could be serviced, and having a screen-door installed at 4 p.m., but all that could be done, which I discovered when I got back home. I’d had to wing it; I didn’t have our schedule with me.)
Almost immediately I was called back to Radiology; my wife’s port had been installed — so I probably coulda made the 3:30 appointment, but it woulda been a rat-race. It would take an hour just to return from Strong; plus there were all the discharge instructions — hospital time.
Two o’clock passed, more instructions. Forms to fill out, etc.
Have we gotta register this thing, just like a new toaster?
“We also have to check your port before it can be used; that’s a week from today, next Tuesday 6/21.”
“Wait a minute,” I shouted. “That’s a conflict. Chemo is supposed to be infused that day. We’re supposed to be here at 9 a.m.”
“Simple,” the nurse said. “Just be here at 8, and we’ll check it out.”
“Now it’s 4 a.m.; 9 a.m. was 5 a.m.!” I said.
“We’re comin’ from West Bloomfield. It takes at least 45 minutes to get here; and another 10 to park.
I know how it works. To eat breakfast and make a 9 a.m. appointment I gotta get up at 5 a.m.”
“We can work around your schedule...... Get here about 8:30,” said the nurse apologetically.
“That’s 4:30 a.m.”
“We’ll check your port, and then Wilmot can use it. But first I gotta get their authorization.”
“That’s Wilmot, another part of Strong, and never will Radiology and Wilmot be on the same page. Um, perhaps Wilmot shoulda known ya needed to approve that port before they could use it.”
We waited for a call-back from Wilmot; more minutes passed.
Windows were closing, and by now our dog had been alone in the house the longest ever, over five hours.
An IRS refund-check I wanted to deposit looked impossible if the bank closed at 3 p.m. — they didn’t, 5 p.m.
We also needed supper vegetables, another 10-15 minutes for our dog to languish.
We were finally released about 3:15 — “Hex-KYOOZE me, but I was expecting half the day, not the entire day.”
Released from Radiology, “should we do the steps or the elevator?”
We took the steps.
Toward the hospital lobby I went into a rest-room, and upon exiting found my wife in a wheelchair being attended by all-and-sundry, a medical-emergency, as it were.
She had gone lightheaded, probably from the steps and anesthesia, but was kept from falling.
Aids were called, a gigantic gathering of concerned medical people — people that wanted to check her out.
Add 10-15 minutes.
“She looks normal to me,” I declared (and she did).
“I just wanna get outta here,” she said. “And I just wanted to be normal, which meant the steps — but I guess I couldn’t.”
“She ain’t gettin’ outta that wheelchair until I get our car.”
“Where’s your car?” a doctor asked.
“In the parking-garage,” I said.
“So how ya gonna do this?” the doctor asked.
I spit out a few words, and said I’d had a stroke; that what I said might be erratic.
“First we take the elevator to the second floor, I wheel her out to the parking-garage, I get the car, and drive around to pick her up.”
Finally out about 3:30.
Yes, I’m exasperated — I guess it’s because I drove Transit bus.

• “Strong Hospital” is one of three large hospitals in the Rochester area.
• 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.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)
• RE: “I guess it’s because I drove Transit bus.......” —For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke ended that.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Too many techies

The other day (probably Monday, June 13, 2011) I received a mailed notification from Silver Sneakers, their tri-monthly report of how many times I worked out.
Silver Sneakers is a health organization for oldsters. MVP, my health-insurance, pays my YMCA membership though Silver Sneakers.
It’s a good idea. Maintain health by working out, and thereby reduce your cost to MVP.
Apparently Silver Sneakers keeps tabs of each time I visit the YMCA, and then sends a report of how many times I checked in compared to other Silver Sneakers members.
La-dee-DAH!
Don’t mind if they do, but I don’t really care that much.
I’m not competing. All I’m doing is keeping the old ticker going. (It happens I’m higher than average.)
I’d work out even without Silver Sneakers, and did before.
But MVP is paying my YMCA membership through Silver Sneakers. Saves me about $40 per month.
“Silver Sneakers progress-reports are going green; this is your FINAL printed report,” it blared.
“Silver Sneakers Online provides guidance and resources to help you achieve your health improvement goals. Visit Silver Sneakers Online today!”
Okay, not that I care that much, but I could view my progress-reports online.
I’ll try it.
“Please log in. Not a member? Click here!”
I thought I already was a member, but perhaps we’re talking about this site.
“Select user-name and password; verify password.
Security question: ‘What is the middle name of your father?’”
“What if my father didn’t have a middle name?” I shrieked.
And furthermore, why so security conscious? This isn’t a bank.
Techie alert! And the techies that designed this site weren’t oldsters.
“Lessee, we can do password protection and a security question, so let’s.”
I gotta jump through 89 bazilyun hoops to view my progress-report; imagine Grandma in Retirement City.
I gave up. So now I am a site-member, I guess, but don’t care about the online progress-report.
Just keep paying my YMCA membership.
So now I have a letter in front of me from Edward Jones, our financial advisor, suggesting I get online delivery of my statements.
Do I dare?

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Tax refunds

The other day (Monday, June 13, 2011) our Internal Revenue Service tax-refund arrived.
“Why wasn’t this electronically deposited to our checking-account?” I asked.
“I distinctly remember putting all that information on our 1040.
Did last year too, and we got a check.”
A few weeks ago we got our N.Y. state income-tax refund, also a check, with a note indicating they couldn’t deposit electronically.
Last year we owed them money. They wanted all our bank information, so they could charge our account electronically.
That worked.
“How come they can successfully charge our account electronically, but they can’t deposit to it?
What is it with government?
It’s the same information.”

Kodachrome

The last roll of Kodak Kodachrome film, used by National Geographic photographer Steve McCurry, is being turned over to George Eastman House.
“I never used Kodachrome,” I said to my wife.
It’s slide-film, which didn’t fit what I was doing at that time.
During the ‘70s, I tried to become a freelance photographer.
I had a darkroom, and engineered my own black & white processing.
Black & white was still the preferred photo-printing medium of most journalism, plus it could be very expressive.
Color printing was in its infancy.
All the color printing you saw was in National Geographic and its ilk.
Some magazines were trying it, but the ones I was selling to were still printing black & white.
Beyond that, color took the processing out of your darkroom.
In the darkroom things were under your control.
Hand your color film over to Kodak, and processing was no longer yours.
With a darkroom you were controlling your image output.
I was using Acufine®, an extremely powerful film-developer.
I used to say it was “very hot.”
It pushed the effective film-speed of Tri-X from 400 to 1200 or more.
Soup it long enough, and you got 2400, although grainy.
I could pull images out of fog at 2400, and shoot available light (hand-held) at 1200.
Acufine bleached Plus-X out of sight. It always did; even just a dunk.
Panatomic-X was marginal, but acceptable. 32 ASA up to about 100.
Tri-X was best. Barely dip (“kiss”) the film with Acufine, and it rendered fabulous shadow-detail I could print.
So what was happening was I avoided Kodachrome because I was doing well enough with Tri-X.
It’s kind of the way I am now. Loath to experiment when I can do well enough with what I have.
I could buy a Nikon CoolScan to scan negatives; I tried one a few years ago at Visual Studies Workshop, and it was great.
But I don’t, because I don’t do much with images anyway, and rarely with my old color negatives.
I hardly shot slide-film, and when I did it was Ektachrome®.
What color I shot was Kodacolor negative-film, the choice of the Instamatic crowd, except I was using a good camera — my old Pentax Spotmatic.
Now everything I shoot is digital, and it’s all color.
I also now just shoot and see what happens.
There’s input on my part, but it’s not dependable.
I get extraordinary photographs, but many that just bomb.
I got an extraordinary photograph a few years ago, so I set up again at the same location.
Bomb city!
My darkroom equipment is stored, and good riddance.
The advantage to digital is no chemicals.
My darkroom is Photoshop on this computer.
“Kodachrome sort of exaggerated colors,” I said.
“It became a form of expression, but Kodak, not the photographer, whose only choice was to use it.
It wasn’t extreme, as some color films were.”
It’s sad I never tried it, but color was sort of intimidating at that time.
Black & white was bad enough. Things would be in my image I hadn’t noticed when I took the photograph, like water-towers and telephone-poles, etc.
Throw in color, and you get segments of red or blue or green that dominate a picture — and thus distract from its content.
Sadly, I never tried Kodachrome.

• “George Eastman House” is the International Museum of Photography in Rochester, NY. (It used to be George Eastman’s mansion. Eastman was the founder of Kodak.)
• “Visual Studies Workshop” is a local school of photography.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Assistant Vice-President, Consumer Marketing & Customer Experience

“‘Experience,’” I said. “Don’t they mean ‘Customer-Service?’
No, ‘Customer Experience’ is what it says,” I observed.
Our landline, which we still have since so many of our contacts have it as a reference number, plus my 95-year-old mother-in-law refused to call a cellphone, is Frontier.
We use its voicemail, its so-called “message-center.”
We used to have our own voicemail machine, but when it gave up, we switched to Frontier voicemail.
Nice. One less machine to tend to, shorting Wal*Mart.
Frontier is going to institute a new voicemail, accessible from a computer.
It involves action on our part, and prompted a letter to detail the switchover.
That letter was from a lady who was “Assistant Vice-President, Consumer Marketing & Customer Experience”(!)
“I bet that lady is proud of that title,” I commented.
“And it probably renders a six-figure salary.
What’s wrong with just ‘Assistant Vice-President?’” I asked.
“Not enough words,” my wife said.
“I thought we were trying to reduce words,” I responded. “How’s she gonna Tweet that title?
And why not only one function, or three? Why always two?
I bet Frontier has to keep a sign-guy on staff to carve new desk signs, keep up with job-title changes.
Which change every minute.
Another six-figure salary, or an overpaid outside sign-carving service.
Like ‘Customer-Service’ suddenly becomes ‘Customer Experience.’”

• “Frontier” Telephone Company is a local supplier of landline telephone service in the Rochester area. (“Rochester Telephone” eventually became “Frontier.”)

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Amtrak



As of this year, 2011, Amtrak is 40 years old.
It began operation May 1, 1971 at 12:01 a.m., taking over most of the railroads’ passenger-train operations — those that joined.
Some railroads didn’t, for example Southern and Denver & Rio Grande Western, which continued to operate passenger-trains on their own.
If anything, I would say a common misconception has arisen that railroading is passenger-trains.
Especially in the media. Railroading is always depicted as passenger-trains, once the main mode of passenger transport. Rarely do you see freight-trains, where all the action is.
Only when freight-trains smash up, causing massive conflagrations and toxic releases.
Another misconception is that railroads, like highways, are publicly owned, as is Amtrak.
They aren’t. They’re private for-profit enterprises, regulated by the public sector, but private. Amtrak is a public entity operating mostly on the private railroads. It only owns a couple railroads, e.g. the Northeast Corridor.
Public highways aren’t privately owned. Railroads are; they have stockholders.
(Highways weren’t always publicly owned. Go back far enough, and some highways were privately owned; private toll roads to speed wagon commerce. The paving might be wooden planks.
When I was a child, the rickety wooden bridges to south Jersey seashore points were privately owned. They were so rickety they prompted public investment, ownership and maintenance.
Public ownership put private highways out of business.)
The Summer 2011 issue of my Classic Trains Magazine dedicates almost its entire issue to Amtrak’s 40th anniversary.
Don Phillips.
Of interest to me is a giant article by Don Phillips on Amtrak’s gestation.
It has all the gory details; the intrigue, the compromises, the politics involved.
Phillips is a columnist for Trains Magazine, and is also the transportation-reporter for the Washington Post.
I’ve subscribed to Classic Trains for some time.
It’s an offshoot of Trains Magazine.
I’ve subscribed to Trains for eons, since college, the ‘60s.
I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2. I’m currently age-67.
Classic Trains treats primarily railroading from the classic era, about 1920 through the late ‘70s, when I was coming of age.
I’m late ‘40s on.
Massive changes were taking place in railroading at that time, primarily the replacement of steam locomotion with diesel.
That’s about mid-‘30s on.
I was lucky enough to witness steam locomotion.
It’s what made a railfan out of me.
I was scared to death of thunderstorms, but could stand right next to a gigantic throbbing, panting steam locomotive.
Diesels were attractive, just not as much.
The chuffing of a steam locomotive told you the rate at which it was working.
Exhaust pulses increased with speed.
Go fast enough, and it becomes a roar.
Diesels too had massive size.
And then there was the incredible efficiency of railroading.
That the freightcars (“trailers”) are following a fixed guideway, the railroad.
That allows the locomotive (“truck,” “tractor”) to tow 100 freightcars or more. A highway is not a fixed guideway.
—A highway truck can tow at most two trailers; usually it’s only one.
And a railroad’s right-of-way is puny compared to a highway, perhaps 20-50 feet wide for single track (maybe 60-100 for double), as opposed to as much as 300 feet or more for a four-lane expressway. A football-field is 300 feet long.
About the only restriction on railroading is gradient. Exceed one percent (one foot up per 100 feet forward), and you’re asking for trouble.
Even at one percent ya may need helper-locomotives to keep a heavy train climbing.
And braking — preventing runaways — is also challenging.
Four percent is nearly impossible. About the steepest ya see is 2.5 percent.
Highway grades often exceed six percent.
Gobs of horsepower can climb a six percent grade with a heavy load.
The tire-patch on pavement can maintain adhesion on a steep grade.
Railroading is steel wheel on steel railhead. Little rolling resistance, but a grade can break adhesion. —That contact-patch is tiny.
Make the grade steep enough, and the load heavy enough, and the train stalls as the driving-wheels slip.
Locomotives apply sand between the drivers and the railhead to maintain adhesion. There also is computer slip-control. A locomotive can pull harder if its drivers slip slightly.
The idea of nationalizing railroad passenger service was first broached by Senator Claiborne Pell of Rhode Island in 1962 in his famous “Megalopolis” speech, the idea that a giant megalopolis of urbanization was arising on the east coast between Washington D.C. and Boston.
And that it would need railroad passenger service.
(Perhaps it should be noted rail passenger service was at first privately offered. Amtrak has been around so long, people might think rail passenger service was always public.)
Infrastructure was already in place, the Pennsylvania Railroad’s New York-to-Washington D.C. electrified line, and New Haven’s line from Boston to New York, which was partly electrified (New Haven to New York City).
And there had already been extensive government involvement.
It could be said the Pennsylvania Railroad’s electrification into Washington D.C. was essentially a New Deal project.
The government was later heavily involved in the Metroliner project, self-propelled cars that could boom-and-zoom New York to Washington over the Pennsylvania Railroad’s electrified line.
Railroad passenger-service was dragging railroads down.
People weren’t using railroad passenger-service, so it cost way more to operate than any revenue it generated.
Other factors were dragging down railroading at that time, primarily -1) it was so heavily regulated. Railroading couldn’t initiate a rate-change without government oversight. They couldn’t price service to meet the market, or price for heavy users.
This was a reflection the technology of railroading was revolutionary when first promulgated. It was much faster than horse-and-wagon; plus they could run all year, unlike canals which froze in winter.
Railroads were often the only means of shipping product to faraway markets, so they could charge a fortune.
And -2) since railroads were private enterprise, they could be heavily taxed.
Railroads have lots of land right-of-way, so are heavily taxed.
Beyond that competing modes of transport were being subsidized by the government.
Highways were public, and the government built the Interstate Highway System, subsidizing trucking.
Terminals for airplane transit were usually built by government entities.
A railroad built its own terminals.
Railroad stations were usually built privately, although a Union-Station might be built with participation of the railroads using it. (A union-station was proposed for New York City, but never built. To do so meant crossing the Hudson River, always a barrier.)
An airport was usually a government effort to attract airlines. After that the airport charged usage fees.
But it wasn’t the airlines building that terminal.
Later on David P. Morgan, the editor of Trains Magazine at that time, dedicated an entire issue to “Who shot the passenger-train.”
It was a watershed article. His premise was the passenger-train had not atrophied from disuse, it had been It shot dead.
Well, HEX-KYOOZE me, but to me this is poppycock! Much as I like David P. Morgan — he was the reason I subscribed to Trains — this was romanticism, revering the ideal of passenger-train travel.
I’ve ridden passenger-trains myself, and -A) they can’t compete with the speed of a jet over long distances, and -B) they’re not point-to-point, like an automobile.
With a train, like an airplane, someone has to pick you up, or you rent a car at the terminal.
Plus a jet can get me to Florida in about three hours. A train takes almost all day (plus all night).
Yet passenger-service, and its losing expense, was dragging railroading toward nationalization.
What really precipitated the nationalization of railroad passenger-service was the collapse of Penn-Central Railroad, the largest corporate bankruptcy at that time.
No one seemed aware of what sad shape the two major east-coast railroads were in, New York Central and the Pennsylvania Railroad.
The merger of Pennsy with Central was more-or-less forced. Other railroads across the nation were merging to rationalize, yet Pennsy and Central had nowhere else to turn.
Previous attempts to do better mergers, e.g. New York Central with Chesapeake & Ohio, and Pennsy with Norfolk & Western, had been stymied.
Even Penn-Central failed. Merger didn’t really occur. Penn-Central divided into two camps, the red-team (Pennsy) and the green-team (Central), forever at war with each other.
Penn-Central was hemorrhaging money, first $250,000 per day, then $500,000, then a million dollars per day come 1970.
Finally Wall Street caught on, Penn-Central stock tanked, its officers were fired, and bankruptcy-papers were filed June 21, 1970, just 873 days after Penn-Central was formed.
Amtrak legislation passed largely because there was fear other railroads would follow Penn-Central, and that passenger-service was the reason railroads were hurting.
And it was called “Railpax” at first; “Amtrak” came later — American travel over tracks.
Meanwhile Metroliner service had done quite well, despite Pennsy hurting.
The success of Metroliner service was a plus for Amtrak, and that’s despite all the things wrong with it; train-failures, etc.
Amtrak has come quite a ways since 1971.
No longer is “the pointless arrow,” pictured above, its logo.
It’s been replaced by the one pictured at left.
And when it began, Amtrak found itself using equipment from participating railroads.
Soon Amtrak purchased its own equipment, e.g. first the EMD F40PH pictured below, and now the GE P42.
An Electromotive Division F40PH is on the point.
Photo by Craig Zeni©.
General Electric P42.
Amtrak also purchased its own passenger-cars, replacing worn out post-war equipment inherited from its participating railroads.
They purchased Amfleet cars for Northeast Corridor service, and double-deckers for elsewhere. —Double-deckers are too high for use in tunnels on the Northeast Corridor.
I’ve ridden a few Amtrakers myself, the first so far back it was in so-called “Heritage Equipment,” the cars from participating railroads when Amtrak first began.
My first was the “Silver Meteor” to De Land, FL, to visit my wife’s parents.
It was terrible. We got on the Meteor in Wilmington, DE, on the electrified Northeast Corridor.
Dinner in the diner was served.
Apparently a system within the engine supplied electric power to a trainline, but the plug fell apart.
Utter darkness!
How ya supposed to eat when ya can’t even see the table?

All the way south to Baltimore, where the plug was replugged, but it promptly fell apart again just south of Baltimore.
I resolved next time I rode Amtrak I’d bring a flashlight.
All the way to Washington DC without electricity.
Engine-change in Washington, to diesels because the railroad is no longer electrified.
We had reserved a sleeping-room, twin bunks with cramped bathroom facilities.
But our bunks were across the width of the car, not lengthwise.
And the track was rough (or perhaps it was our car, being old).
I couldn’t sleep at all.
Every switch and grade-crossing heaved me into the ceiling.
I was afraid we’d derail.
Our second Amtrak trip was the Lake Shore Limited to visit my brother-in-Boston.
The Lake Shore starts in Chicago, and splits outside Albany. One section goes to New York City, the other section to Boston.
We got on the Lake Shore in Rochester around 6:15 a.m., and it was pleasant.
Dark and dank, but much more roomy than an airliner.
(We flew back from Boston once.)
We had coach seats, and also were in Heritage-Equipment.
Although some of our cars were Amfleet.
Again the electricity tanked, so approaching Boston through tunnels was utter darkness.
We returned via New York City.
The Northeast Corridor was still not electrified to Boston at that time, as it is now.
Diesel to New Haven, and then electric engines, probably AEM-7.
Then to the old Penn Station — long ago torn down, but the tracks are still there, buried under a new Madison Square Garden.
At that time, railroad service across New York state was out of Grand Central Terminal — no connector yet. —Now there is a connector from Penn Station to the old New York Central line up along the Hudson.
Our intent was to take New York Central’s storied Water-Level Route up along the Hudson River, and then west from Albany.
First we’d have to get from Penn Station up to Grand Central.
Amtrak had bus-service to make the jump, but we coulda walked faster.
The traffic was so bad, I doubt the bus went any faster than three mph.
Our train was Amtrak’s famous Turbo-Train, the “Niagara Rainbow” to Toronto.
The Turbo-Train is a dedicated trainset of perhaps three-or-four cars, with a turbine-powered locomotive at each end.
It’s essentially a French design, although restyled for Amtrak’s use.
The side-windows were lexan plastic, and so dirty and scratched and fogged-over they were useless.
It also was getting dark.
Any scenery up along the Hudson could not be seen.
West of Albany was pitch dark, and our train was doing track-speed, 79 mph.
About all we could see was the red flashing grade-crossing lights.
Photo by BobbaLew.
Auto-Train.
A few years ago we rode Amtrak’s Auto-Train, from near Washington DC to middle Florida.
Auto-Train was originally private, the idea being to take along your car on a train-trip to Florida.
Your car went in an auto-carrier on the same train you rode.
Driving from Rochester to Washington DC took all day. We stayed overnight in a motel and took Auto-Train the next day.
The original private effort failed. By now Auto-Train was Amtrak.
Amtrak’s Auto-Train had originally been Heritage-Equipment, but by the time we rode it it was the new double-deckers. Since the train didn’t go to New York City, they could use double-deckers.
We’d reserved a tiny sleeping-space, what used to be called “SlumberCoach” before Amtrak. —I had chosen this because the bunks were lengthwise, instead of across the car.
The compartment was cramped; you couldn’t stand.
Bathrooms were common and separate, and one deck down. The compartments were on the upper deck.
I’d brought a flashlight, but never needed it.
Dinner was in a dining-car.
We hit a bump, I choked on coffee, and sprayed it all over the complete strangers with whom we sat.
I was so embarrassed we split.
Dinner had been one of three entrée choices. It wasn’t like a restaurant.
The coffee incident was after eating.
Sleeping wasn’t bad. Perhaps the track was smoother, or the new double-deckers rode better.
Our buses were like that. They rode fine until the first chassis overhaul. Then they were lumber-wagons.
Auto-Train was full going down, and empty going up. It was Fall.
Amtrak tried to get us to switch to a full compartment going back up, but I deferred. (I wasn’t giving up that lengthwise bunk.)
Auto-Train was much more pleasant than the Silver Meteor, but it was the newer cars on perhaps better track.
Plus when you arrived, you had your car.
By then my wife’s father was gone. Her mother was still living in their house.
What I remember most was the grayness of her hair when she came to meet us. —Although we had our van.
The greatest sin in the perpetration of Amtrak was that it be “for profit.”
This was to placate the tub-thumping Conservatives always hot to foment Armageddon as long as it doesn’t effect their bloated balance-sheets.
It’s been that way for years.
Obama institutes measures to stave off a Depression greater than the Great Depression, and the Conservatives go ballistic.
They wanted a Depression; “Armageddon, let God decide, as long as it doesn’t effect my balance-sheet.”
In which case the tub-thumpers demand a TARP bailout.
“Save Wall Street; we gotta save our bloated paychecks.
Ice-flow for everyone else — stoke the ovens!”
Amtrak passed — partly to stave off the bankruptcy of all northeast railroading, which seemed to happen anyway.
But at least the railroads were no longer saddled with passenger-service, which was costing them a fortune.
And now it’s beginning to look like private investment wants into railroad passenger-service. —Even to the extent of building a new Northeast Corridor better than the currently contorted turkey.
What matters most about Amtrak, is that the public WANTS railroad passenger-service.
They may not choose it, but they want it.

• RE: “Our buses were like that.......” —For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

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Friday, June 10, 2011

Transit-dream this morning


Fishbowl but not RTS.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke ended that.
“I need a navigator.”
I used to do this on esoteric routes, bus-routes a bit hard too follow, that twisted and turned all over.
“I don’t wanna miss anyone,” I’d say.
I suppose this is more motivated than many bus-drivers, but I had been a bus-passenger myself eons ago.
I’d go out and reconnoiter the line the weekend before starting a new route, but sometimes I felt that wasn’t enough.
Especially out in the hinterlands, where there might not be bus-stops.
“Don’t miss this guy. Ya won’t even see ‘im.”
One year I had a school-run through “the Projects,” the deepest darkest slums in Rochester.
I had it all school year; started with a full bus-load (about 40-50), and ended up with maybe 20.
I really had only one rule: “ass, pass, gas or grass; nobody rides free.” (They had passes.)
If one of my kids was running to a stop, I’d stop and let them on.
Them kids were gettin’ to school if I could help it.
(And I only drove school-trips in the morning. The kids were too sleepy to be trouble. —Going home they were wired.)
40-50 down to 20; I used to wonder how many were still alive, or how many had gone to prison.
I also wondered how many I’d lost to “ass, pass, gas or grass.”
Kids would lose their bus-pass, then drop out.
The run in my dream was very esoteric, and I happened on it as a vacation-run, whatever.
I had one of our old “wide-100s,” 102 inches wide, our first buses over eight feet wide — eight feet is 96 inches.
“100” was the bus series, although we only had about nine or 10, numbered 151 on.
They were “Fishbowls” (GM “New Look”), like pictured above.
A wide-100 still seated 53, the added width was in the center aisle.
The added width made little difference; what made buses hard to drive was their length (and their wheelbase).
It was a city-run, but over unfamiliar streets. It wasn’t a regular bus-route.
Far be it I miss anyone because of my winging it.
I corralled a navigator to ride shotgun — follow the correct route.
I had ridden these things myself, and knew what it meant to be left standin’ if no bus showed, or worse yet just flew by.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. It ended my career driving bus.
• Regional Transit does school-work, taking kids to school in regular city buses. The kids are picked up along regular bus-routes.
• RE: “Vacation-run.......” —The regular bus-driver would go on vacation, so his run became a “vacation-run,” open to extra drivers. (Extra drivers were a pool of bus-drivers not assigned to regular bus-runs. —You were an “extra-driver” by choice.)
• Vehicle-width used to be restricted to eight feet. Then it was upped to 102 inches.

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Wednesday, June 08, 2011

Export-coal on-a-roll


SD80-MACs push coal-extra C51 through Lilly. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The July 2011 issue of my Trains Magazine has a news-article about the torrent of coal for export.
This is of interest to me, because so many trains I saw with my friend Phil Faudi (“fow-dee;” as in “wow”) in Altoona (“al-TUNE-uh;” as in the name “Al”) were coal for export.
Phil is the railfan extraordinaire from Altoona, PA, who supplied all-day train-chases for $125. —I did my first almost three years ago, alone, and it blew my mind.
He called them “Adventure-Tours.”
I’m a railfan and have been since age-2. —I’m currently 67.
Faudi would bring along his radio rail-scanner, tuned to 160.8, the Norfolk Southern operating channel, and he knew the whereabouts of every train, as the engineers called out the signals, and various lineside defect-detectors fired off.
He knew each train by symbol, and knew all the back-roads, and how long it took to get to various photo locations — and also what made a successful photo — lighting, drama, etc.
I’d let Phil do the monitoring. I have a scanner myself, but I left it behind.
Phil knew every train on the scanner, where it was, and how long it took to beat it to a prime photo location.
My first time was a slow day, yet we got 20 trains. Next Tour we got 30 trains in one nine-hour day.
Phil gave it up; fear of liability suits, and a really nice car he’s afraid he’d mess up.
One of our stops during train-chases was the Sonman Coal-tipple north of Portage.
Sonman is on the original Pennsy mainline, now a spur bypassed.
Sonman gets coal from various mines throughout the area. It’s delivered by trucks.
At the tipple, coal is transloaded into giant hopper-trains. Sonman coal is destined for export to Germany.
The coal is metallurgical coal, used to charge blast-furnaces for making steel.
It’s not burned to generate electricity (“steam-coal;” although export demand is up for it).
We passed Sonman quite often. A giant hopper-train was being flood-loaded.
Each hopper-car came under the flood-loader, and the powdery coal would pour into the car from an above chute.
Usually the hopper-cars were “Top-Gons,” regular steel hopper-cars converted for rotary dumping.
Rotary dumping is to roll the whole car to empty its contents. It requires couplers that rotate.
Top-Gons no longer have bottom dumps.
A worker was in position atop the car to form the top of the loaded coal into a “bread-loaf,” so coal-dust didn’t blow away when a train moved.
Loading finished, a train moved out, headed east up The Hill toward Gallitzin (“guh-LIT-zin”), summit of the Allegheny mountains.
The hoppers were stored on “Main-eight,” a storage track.
Locomotives would come later to continue the coal east.
A few old railfans were at a location we stop at well east of Sonman (east of Cresson [“kress-in”]) where PA Route 53 crosses the old Pennsy main.
It’s within sight of “Main-eight.”
“I wonder where that coal is headed?” an old railfan asked.
“Germany!” I interjected. “It’s metallurgical, and came from a tipple down the line.”
They weren’t chasing trains with Phil.

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Saturday, June 04, 2011

Home at last


She can’t resist. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The other day (Thursday, June 2, 2011) I brought my wife home from Strong Hospital in Rochester.
She had been discharged.
My wife has cancer, but supposedly it’s not fatal.
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.
Her stay at Strong lasted over a week, and was her second hospital admittance.
It was her fifth visit to a hospital in over a month.
Everything started at Thompson Hospital in nearby Canandaigua, visits to their Emergency-Room.
The first four Emergency-Room visits were initiated by us, and the first two she received two two-unit blood transfusions to combat anemia and extreme weakness.
Her cancer was restricting urine-flow from her kidneys through her ureter-tubes to her bladder. —It was her ureter-tubes that were restricted, but her kidneys were swelling.
Her cancer was out-of-control growth of the lymph nodes in her abdomen.
The cancer was also restricting blood return from her legs, so her legs were swelling.
Our third ER visit to Thompson it was determined a blood transfusion wasn’t necessary.
Our fourth visit she was admitted the first time, and three units of blood were transfused.
It was also determined her so-called “electric-lights” (her 95-year-old mother’s mispronunciation of “electrolytes”) were a mess, and her calcium up.
Fluid was administered intravenously, which increased her leg swelling.
The fifth visit was per doctor’s orders, after a home blood-test by Visiting Nurse Service indicated low red blood-cell count; anemia.
That was a Sunday.
So began her long hospital stay.
I called her breast-cancer doctor at Strong myself, indicating it was me because my wife couldn’t.
“I have to hope she lasts the night,” I said.
“That bad, huh?” said the breast-cancer doctor, a bit stunned.
“Well, I’m biased, or course, but I think so,” I said.
The breast-cancer doctor thereafter called my wife at Thompson, who had her cellphone.
The doctor got the same halting speech I was hearing.
All-of-a-sudden, ACTION!
The action we’d been trying to get for months.
My wife would be transferred back to Strong, where she had her first cancer treatments three years ago.
It took almost two days for a bed to open up at Strong, so she was transferred by ambulance Tuesday May 24.
Ureter-tube stents would be inserted immediately.
Stents are expandable stainless-steel reinforcements — they would open up her ureter-tubes.
And they managed to do both; no outside drains to a bag.
Strong also administered fluids, so she swelled up like an elephant.
On the other hand, waist up she had lost weight.
Waist up she looked like an Auschwitz survivor.
And all-of-a-sudden the silly Three Stooges movie ended.
“Not my cancer,” the lymphoma doctor would say. “Is too,” the breast-cancer doctor said. “Is not, and furthermore I’m your boss now.” (The lymphoma doctor had become a head-honcho at Wilmot [“will-MOTT;” as in the applesauce].)
All-of-a-sudden the team reassembled; no more two teams versus each other.
The lymphoma doctor weighed back in; treat for lymphoma, despite his original thinking it wasn’t lymphoma.
“I felt like you abandoned me,” my wife told him through tears.
“And my husband is afraid of talking to you, for fear of blowing up.”
So they kicked her out — “I’m finally taking her home,” I thought to myself through tears as we motored out of patient-discharge.
We thought she was being released prematurely at first.
But I know how it is, having had a stroke 17 years ago.
A hospital makes you an invalid; when I was in the hospital, I was taken everywhere in a wheelchair.
At home the wheelchair got parked.
“I’ll get around somehow.”
And so with her.
She’ll manage somehow, and at home ya do.
The next day (yesterday, Friday, June 3, 2011) after being discharged, we had to visit Strong again, to set up outpatient chemotherapy infusions — her first was as inpatient.
The lymphoma doctor strode in; he wasn’t scheduled.
I kept to myself — no blowups.
No comments about the Three Stooges or pulling rank.
“What I hear is the person I married,” I said. “One week ago she wasn’t that way.”
What I’d say, and didn’t, was: “If we learn anything from this experience, it’s that just because we seem inordinately healthy for age-67, doesn’t mean we are........”

• “Strong Hospital” is one of three large hospitals in the Rochester area. It’s in southeastern Rochester. Its cancer-center is “Wilmot Cancer-center.”
• “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. Thompson is the hospital in Canandaigua. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.

Wednesday, June 01, 2011

Monthly Calendar Report for June, 2011


Double-stack exits Cold Springs Tunnel. (Photo by Ty Burgin.)

―In my humble opinion, the June 2011 entry of my Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar is the best entry in the calendar, even better than my picture (see below), because the light is perfect.
My own calendar-shot is one of the most dramatic pictures I’ve ever snagged, but it’s not as good as photographer Burgin’s picture.
The light in my picture is muted, somewhat bright, but it appears to be cloudy — like the sun may be partially obliterated by high, thin clouds.
Burgin’s picture is fabulous.
A westbound double-stack has just exited Cook Springs Tunnel in Alabama, and is threading its narrow approach.
And it’s single track.
Compare this to a limited-access expressway, which might need right-of-way 12+ times as wide.
And that train is probably moving 200 or more containers.
Trucks on super-wide limited-access expressway only move at the most two containers per driver — usually only one.
Railroading is far more efficient than a highway.
Beyond that, the rolling-resistance of a steel wheel on a steel rail is minimal compared to tires on a highway.
And since everything is following a fixed guideway (the railroad), you can trailer a hundred or more cars.
Exceed two trailers with a truck, and your trailers are crabbing all over the highway.
Lighting is always a pot-shot.
I’ve had similar light at various locations, but clouds might start forming to occasionally block the sun.
Or it might be cloudy-bright, as it is in my picture, but not in Burgin’s picture.



(Photo by Philip Makanna©.)

—The June 2011 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is the best picture of one of these old turkeys I’ve ever seen.
Which is partially why I run it ahead of my own picture, plus my own picture is too much like photographer Burgin’s picture above.
The B-17 first flew in 1935, and mightily impressed the Army Air Corps — there was no Air Force yet.
It had five machine-guns, which prompted the press contingent to call it “the Flying Fortress.”
In 1935 it was much more maneuverable for a large airplane.
Later versions went to seven machine-guns, and since B-17s were so vulnerable to frontal attack, a chin-turret was added, adding two more machine-guns.
By WWII they were old and slow.
I’ve seen a B-17 fly, and my impression was “what a sitting duck.”
No wonder so many got shout out of the sky. Hitler’s Messerschmitts could run circles around ‘em.
Despite that, the B-17 was the workhorse of heavy bombing-runs over Germany.
Hundreds would fly in formation from England, to drop their heavy payloads on German industry and transportation.
I’ve seen many photographs of B-17s, and even went through a B-17 once.
Photographer Makanna got it right.
Or perhaps things fell into place.
Whatever; I’m sure there’s some Makanna in it.
“Up there, Mr. Jones. I gotta shoot down from on high.”
Makanna’s chase-plane flies over-top the B-17, so Makanna can shoot down.
“This angle is what works, Mr, Jones. I’ve seen it myself. —We’re over gorgeous countryside; I gotta include it.”
My impression of inside a B-17 was “cheesecake.”



Stackers pass at Brickyard. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

―The June 2011 entry of my own calendar is another rerun.
It ran as the August entry in my 2010 calendar.
That’s because my 2011 calendar is one I did for Tunnel Inn, the bed-and-breakfast we stay at in Gallitzin (“guh-LIT-zin”) when in the Altoona (“al-TUNE-uh;” as in the name “Al”), PA area.
Altoona is the location of the Pennsylvania Railroad’s crossing of the Allegheny mountains, including famous Horseshoe Curve (the “Mighty Curve”), by far the BEST railfan spot I’ve ever been to.
Horseshoe Curve is now a national historic site. It was a trick by the railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades — the railroad was looped around a valley to stretch out the climb. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use.
I’m 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.
That 2011 calendar for Tunnel Inn crashed; the post-office lost the order.
We did a 2012 calendar for Tunnel Inn with the same pictures they can sell throughout the year.
This is one of the best railfan photographs I’ve ever snagged.
We were at Brickyard Crossing west of Altoona.
Me and Phil Faudi (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”).
Phil is the railfan extraordinaire I’ve written up so many times, I’d be boring constant-readers. If you need clarification, click this link, my January 2011 calendar-report, and read the first part — the January entry of my own calendar. It mentions Phil.
Brickyard isn’t actually Brickyard Road. It’s where Porta Road crossed the old Pennsy four-track main out of Altoona — now it’s three tracks.
But nearby was an old brickyard, so railfans always called it Brickyard Crossing.
The brick facility is kaput. I think it’s being taken down.
But railfans will always call it Brickyard Crossing.
Phil and I had already crossed the tracks — you park on the other side — so we got the eastbound stacker as it came down Track One.
But Phil could hear another train on his scanner uphill on Track Three.
So up the embankment we quickly went, a narrow pathway that parallels the tracks.
We could hear it hammering toward us, two GEs in Run-Eight.
Then it burst into view.
This is what Phil calls a “double,” two trains in the same picture, the eastbound downhill on Track One, and the westbound climbing on Track Three.
But not what I call a “double,” which is two front-ends.
So far I’ve only snagged two, both with Phil.
And if the double-stacked containers are “J.B. Hunt,” as they are on both trains in this picture, it’s probably product for Wal*Mart.
The containers are 53-foot domestic containers, not the 40-footers used in shipping. 40-footers are “international.”
Quite often a 53-footer is double-stacked atop a 40-footer in the well of a flatcar for a 40-foot container.
Quite often the flatcars for containers are three or more cars hitched semi-permanently together.
Stacker-cars are also frequently adjustable well. They can accommodate varying container lengths.
The flatcar decks are open, to allow the bottom container to sit low, and there is enough space above to allow double-stacking 53 foot containers atop the lower shorter containers.



1970 Ford Torino Cobra SCJ. (Photo by Ron Kimball©.)

The June 2011 entry of my Motorbooks Musclecars calendar is a powder-blue 1970 Ford Torino Cobra SCJ.
It’s nice to see Ford products featured in the musclecar calendar; last month was a 1969 Mercury Cyclone 428 Cobra-Jet.
Photo by Ron Kimball©.
Ford was more-or-less the laughing-stock of musclecardom.
This was because their musclecars quickly fell out of tune, or so it seemed.
Ford musclecar engines never got truly gigantic. They never exceeded 429 cubic inches (the displacement of this car).
GM musclecars went to 455 cubic inches, with Chevrolet at 454 cubic inches.
The largest Mopar (Chrysler) engine was 440 cubic inches.
The Torino was Ford’s response to the success of intermediate-sized cars. The Fairlane was deep-sixed (the Torino was an extensive redesign).
I drove a Torino once, but it wasn’t the musclecar version.
It was daily transportation, 302 cubic-inch Windsor V8, with Fordomatic automatic-transmission.
It was our aging landlady’s caretaker’s car.
She’d park her Torino in our driveway, blocking my getting out.
Instead of moving her car, she’d give me the keys, and tell me to run our errands in it.
Her excuse for this largesse was she never drove it much.
It was a nice car, placid and docile; just rather large — about as big as I’d want a car to be.
I remember renting a ’70 Plymouth Fury once. It was huge.
A giant expanse of flat hood was in front of me, big enough to land a carrier-based Navy Corsair fighter-plane.
The caretaker’s Torino reminded that musclecars were also large; an intermediate-sized sedan with a gigantic overkill motor.
Photo by BobbaLew.
Not my brother’s car, but identical (right color).
My brother-in-Boston has one, a 1971 454 SS Chevelle; fairly large, and somewhat intimidating.
Not a tiny sportscar — agile on torturous pavement.
Musclecars were only good for one thing: acceleration in a straight line on smooth pavement.
  



Pennsy FF-2 electric at Columbia, PA. (Photo by Jim Buckley.)

The June 2011 entry of my All-Pennsy color calendar is notable for four reasons:
—1) The FF-2 engine is not originally a Pennsy engine. It was delivered to Great Northern Railway through 1929 as its Y-1 for its Cascade Tunnel electrification.
When better tunnel ventilation was installed, allowing diesels, the Y-1s were sold to Pennsy, where they were mostly used as helpers.
—2) The FF-2s are actually motor-generator. The AC current doesn’t power traction-motors. It powers a motor that turns a generator for DC traction-motors.
There were actually two motor-generator sets in each locomotive.
Consequently, it was the only Pennsy electric that had to have both pantographs (“pant-uh-GRAFF”) up.
—3) The FF-2 was a big and extremely heavy locomotive. It was too heavy to be operated to the Wilmington (DE) electric shops. —They had to be taken apart and parts shipped in boxcars for maintenance or repairs.
It was built to larger west-coast clearances. Of east-coast railroads only Pennsy had similar clearances.
I remember surveying Baltimore & Ohio’s famous West End a few years ago.
It certainly wasn’t Pennsy.
It was tight.
And only Pennsy had the track-structure and similar infrastructure to support such a monster.
—4) Columbia, south of Harrisburg, on the west shore of the Susquehanna (“suss-kwee-HAN-uh”) river, was the destination of the original railroad west out of Philadelphia in the early 1800s.
It became part of the Pennsylvania Public Works System, cross-state canals and railroads, and eventually part of Pennsy when it acquired the Public Works System.
Pennsy bypassed the line to Columbia to build directly to Harrisburg, but the original line to Columbia was never abandoned.
Pennsy used it to move freight.
Pennsy also electrified just about all its major lines east of Harrisburg, including the line to Columbia.
So Pennsy felt they could use Great Northern’s Y-1s when they came up for sale.
They ran on Alternating-Current, which Pennsy was using.
There were only eight, Great Northern 1010-1017, which became Pennsy 1-7. (Pennsy kept one unused for spare parts.)
They were scrapped in 1966 (the year I graduated college), when only three were still in service.



Track-T.

―The June 2011 entry of my Oxman Hotrod Calendar is a really great photograph of what I consider a dumb car.
It’s a rendering of what was very popular after the first World-War, a hot-rodded Model-T-Ford.
That is, well before the post WWII hotrods — usually with a V8 Flat-head Ford motor.
The really great hotrods came after WWII, based on the styling precepts of Edsel Ford, Old Henry’s only son.
Best was the ’32 Ford, and also the Model-A. All had styling licks laid down by Edsel.
The ’32 Fords and Model-As were also cheap and available as used cars.
Hot-rodding was mainly a Southern California phenomenon, because of -a) good weather, and -b) the surfeit of cheap war-surplus fittings, etc. for the Pacific Theater.
Beyond that, after the ’32 model-year Old Henry’s Flat-head V8 motor was available.
Henry refused to build a six. So a Flat-head V8 was brought to market.
People loved ‘em. They were snappy, and a whole industry of hotrod parts arose.
The Flat-head V8 responded well to hot-rodding.
They could be tinkered and improved by backyard mechanics.
But after World War One it was the Model-T that was cheap and available.
A movement arose in Southern California to hotrod the Model-T.
What’s pictured is what often happened.
The T was stripped of just about everything to decrease weight.
About all that’s left is the motor and wheels, plus a place to seat the driver.
And that has been narrowed, as has the windshield.
All that’s left is a Model-T set up for track-racing, a “Track-T,” essentially a buckboard.
It looks like bodywork was added or extended between the hood and the firewall.
That long nose is not Old Henry.
But the radiator is.
One wonders what’s under the hood?
A hot-rodded Model-T four-cylinder engine, or perhaps a recent overhead-valve four.
People do that. Often the four-cylinder is GM’s infamous Iron Duke.


War-baby (no Belpaire).

—The June 2011 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black and white All-Pennsy Calendar is a rather pedestrian shot of one of Pennsy’s J-1 class 2-10-4 Texas types on the Columbus Division out in Ohio.
It looks like it was shot from the cab of a diesel, probably an F-unit set to help the train it’s approaching.
The J-1 is Pennsy’s war-baby.
Pennsy never really developed modern steam locomotion in the ‘30s; their investment was going into electrification.
So when WWII broke out, they were saddled with old and tired steam-locomotives, unsuited to WWII traffic demands.
The War-Production board didn’t allow the railroad to develop modern steam power, so Pennsy had to shop around.
Photo by C.L. Kayleib.©
A Norfolk & Western A (2-6-6-4).
Norfolk & Western’s fabulous “A” (2-6-6-4 #1218; at left) was tried, along with Chesapeake & Ohio’s T-1 Texas type (2-10-4, below).
The J-1 is essentially the Chesapeake & Ohio T-1, modified slightly to be a Pennsy engine.
(Pennsy was loathe to use articulateds, which the A is.)
A Chesapeake & Ohio T-1 Texas (2-10-4).
But not the square-hipped Belpaire (“bell-pair”) Firebox, trademark of all Pennsy steam locomotion.
The C&O T-1 was SuperPower, a selling-point originally fielded by Lima Locomotive Company (“LYE-muh;” not “LEE-muh”).
The main principle of SuperPower was incredible boiler capacity, the ability to run at high speed, yet not run out of steam.
As such, SuperPower was kind of wasted on difficult gradients, like Pennsy, where lugging was more important than high speed.
A Belpaire Firebox on a Pennsy engine.
But the Columbus Division was fairly flat, a place for SuperPower to strut its stuff.
And the J-1 was SuperPower, essentially Pennsy’s only SuperPower locomotive.
It made the railroad dabble in SuperPower principles after the war, since Pennsy steam-locomotives previous were rather moribund.
The J-1 is not the Belpaire Firebox.
The train is probably doing 40 or 50, maybe even 60.
And will hold that speed its entire run.
It could, it’s SuperPower.

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