Monthly Calendar Report for June, 2012

28Z westbound on Three at the Secret Location. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

—The June 2012 entry of my own calendar is Train 28Z, looks like solid auto-racks, westbound on Track Three at what I call “the secret location.”
Phil Faudi (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”), the Altoona railfan I chase trains with over Allegheny Crossing, tried to introduce me to the “secret location” on our first tour back in 2008.
The “secret location” is a farm-bridge. Pennsy built and agreed to maintain a farm-bridge, for a farmer, when the railroad was built.
The railroad split a farm, so Pennsy agreed to build a farm-bridge.
The farm has stayed in that family for generations. They still need the farm-bridge.
Pennsy of course is long-gone. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern.
This picture is taken off that bridge, but it’s private property.
Faudi didn’t take people to it unless he got permission.
Our first try back in 2008 we were welcomed by two large barking Rottweiler dogs in a kennel.
No one answered the door.
We didn’t go to the bridge.
Years later we got permission and did.
This photo is a result, and it’s a great location.
The lighting is perfect.
But it’s probably the only photo I’ll ever snag at the “secret location.”
Not too long ago Faudi had another client fall at that bridge.
The farmer went ballistic!
No more “secret location.”
Before taking me to it, Faudi had to feel I wasn’t gonna try to find it.
Railfans have a tendency to trample private-property, but I don’t.
Make it possible for other railfans to pursue their interest.
That includes not trespassing on railroad property, and being safe.
Unlike some railfans I don’t feel immune to the law, or the laws of physics.
One time Faudi suggested I photograph from a high old bridge-abutment.
“Oh no ya don’t,” I said. “I had a stroke. My balance is wonky. I ain’t riskin’ it.”
Another time Faudi had me step back from a track a train was on.
I thought the train was on another track.
There’s another secret location on private-property in Cresson (“KRESS-in”). It’s not very photogenic, but we no longer go to it.
I was worried about injuring little kids playing in the yard.




Consolidated PBY Catalina. (Photo by Philip Makanna©.)

—The June 2012 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is pretty good.
It’s a PBY “Catalina” amphibian.
What amazes me is the plane actually floats.
It’s apparently not leaky. It’s not sinking.
I’ve seen a PBY myself, and wondered if it was floatable.
It was landing on dry land, as amphibious aircraft could.
But I wondered if it would float.
These old amphibious airplanes develop leaks.
Touch down on water and it sinks.
The 1941 Historical Aircraft Group in nearby Geneseo had one.
I think they sold it.
The PBY was generally a defenseless slow turkey.
It didn’t even have self-sealing gas tanks.
It was used for reconnaissance.
The PBY was also extraordinarily ugly.
Its wing is high above its boat-like fuselage.
It’s on a pillar.
The two engines, 1,200-horsepower Pratt & Whitney R-1830-92 Twin Wasp radials, were close together, right above the fuselage on the wing.
The wing was long, and at each end were retractible pontoons, for landing on water.
I saw the 1941 Historical Aircraft Group PBY flying occasionally. They flew to exercise their airplanes. —At that time they also had a B-17.
It was pleasant to watch, but -a) it was so slow it was a sitting duck, and -b) I wondered if it could float — I never saw it land on water.




Welded-rail train. (Photo by Sam Wheland.)

—The June 2012 entry of my Norfolk Southern Employees' Photography-Contest calendar is a welded-rail train negotiating an S-curve on the old Pennsy near Huntingdon, PA.
Railroads no longer use “stick-rail,” 33-foot lengths bolted together.
The rail was 33-foot lengths because that was best for atop the average 40-foot flatcar.
Stick-rail, which prompted the clickety-clack, had a tendency to drop joints as the through-bolt connections wore.
Railhead progression over distance would no longer be smooth. Drop enough at joints and track-speed had to be limited.
Track-crews had to be employed to keep joints from dropping.
Sometimes the whole rail had to be replaced. The bolt-holes had worn too much.
The splice-plates were rail-web height to hold alignment, but they wore too at the ends.
A railroad was much more efficient than horse-and-wagon, but you had to stay on top of track-wear.
I remember back in the ‘60s before welded-rail the old Pennsy New York to Washington electrified line used stick-rail, massive 141 (or was it 143) pounds per yard.
Trains were running 100 mph on it.
But track-crews always had to be out maintaining it. No way could you run 100 mph over dropped rail-joints.
A dropped rail-joint might drop the rail-ends an inch or more compared to the rail center.
Bouncy-bouncy-bouncy!
Welding together the rail-ends, a fairly recent development — perhaps 30-40 years ago — made much longer lengths of rail possible: ribbon-rail.
Often you see small shortlines using jointed stick-rail.
It may be left over from long ago.
But it isn’t high-speed or heavy car-loading.
Stick-rail could never cope with heavy car-loading. It would wear too fast.
As you can see, long lengths of ribbon-rail will bend around a curve.
The train is carrying perhaps 30-40 ribbon-rails.
Sections get off-loaded to replace worn rail still in use.
The railhead wears too, especially on curves, where wheel-flanges wear against the inside edge.
The wheels on a railroad-car don’t differentiate.
That’s the source of squealing on curves.
One end of the wheelset it sliding, perhaps both ends.
Make the curve sharp enough, and a wheel might climb the rail and derail.
Looking at this photo, I wondered if it’s from the same highway-bridge photographer Don Wood took pictures of Pennsy steam-locomotives long ago (middle ‘50s).
It’s not.
We’re on the old Pennsy Middle Division, some of which parallels U.S. Route 22.
Route 22 was once the main highway west across PA.
It bridged the old Pennsy coming into Huntingdon from the east.
I tried to repeat Wood’s photo-locations in the ‘70s.
I found the bridge, but all was different.
Stores were now out along Highway 22 that weren’t in Wood’s photograph.
Wood’s picture is fabulous, but I couldn’t repeat it.




Eastbound at Newport........(Photo by Don Wood.)

The June 2012 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar is another dramatic picture by Don Wood.
The first Audio-Visual Designs All-Pennsy Calendars were essentially Don Wood photographs.
Promotor Carl Sturner, a railfan, got together with Wood to produce the first Audio-Visual Designs All-Pennsy Calendars back in the late ‘60s.
Audio-Visual Designs was Sturner’s business. It also produced small color railfan photographs, almost business-card size.
Sturner died, as has Wood, and his business failed, but somebody else bought Audio-Visual Designs. There was great demand for the black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar. There was no calendar for a few years, but now it’s back in production, with frequent other-than-Wood photographs.
The Audio-Visual Designs Calendar was my first and only calendar for some time.
I’m a railfan, and partial to Pennsy.
The calendars sell out quickly every year, and I have to order immediately. But they probably aren’t producing many.
Wood took hundreds of photographs, but always loved the Pennsy M1 Mountains (4-8-2) pounding the Middle Division between Harrisburg and Altoona across the state of PA.
The Middle Division approached the Allegheny Front, but didn’t breach it.
The grade was steady but easy, so an M1 could hold 40-60 mph.
The Middle Division was the final assignment for the M1 Mountains, one of the few places in the ‘50s to still find Pennsy steam-locomotives in use.
And the M1 was an impressive machine.
It had a combustion-chamber, so was a prolific producer of steam.
This photograph is not one of Wood’s better pictures.
But the train is boomin’-and-zoomin’.
The train is passing an interlocking tower: Port Interlocking.
There are crossovers — we are standing in one — and they are interlocked to protect train-movement.
The idea is to avoid misaligned switches, and/or colliding with opposing trains.
I wonder if Port Interlocking still exists? The interlocked crossovers probably do, but the tower is probably gone.
Crossover-switches can be operated remotely from a faraway location.
This looks like a four-track main, the old Pennsy “Broad Way.”
It’s probably now down to two tracks.
The old Pennsy, now Norfolk Southern, is a main railroad east from the nation’s interior, one of two.
The other is the old New York Central “Water-Level” across New York state, now CSX.
“Water-Level” because it pretty much followed the Erie Canal, so was free of steep grades.




1970 Buick GSX. (Peter Harholdt©.)

—The June 2012 entry of my Motorbooks Musclecars calendar is a Buick GSX, what my brother-in-Boston claims is the best musclecar.
Staid Buick, maker of cars for the upwardly mobile proletariate, was out on a limb to make a musclecar.
But musclecars were selling like hotcakes.
GM intermediate sedans with a hot-rodded full-size engine.
Pontiac’s G-T-O set the pattern in 1964, a hot-rodded full-size 389 cubic-inch engine in the Pontiac Tempest sedan.
By 1970 the race was on to field the fastest and most powerful musclecar.
This Buick has a gigantic 455 cubic-inch engine.
Both Buick and Oldsmobile went a little beyond the standard musclecar formula: powerful engine in a smaller car.
They made the car handle too; development was thrown into chassis engineering.
Although I wonder how successful their efforts could be.
They’re offsetting that giant heavy motor which could make the front plow in a corner.
The Buick and Oldsmobile musclecars had the reputation of being good handlers — less prone to spinning you into the boonies floored in a corner.
To me this is not an especially good picture. Photographer Harholdt is trying to avoid the side-elevation, but in so doing loses a lot of the car, particularly its rear-end.
It’s hard to know what to do with this car; it’s not especially attractive. A blunderbuss compared to a lithe Lotus.
Both are examples of sophistication, but the musclecar is just a super-powerful full-size engine in a smaller car.
Competition at that time was the Lotus Elan, especially attractive to me.
Although an Elan was poor for American roads, and could fall apart under you.

Photo by BobbaLew.

A Buick GS convertible.

I once saw a Buick GS at a classic-car show.
I photographed it to impress my brother-in-Boston, supposedly the best musclecar ever.
But it’s not a GSX. It’s just a GS; a smaller engine, 350 cubic-inches or so; sort of a RoadRunner competitor.
The standard Plymouth RoadRunner was only 383 cubic-inches.




Two Pennsy GP-9s lead a freight east into Decatur, IL in 1967. (Photo by R.R. Wallin)

—The June 2012 entry of my AII-Pennsy color calendar is two General-Motors Electromotive Division (EMD) GP-9s heading a freight eastbound into Decatur, IL in 1967.
It could be said the GP-9 was the diesel-locomotive that put Pennsy steam-engines out to pasture.
The diesel-locomotive was like a big truck. It might last a while (perhaps 20 years), and then get traded.
The trucks on traded diesels often got reused on replacement units. Many were the GP-18s and GP-30s with Alco trucks.
A diesel-electric locomotive had a couple of advantages compared to steam.
—1) Was low-speed pulling-power. A diesel pulled well at low speed, while a steam-engine liked to get rolling.
Steam was more efficient at speed, but railroading seemed to be a low-speed endeavor.
Some railroads maintained 40-60 mph train-speeds, but often train-speed rarely exceeded 30 mph, often no more than 20.
Diesels pulled better at those speeds than steam.
—2) Diesel-locomotives could be operated in multiple (“MUed”). Double-headed steam-locomotives were a crew for each locomotive. The two locomotives operated in concert, but were two locomotives.
Diesels could be wired together: one crew operating two or more locomotives.
—3) Diesels negated all the paraphernalia that came with operating steam-locomotives, especially water-towers and coaling-towers.
Water had to be supplied in great quantity so steam-locomotives could boil water into steam.
And coal wasn’t liquid. You didn’t just pump it into a fuel-tank like a diesel. It was often dispensed by overhead coal-towers. I’ve even seen it shoveled into locomotive tenders.
You could say the GP-9 was what eventually dieselized Pennsy.
They had 310 units.
“GP” means “General-Purpose.” They have four-wheel trucks.
(EMD also made an “SD:” “Special-Duty.” It was a GP with six-wheel trucks. They could be operated on lighter track requiring lighter axle-leadings.)
The GP-9 was a road-switcher; a locomotive-cab with a narrow hood at each end with parallel walkways outside.
The long hood covered the engine and the generator. The short hood might only have a steam-generator, a small boiler to supply steam to steam-heated passenger-cars.
Often it didn’t have anything.
A road-switcher could be easily operated in either direction, the advantage was engineer vision.
The road-switcher was essentially a full-cab (“covered-wagon”) engine made easy to operate with increased vision, like a switcher with its narrow hood.
Earlier efforts at Pennsy dieselization were limited by the availability of the many engines needed.
Pennsy also wanted to order from Baldwin Locomotive Works, based near Philadelphia, its supplier of hundreds of steam-locomotives.
Baldwin was a mistake. Baldwin diesels weren’t reliable. EMD was, but didn’t have the capacity to fill Pennsy’s need.
As such Pennsy had to dieselize with every brand other than EMD.
They were a steam holdout, and when they finally dieselized, EMD was in no position to fill Pennsy’s needs, which were enormous.
Pennsy had to dieselize with anyone and everyone, not just the most reliable maker, EMD.
Plus they were partial to Baldwin, a mistake.
Baldwin stuck with ancient technology, the antithesis of EMD’s “trolley-motors,” traction-motors in swiveling trucks, like a trolley-car.

Photo by John Dziobko©.

Baldwin Centipede at Altoona station.

A sterling example is the Baldwin Centipede, intended to be the queen of Pennsy passenger-service, patterned after the GG1.
Although a GG1’s motors were in a sub-frame independent of the locomotive.
And the Centipede couldn’t be MUed, plus it had a habit of breaking down.
The Centipede ended up in pusher-service over Allegheny Summit — The Hill.
That was an application where it didn’t need to be MUed.
T

Photo by Bobbalew.

GP-9 #7048 is on display at the Mighty Curve.

here is at least one GP-9 remaining, #7048 at Horseshoe Curve west of Altoona, PA.
7048 replaced the memorial K4 Pacific (4-6-2), #1361, when it was pulled out for return-to-service.
7048 lasted into the Conrail era, what succeeded after Penn-Central failed.
It was even painted Conrail blue, but now it’s back to Pennsy black.



Ummmm.......

—The June 2012 entry of my Oxman Hotrod Calendar is laughable; a lead-sled version of the most disgusting car ever, a 1951 Buick.
“Lead-sled” because at that time body-filler was lead, applied molten. Once cooled and solidified, that lead could be smoothed and shaped. Customizers used lead for various body modifications, smoothing welds and filling holes and gaps.
The post-war General Motors cars were some of the worst-looking cars ever: turkeys.

A Jimmy Dean Mercury.

Compare the Jimmy Dean Mercury, 1949, one of the best-looking cars of that era.
The Jimmy Dean Merc is pretty much the same lines and curves as the General-Motors post-war cars, but comes out looking great.

The front of the Buick lead-sled.

Worst about the Buick is the grill-teeth, applied to earlier Buicks.
Buick is even doing it now, on recent models.
Buicks always looked snarling and angry.
I almost got hit by a Buick once, although I think it was a ’52.
I was walking home from high-school, and started across a main road.
That Buick came snarling at me; smoking teenager at the wheel.
No let-up at all.
I jumped back outta the way.
Teenagers often got cars like this, hand-me-downs from Daddy.
They’d start customizing, shave the hood and trunk; remove ornamentation.
They might lower the car, add skirts, french the headlights, add different taillights.
The taillights on this car look terrible; totally out of character.
Ya get the feeling the customizers have gone totally bonkers. No regard for taste.
And a ’51 Buick should have been left alone — not worth customizing.
Better would have been a Jimmy Dean Merc.
I remember seeing a nosed and decked ’51 Chevy coupe; same reaction. But at least the Chevy wasn’t a Buick.

Tom’s wedding

At least they didn’t faint. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I decided to attend the wedding of my nephew Tom, only spawn of my younger brother Bill.
This is the wedding both my wife and I planned to attend, except my wife died.
I could have skipped it, except attending was a distraction to avoid getting depressed.
Attending involved a long journey to northern DE, where the wedding would take place.
I’ve made the auto-trip hundreds of times, but not recently. I’m now 68 years old.
My route is about seven hours. Usually my wife and I had split the driving.
My brother uses a different route from DE to our house, which takes him about six hours.
I considered flying, but thought I’d try his route.

DAY ONE: The Road-Trip from Hell
The supposed six-hour drive took me nine and one-half hours.
Involved were four-or-five parking-lot traffic-jams.
My own route involves going through Williamsport and Harrisburg, and has at least four or five bottlenecks. Quite a bit is two-lane, not expressway.
My brother’s route involves driving up the Pennsylvania Turnpike’s Northeast Extension, Interstate-81 from the Turnpike’s end up to Syracuse, NY, and then the N.Y. state Thruway west to our house in Western New York.
But six hours doesn’t factor in traffic.
Apparently he was avoiding it, whereas my trip wasn’t.
First was Syracuse; not too bad.
Then I was in a parking-lot traffic-jam south of Binghamton on Interstate-81.
Bumper-to-bumper, average about two mph, with the speedometer often pegged at zero.
Finally, Pennsylvania and the Northeast Extension.
Parking-lot traffic-jam number three — or was it four? There may have been a small one at the Northeast Extension interchange before that.
This traffic-jam was at a toll-barrier. Only two “cash-only” booths were open out of three.
There were E-ZPass lanes, but few were using E-ZPass.
People charged into the E-ZPass lanes, and then had to merge into the “cash-only” lanes.
Progress was bog-slow.
Each traffic-jam was adding hours to my trip.
Finally clear of that toll-barrier, after perhaps an hour, I charged south on the Northeast Extension.
Through the Lehigh tunnels, and then arrow-straight toward Philadelphia.
Ready for the next traffic-jam, the toll-barrier at the southern end of the Northeast Extension.
Another hour in a slow-moving parking-lot, and beyond that was another parking-lot traffic-jam on Interstate-476, the route my brother takes to Interstate-95 south into DE.
My brother-from-Boston called my cellphone.
He had already attained his motel in northern DE, the same one I was using.
I normally don’t answer my cellphone while driving, but I had been texting stuck in traffic.
We were going so slow I could.
So I answered.
My brother suggested a route to avoid the Interstate-476 parking-lot.
I took it.
Traffic was fairly open. People were driving toward Philadelphia, and I was going the other way.
Finally the motel in northern DE about 7:30 p.m.
I had been on the road since 10 a.m.
I probably will try the new route back, perhaps even Interstate-476.
That’s Sunday.
But the new route doesn’t have the discernible markers of the old route, and distances over sections seem long.
The old route has attainable distances. Next section, 30 miles.
It’s a long trip, but seems more manageable.
After checking in I went to northern Delaware’s famous Charcoal-Pit, still in business, a hang-out when I was in high-school in the area back in the early ‘60s.
I ordered a Philly Cheese-steak sandwich for supper, but it’s not the Mac’s Philly Cheese-steak sandwich in nearby Canandaigua, which is authentic and better.
It’s the rolls; they’re using the right rolls, brought in from Philadelphia.
The proprietor used to eat Philly Cheese-steak sandwiches at the Jersey seashore, and was so impressed he made a business of it.
He even went so far as to bring in the right rolls.
His sandwiches are really good. Charcoal-Pit comes close, but it’s not as good as Mac’s.
Mac’s is better. It’s authentic. A Philadelphia-area resident visited last summer and was impressed.
“They’re using the right rolls,” she kept saying.
After Charcoal-Pit I connected with my brother-from-Boston at the motel.
My brother Bill (my nephew’s father) also dropped by for a visit, bringing along my niece Jill, my sister’s only spawn.
My sister died of pancreatic cancer last December.
The motel-room was a suite. It had a separate living-room where people could sit.
My niece needed a blanket; she’s from south Florida.

DAY TWO: The actual wedding
“What do I say about this?” I kept thinking.
“My wife is gone, and she was the one that wanted to be here.”
Beyond that, my attendance was intended to be a distraction from getting depressed.
I also no longer had someone to bounce my comments off of, like why did Tom Hughes (my nephew) and Beth Gingrich (as in Newty-Newt) get married.
My guess is both thought the other was an acceptable mate, but I remember how scared I was that first night when my wife started hanging her clothes in my closet.
Like, “what had I done?”
I was looking at a huge commitment, yet it lasted 44 years before she died.
I felt like I had made an irrational decision, prompted by the unfortunate male desire at that age to gain a constant nookie-supply.
I was worried that drive might have led me astray.
Yet we hung on 44 years, despite various travails and diversions, and medical problems.
We were the sinners, so we wanted it to work. People were surmising I got her pregnant, but I hadn’t.
I had a stroke almost 19 years ago, and my wife died of cancer.
I pretty much recovered from my stroke — I can pass for not stroke-addled. And a stroke can severely mess up your brain, and leave you partially paralyzed.
The first order of business was to visit my nephew’s house.
Tom already has a house of his own, and has had it a while.
Tom wasn’t there, but unlocked his house with his SmartPhone.
The house looks small, but it’s fairly large, a split-level.
But not like my parents’ split-level, a development house from the late ‘50s.
I felt out-of-it and disconnected the entire wedding.
But at least I avoided crying profusely. I teared up a little. The one who wanted to be here wasn’t.
“And now by the authority vested in me by this state, I hereby pronounce you man-and-wife.”
The couple turned toward us. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Roy Hughes.”
This always hits hard, and used to tear up my wife.
These poor youngsters have no idea what they’re in for.
Right now everyone is smiling and cheering.
But who knows what medical problems await, or the marriage might go sour.
I doubt it will sour; they both seem to have their feet on the ground.
But someone might have a stroke or die.
Wedding over it was time for the reception, a giant dinner in the church’s gymnasium.
I could wonder about a church having a gymnasium, but I won’t.
My brother-from-Boston pointed out “the old sanctuary” from his time, since replaced by “the new sanctuary” (larger). “The old sanctuary” has been “converted,” shall we say, to office-space.
The reception took longer than the wedding. There was food and toasts and speeches.
We were seated at tables. Our table was immediate Hughes family, about eight, but only one of many tables.
Since I had little to say, and felt kind of out-of-it, I had to sit quietly with my hands folded. Not too bad, but somewhat boring.
Which was okay, because if I had left I only would have got depressed.
My niece had driven me there.
The reception ended with the cutting of the wedding-cake, which looked rather plain.
But it was a good-tasting cake. The bride and groom exchanged pieces (see photo).
The bride and groom then left the church in the groom’s car. No balloons, no clanging cans, only a “just-married” sign on the car’s rear.
Also no hurled rice — I was told rice was no longer in vogue.
We could now leave the church.
My niece drove me back to my brother’s house — she was staying with my brother — to get my car, after which I’d go back to the motel.
I commented my brother-from-Boston would no longer be at the motel. He had checked out that morning and would drive back home after the reception. I would be utterly alone at the motel, an invitation for depression.
“So why not hang with us?” my niece said.
So I did, a way to fight depression.
It was just my niece and I at first, then my brother returned.
I brought in this here laptop, and we fired it up.
My niece began demonstrating the wonders of Facebook.
Everything about it was “cool.”
We set up a Facebook-group of only family members, something my brother did long ago, but it fell into disuse largely because yrs trly had no idea how things were happening.
Our Facebook family group is fairly attractive. It’s viewable only by family-members; i.e. it’s “secret” to others.
What I worried about was there was no longer anyone like my wife to bounce comments off of.
So my niece, bless her, offered to be a stand-in.
No one can be my wife. With her I could say just about anything.
She wanted me to.
With my niece I can’t say anything. It might hurt her feelings, and I don’t wanna do that.
Like, for example, wondering why my nephew married.
“Marriage made in Heaven,” but other factors are at play.
The fact Tom already had a house makes him more attractive.
But Tom never seemed the marrying kind.
Very much his own man. Feet on the ground, and sensible, but independent.
It seemed he didn’t need to share himself; that he could stand alone on his own.
I can’t see Tom not caring about people; he got it from his parents. They cared about him.
For which reason I think his marriage will succeed.
Both parties are caring people, but what other factors were at play?

DAY THREE: Back to Reality
The trip back was easy, the same route my brother takes.
No traffic-jams, just very alone.
Seven hours, five stops, back to an empty house, and a thrilled dog (I had boarded her).
But it was just me and the dog.
The dog wandered around, but my wife is gone.

• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where I 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 14 miles away. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.

Business-as-usual

Breakfast for the dreaded Alumni. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The other day (Wednesday, May 16, 2012) was the first meeting of the dreaded Alumni I attended since my wife died.
I could have skipped this meeting, but I attended to fight depression. I find if I keep active I don’t have time to get depressed.
And I can get extraordinarily depressed with time on my hands.
Fortunately the sun was out the following day, so I could mow.
I was outta town for a wedding the following weekend, so the lawn could have jumped ahead.
Then too mowing our huge is cathartic. It kills time.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS — “Transit”), a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
While a bus-driver there I belonged to the Rochester Division of the Amalgamated Transit Union (ATU), Local 282. (ATU is nationwide.)
The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit upper-management retirees ran roughshod over union retirees — a continuation of the bad vibes at Transit, management versus union.
Transit had a club for long-time employees, and I was in it. It was called the “15/25-year Club;” I guess at first the “25-year Club.” But they lowered the employment requirement, and renamed it “15/25-year Club.” The employment requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years.
My employ there ended in 1993 with my stroke (disability retirement); and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then.
The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
It’s an Amalgamated Transit Union functionary. It isn’t just a social club.
It has bylaws, officers, and an Executive Board.
In many ways it’s just like our union-local, except it entertains issues of interest to retirees; like Medicare, healthcare, and diabetes and Alzheimer’s.
“Dreaded” because all my siblings are flagrantly anti-union, like the proper way for hourlies to parry the massive management juggernaut is one employee at a time; in which case that single employee gets trampled because he’s not presenting a united front with power equal to management.
The proletariate’s attempt to exact a living wage from bloated management fat-cats is what’s wrong with this country.
Thankfully this meeting wasn’t a love-fest.
I was afraid it might be. Old coworkers trying to comfort me in my loss.
A few condolences were offered with handshakes and sorry looks.
But people weren’t making a big deal of it.
I also was afraid of people buying me breakfast.
Thankfully that didn’t happen.
I ordered my own short stack of two pancakes, and paid for them myself.
My short stack was probably the smallest order.
Others were glomming huge omelets, or toast and eggs-sunnyside-up with bacon and home-fries.
Way too much for this kid.
Many of these people are diabetic.
I had brought along a small bottle of pure maple-syrup my wife purchased last February.
I passed it around, but some had to refuse it to use “sugar-free.”
Business-as-usual. 50-50 drawing; people hawking raffle-tickets.
Breakfast consumed, the meeting moved on to a representative of a healthcare business.
She detailed how diabetics are entitled to free shoes under Medicare.
Something about good shoes negating amputations.
This doesn’t apply to me, since I’m not diabetic.
“Anyone wanna sign up?” she asked. “I can service you right here.”
“Just don’t say that in front of my wife,” an old coworker snapped.
Retired bus-drivers. Filthy-minded.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.

Visit to the Mighty Mezz

The other day, Wednesday, May 9, 2012, I happened to visit the Messenger newspaper (“the Mighty Mezz”) in nearby Canandaigua, from where I retired almost seven years ago.
The Messenger was my post-stroke job. Often stroke-victims are so addled they can’t hold a job, but I wasn’t.
The pay was peanuts, but it ended up being the best job I ever had.
Previous to my stroke, I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the provider of transit-bus service in Rochester and its environs.
It paid well, but I was tiring of the clientele, who could be challenging.
Transit was a stupid meaningless job.
My going with the Messenger was a result of my doing a voluntary newsletter for my bus-union. I found I was a word-slinger, that I really enjoyed it.
I worked at the Messenger almost 10 years. Count my time as an unpaid intern, and it was over 10 years.
My official job-title was “typist,” but I never typed anything.
What I did were computer-tricks instrumental to the production of the newspaper.
I thought of myself as an “editorial assistant.” Higher-ups were always amazed at some of the computer-tricks I developed.
In the end I was doing the newspaper’s web-site.
Their current web-site is perhaps four-five iterations beyond mine.
By then I was only part-time, and mine was version number-three.
I liked to run as many photos as I could, and I’d get in trouble for it.
To me, a web-site is a visual medium — it needed photos.
Processing a photo might take me 10-15 minutes.
I had about five-six hours to play with.
How many pictures could I fly without exceeding my hour-limit, and still get my other work done?
The scuttlebutt was I was always flying too many pictures.
I had taken my dog to a park in Canandaigua right up the street from the Messenger offices.
The Messenger wants to run this blog on their web-site, but to do that they needed a signed “freelancer-agreement,” legal mumbo-jumbo.
The “freelancer-agreement” had been e-mailed to me as a Microsoft Word© attachment, but apparently I vaporized it.
I couldn’t find it.
Yet here was the Messenger right up the street.
I decided to visit to try to sign that “freelancer-agreement.”
I hadn’t visited the Messenger for some time. It’s changed owners, and many of my coworkers are gone.
Dog left in van, I recognized their receptionist, but she only faintly recognized me.
The guy needing the freelancer-agreement wasn’t there, but I strode into the old newsroom.
There was Julie Sherwood, still there, a fellow-employee from my filmy past.
I suggested she visit my house to harvest the berries from our currant-bushes when they produce. She makes currant jelly.
She suggested a Messenger tribute to my recently deceased wife.
Others appeared.
“Where’s my vegetables?” asked one.
I used to deliver him fresh vegetables from our prolific garden. We always had excess.
And there was “Obit-Sally,” the Messenger obituary contact.
Old coworkers were still there.
I pulled out my SmartPhone to look at my calendar.
“Oh, a techy! My cellphone is only this,” said Julie. It wasn’t a SmartPhone.
“He was always into that techy stuff,” smiled Obit-Sally.
“But only to a minor extent,” I said. “I’m not your computer-guru.”
They wanted to meet the dog.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Bring her inside,” they said.
The interview for the tribute was held outside at a picnic table.
My 10-minute visit was stretching into an hour.
But that was okay; I hadn’t seen these people in years.
Finally I signed the freelancer-agreement and left.
There was a line for my signature marked “journalist.”
“Journalist!” I cried. “Are you kidding?
What I do is sling words.”
“Sign your life away,” said veggie-man.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.

Excellent Equine Adventure

Horses at JLD Equine. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Yesterday (Monday, May 7, 2012), in an attempt to fill the tremendous void since my wife’s passing, I visited our old friend Karin (“car-in”) Morgan at JLD Equine.
JLD is on the east side of Rochester (N.Y.), and stables perhaps 60-70 horses, mostly privately-owned.
Karin is an old friend of my wife, a native of the Bronx in New York City, and very opinionated.
Karin, originally Karin Wahlstrom (“WALL-strum”) became fast friends with my wife during college, the city-mouse and the country-mouse. (My wife was the country-mouse.)
JLD was an easy find, except I drove right by on first try.
After turning in I drove past various barns, and there was Karin, exercising her Appaloosa “Streak” in a riding-ring.
Karin owns two horses: “Streak” and “Cody.”
Both are geldings, that is, castrated males.
Cody is almost 30 years old, and very ornery.
He likes to roll in mud. His coat was caked with dirt.
He was in a pasture, but Karin got him.


Karin with Cody. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Karin is very much a horse-lover, much like I love trains.
My schtick is railfanning, Karin’s equestrianism.
I had taken along our dog, a head-strong puller. I had been told she’d be okay as long as she was on leash.
We got out and went over to the riding-ring.
“Streak” was trotting, and Karin was “posting,” what I tried to do not too long ago, and found I couldn’t.
Posting is an up-and-down motion that partially cancels the bounce of trotting.
It involves leg-extensions I no longer can do.
When I was a teenager, I worked in a boys camp stable, and my horseback riding got fairly good while there.
That was about 1960; now I can’t even mount a horse without a step-stool.
And my horseback-riding was western. Karin’s is “Dressage” (“dress-ODG;” as in “Dodge”), a system of telling the horse what to do with small silent body-motions.
Karin spun Streak slowly on a dime. Little prompting was needed.
Western is a lot of neck-reining and bridle-pulling.
Dressage was apparently a French way of controlling horses used in battle. Control had to be silent.

Photo by BobbaLew.

Karin on “Streak.” (Streak is listening to Karin.)

I had taken along my camera, but found driving both a camera and a rambunctious dog was near impossible.
Karin dismounted, and put Streak away in his stall.
It was the first time our dog had ever been in a horse-barn. Strong smells abounded.
Karin then took over the dog so I could drive my camera.
We went to a pasture and got Cody.
We then went to another pen where two mares were out with two newborn foals.
One was only a few days old, the other a few weeks.
Our dog was unexcited; this was fortunate. I was expecting her to be a handfull.
She goes bonkers over cows, alpacas, and deer, but horses are apparently big dogs.

Photo by BobbaLew.

The two newborn foals with their mothers.

Other horses in various pastures were curious. Who were we? “We’ve never seen you before.”
Although the mares with their foals paid little attention to us.
I left after about two hours, still not a horse-lover.
But I understand Karin. Most people aren’t train-lovers, and I have a hard time explaining.
My visit was just filling the awesome void of my wife’s passing, and it’s nice Karin can do this.
I didn’t come away a horse-lover, but appreciate Karin sharing her enthusiasm with me.
Back to reality; an empty house, and supper to make.
At almost age-67, Karin is the oldest rider at JLD; although there are older riders from other stables that compete.
Karin doesn’t compete — can’t afford it. All she does is dressage training, and ride off into the sunset. A horse-lover supreme.

Ashes dispersed

As of yesterday, Friday, May 4, 2012, my wife’s cremains were dispersed on our property under her father’s Sugar-Maple purchased and planted years ago.

Photo by BobbaLew.

My wife with the Sugar-Maple when planted. (Back then its trunk was about four inches in diameter, now it’s over a foot. At that time the tree was perhaps 14 feet high, now it’s over 30.)

My wife’s cremains had been sealed in a clear-plastic sack in a black plastic carton atop the giant picnic-table I built long ago that sits in our combination dining/recreation room.
My wife died Tuesday, April 17, and was cremated shortly after.
She died of cancer, a topic I blogged on this site many times. But if you need clarification, click this link, and read from the ninth paragraph down.
Her father never made completion of our house 22 years ago.
He had a stroke, an aneurysm (a burst blood-vessel in his brain), and died about a week later.
That was 1989.
Just before his stroke he gave us $500 to purchase a Sugar-Maple.
That Sugar-Maple has grown and prospered, and my wife wanted her ashes dispersed under that Sugar-Maple.
Our property is pretty much her doing, but she never requested her ashes be dispersed under that Sugar-Maple to me.
I heard that from her mother.
My wife’s mother is still alive, living independently in a retirement apartment in De Land, Fla. She’s 96, and very spry. (She takes care of so-called “old people” younger than her.)
Four were in attendance beside me.
Two were my younger brother-from-Boston and his wife.
He had bereavement-leave, as if our dispersal were a ceremony.
Another was Karin (“car-in”) Morgan, previously Karin Wahlstrom (“WALL-strum”), a friend of my wife during college.
Karin lives in the area, and is a native of the Bronx.
The fourth was Fran Swetman (“sweat-min”), the postmaster at the West Bloomfield post-office, where Fran hired my wife as a relief postmaster after my wife retired as a computer-programmer in Rochester, NY.
Fran thought the world of my wife, the best relief postmaster she ever hired.
Fran thought my wife was above-all smart, and beyond that kind and sensible. Unpretentious.
Fran and my wife became fast friends. They used to walk together in a nearby park.
I wasn’t sure I could disperse the ashes, but I did.
Karin, previously a ne’er-do-well that has since found religion, offered a prayer.
After I finished I went to Fran.
“There ya go, old buddy,” I said through tears.
“The best friend I ever had.”
“And above-all smart, and unpretentious about it,” Fran said.
With that, Fran drove back to work. She had used her lunch-hour to attend the dispersal. I was adamant she be able to attend.
“I was extremely fortunate,” I told Karin. “I got a good one; and I coulda done a lot worse.
I sure stole enough of her ideas.”
So now my wife’s ashes surround the Sugar-Maple.
Birds are stealing tiny bone-fragments, stones, to add to their nests.
My dog picks at the ashes.
My Zero-Turn lawnmower will blow her ashes all over the yard as I trim around that tree.

• Our 48-inch “zero-turn” riding-mower is a special design with separate drives to each drive-wheel, so it can be spun on a dime. “Zero-turns” are becoming the norm, because they cut mowing time in half compared to a lawn-tractor, which has to be set up for each mowing-pass.

Slow recovery, sorta

The other day, two weeks ago, Tuesday April 17, 2012, my beloved wife of 44 years died.
The best friend I ever had.
She had cancer, a situation I blogged on this site many times. But if you need clarification, click this link, and read from the ninth paragraph on.
Devastation has been up-and-down. Sometimes I’m very sad and cry; other times I feel okay, especially if I’m occupied.
I’m also scared; I had a stroke almost 19 years ago.
But I recovered pretty well. I can pass for normal.
But my wife covered for me. I let her.
My speech is slightly compromised, so I avoided phonecalls and public contact.
If some mysterious hairball occurred, my wife did the problem-solving.
So for example if I couldn’t find something in the grocery, I avoided asking.
Now I ask. I can pass for normal.
A couple weeks ago, I left stuff in a wheelchair pouch at a hospital in Rochester, and then drove all the way home, about 20 miles.
Years ago I would have let my wife pursue the lost items. This time it was me. I got on the telephone and navigated the hospital’s insane answering-machines.
I got bounced all over creation, but managed to retrieve the lost items.
I guess I could do it if I had to.
Now I’m alone, and apparently I no longer just throw up my hands.
What’s really sad is the person I’ve become was never that apparent to my wife.
She was worried I couldn’t manage.
But apparently I can.
I have a huge lawn to mow, I make the bed every morning, and so far I haven’t eaten out or had anyone cook for me.
That is, I cook my own meals and continue to eat healthy.
Eating out is too salty, and I notice.
Last Spring when my wife was in the hospital I managed to stay ahead, although I was living out of the dryer.
And I ain’t livin’ out of that dryer. The contents get tossed on the bed to fold and put away.
Nothing ran out back then, and nothing has run out yet.
The difference this time is sadness.
We have lots of incredible memories together.
I can’t look at her picture without crying.
The other morning I even put the shams on the bed-pillows. My wife used to do that. The idea was protect the pillows from our Irish-Setter dog, which I’m not giving up.
The dog is suffering somewhat. There are no longer two of us to pay attention. “Where’s Mommy?”
But I was the boss-dog, so we’re managing. It would have been worse were it me that died.

• I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester, NY.