Extreme weight-loss

I’ve considered the following broadside for magazines and TV:
“Wanna drop 12+ pounds without extreme dieting?
Have your beloved wife of 44 years die.”
Prior to my wife’s death I registered 189 pounds on the medical-scale at the Canandaigua YMCA, the one I go by since our bathroom scale, “the roulette-scale” from Wal*Mart, is so erratic.
Yesterday (Thursday, June 28, 2012) the YMCA scale registered 176.5 pounds.
That’s down 12.5 pounds.
I ran this all by my Doctor a few weeks ago. I was concerned about the weight-loss that comes with cancer.
“I don’t think you have cancer,” he said.
“Nothing hurts,” I added.
“This is what happens,” he said. “Experience grief, and you lose weight.”
I probably haven’t been eating as much.
I’ve also added a few unhealthy and fattening things to my diet, like the occasional soda-pop and cake.
My grocery sells slices of their “ultimate-chocolate-cake.”
It’s filling, but I’ve partaken.
“As long as you eat and sleep normally,” which I do, “you’ll be fine,” the Doctor said.
“You also have to keep putting one foot in front of the other,” another added.
I remember that getting up in the morning, which is very hard.
“Call me if you lose 20,” the Doctor said.
I seem to be plateaued at about 177.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named their “Wellness-Center,” usually two-three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east 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 in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.)

Bits and Pieces

Yesterday (Wednesday, June 27, 2012) a lady from the nearby Town of Lima (”LYE-muh;” not “LEE-muh”) picked up the unfinished fabric-projects of my deceased wife for Bits and Pieces.
This was unbeknownst to me, although we had made arrangements. I had my dog at nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”) Park, so the stuff was on the front porch.
My wife had quite a few fabric-projects going. I can only remember a couple:
—1) Was the circular rag-rug braided from pieces of my old flannel-shirts. It was up to about three feet wide.
—2) Was a sweater started in 1968 shortly after we were married. It never got far; it was always on the back-burner. It was knitted from wool, and I’m allergic to wool. I don’t think it ever got past a fifth done. The joke was if it would be finished before I died.
—3) Were a bunch of fabric handbags and wallets. Some were finished and delivered. One was for my sister in Florida who died last December, so she never got it. Another was for a grandniece near Boston, and that was never finished either.
—4) Was the famous flag-quilt for my nephew in northern DE. I think that was finished and delivered.
Bits and Pieces, a charity, apparently takes unfinished fabric-projects and finishes them. Like the sweater might finally be finished.
But I won’t get it, which is fine. I would have been allergic to it, and it might have no longer fit. (I no longer weigh 130 pounds.)
My wife made a flurry of arrangements in her final days. I guess she knew she didn’t have much time.
Nothing was decided about her sewing-machine, but her brother wants it.
It’s been boxed for shipment to him in Florida via UPS.
He had flown up here for a grandniece’s high-school graduation, but felt airport security might go ballistic over sewing-machine needles.

• Boughton Park is a local town park where I walk the dog. It will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. I am a resident of one of those towns. I walk the dog on a leash. (I used to run there too.) The park used to be a water-supply, so has two large dammed ponds.

“Widower”

The Social Security Administration, in its infinite wisdom, has declared me a widower.
This entitles me to widower’s benefits, namely the difference between my wife’s Social Security and mine.
My wife’s Social Security was higher. As a widower I’m entitled to her higher amount.
I continue to get my own Social Security, plus the difference between mine and hers.
I get it as one credit, so in effect I’m switched to her Social Security.
I also get her pension. She set it up as 10-years-certain.
It goes on for 10 years since she started it about three years ago. I am the beneficiary.
I’ve always known I was a widower since my wife died.
But it’s always been in the background.
In fact, the first couple weeks I couldn’t assimilate it.
It was factually obvious. Her ashes were disbursed under our sugar-maple, a memorial sign had been placed by my niece, and I’ve been sleeping alone for over two months.
But I couldn’t assimilate it.
Now I guess I can, and I feel very alone.
We were married over 44 years, and I guess I was very attached.
It’s just me and our dog in an empty house.
It’s getting so it’s hard to get up in the morning.
People ask me how I’m doing, hoping I’ll say “fine.”
“Oh, muddling along,” I say.
I mow, I walk the dog, I work out at the YMCA, and I blog.
But all it is is mere existence.
It’s gotten so I don’t care about anything; things are falling a little behind.
I force myself to attend social events in a feeble attempt to distract myself.
It works somewhat — I don’t cry much — but I feel out-of-it.
Being a widower is dragging me down.

• My wife died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her a lot.

The 1956 Dodge Custom Royal Lancer

A 1956 Dodge Custom Royal Lancer.

Richard Lentinello, head-honcho of Hemmings Classic Car magazine, goes on-and-on about how wonderful the Chrysler Corporation cars were in the ‘50s, for example the 1956 Dodge Custom Royal Lancer.

Photo by Richard Lentinello.

The feature-car.

The car pictured above is different than the magazine feature car.
(I’ve added the magazine feature-car [at left], prettier yet since the main color is “garnet” [deep red].)
Supposedly the ’56 Chevrolet and Fords by comparison were crude.
That may be the case, but the ’56 Chevy could have the fabulous new SmallBlock V8 introduced by Chevrolet in the 1955 model-year.
That engine was extremely desirable. It responded well to hot-rodding, so was wanted by hotrodders everywhere.
It was the engine that saved Chevrolet from the doldrums. It was Chevrolet’s first overhead-valve V8 engine, and far ahead in design than anyone else.
All-of-a-sudden Chevrolet was in the youth-market, no longer selling granny-cars.
Beyond that it had a light-weight valve-gear that allowed it to rev to the moon, almost sporting in character.
It was also cheap and available. So many were subsequently made they were easy to get.
Ford introduced an overhead-valve V8, the “Y-Block,” in the 1954 model-year, beating Chevrolet by a year. But the Ford Y-Block was a stone.
It was called the “Y-Block” because it looked like a “Y” from the front, with heavy vertical cast-iron skirting down around the crankshaft.
Ford gave up on the Y-Block, and introduced a SmallBlock of its own in the early ‘60s.
In fact, engine-design in the ‘60s followed the lead of Chevrolet’s SmallBlock V8, thin-wall casting and light-weight valve-gear.
Chrysler Corporation was the smallest of the Big-Three automakers, Ford and General Motors being the others.
All the manufacturers were beholden to postwar excess.
It was the time of U.S. triumph and Eisenhower.
General Motors seemed to be leading the way, although its first postwar models didn’t debut until the 1949 model-year.
Ford and Chrysler also debuted in the 1949 model-year, Ford the famous Shoebox, the Ford that saved the company.
It was mainly a product of Henry Ford II (“the Deuce”), Old Henry’s grandson, a revolution in Ford products.
The Deuce determined Ford had to break away from its stodgy old product-lines, if it was to remain viable.
It was called “the Shoebox” because of its squarishness, and it was far beyond earlier Fords with their transverse buggy-springs.
The Shoebox was a modern car, comparable to anything General Motors was making, except its V8 engine, the hoary old Flat-head introduced in 1932.
It was called a “Flat-head” because it had flat cylinder-head castings, a side-valve, like a lawnmower engine, though water-cooled.
The Chryslers were like the Fords. Even the ’55 and ’56 Fords are essentially the Shoebox, heavy restyled of course, with an upgrade to ball-joint suspension.
As I see it, Chrysler went through two basic redesigns in the early ‘50s.
The cars introduced in 1949 lasted through 1952, restyled each year for the annual model change.
Chrysler redesigned its cars for 1953, still conservative, but not the postwar cars.
By 1955 the tailfin was taking hold, so the ’55 and ’56 Chryslers were more heavily styled than the ’53 and ’54 bread-loaves.
This ’56 Dodge might be the apogee of that look.
Heavily finned, but still conservative.
With 1957 Chrysler went all-out; the “Forward-Look” (dread).
Sweeping sculpting and gigantic tailfins.
The ’57 Chrysler products were much larger — too big for the average garage. Large cars were a standard set by Cadillac.
I remember the finned back end of a 1955 Coupe Deville sticking out of a partially-closed garage.
One of the engineering superlatives Lentinello mentions is that the 1956 Dodge still had the hemi head (“hem-eeee;” not “he-meee”)
To have engineering superiority, Chrysler debuted its postwar V8s with a hemispherical combustion-chamber.
In a hemi the valves are at 90 degrees to the crankshaft, with the intakes aimed at the intake manifold, and the exhausts aimed at the exhaust header on the opposite side of the cylinder.
Such an arrangement requires a hemispherical combustion-chamber. It also requires two rocker-shafts per head.
It has the advantage of aiming the valves toward the appropriate manifold, allowing better engine breathing.
A typical Detroit V8 had the valves in a row parallel to the crankshaft.
The intake-valves might be aimed at the intake-manifold, but so were the exhaust valves. They weren’t aimed at the exhaust-header, since they were in the same row as the intake-valves.
Exhaust gases had to negotiate a contorted path out of the head.
There was a sharp bend in the exhaust port.
The hemi negated that. It could breathe better at high revs than the typical overhead-valve Detroit V8.
But the massive cast-iron cylinder-heads required by the hemi design were heavy.
Plus a hemi was costly to manufacture.
Chrysler’s original hemi lasted through the 1957 model-year, It debuted in 1951.
It was replaced by the “wedge” design, a wedge-shaped combustion-chamber, not a hemi, more like a typical Detroit V8 with its valves in a row parallel to the crankshaft.
The early hemi reached its peak in the early 300-series Chryslers.
They had immense power at high speed.
A 300-series Chrysler could flatten an expressway.
It was the first musclecar.
Hemi design filtered throughout the Chrysler product-line, although I don’t think the Plymouth V8 was a hemi.
But Dodge was (the “Red-Ram”).
Compare this to Ford and its lowly Y-Block.
Or Chevrolet’s SmallBlock with its valves in a row.
Although the SmallBlock was a fabulous motor. It was more responsive than Dodge’s hemi.
Lentinello also mentions the all-coil suspension on the Dodge.
I think you had to go to Buick to get all-coil suspension in a GM car.
Lentinello claims the Dodge rode better than its competition, and also accelerated faster.
A pity since ‘50s Dodges seem to fall behind Chevrolets and Fords in the classic-car pecking order.

• The Chevrolet “SmallBlock” V8 was introduced at 265 cubic-inches displacement in the 1955 model-year. It continued production for years, first to 283 cubic inches, then 327, then 350. Other displacements were also manufactured. The Chevrolet “Big-Block” V8 was introduced in the 1965 model-year at 396 cubic-inches, and was unrelated to the Small-Block. It was made in various larger displacements: 402, 427 and 454 cubic inches. It’s still made as a truck-motor, but not installed in cars any more; although you can get it as a crate-motor, for self-installation. The “Big-Block” could be immensely powerful, and the “Small-Block” was revolutionary in its time. (The name “SmallBlock” came into use after the “Big-Block.”)
• “Old Henry” is Henry Ford, founder of Ford Motor Company.

“Once a Spartan, always a Spartan”

I think I heard that phrase at least a hundred times.
I attended the graduation-ceremony of Gates-Chili High-School last night (Wednesday, June 20, 2012) at Rochester Institute of Technology.
Gates and Chili are suburbs west of Rochester.
It was the Class of 2012.
It was in Gordon Field House, a gigantic sports-arena.
Folding chairs had been set up for the many graduates, along with chairs for family. —Stadium-seating had also been rolled out.
Graduating was Christina Bell, daughter of my niece and her husband.
A podium was also set up, along with a giant Jumbotron.
It kept coming back to the Gates-Chili Spartan, illustrated above.
The school band was off to the side to play “Pomp and Circumstance,” and stacks of diplomas were piled on tables.
Speaker after speaker recited those words: “Once a Spartan, always a Spartan.”
The school principal, the District Superintendent, and various class officers.
They also repeated the four attributes of being a Spartan: “Respect, Responsibility, Compassion, and Hard-Work.”
My wife’s brother, my niece’s father by his first marriage — he’s now on his fourth — surmised it best.
“As soon as they leave this place they’ll forget about Spartanism.”
My wife’s brother, age 70, had flown up from Florida to attend this graduation, and also to check on me, still suffering from my wife’s death.
I guess I’m all-right — I’m told I am. But I’m still suffering.
I cry and cry and cry some more.
It’s up-and-down, but my wife’s death seems to have finally sunk in.
I hugged Christina for a photograph, and told her 50 years ago I was in her shoes.
My high-school class was 1962.
I had to leave the ceremony early; my dog was abandoned in the house.
Getting to RIT from my house takes 35-40 minutes one-way.
Christina received her diploma early. Her last name starts with a “B.”
I left about 8:05, got home about 8:50, and already it was getting dark.
The dog was thrilled to see me, despite my feeling I was failing her.
Every time I leave her I get “the look,” like I’m abandoning her.
I guess she’s used to it. We certainly did it enough when my wife was going to Wilmot Cancer Center (“will-MOTT;” as in Mott’s applesauce).
One time was five hours, and it got dark on her.
Wilmot had a way of not letting you leave.

• My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I really miss her.

The window-treatment my wife will never see

A window is a hole in the wall. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“I had no idea,” said the guy from our local Budget-Blinds.
“In all my years of installing window-treatments, I never had anything like this happen.”
He was referring to the fact my wife died between our order and its arriving for installation.
“I tried to call, but her cellphone didn’t work,” he said.
“That’s because I disconnected it,” I said.
The living-room bay-window sheer illustrated above was ordered a couple weeks before my wife died.
We both ordered it together. The guy from Budget-Blinds came out and we assessed different applications.
The design has vertical slats that turn like vertical venetian-blinds.
But a sheer curtain is in front of it so the slats don’t look so mechanical.
So an improvement to my abode has been made. I suppose this is progress.
I seem to be beyond mere existence, what I felt like I was doing beforehand.
And no longer can my nosey neighbor across the street spy on me through my front window.
It now has curtains I can close.
And those curtains will have insulating-value come winter.
That window, without curtains, was a gigantic hole-in-the-wall.

• My wife died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68.

The mower is “cursed”

The other day, probably Friday, June 15, it seemed like my entire world was crashing in flames.
Except it wasn’t. My freezer still worked, as does my washing-machine, my refrigerator, my cars, and the giant poplar-tree hasn’t fallen and taken out my fence.
“Knock on wood,” said my mower-man, as he delivered my giant zero-turn lawnmower Saturday afternoon which he had just repaired.
I’m exaggerating of course.
I get extremely depressed when things go awry since my wife died. It seems a lot has gone wrong.

Photo by BobbaLew.

My zero-turn.

A lot has been my lawnmower.
I lost its only key, but later found it misplaced in a pants-pocket I don’t normally use.
It wouldn’t crank — it has electric-start — I had to jump it with my car.
It also destroyed the long belt that drives the cutting-blades.
I had to replace that belt; 80 smackaroos.
I also replaced the battery; 60 smackaroos.
It still wouldn’t crank.
My mower-man took it and replaced a compression-release.
In the middle of this my landline telephone also tanked. It wouldn’t deliver a dial-tone.
And my digital camera went dark 270 miles from home.
Repair might cost over $300, enough to make me consider a more up-to-date camera-body. My camera is a Nikon D100, the second 6-megapixel digital-single-lens-reflex camera to break the $2,000 barrier, after the Canon EOS D60.
It’s about 10 years old.
Compression-release repaired last week, my mower-man delivered my mower that Friday afternoon, and I set about mowing.
It died after about 300 yards.
This was when I really got depressed.
My mower-man came out and fiddled it, determining it didn’t “sound right.”
Back to his shop it went!
The mower’s engine, a giant 540 cubic-centimeter 20-horsepower single-cylinder Briggs & Stratton commercial, is overhead-valve.
Its valves operate via pushrod-and-rocker just like a ‘60s Detroit V8.
The studs the rockers are on are threaded, not pressed-in-place like a Detroit V8.
A rocker-stud had backed out, something my mower-man had never seen before.
With that repaired my mower was returned Saturday, June 16.
Now we’ll see what it throws at me next.
It sat all night in the garden-shed with my battery-charger on it, to give it a better chance at cranking.

• I mowed quite a bit the following two days without problem.
• My wife died of cancer April 17, 2012.
• My “zero-turn” is our 48-inch riding-mower; called a “zero-turn” because it’s 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.

Revelation

The other day (Wednesday, June 13, 2012) I had a surprising revelation when I went to pick up my dog at doggie-daycare.
Doggie-daycare is provided by Fetching-Looks Pet-Grooming in nearby Canandaigua, an establishment set up by Lisa and Bill Robinson.
Fetching-Looks is based on the fact Lisa built up such a large regular clientele as a groomer at Finger-Lakes Animal Hospital in Canandaigua.
Lisa and Bill are ex-employees of the Daily Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua, where I worked following my stroke.
It was the best job I ever had, and toward the end of my employ I worked with Bill, etc. to fly the newspaper’s web-site.
Bill quit, as did Lisa, but I stayed on a bit longer.
Bill switched to a stupid, meaningless job that paid fairly well, and Lisa became a groomer. At the Messenger she had been in ad-sales. Bill was an Editor.
The two married; second time for Bill.
For me the Messenger was post-stroke rehabilitation.
I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I’ve pretty much recovered.
I started there as an unpaid intern.
My going there was a result of enjoying so much doing my bus-union’s voluntary newsletter.
I drove transit-bus 16&1/2 years for Regional Transit Service (RTS), a public-employer, the provider of transit bus-service in Rochester and environs. My stroke ended that. I retired from Transit on medical-disability.
During my final year, I started a voluntary newsletter for my bus-union.
I was the editor and publisher; I did it in Microsoft Word®.
My rehabilitation program was trying to reintegrate me into the real world. Unpaid internships were a way of reintegrating.
I was brought there by United-Way taxi, and was eventually hired in 1996 — and cleared to drive.
I was very specific about clearance to drive: “Don’t clear me unless you think I can ride motorcycle.”
Right after the stroke I was in inpatient rehabilitation, and a young therapist asked me what my goals were.
“To ride my motorcycle again,” I said.
“Are you kidding?” she guffawed.
“Your motorcycle days are over!”
I was still a wreck at that time, still semi-paralyzed.
Recovery continued, and eventually I began outpatient rehabilitation.
There I was told I’d be cross-country skiing in a week.
I thought them joking, but in a week I was.
After a while I was in driving rehabilitation.
Things were sloppy — I was forgetful — so we waited a year.
I did better then, finally cleared to drive.
Meanwhile my motorcycle, a Yamaha FZR400 crotch-rocket, was calmly waiting in our garage for me to get better.
It needed a new battery.
My brother in northern DE suggested I get so I could ride bicycle before trying the motorcycle.
But finally it was time.
I threw a leg over it, started it, and off I went. Just like old times; slightly different, but not much.
I felt secure riding the FZR400, but traded it for a 1996 Kawasaki ZX6R, another crotch-rocket. (The FZR400 was 1989.)
The ZX6R didn’t need to be revved as high to cruise the expressway.
I remember thinking “what was I doing this for?” as I gave them the check.
I’d had a stroke. I’m not supposed to be able to do this.
Most of what I used a motorcycle for was to ride to work.
So one morning I rode to the Messenger on my Kawasaki crotch-rocket.
This is the revelation.
People inside were stunned.
“Hasn’t that guy had a stroke?”
Robinson said people were saying that as I rode in.

• “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.a

Gotcha!

The other day (Saturday, June 9, 2012) I got one of those mind-bending gloom-and-doom letters from the Infernal-Revenue-Service (IRS) saying I owed 27,512 smackaroos.
$18,810 back-taxes, plus $3,762 in penalties, plus $945 interest.
My ability to parry this sort of madness is severely compromised.
My beloved wife of 44 years died two months ago, and I am devastated.
I doubt we could parry such madness together.
My wife would try.
Usually she was the one that took on hairballs, since I’ve had a stroke.
But this was so complicated I think it would have been beyond her.
The letter was regarding our 2010 taxes, that I hadn’t declared $78,000 income from our 1099s.
WHAT!?
Our annual income never amounts to slightly over $55,000.
There’s my wife’s pension, my disability-pension from Regional Transit, our Social-Securities, and a few bucks here-and-there.
$78,000 was a joke.
I did the 2010 taxes myself.
The 2011 taxes were farmed out to H&R Block, since tax-day was fast approaching, and with various medical appointments and my wife dying I was running out of time.
H&R Block found errors, so did six tax-amendments for 2008, 2009, and 2010, IRS and NY state.
My wife was barely able to sign, but did.
The amendments were filed just before tax-day. My wife died April 17, tax-day.
So my first thought was to contact H&R Block regarding the gloom-and-doom letter.
I was guessing the 2010 amendment prompted the letter.
But it hadn’t. It was my original tax-filing.
I happened to spill this letter to my financial-advisor, John Price at the Honeoye (“hone-eee-OYE”) Falls Edward Jones.
He suggested I forget H&R Block and go with a professional tax-advisor.
He suggested one: Kerynn Killenbec in Honeoye Falls.
He also suggested the letter was probably triggered by my erroneous reporting of IRA rollovers that started my Edward Jones account.
The rollovers amount to $78,000.
So I took everything to this Killenbec lady, and she said that was what triggered it.
A Schedule-D amendment by her would probably reduce my tax-liability to zero, or nearly.
Her Schedule-D amendment would tell IRS to go fly a kite.
The lily-white antenna-festooned Econoline, peopled by muscle-bound thugs in sunglasses manning binoculars, can leave the pasture up the street.
For that, she gets to do my income-tax next year.
H&R Block can fly a kite too.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• “Regional Transit” equals Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, and environs, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
• “Honeoye Falls” is the nearest village to the west to where I live in western New York, a rural village about five miles away.

Well, here I am

Helpers push eastbound at CP-W near South Fork. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

First time ever to Tunnel-Inn in Gallitzin (“guh-LIT-zin;” as in “get”), in the Altoona PA area, to chase trains with Phil Faudi (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”) since my beloved wife of 44 years died April 17.
I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2 (I’m 68).
No laundry to do, no meals to cook; for which I’m rather disorganized.
I left the house in slight disarray about 9:40 a.m. Wednesday, June 6, after boarding the dog.
Five hours and 261 miles later I was in the tiny Tunnel-Inn parking-lot.
“Tunnel-Inn” was the bed-and-breakfast we usually stayed at in the Altoona area. We stayed there many times.
Tunnel-Inn is right next to Tracks Two and Three of the old Pennsy mainline, now operated by Norfolk Southern.
It’s within sight of Pennsy’s tunnels through Allegheny Ridge, one abandoned, and the original Pennsy tunnel enlarged to clear two tracks and doublestacks.
Hence, “Tunnel-Inn.”
We always got the “Alco” suite, because the air-conditioning doesn’t blow on the bed, it’s a queen-size bed, and it’s along the back wall away from the tracks.
You still hear the trains. There are many, and they rumble by all night, wide-open climbing, often blowing their horn for the tunnel before descending.
“Alco” is American Locomotive Company of Schenectady, NY. For years, American Locomotive Company was a primary manufacturer of railroad steam locomotives. (It was originally a merger of many steam locomotive manufacturers.) —With the changeover by railroads to diesel-locomotives, American Locomotive Company brought out a line of diesel-electric railroad locomotives much like the railroads were changing to, and changed its name to “Alco.” Alco tanked a while ago; they never competed as well as EMD (General-Motors’ Electromotive Division).
Tunnel-Inn is the old Gallitzin town offices and library, a substantial brick building built by Pennsy in 1905.
It was converted into a bed-and-breakfast when Gallitzin built new town offices and a library across the tracks.
The old Pennsy, now Norfolk Southern, is a main freight-conduit east from the nation’s interior. A lot of trains also pass west, toward the nation’s interior.
There is a third track, not visible from Tunnel-Inn, on the other side of Gallitzin.
This is Track One, and it passes through New Portage Tunnel, higher up than the Pennsy tunnels. —Pennsy had to ramp up to it.
Pennsy came to own the state-sponsored Pennsylvania Public-Works System, which it put out of business, which included the “New Portage Railroad” (which included that tunnel), which replaced the original “Portage Railroad,” which had inclined-planes.
The Pennsylvania Public-Works, meant to compete with the Erie Canal, was a combination canal and railroad system.
No way could a canal breach the Alleghenies.
In fact, grading was so rudimentary when the Works were built inclined-planes had to be included in the railroad segment (a portage). Stationary steam-engines would winch the cars up the planes.
The system was so cumbersome and slow, Philadelphia capitalists proposed the Pennsylvania Railroad, Harrisburg to Pittsburgh.
They hired John Edgar Thomson of Georgia to lay out a manageable Allegheny Crossing, and he included a grading trick, world-famous Horseshoe Curve west of Altoona.
Altoona, at the base of the Alleghenies, became Pennsy’s shop-town.
It hired thousands to develop, maintain, and manufacture railroad equipment.
Horseshoe Curve, looping the railroad around a valley, made surmounting the Alleghenies manageable. It stretched out the grade so it could be only 1.75 percent on average, instead of four percent, which would have been near impossible. (Four percent is four feet up for every 100 feet forward — which a truck can do, but not easily a railroad.)

DAY TWO: the actual train-chase
Everything that could possibly go wrong seemed to go wrong; except my car didn’t fail, I kept it between the lines, and no accidents.
First my camera went south.
The day started fine, but after about 2-3 hours my camera went dark.
The viewfinder image was so dark it was barely visible.
Then I noticed recorded images were similarly dark.
The image would be so dark it was barely visible.
Then I had no images at all. —The camera wouldn’t shoot.
We considered recharging the battery, but the icon said it was still fully charged.
Either I inadvertently knocked a setting, or the camera went wonky.
The solution was a trip to the seller, about 285 miles away.
Faudi suggested I ask Mike Kraynyak (“crane-eee-YAK”), proprietor of Tunnel-Inn, if he had a camera I could borrow.
Kraynyak is a raillfan.
Kraynyak had to also be there; he had said he needed to go out.
Kraynyak was there.
My camera is a Nikon D100, over 10 years old, the first digital camera Nikon offered — I think.
Kraynyak’s is a Nikon D80, much like the D100, and to my mind the camera I should have got. It would have been fine for what I do. —My railfan nephew in northern DE has a D80, and does fine with it.
Kraynyak loaned me his camera with my memory-chip.
We reset his camera to fine-jpegs, what I was shooting with my D100.
“Do you wanna quit early, Bob?” Phil asked.
“Not as long as I have Mike’s camera,” I said.
Off we charged to continue our train-chase, my D100 in my room at the bed-and-breakfast, and me with Kraynyak’s D80.


Three GEs bring a stacker down The Hill on Track Two toward Slope Interlocking. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

(At Lilly.)

Doublestack west on Three. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

Helpers hold back the above westbound. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

(Interlude at South Fork.)

Around the bend into South Fork. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

Eastbound on Two. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

Coal off the South Fork Secondary. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

Helpers hold back a westbound downhill. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

(At CP-W east of South Fork.)

Mixed-freight eastbound on Two. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

(At Alto Tower.)

The slab-train boogaloos past Alto onto the drag tracks. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

Alto Tower is at right. (“Alto” is the only remaining Pennsy tower, and will be closed shortly.) (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)


Back to the mines. (Westbound empty coal-gondolas through Altoona.) (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

First we went to Slope Interlocking on the west side of Altoona, west of the yard-entrance.
Crossovers are being replaced so Alto tower can be closed, and trains entering Altoona can be switched from Pittsburgh.
The picture at Slope is with Mike’s camera, as are Alto and the last picture.
Everything earlier (Lilly and South Fork) is with my camera before it went dark.
After Slope we went to Alto tower.
But we could see a shower coming.
I managed to snag a few pictures; three trains at Alto.
All while Phil protected my car in a private parking-lot.
After Alto we went to Altoona station, which has a covered walkway over a bridge across the tracks.
I could shoot from inside and not get rained on.
After that we went up to Rose in Juniata (“june-eee-AT-uh”), the crew-change location, but that’s outside. It started raining hard.
We drove back to Alto, where I could shoot from under an overpass, and not get rained on.
But then Kraynyak’s camera started acting up.
It was throwing a strange message at me, and wouldn’t shoot.
I tried a solution suggested earlier by Kraynyak, and it didn’t work.
Now both cameras were failing me, and Kraynyak’s camera was unknown to me.
Plus it was pouring.
We set up at Alto under the overpass, but I got nothing.
It also got dark.
Mike’s camera was still throwing its message at me, and wouldn’t shoot.
We gave up and went to Brickyard Crossing west of Altoona.
The crossing is not Brickyard Road. It’s actually “Porta” Road.
But the grade crossing had a brickyard nearby, since torn down.
So the crossing was called “Brickyard Crossing.”
At least there we could stay inside my car out of the deluge.
Two trains passed, both downhill, although one might have been just a helper-set.
It was raining, and my borrowed camera was failing me.
I studied the camera.
“Do you wanna stay here and just watch trains?” Phil asked.
“My heart’s not in it,” I said; “I guess we might as well call it a day.”
It was after 4 p.m.
“Too many things are on my mind,” I said. “Plus my wife is gone, so I get depressed when things go awry.”
“Well, I guess you oughta take me back to my house,” Phil said.
Since Phil is no longer in business giving “tours” (train-chases), I take he and his wife out to dinner afterward.
It’s my paying him for leading me around.
We decided to hit Aldo’s Italian-restaurant in Juniata just north of Altoona.
It’s probably the best Italian restaurant in the area.
I had to find it on-my-own, and my confidence seems to have withered with my wife’s death.
But I found it easily; signs were out front, and I had been there once before.

DAY THREE: back to reality
A reality even worse than what it was when my wife was alive.
Back to cooking on-my-own and doing and folding laundry.
The drive back was slam-dunk easy, but my wife was no longer along to monitor improvements to our route.
I have driven this route-segment hundreds of times, the Rochester-area to Williamsport.
When I started driving it back in the ‘60s, I was driving from northern DE to my college in western NY.
To Altoona is a different route south of Williamsport, more westerly than easterly.
When I began, the route was nearly all two-lane, particularly north of Williamsport.
South of Williamsport was the infamous three-lane along the Susquehanna (“suss-kwee-HA-nuh”) river toward Harrisburg.
The third lane was the middle, marked “pass with care” or “no passing.” Traffic bunched up behind a slowpoke, then all zoomed past in the “pass with care” section.
Now even the three-lane is four-lane expressway, as is the entire route in PA north of Williamsport.
When I started driving to Altoona perhaps 18 years ago, the trip took six-seven hours. Now it takes five.
Four-lane expressways opened adjacent to the old two-lane segments, plus there was limited-access rerouting after flooding caused by Hurricane Agnes.
Last to go was the old “Blossburg Hill” up Blossburg mountain. That was a few years ago.
Heavily-trafficked two-lane segments switched over to completed four-lane expressway, and two-lane limited-access was converted to four-lane.
There also was the segment through Steam Valley that used the old road southbound. It wasn’t up to interstate standards; all curvy and hilly, speed-limit 45 mph.
Even that was replaced recently.
The only segment still two-lane north of Williamsport is just above the NY state line.
And even that has new four-lane expressway being built adjacent.
I suspect that will be open before I kick the bucket, but my wife didn’t make it.
I used to do all the driving down to Altoona; my wife sewed. We’d monitor the route-changes and comment.
It’s strange driving it alone. No one to bounce my comments off of.
Like how the lightly-traveled four-lane expressway seems overkill. Like PA presumed gas-prices will not skyrocket, so traffic will grow.
I pulled into my garage at 1:42; left Tunnel-Inn about 8 a.m.
I brought home my dog from boarding about 6:30.
I felt pretty good; like it was good to be home even if alone.
But when I awoke the next morning I felt horribly alone.

• “Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad, no longer in existence. It merged with New York Central Railroad in 1968 as Penn-Central, and that tanked in about eight years. “Pennsy” was once the largest railroad in the world.
• “Bob” is me, Bob Hughes, BobbaLew.

Blog it

Having an extremely difficult time processing a great tragedy, like the death of your beloved wife of 44 years?
So blog it!
Get your pen out, and start slingin’.
Easier said than done. The muse is quiet.
I have found the only way to avoid depression caused by this is to distract myself with fevered activity.
This involves four things:
—1) Long walks of the dog at the park.
—2) Mowing our huge lawn.
—3) Working out at the YMCA.
—4) Blogging and keying in blogs.
I also attended a wedding in northern Delaware a few weeks ago. I wouldn’t have otherwise. (I was out-of-it.)
Last Spring, when my wife was in the hospital, I stopped working out at the YMCA.
I didn’t get that depressed, but she didn’t die.
Laundry was done, but it didn’t get folded and put away.
It piled up.
I wasn’t having that happen again.
I do small loads, then toss the stuff on my bed.
The floors also get dirty, but now I have a cleaning-lady.
I also seem to have a surfeit of people concerned about my welfare.
How am I doing? Etc, etc.
“Well, I don’t know....... Okay, I guess.”
I muddle along in an extreme funk.
Scared being alone.
But when it rains I have dead time; time to get depressed.
I can’t mow or walk the dog.
And how can I blog anything when the muse is quiet?
Force myself. Take pen in hand and start blogging.
Yesterday was a sterling example.
It rained off-and-on all day, plus my mower was out being repaired.
Every time I set out to walk the dog, it poured.
So as a result my July calendar-report is almost finished, way ahead of time.
I had to keep adding to it to kill time.
Either that or start crying.

A record

Altogether only eight attendees. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Yesterday (Thursday, May 31, 2012) was a record get-together of retirees from Regional Transit service.
“Record” in that it was the fewest that ever attended, only eight.
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. I retired on medical-disability.
Attending were Ron Palermo, the organizer, Gary and Mary Coleman (“COAL-min”), myself, Paul Zachmeyer, Dave Brown, Tim Quinlan, and Dick Mackey.
In fact, I think Timmy is still working as a radio-dispatcher (“controller”) at Transit.
Brownie was middle-management, a “dispatcher” of bus-drivers. He handed out work. Brownie was at first a bus-driver, and then a road-supervisor. He also did radio before retiring at age-71.
A “road-supervisor” was an official of the company that rode around in a supervisor-car, supervised bus-drivers, and settled arguments with bus-passengers. They also attended bus accidents.
Gary was also a bus-driver at first, but then became a road-supervisor. He also worked radio before multiple strokes felled him.
Myself was only a bus-driver. I felt that was the best job at Transit. I was pretty much on-my-own, free of office politics.
The main problem was our clientele, which could be ornery and dangerous.
The other problem was wars with management, who could be jerks.
Palermo is another retired bus-driver. He organizes these get-togethers.
Last March we held our annual sojourn to Cartwright’s Pancake House.
Cartwright’s is a maple-syrup operation. Their pancake house is only open during the maple-sugaring season.
Their marketing angle is all-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes served with real maple-syrup.
They’re out in the middle of nowhere, but attract patrons from all over the planet.
Yesterday’s get-together was at Hibachi and Sushi Supreme buffet just south of Rochester, N.Y.
It was also the first get-together I attended since my wife died.
Paul Zachmeyer didn’t know, and was surprised.
Others did, including Timmy, who I send these blogs to.
Most were saddened by my condition; sort of a wreck.
I find I have to attend these gigs to occupy myself, to avoid getting depressed.
It’s also good company; our group were good workers.
Even those from management that attend aren’t jerks.
And the hourlies (bus-drivers and mechanics) could be jerks too.
I had to leave before the others, although they had finished.
I had 89 bazilyun other errands I had to do.
It took me the rest of the day.