Another loaner

Anyone who reads this blog knows I had to juggle an incredible surfeit of appointments over a week ago, one of which was getting a loaner-car so my Honda CR-V could be serviced.
I’m alone now, and I can’t wait more than about 45 minutes.
It takes 25 minutes just to get to the service-dealer, and then 25 minutes to get back home.
A long wait translates into abandoning my dog in the house longer than I’d like.
The required service might have taken two hours or more, then there was a “check-engine” problem that might need correction.
The service might take all day.
Enter loaner.
I did this often even while my wife was alive. I’d wait if I could, but if the wait might be too long, I’d get a loaner.
Now it was my 2005 Toyota Sienna All-Wheel-Drive van that needed a major service, and I couldn’t wait for it.
I still have the two cars we previously had. I’d like to trade down to only one, but I have no gumption at all. It’s like my wife’s death vaporized it. I barely exist.
I’d need a loaner.
But this time the loaner wouldn’t be pressed into service working out at the YMCA, or doing errands.
In fact, all I did was drive home and rescue my dog in the house.
The service took only that morning, not all day.
So I was able to drive back that afternoon.
But the service took place on a Wednesday, day of my grief-share.
That meant abandoning the dog in the house three times in one day, first delivering the van for service, second driving back the loaner to pick up the van, and lastly the grief-share.
Three times in one day is extreme.
I considered taking my dog along in the loaner to pick up my van, but they don’t allow pets.

• The “CR-V” is my 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.
• My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.
• 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.)
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (as in “Scarlett O’Hara”) a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is our sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder]. By getting a rescue-dog, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad.)

If you say so!

And so another grief-share recedes into the filmy past (last night, Wednesday, August 29th).
This seemed like grief-share number six, although that’s probably wrong.
It seemed we were watching program number-seven, which makes it grief-share number-eight.
I seem to be living in the moment. My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. I miss her dearly.
I barely exist, and my memory of past events is transitory.
So it may have been grief-share number-eight.
Few were in attendance, only five total.
And two of those were facilitators.
Which means only three participants, although the facilitators are grief-sharers too.
We watch a DVD series.
It can be boring or interesting.
Last night was somewhat boring.
A couple weeks ago was “loss of spouse.”
That was interesting.
But I don’t go to these grief-shares for the DVD program.
I go because people there understand where I’m at.
People outside the grief-share barely comprehend.
Some don’t want to talk about it; that I should just “get over it.”
I was married to that lady over 44 years, and apparently became very attached.
I can’t just “get over” her death.
The grief-sharers understand that — the devastated condition I’m in.
I try to relate this to non grief-sharers and feel like I’m talking to the wall.
Since my wife’s death many have come-and-gone, people that profess caring about me, but so far only the grief-sharers seem to understand.
Them and only one other contact, the one who got me to that grief-share in the first place.
An interesting aside took place last night at that grief-share just before I left.
A participant said I seemed better.
A facilitator agreed.
“You guys actually think I seem better?” I asked.
“You’re smiling, and are more upbeat than at first.”
“But I’m still distraught and heartbroken, and I cry a lot,” I said.
“But you’re better than you were at first.
We see it, and we’re gonna keep telling you.”
My reaction is if you say so!

The dreaded “How ya doin’?” question

“Hi! How ya doin’?” asked the guy in the Optical Department at the Eye-Care Center yesterday (Thursday, August 23rd, 2012) in Canandaigua.
“Honestly?” I asked. “Or the socially responsible answer?”
“Honestly,” he said.
“Terrible,” I said.
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Well, my wife died,” I said.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, as if to say “sorry I asked.”
I get this everywhere. “How ya doin’?” is the standard social greeting.
My dental hygienist asked the same thing a few weeks ago, and then was flummoxed when I told her my wife died.
I can’t lie. Usually I can play along, but it makes me feel funny.
Quite simply I feel awful since my wife died. Far more devastated and heartbroken than I expected.
Also lonely and scared.
This grief being so powerful, I can’t just pretend it doesn’t exist.
People ask how I am doing, and I can’t say “fine” when I don’t feel fine.
The socially responsible answer is “fine,” not “muddling along,” the response I usually give.
And of course I’m not being fair to the asker, who’s just following the social rules.
But to say I’m fine when I’m not is dishonest.

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

The footnote that always starts me crying

BAR NONE; the best friend I ever had. (Her legs are swollen.) —I cry looking at this. (Photo by Debbie Bell.)

“• My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.”
There it is, the footnote that always starts me crying.
How was I to know my wife’s death would leave me so devastated and heartbroken?
I call it a footnote, although it’s not numbered like college textbook footnotes, or dissertation footnotes.
It’s bulleted, and I lead it with an italic HTML-tag (<span style="font-style:italic;">), so it appears as italic, not as regular blog-text — this blog crunches HTML.
And of course it appears at the end of a blog, explaining as necessary.
I have a fairly large file of “footnotes;” stuff I copy/paste to the end of blogs.
They often get used, so to avoid retyping they get copy/pasted from this file.
“• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered” is another copy/pasted footnote I often use.
The fact my wife died appears often in these blogs, so I explain it with a footnote, although sometimes I explain it in the blog-body.

40 YEARS AGO

Photo by BobbaLew.

This is the image I always had in my head, no matter how bad she looked.

“That’s it,” I say through tears. “It’s as simple as that.”
There are other things that trigger crying, like that my condition makes me feel like I’m failing my dog.
I’m told I’m not, and my dog keeps licking me.
She also comes when called, but it’s like she just wants to be with me, not a result of training.
So even though I may start crying feeling I’m failing my dog, I know what it really is: “• My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.”
A friend at the grief-share I attend tells me I will get upset come birthdays and anniversaries.
I don’t think so.
What I will get upset by as when all her plantings bloom for Spring or turn for Fall.
Like our gigantic hedge of bridal-wreath when it flowers, or the Rose of Sharon when it turns red for Fall.
That bridal-wreath flowered about the time she died, and she was smitten. She planted it. A gigantic hedge of white.

• “HTML” is the “Hyper-Text Markup-Language” read by Internet-browsers. It can do lots of things, but I use it in these blogs to underline, embolden or italicize text.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (as in “Scarlett O’Hara”) a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is our sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder]. By getting a rescue-dog, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad.)

Surfeit of appointments

Yesterday (Tuesday, August 21, 2012) I juggled a mind-boggling surfeit of appointments; at least five.
Roll-out at 6:04 a.m., my usual time, make coffee, let dog out, open all the gates in the fenced back area, make the bed, eat breakfast.
Then immediately take the dog to doggie-daycare, no time for a walk.
Drop off dog at doggie-daycare as soon as possible so I can take the CR-V to Ontario Honda in Canandaigua for a so-called “D-service,” which I couldn’t sit and wait for. I’d need a loaner.
I also told them the “check-engine” light had come on occasionally. It wasn’t on then, but had come on in the past.
Then drive loaner back down to the Canandaigua YMCA to work out.
I had told the doggie-daycare people I might skip one aerobic workout to make my final appointment, a 4:05 Shingles vaccination in the nearby village of Victor, about 10-12 miles from home.
To guarantee making that appointment, I had to pick up my dog earlier.
In the middle of all this I had to hit a supermarket in Canandaigua, plus my cleaning-lady was coming.
I don’t have to be around for the cleaning-lady, but was.
She knows where the secret door-key is hidden, but I have to leave the garage people-door unlocked.
I also told Ontario Honda I’d call after working out at the YMCA in case the CR-V was done.
It wasn’t. The “check-engine” light threw up a code that said an oxygen-sensor needed to be replaced — add about 450 smackaroos (the D-service was $525).
I was able to do both aerobic workouts; each takes 35 minutes — I had arrived at the YMCA an hour earlier than usual.
But I skipped some weight-lifting and balance-training.
To my mind the aerobic training is what counts; keep the old ticker in shape.
I managed to juggle the entire kibosh successfully, get car serviced, work out at YMCA, shop supermarket, get vaccinated again Shingles, all while processing the dog.
I honestly don’t know that I could have done all this back in May, shortly after my wife died.
I’m still messy, but back then I was probably worse.
For a couple weeks it was like nothing happened, followed by a couple weeks when things made no sense — like I was only going through the motions.
(I had the same feeling following my stroke.)
Now things make sense, but I’m still distraught and heartbroken. I have hardly any gumption at all.
It’s just like previous to my wife’s death: sheer madness.
I’m not so sure I could have fiddled all this even before my wife died.

• The “CR-V” is my 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.
• “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.
• 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.
• My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.

Another window-treatment my wife will never see

New venetian-blinds in the south-facing kitchen window. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Pictured above from the outside are venetian-blinds I had installed in our kitchen window.
I actually did both kitchen windows. Illustrated is the south-facing window.
Budget-Blinds came out last week and installed the kitchen blinds.
I’m not sure they’re what my wife intended.

Photo by BobbaLew.

The front-window treatment (from inside).

The front-window treatment, pictured at left, I’m sure of.
My wife picked it out.
Budget-Blinds installed it after she died.
The kitchen-window treatment I’m not sure of.
We discussed it, but never decided.
It probably should have been honeycomb insulating shades. We have them in our bedroom windows.
But I think she wanted to do venetian-blinds like on our back porch.
Budget-Blinds did them too, long ago.
I probably would have advocated for insulating shades.
I always advocate for insulation. A window is a hole in the wall.
I advocated for insulating shades in the front-window, which is gigantic.
But everything we looked at was horrible, or had installation and fit problems.
Our first choice, not installed, from Country-Curtains, was insulating, but it looked like a mattress-cover or large dishrag.
It didn’t look good.
What Budget-Blinds installed in the front window is not insulating, but looks much better than Country-Curtains.
I could add an insulating curtain, but probably won’t.

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

I’m here

Yesterday (Saturday, August 18, 2012) was the first time I attended the annual RTS Alumni Picnic without my wife, who died April 17, 2012.
I took along our dog Scarlett (as in “Scarlett O’Hara”), a rescue Irish-Setter.
A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; for example abusive or a puppy-mill (Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder). By getting a rescue-dog, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad.
Our first Alumni Picnic was in a slightly different location, although in the same park, Ellison Park, east of Rochester (NY).
The last couple picnics, including yesterday, were in the same location, different from our first attendance: now in Hazelwood Lodge, a semi-enclosed shelter.
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.
Together my wife and I would wander off, and walk the dog around the park. Ellison has many trails, and is a large park.
I did the same yesterday, although it was just me and the dog.
Walking around the park seemed strange without my wife.
Irondequoit (“ear-RON-de-kwoit”) Creek flows through the park, which is a large defile.
The dog frequented the creek a few times to get a drink.
My wife would worry about this, but the creek flows slowly. We’d often see canoes.
There also is keeping our dog away from other dogs; she can be nasty.
Ellison has a fenced dog-park, but it’s tiny, and you have to register and pay to use it.
We avoided it, so the dog had to be on a leash.
Which she always is.
That dog-park is too small for our dog to enjoy.
Better to avoid that dog-park and its possible recriminations.
That defile used to be the outlet for the Genesee (“jen-uh-SEE”) River into Lake Ontario.
But detritus from the last glacier blocked it.
I force myself to attend these shindigs despite my grief, in fact partly because of it.
It’s a distraction.
And of course the dog loves it. “Yippee! A park! Woods! Critters! A feast for her nose.
A friend took the dog so I could eat.
I also asked this friend to shield me, but that wasn’t needed.
What I usually said concerning my wife’s death was “I’m here.”

• My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• The “Genesee River” 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.

409 Burnout

A friend of mine sent a YouTube video of a ’64 409 Chevy doing a burnout.
I will embed it below:



It is just incredible!
This car obviously has “Line-Lock,” which I think is what it’s called.
Only the front brakes are activated, so the lightly-loaded rear tires can spin with abandon.
With a 409 Chevy motor pushing, tire-smoke bellows.
The 409 Chevy is a watershed motor.
I will never forget when it first came on the market, which I think was March of ’61.
The full-size 409 Chevy SS.
It was the first time an auto manufacturer crossed the 400 cubic-inch barrier.
Well, not exactly. Mercury had a 430 cubic-inch engine, but it was not a hotrod engine.
The 409 Chevy was. Two four-barrel carburetors, 425 horsepower.
Compared to that, the 430 Mercury was a stone.
The 409 Chevy is the 348 cubic-inch truck-engine bored and stroked. That’s increasing the piston-stroke and piston diameter to get a larger engine displacement.
Boring the 348 cubic-inch truck engine was risky.
Cast iron could have porosity, tiny voids in the casting.
Chevrolet had to inspect every 409 block for casting porosity, lest coolant leak into the cylinders.
Needless to say, some 409 blocks didn’t pass.
Inspecting each block was expensive, but the 409 was a siren-song.
Everyone wanted one.
“Four-speed, dual-quad, Positraction 409.”
“Positraction” (“Posi”) is a special differential design to keep one side from spinning.
This negated one-side wheelspin at the drag-strip. It also negated one-side wheelspin in slippery conditions, like snow.
In the middle ‘60s I attended Cecil County Drag-O-Way in northeastern Maryland.
Bill “Grumpy” Jenkins, later famous, was drag-racing a 409 Chevy.
The barest and lightest coupe available that year, a Biscayne coupe.
Grumpy always won. He even beat the Dodges and Plymouths fielded to beat the 409.
What got Grumpy out of the 409 was to switch to a Plymouth Hemi (“hem-eee;” not “he-me”).
A Hemi could beat a 409.
Jenkins was the head of “Jenkins Competition,” specializing in the Chevy SmallBlock motor.
But he really stood out in that 409.
I was always in awe!

Same car:


• A Hemi has hemispherical combustion-chambers (so-named the “Hemi”), with its valves turned 90 degrees relative to the crankshaft. The valves are therefore on each side of the combustion-chamber and can be aimed at the intake or exhaust manifolds, encouraging better engine-breathing at high engine speed. —Regular overhead-valve motors have the valves all in a row parallel to the crankshaft, which contorts one passageway per cylinder, usually the exhaust. Chrysler’s Hemi was an engineering advantage.
• 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 SmallBlock. 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.”)

Gang of seven

That’s Palermo at right. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Fewer and fewer attend these shindigs.


Yrs trly is at left. (Photo by Ron Palermo.)

Retired Transit bus-driver Ron Palermo organizes brunch get-togethers.
For those of us who worked at Transit from the ‘70s through the ‘90s and even later, who are now retired.
Attendees include both hourlies and management, although the managers tend to be low-level, not the high-and-mighty.
Only one manager was present, Gary Coleman (“coal-min”), a Radio Controller/Road-Supervisor.
It could be said the tilt was toward operations.
Providing bus-transit was a stupid, meaningless job, and seemed to foster the worst in behavior.
Doing the job seemed simple, but some wanted to make things worse by trying fast-ones.
Employees would go off half-cocked just to make a point.
They’d commit cardinal-sins right in front of management, and management often did the same. I could give examples.
And it was the poor passengers that often suffered.
A bus breaks down and cripples. No matter the bus should not have been on the road anyway.
At which point the trickle-down theory of management applies.
Management, in a desperate attempt to field the required number of buses, fields junk.
Passengers are late for work, but “not my problem.”
Things seemed to get worse as fewer and fewer people rode the bus.
Commuting to work downtown disappeared as jobs gravitated toward the suburbs — following highway improvement.
Yet local Transit seemed tied to moving commuters downtown.
Upper management at Transit accused the hourlies of being reprehensible, which they could be.
Yet in so doing management was being reprehensible itself.
Everyone seemed intent on just collecting their paychecks, both hourlies and management.
And each seemed intent on skewering the other. The motivation seemed to be to no longer provide transit to the public.
Riding bus became an undesirable alternative.
People didn’t wish to turn their lives over to the uncaring.
And so we gather, seven die-hards.
We gathered at Finger Lakes Racino for their buffet.
Finger Lakes Racino is a gambling casino added to Finger Lakes Race Track.
The horse-track itself is rather moribund; the casino saved it.
But the casino seems rather borderline; it ain’t hoppin’.
Row-upon-row of slots fill the casino, drowning out conversation with noise.
And what few customers are driving the things are old and decrepit.
Walkers and wheelchairs are in abundance.
But the casino has a buffet, that is the best us Transit-retirees have ever used.
But there were only seven of us; there used to be many more.
One died, and others trickled away.
Some have commitments that don’t allow them to attend Palermo’s get-togethers, perhaps a part-time job.
Fortunately there was little mention of my wife’s death.
I attend these shindigs despite being devastated.

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
• 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.
• My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.

Just me and the dog

“Back to a big empty house,” I said through tears, as I motored placidly west on Routes 5&20 toward my home in West Bloomfield.
I was returning from what I think was grief-share number six.
I’ve only been to this series of grief-shares, because it has the advantage of being nearby.
It’s only about 25 minutes away. Others are farther. Another is 45 minutes away, and the many in Rochester are at least 55 minutes away, and that’s just to Rochester’s southern border.
45 minutes one-way is too far. That’s abandoning the dog in the house one-and-a-half hours just for travel-time. 25 minutes each way is only almost an hour total.
The grief-share is about two-and-a-half hours. The dog is abandoned in the house about three-and-a-half hours.
That’s not too bad. I don’t like to exceed four hours.
The house is not entirely empty. My dog would be waiting inside.
My wife died four months ago, so it’s just me and the dog.
I related at this grief-share how going to bed every night is no problem. Things seem to make sense and seem normal.
I’m told this is often not the case. That the bereaved often can’t sleep.
But I don’t seem to have that problem. What’s hard is every morning.
It’s the same old waazoo, just me and the dog.
My beloved wife of 44 years is GONE.
And she’s not coming back, much as I still feel she is.
That’s factually obvious, of course. Her ashes are out under the sugar-maple her father bought for us many years ago.
But I seem to have not assimilated her death yet, which I’m told is fairly common.
I’m devastated and heartbroken. We were very attached. She was the best friend I ever had.
So it’s back to a big empty house, enthusiastically greeted by my dog, of course.
The sun had not set yet, so it looked like I’d be able to take her for a walk.

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (as in “Scarlett O’Hara”) a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is our sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder]. By getting a rescue-dog, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad.)

E-mail to Stevie

RE: Facebook:
You’ll note I’m responding e-mail (a hyphen, for cryin’ out loud), not Facebook.
Facebook has a character-limit, word-limit, whatever! It discriminates against us word-geeks.
Yet it can crunch gigantic picture files, or even more mega-gigundo video files.
A text file, by comparison, is nothing. Yet Facebook has a character-limit. Too many words and it dumps you.
Facebook is a visual medium. Words, and the concepts generated thereby, are anathema.
What I can’t stand is Facebook shoving me into a pigeon-hole. Because I’m 68, I want sexual fulfillment and mortgage refinance. What if I don’t? That makes me reprehensible and disgusting? Or a loser? All because I don’t wanna line the pockets of Suckerberg?
Nice! Facebook promotes social contact. So did my family’s web-site (another hyphen, for cryin’ out loud), which was much more private, and didn’t have hotties or pecker-ads.
Facebook can be made as private as my family’s web-site, but few do it. Post something on Facebook, and it’s out there for all your so-called “friends” to see — as I understand it, and that’s debatable.
Plus Facebook froze my computer. It hasn’t lately, but I’ve heard reports of similar problems.
My sister, who died in December, abhorred Facebook. She had one, but rarely fired it up. It would throw her computer into a tizzy.
Facebook I put up with. I hardly ever fire it up. I only keep mine because -a) actual friends use it, and -b) I don’t know how to dump it.
What I also can’t stand about Facebook is how every time I fire it up, something is different about it.
For example, it used to have a search of people on Facebook; GONE!
I always have to figure out how to drive it.
Sigh. I guess I’m too old. The generation tied to books — in my case magazines.
In other words: WORDS.
My niece in south Florida, in her 40s, thinks Facebook is “cool.”

• “Stevie” is Steve Circh (“Kurch”), an ex-employee of the Canandaigua Messenger newspaper, where he was a page-editor. Steve and I worked together, and are friends.
• The Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper is from where I retired almost seven years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years. (“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 rural town of West Bloomfield.)
• “Suckerberg” is Mark Zuckerberg, head-honcho of Facebook.

Messenger reunion

Yesterday (Saturday, August 12, 2012) I attended a reunion of former Canandaigua Messenger newspaper employees.
The reunion was held in the large atrium of Finger Lakes Community College.
The atrium is being renamed in honor of George Ewing, Sr. (“you-ing”), former owner of the Canandaigua Messenger.
Mr. Ewing was instrumental in founding the college.
He editorialized it in his newspaper, and gave legacy gifts.
I was tempted to bail, my wife having died, but there were people I thought I might see.
Chief among these was Stevie Circh (“Kurch”), an editor who quit not too long after I started employ.
Circh was hired as a sports-editor, but ended up doing quite a few of the inside pages of the newspaper.
Copy taken from Associated-Press and local columnists.
Circh was a master of the snide comment, as was I, so we worked well together.
We’d toss nerf-balls at the office TV when “Teletubbies” came on.
In fact, Circh would retune the TV to get Teletubbies.
Here came Circh, ambling toward the atrium.
I hadn’t seen him for years.
“You’re the main reason I came to this shindig,” I shouted.
Another was Pam Hoyle (as in “coil”), known to me as “Pammy.”
Pam’s husband died about a year ago.
“We’re in the same boat,” I said, my wife having died about four months ago.
“Tell me it gets better,” I said to her.
“Well, not exactly,” she said.
“When Fred died I couldn’t leave the house,” she said. “Now I do outdoor work.”
“Grief like that is something I know all too well,” I said.
“Although what I get is leaving the house because I can’t stand being alone inside it. It hurts too much.”
“An empty house,” she said.
“I’m all too familiar with that,” I said.
Someone once told me Pam was strong. She’d be able to survive the death of her beloved husband.
“Yeah,” I said. “Strong like me, yet also devastated and heartbroken, as am I.”
My best contact at this reunion was a surprise, stately and beautiful Kathy Hovis (“hoe-viss”).
Hovis was an editor when I began at the Messenger as a post-stroke unpaid intern.
She let me take over the newspaper’s “Community-Page,” at that time the newspaper’s only fully computer-paginated page.
I’d dredge up content, and then assemble the page in a 486-PC.
She watched over me, but then let do it even when she went on vacation.
No supervision; I was on-my-own.
“Are you sure you want me doing this?” I’d ask.
“I might be too persnickety or controversial.”
Yet she encouraged me, and what a joy it was to use Quark software instead of Microsoft Word©.
I had done my bus-union’s voluntary newsletter in Word, which wasn’t as flexible.
Quark let me do things Word wouldn’t do.
A real word-processor, or should I say paginator?
And she let me do it; “you were doing a good job,” she kept saying.
Completed, I’d send the “Community-Page” to the newspaper’s image-setter, a process that extended to everything else when the newspaper computerized.
“You saved my butt,” I kept telling her.
“Imagine if this newspaper was managed by a Simon Legree. I would have walked away.”
The reunion had old newspaper pages posted, annual pictures of the newspaper’s staff.
“They got me in Editorial,” I kept pointing out.
“My job-title was ‘typist.’”
“But you were Editorial, sorta,” one said.
“Everything and anything,” I said. “I had to pull teeth to get them to admit I was an ‘Editorial Assistant.’”
I also commented to another that when I retired published school honor-rolls became a rarity.
I’d get honor-rolls e-mail, and then process with Word into useable copy.
I tried to show others how I did it, but they were buffaloed.
The newspaper required honor-rolls be ready-to-run, or a typist hand-entered them if she had time.

• The Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper is from where I retired almost seven years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years. (“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 had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. After my stroke I began at the Messenger as an unpaid intern. I was later hired by them.
• My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.
• 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 retired on medical-disability. During my final year at Transit I did a voluntary union newsletter called the “282-News” that caused weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among Transit management. It was great fun; and I did it with Microsoft Word — although it required a lot of time. Our union was “Local 282” of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union.
• “Pagination” is to completely assemble a page (for example a newspaper-page) in a computer. For that you have to have pagination-software, which Quark was, and Word may now be.
• The newspaper’s “image-setter” was a large machine that took a computer-file and transmitted it onto a full-page negative from which a printing-plate could be “burned;” that is, made.

Walnut-Hill

Presentation for awards in the white-fenced ring. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“What we have here is a very hoity-toity event,” I said to myself as I walked into the Walnut-Hill grounds.
Walnut-Hill is an annual competition of horse-and-carriage and the driving thereof.
It’s a chance for the participants to display the huge amounts of money they have invested in horse-and-carriage, the means of transport before the automobile.
I attended with friend Karin Morgan (“CAR-in”), with whom I attended college in the ‘60s.
Karin is a horse-person, and I always wanted to take my wife to Walnut-Hill. But my wife died April 17, so we never got to go.
It was supposed to be an offset to all my railfanning.
I went with Karin. Horses are involved, so Karin was somewhat interested, perhaps more so than my wife would have been.
For me it was a chance to try my new camera-body, and cull material for this blog.


They better hope the wind don’t blow! (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Walnut-Hill seemed comprised of two competition areas, that is, aside from the food-tent and concessions, which occupied a large third area.
There was a large white-fenced ring where horse-and-carriage could go round-and-round — so-called “work the ring.”

Photo by BobbaLew.

Working the fence-rail in the ring.

Photo by BobbaLew.

The railroad is blocked, and it ain’t rail.

Another segment seemed full of distractions to spook a horse, a covered-bridge, a water-crossing, a faux railroad-crossing, etc.
As a railfan I inspected the railroad-crossing.
They weren’t rails, although they appeared to be four-feet 8&1/2 inches apart, standard railroad gauge.
They appeared to be upturned 2x4s painted silver.
There were lowered crossing-gates, but not from any railroad I’ve ever seen.
The gates were too short, and had too much red on them.
The railroad itself was blocked by saw-horses painted WHF-RR.
Could the 20th-Century Limited pass those saw-horses?
White folding chairs were set up on low embankments overlooking the competition areas. It was hardly the grandstands at a major sports-venue.
Soothing conventional music wafted placidly over the public-address system. It was hardly Rock or Heavy-Metal. “Tiptoe Through the Tulips,” “In Your Easter Bonnet,” and “Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey.”
I think I even heard “How Great Thou Art” as I was walking out.
Carriages paraded serenely around the ring at “slow trot,” “working trot,” and “strong trot.”
No “hot-to-trot.”
In all cases trotting but at a faster pace.

Photo by BobbaLew.

A hat fit for Queen Elizabeth II.

Once in a while a horse might break into a canter. This was abominable, and deducted points.
Judging was on appearance and how well the horses obeyed.
The people riding were extremely well turned out in dapper period clothes. Top hats were apparent, as well as florid hats fit for Queen Elizabeth II.
As I set about to depart, the “Unicorn” class began.
I wondered if I’d see unicorns, or horses with fancy cone hats.
“Unicorns” were teams of three horses pulling a carriage, one horse ahead of two.
So for some reason such an arrangement was called “unicorn.”
There were only two unicorn teams.
As the unicorns assembled, one lead horse got “hot” = excited, and started pulling to the left.
Altogether I was there about two and a half hours, longer than I expected.
Was it worth going to?
I guess so, although I almost bailed because of sadness over my wife dying.
I was afraid I’d have a difficult time dealing with the reality of it all, but that didn’t happen.
Karin stayed there longer than I.
I wonder if she saw the carriages drawn by four horses, the most regal horse-and-carriage presentation.
Most of what I saw were carriages drawn by two horses, or worse yet two ponies.


A carriage drawn by two Norwegian “Fjord” horses. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

• A “canter” is the pace between a trot and a gallup; almost a gallup.
• A Norwegian Fjord horse has a stand-up mane with a dark center, and looks like a mohawk haircut. Some horses had braided manes.

Just you and me

“It’s just you and me, Big Meat-head,” I always say through tears to our dog as I pull into the garage of our big empty house.
“The Old Lady is gone.”
My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. I miss her dearly.
Before my female readers go ballistic over my use of the term “Old Lady,” I should note it was a term of endearment. I treasured her, and was extremely attached.
She referred to me as “the Old Man.”
Every dog I’ve ever had I’ve called “Meat-head.” What I say is it’s like “pot-head,” except they like meat.
I always refer to her as “our” dog, because my wife and I picked her out.
The dog is a rescue Irish-Setter from Ohio. A “rescue” is from a bad home, abusive or a puppy-mill (this dog was from a failed backyard breeder). By getting a rescue, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —This dog isn't bad.
I am the alpha-dog of our pack — only two dogs (me and the dog). The dog is my faithful companion and thinks I’m wonderful, despite my grief-stricken condition.
The dog was supposed to be a therapy-dog, but I think she would have failed.
She’s a people-dog, but too high-energy.
I wasn’t sure I should take her, but figured I could, since I had just come off a high-energy Irish-Setter.
I made a deal with the dog; I would do my best.
So now I feel like I’m failing her being so grief-stricken.
But I guess I’m not. She still thinks I’m wonderful.
But now it’s just me and the dog — no wife.
It’s sad I have to shove her aside to pursue my own requirements.
And I can’t play with her.
I have to reduce my attention to do all the processing I’ve taken on.

Loss of spouse

Last night’s grief-share (Wednesday, August 8, 2012) was about loss of a spouse.
This was especially interesting to me, having lost a beloved spouse of 44 years to whom I was apparently very attached.
A card was being circulated to thank the food-preparers for the meal we get. I couldn’t sign it. I was too distracted by the DVD program.
Of interest was their saying one’s identity becomes the marriage, that who you are becomes the two of you.
One lady on the DVD was obviously distraught by the loss of her husband.
Their point was with one partner gone you have to reestablish your own identity.
There was also talk of sex and remarrying. I wasn’t interested, since -a) I’m not in the market, and -b) sex seems impossible for someone my age (68).
Of those in the grief-share. I’d say loss-of-spouse is a minority, but equal to all other losses.
Grief runs the gamut: loss of spouse, parent, sibling, relation, child.
Outsiders often don’t understand, they want us to “get over it.”
Can’t be done!
Any kind of grief can be devastating; I am distraught and heartbroken.
I probably won’t get over my wife’s death ever; she was the best friend I ever had.
What one learns is “how to live with it;” and I suppose this is how “it gets better.”
I suppose that’s what’s happening in my case, although for now I feel like I’m barely existing.

• My wife Linda died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.
• The grief-share supplies us with a free meal. —Last night was some tomato-pasta dish.

Friedberg

Jonathan Friedberg, M.D.

During my wife’s five-year battle with cancer, which of course was ultimately unsuccessful, her doctor at Wilmot Cancer Center (“will-MOTT;” as in Mott’s applesauce) was Jonathan Friedberg.
Friedberg is an acknowledged nationwide expert in lymphoma cancers, which my wife’s cancer was at first.
Her cancer was Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, one of many variations of lymphoma.
Her death-certificate lists breast-cancer as her cause of death.
She also developed breast-cancer from a non-existent primary site, and it metastasized into her bones.
By definition that was Stage Four Breast-Cancer, but I would say lymphoma was her cause of death.
Her breast-cancer was more-or-less under control; her lymphoma kept returning.
We were seeing doctors at Wilmot for both cancers, although our first contact was Friedberg.
We ended up at Wilmot because they were the earliest getting her in. Treatment in Canandaigua was weeks away.
The lymphoma seemed to be centered as tumors in her abdominal lymph nodes.
One was rather hard.
Friedberg suggested R/C-H-O-P chemotherapy to destroy the lymph tumors.
But C-H-O-P is very harsh.
Chemotherapy is toxic; it poisons fast-growing cells, like hair and cancerous tumors.
C-H-O-P can only be administered eight times; it damages the heart.
The first C-H-O-P treatment was six times, and it cleared up the lymphoma.
It was during the post-treatment scan we first noticed breast-cancer’s bone-damage. The breast-cancer was estrogen-sensitive.
It could be treated with estrogen depressant, and it seemed to go into remission.
But her lymphoma reappeared.
“Your abdomen is on fire!” I exclaimed, looking at a cancer-scan.
The scan “lit up” heavy uptake, like from cancer.
We tried other chemos, all of which failed.
One was hyper-expensive, $50,000 for one treatment, but that failed too. (Medicare paid for it.)
The lymphoma in her abdomen began blocking blood-return from her legs, plus her ureter-tubes from her kidneys.
One kidney became dysfunctional — stents for the tubes, or outside drains, were suggested.
The leg-swelling got elephantine; I had to put on her socks, because she couldn’t lift her legs.
She also kept needing blood-transfusions to offset the anemia caused by lymphoma.
She got so bad she could no longer report to her doctors, so I did.
I suggested I wasn’t sure she would last the night, so they called her cellphone, which she had.
Suddenly, action! She was hospitalized.
The final two C-H-O-P chemos were administered, and the lymphoma disappeared.
The leg-swelling subsided and both kidneys started functioning again.
All during this I wondered if Friedberg thought he’d lose a patient.
I don’t say this in anger; there’s only so much he could do.
Our treatment-options were running out; C-H-O-P, the only chemo that worked, was done.
Her legs started swelling again, and the lymphoma reappeared on her scans.
Radiation was suggested, but that was essentially a holding action. Radiation, eight treatments, can only be done one cycle.
He cancer was minimized, but not ended.
So poor Friedberg lost another patient despite his best efforts.
And I lost the best friend I ever had.
And my wife was a fighter. She did lots of Internet research and nationwide lymphoma forums, often pinning Friedberg to the wall.
We even did a second opinion, my wife flying to Boston for Dana-Farber.
Friedberg was being a jerk (so it seemed). He’d been made a head-honcho at Wilmot.
But Dana-Farber seemed to go nowhere.
It only seconded the opinion of Friedberg, the acknowledged nationwide lymphoma expert.

• My beloved wife of 44 years died April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.
• “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. —Wilmot is in Rochester.
• C-H-O-P chemotherapy is Cyclophosphamide, Hydroxydaunorubicin (also called doxorubicin or Adriamycin), Oncovin (vincristine), and Prednisone or prednisolone. R/C-H-O-P is C-H-O-P administered with rituximab (Rituxin), which improves C-H-O-P’s effectiveness.

Suckerberg

I see that Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, without my permission of course, has “upgraded” my Facebook to their silly timeline.
Despite my studiously avoiding to do so.
That is, every time Facebook invited me to “upgrade” to timeline, I steadfastly refused.
My sister-in-law in northern DE, an inveterate Facebook-user, tells me Facebook is doing this to random Facebookers.
I was one of the few Facebookers who hadn’t “upgraded” to timeline.
This was because I’m mad at Facebook. Sick of the targeted ads, their assumption I’m gonna fall for hotties.
The fact I’m 68 makes me ripe for mortgage-refinance.
Um, guys; I own my house free and clear.
Ads want to lower my credit-card interest-rate.
I hate to pop your balloon, Facebook, but I don’t pay credit-card interest.
I pay my credit-card bill in full every month (gasp).
Start charging me interest, and I’m closin’ the account!
The fact I even have a Facebook at all is due to a fast one on their part.
Perhaps five years ago a “friend-invite” appeared in my e-mail.
Okay, I followed it, but “in order to be a Facebook ‘friend,’ you must have a Facebook of your own.”
Little knowing what was happening, I set up a Facebook of my own.
And so began the targeted ads, and Facebook freezing my computer.
If I had any idea this was what I was getting into, I wouldn’t have set up my Facebook.
Supposedly Facebook is better than e-mail.
You can set up secret groups, but essentially it’s wide forking open.
I don’t know exactly how things work, but just about anything I say can be read by anyone, among my Facebook-”friends” that is.
—And I only have 39, not thousands and thousands.
I get friend-invites galore, but I turn ‘em down.
Facebook is always suggesting “friends” for me, but they can just forget it.
I put up with Facebook, primarily because I have too many actual friends that use Facebook to communicate.
I rarely look at my Facebook “home-page.”
Seems like people wake up and immediately post useless drivel to their Facebooks.
“I’m on the can,” etc. —The weather outside their window. Stuff I don’t care about.
And comments to this drivel are stupid and boring. “You go girl,” etc.
The latest navel-pickings. As if I’m supposed to find cogent meaning therein. Would Kierkegaard have a Facebook?
So I put up with Facebook, and they shove their silly timeline down my throat.
So now my Facebook is their dreaded timeline.
It’ll get glanced at as rarely as my old Facebook.

• “Suckerberg” is Mark Zuckerberg, head of Facebook.

Into the filmy past

And so another grief-share drifts into the filmy past.
Last night (Wednesday, August 1, 2012) was grief-share number four.
The grief-shares are every Wednesday through October 10.
I know for a fact I can’t attend two, September 19 and September 26.
I have out-of-town commitments September 20 and 27 that involve long auto-trips September 19 and 26.
I also don’t know if I can last through October 10.
But I feel I should, since I don’t seem to have assimilated my wife’s death.
It’s been over three months, but I keep feeling she will return some day.
That’s probably a grief-effect I think a grief-share can help me with.
I also know that of most people I’ve met since my wife died, the people in this grief-share seem to better know where I’m at.
They’ve experienced the same loss as me, or similar.
Outside the grief-share are those that claim to know how I feel, but obviously they don’t. They’ve never experienced a loss as catastrophic as mine.
But I feel out-of-it at this grief-share.
It feel like the others haven’t experienced a loss as catastrophic as mine, a beloved spouse of 44 years who I was apparently very attached to.
Except for a couple, who’ve lost children. One seems devastated, the other angry and hurt.
A lady who lost her husband to suicide in 2005 seems to have accommodated.
My loss is fairly recent, so my emotions, so I’m told, are raw; they seem rawer than the others.
This grief-share has the advantage of being nearby. All the suggested others were too far away.
Two weekends ago I attended a celebratory buffet for my grandniece who just graduated high-school.
I of course felt out-of-it and bored.
My sister-in-law Carol was there, age 70. (First of my wife’s brother’s four wives.)
She immediately asked about how my so-called “support-group” was going, as if the grief-share was supposed to make me feel better, that is “get-over-it.”
HELLO. A grief-share is not a grief-cure. There’s no cure for being devastated and heartbroken. It doesn’t go away; you just learn to live with it; that is, accept it.
A lady at the grief-share told me last night “things get better,” and then admitted her comment was rather trite.
“I sure hope so,” I said. I’ve heard that comment a zilyun times.
I feel like I’m getting worse.
And at the same time it seems I’m getting slightly better; my confidence has returned slightly, perhaps enough to get my motorcycle inspected before the month runs out. —PrevIously I had no confidence at all.
But at 5:03 this afternoon, when I awoke from my post YMCA nap, I started crying.
“Time to do the carrots,” I said to my dog through tears. “Despite being heartbroken. And then feed the dog.”
My guess is others in the grief-share are as discombobulated and confused, perhaps even bored, as I am.
I know one feels responsible.
As such my attendance will probably continue.

• My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.
• 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. I worked out there Thursday, August 2nd. (“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.) Working out at the YMCA leaves me utterly smashed, in need of a nap.—I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (as in “Scarlett O’Hara”) a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is our sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder]. By getting a rescue-dog, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad.)

“BEEP!”

Yesterday afternoon (Tuesday, July 31, 2012) I was awakened from my nap by what was apparently a weather-alert on my cellphone.
It was 5:24 p.m.
On days I work out at the Canandaigua YMCA I come home so blasted I have to take a nap.
When I do, I put my cellphone out where I can get it without gymnastics.
(Usually it’s in my rear pants-pocket.)
Severe thunderstorms were in the area and approaching.
I managed to walk my dog before it rained, but a dark gray cloud was approaching.
It was thundering as I began my nap.
It down-poured during my nap, with occasional thunder.
All-of-a-sudden, BEEP from my cellphone.
Unfamiliar with weather-alerts, I thought an errant wake-up alarm had sounded.
I checked the alarm-function, getting nowhere.
I then happened to check my SmartPhone’s “Notifications,” and the weather-alert was in there.
I clicked it.
Strong thunderstorms were approaching, with “flash-flooding possible.”
The storms weren’t severe in West Bloomfield, and seemed to have passed.
So much for my nap, but it was 5:24 anyway.
Time to feed the dog.

• 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 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 have a Motorola Droid-X SmartPhone.
• I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (as in “Scarlett O’Hara”) a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is our sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder]. By getting a rescue-dog, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad.)