50th-year high-school reunion

The infamous “Penn-Fruit” gym (the most stellar photograph). (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Yrs trly graduated high-school in 1962.
Which means this year is the 50th anniversary of my high-school graduation.
I no longer live in northern Delaware, where I attended high-school.
I live in western New York.
That meant a long drive down to northern Delaware to attend my reunion.
About seven hours. I took all limited-access highway and made three bathroom stops.
Only one of my family still lives in northern Delaware, a younger brother Bill, born there. I’m the oldest. Born in south Jersey and lived there until I was almost 14. (I’m 14 years older than Bill.)
I would stay with Bill. All my other siblings are all over the country. I even had a slightly younger sister, recently deceased, who moved to Fort Lauderdale, Florida long ago.
Both parents are dead. They moved to south Florida when my father retired, to be near my sister.
The reunion would be on Thursday, September 20th. I drove down and arrived at Bill’s the 19th.
My brother Bill has only one child, a son, Tom. He moved out on his own and recently married.
But he lives near Bill.
Like me, Bill’s son is a railfan, also like me a Pennsy railfan.
“Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad, which no longer exists, but was once the largest railroad in the world.
It justly called itself “The Standard Railroad of The World.”
I was introduced to railfanning via the Pennsylvania Railroad, actually Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines in south Jersey (“RED-ing,” not “READ-ing”).
PRSL is an amalgamation of Pennsylvania and Reading railroad-lines in south Jersey to counter the fact the two railroads had too much parallel track. It was promulgated in 1933. It serviced mainly the south Jersey seashore from Philadelphia.
PRSL used both Pennsy and Reading steam-locomotives, but Pennsy’s engines were much prettier.
I’ve been a railfan since age two — I’m now 68.
Not long after I arrived at Bill’s, his son arrived with a carton of Pennsy paraphernalia: old Pennsy magazines, rule-books, maps and diagrams. Also old schedules.


Me (left) and my nephew Tom (right) jabbering about Pennsy. (Photo by Sue Hughes.)

My brother Bill’s wife Sue took a picture of us jabbering about Pennsy at their dining-room table (above).
Pennsy was indeed “The Standard Railroad of The World.”
Both Tom and I are Pennsy fans.
Tom has a collection of Pennsy paraphernalia, including dining-car china. What I have is lots of memories.
Northern Delaware was a treasure-trove. It had the old electrified Pennsy New York City-to-Washington, D.C. mainline, now Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor, since extended to Boston.
Pennsy would operate express passenger-trains over the line at incredible speeds, most powered by the GG1 electric-locomotive (“Jee-Jee-ONE;” I only say that because a friend was mispronouncing it “Jee-Jee-Eye”), the greatest railroad locomotive of all time.
Pennsy’s GG1 passenger-trains could scare me to death.


STAND BACK! (Photo by BobbaLew in 1961.)

I once had a GG1 blast by about 10 feet away from me at 90-100 mph.
Had I not had my arm hooked around a light-standard, I woulda been sucked into the train.
Things like this I never forget.
That’s goin’ to my grave!
Fortunately I’m old enough to have experienced the greatest railroad locomotive of all time.
My nephew Tom hasn’t, but his maternal grandfather, for a short time, has, at Pennsy’s Wilmington Shops as an apprentice.

DAY TWO...
The day of the reunion (Thursday, September 20, 2012).
But that wasn’t until 7 o’clock.
So my brother and I decided to visit my Aunt May over in south Jersey.
Aunt May is 82, and is the only one left of my father’s siblings, although there were only three: my father (the oldest), a brother (my Uncle Rob), and finally my Aunt May.
My Aunt May was born in 1930, a Depression year, and was considered a mistake. After my Aunt May my grandfather and grandmother no longer slept together, although that was mainly my grandmother.


Me (at left), and my Aunt May (at right) (Photo by Bill Hughes.)

Our visit would be a surgical-strike, which seems to be what my Aunt May wants.
We’d do lunch at a restaurant in south Jersey near where Aunt May lives.
Aunt May lives alone. She divorced her husband years ago (“that bum”).
What I came away with was much more pleasing than what I expected.
I’d been told my Aunt May had become my grandmother, but she was still the MayZ I preferred, a free spirit, prone to snide remarks and verbal potshots.
“MayZ” is the nickname my Uncle Rob gave her: “Maysie.“ I changed it to “MayZ.”
“So when ya comin’ back?” my Aunt May asked.
“Probably never,” I said.
“Why not? These are your roots,” she said.
“Crowded, overdeveloped, and it stinks,” I said.
“Why would I ever want to return to the Land of the Gravel-Pit and Mud-Bog,” I asked; “when I got a huge woodlot fenced that’s perfect for my dog?”
Visiting Aunt May is a trip into another state, but only about a half-hour.
It’s ironic that into New Jersey, over a large river-bridge, is free, but out is $5 toll.
Back in Delaware, a tour of my old high-school, Brandywine High, was scheduled at 4 p.m.
My old high-school still stands, although considerably expanded.
The elementary-school across the street was torn down.
My brother and I passed Brandywine earlier, and the driveway was crammed with schoolbuses.
“That’s right,” I shouted. “Today is a school-day. It’s Thursday.”
My brother would tag along, since he graduated Brandywine too, but in 1976.
Old classmates started trickling in. We ended up with perhaps 20.


I’m at right. (Photo by Bill Hughes.)

An Assistant-Principal lead us around.
Brandywine had been considerably expanded since we were there. More classrooms were added, plus a shop for auto-repair.
After-school activities were going on. Rehearsal in the auditorium for a play, concert-band practice in the old band-room — enlarged and lined with trophies, and finally a volleyball game in the gym.
That gym was always special, the infamous Penn-Fruit gym.
Penn-Fruit grocery-stores no longer exist. When our high-school was built, it used the same laminated-wood arch construction over the gym the Penn-Fruit supermarkets used.
Which is why it was called “the Penn-Fruit gym.”
But now the Assistant-Principal was saying it was small.
Which I guess it is.
There’s not much bleacher-seating.
The reunion would be held at The Carriage-House at Rockwood Park in northern Delaware.
It’s rather glitzy and probably expensive, but it was our 50th.
The Carriage-House went along with a mansion on an estate.
The estate was deeded over and the mansion converted into a museum. The land, mostly wooded, was converted to a park.
It would be a party, as all our reunions have been, but also a buffet-dinner.
Not a take-what-you-want buffet. Food dished out from a serving-line; no waitresses.
I pretty much kept to myself; I’m not a party-person.
But then an old friend invited me to his table: “Hughes, will you quit being a loner and come eat with us?”
I joined, but still kept to myself.
A girl who was a delectable sexpot was still cute, but at age-68 was no longer the lithesome temptress she was even at our 35th reunion, the last I attended.
Another girl who was thin but attractive in high-school had gained some pounds, and her hair had gone white. I hardly recognized her.
Another had earned her doctorate, yet hardly seemed the type while in high-school.
One girl looked better now than in high-school, but was using a cane.
“I should have taken you out!” I said to the girl I always say that to.
“Well why didn’t you?” she snapped.
“Too messed up,” I always say.
“You’re Facebooking Lynne Huntsberger?” a guy asked me.
“Everyone was after Lynne Huntsberger.”
“She searched me out!” I cried.
Not exactly.
She probably noticed me in Facebook’s Brandywine grads, so sent me a friend invite — along with a note wondering if I was her old date.
“I took her horseback-riding,” I said. “Not serious, just interesting.”
Off to the side was a posterboard with enlarged yearbook pictures of classmates who died. There were about 10.
It was tragic to look at. Some died of cancer, and one drank himself to death. Others died in ‘Nam.
I wondered about heart-attacks.
Of course, I have a death to deal with myself, that of my wife.
I related same to some.
“No, I didn’t know. So sorry. When was that?”
“About five months ago,” I’d say.
“That’s recent.”
“Recent” is what they all said.
I guess five months ago is recent. I know I’m still devastated and heartbroken.
Dinner finished, I decided to leave. Although I mingled some. Talked a bit with various classmates I rarely associated with in high-school.
A Student-Senate president, a lettered football star.
Our class advisor, a teacher (since retired), was there. I collared him and mentioned I never amounted to anything, as he predicted long ago.
On my way out I struck up a conversation with a lady probably still in her 40s. She was the wife of a classmate.
What could she possibly see in me?
I know some are attracted to ne’er-do-wells like me. I was married to an attractress 44 years.
Our conversation went on-and-on.
I felt like I was spilling my guts all over the floor, but she seemed interested.
I finally said “I hafta leave,” and walked back into the party to find someone.
It was approaching 10 p.m. as I left. Much later than I expected.
I had mingled with a few, and attracted the attention of a pleasant surprise — someone not from our class.

DAY THREE...
At long last (Friday, September 21, 2012).
(Although an extra day was needed.)


At the Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania (inside). (Photo by BobbaLew.)

My railfan nephew has been trying to get me to visit Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania for years.
I’ve been unable. That’s a trip to Delaware, or Pennsylvania Dutch country, about 360 miles to Delaware.
Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania, next to Strasburg Tourist Railroad, has Pennsylvania Railroad’s collection of steam-locomotives.
Unlike most railroads, Pennsy retained one of every significant self-designed steam-locomotive it ever owned.
They were stored in a roundhouse in Northumberland, PA.
Only one got away. A Pennsy I1sa Decapod (2-10-0).
It’s in Buffalo.


The Pennsy Decapod near Buffalo.

Pennsy eventually merged with New York Central (Penn-Central), and that went defunct.
Conrail, PC’s successor, decided to get rid of Pennsy’s collection. It was transferred to Strasburg Railroad. All the equipment was moved there.
I remember seeing it stored outside in the ‘70s.
Most of the Pennsy engines looked pretty good. Some didn’t. Other engines, like a Nickel-Plate Berk (2-8-4), were in bad shape. Stored outside they deteriorated with the weather.
Eventually the Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania was founded across the street from Strasburg, and with a shed the equipment could be moved inside.
Some equipment is still outside.


The Nickel-Plate Berkshire (2-8-4). —This thing is still stored outside. (Photo by BobbaLew.)


GG1 #4935; probably the best GG1 still extant. (Photo by BobbaLew.)


“Old Rivets,” #4800, the prototype GG1 with a riveted body-shell. (Other GG1s are welded body-shell.) —This picture reprises one taken long ago; Tom (right) was much younger, and me (left) about 50 pounds lighter. Rivets is stored outside, and is deteriorating. (Photo by Bill Hughes.)


The only remaining fully-assembled Pennsy K4-Pacific (4-6-2) — there is another, but it’s apart. #3750 is stored outside. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Lots of equipment is stored in the shed.
Lots is also stored outside.
Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania has installed a turntable, and some equipment is stored off it. The turntable is outside.
What’s nice is the Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania has the old Pennsy collection, many old Pennsy steam-locomotives, non-working.
A couple did, used on Strasburg and an excursion or two.
1223, their 4-4-0, broke, and 7002, an E2 4-4-2 Atlantic, had cab signals installed so it could run on the old Pennsy main.
7002 was also used on Strasburg, but now it’s retired.
The Lindbergh Engine, E6 4-4-2 #460, is being restored, but probably only for display.
#460 headed a train of newsreels up to New York City (the railroad wasn’t electrified at that time) when Lindbergh returned to Washington DC after his transatlantic flight.
460 beat the airplanes, which is why Pennsy saved it.
But primarily because a baggage-car had been converted to a darkroom.
Newsreels from the airplanes, though parachuted, still had to be developed.
Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania also has “blackjack,” GG1 #4935, nicknamed “blackjack” because its numbers add up to 21.
#4935 was also restored to its original Raymond Loewy (“low-eeee”) paint-scheme, five gold pin-stripes on the Brunswick-Green body.
Loewy, at that time, worked for Pennsy as an industrial designer, did little to the GG1, but made it look great. He convinced the railroad to use a welded body-shell.
Stored inside, it’s the finest GG1 still extant, and quite a few were saved.
I located the bell for 4935, it’s up under the nose in the frame.
I was able to ring it causing fear and consternation.
My nephew Tom recorded a video he put up on YouTube.



Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania also has “Rivets,” #4800, the prototype GG1 with a riveted body-shell.
But it’s stored outside, and is deteriorating. Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania has two GG1s, and they weren’t part of the original Pennsy collection.
After Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania we headed back down PA State Route 741, the tiny rural asphalt two-lane the museum and tourist-railroad are on.
I was with Tom. We were headed toward Gap, PA. The old Pennsy main also goes through Gap. It threads two sharp curves.
Tom was accessing Amtrak’s web-site on his iPhone, and an eastbound passenger-train was leaving nearby Lancaster to the west; the old Pennsy main was now Amtrak — and the train was on time.
The railroad was still electrified; an AEM-7 would be on the point (although they’re in push-pull service; a cab-end is at the other end).
We stopped in Gap to get a picture.


Eastbound Amtrak Keystone service through Gap. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

We’re both railfans; we can’t resist.
After we got the picture we continued toward Delaware, Newark along the Northeast Corridor.
Newark is a great place to watch trains. No security, and trains at 120 mph!


STAND BACK! (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I’ve been to other stations where security harasses you — asks what you’re doing, and blows you in.



Tom was again accessing Amtrak. We saw about six trains over an hour or so. Most were Metroliner expresses, two were Acelas, and two were commuter locals.
Commuter service ends and begins in Newark.

DAY FOUR...
Back to reality! (Saturday, September 22, 2012).

This entire visit was pleasant. Escape from the dreadful sadness at home.
My beloved wife is gone, and I’m alone.
My dog, who I had boarded, was thrilled to see me.
But it’s back to a lonely house, “home” with a giant void.

REGRETS...

— 1) I was unable to see Sue’s father, who just had open-heart surgery. But it wasn’t a bypass, just a valve replacement.
I had open-heart surgery myself, but only to repair the cause of my stroke; an opening between the upper chambers of my heart — a Patent foramen ovale (”PAY-tint four-AYE-min oh-VAL-eeee”).
No matter, open-heart surgery is very serious.
Her father is 83, and though home was utterly whacked.
—2) I was unable to see Tom’s new wife Beth.
I was told she was working.
Well okay, but I worry.
Tom has friends in his parents. My wife and I didn’t. I don’t know as that prompted our closeness, but I worry about Tom and Beth.
I worry about her being protected from me; but I’d like to think that at age-68 I can control myself.

• “Sue Hughes” is my brother’s wife; “Bill Hughes” is my brother.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.

Hairball

BlogSpot, my Internet blog-service, what you’re looking at, in its infinite wisdom, changed its user-interface to what’s pictured above.
Totally unannounced of course. No warning whatsoever.
I fired it up the other night (probably Monday, September 17, 2012), and there it was.
Changes like this I dreaded.
What usually happened when my wife was alive was she’d waddle in, express concern, and then I just figured it out myself.
I no longer have a wife to express concern. She died slightly over a month ago.
So, time to engage guile and cunning, and figure out the damn thing myself.
I studied the interface a few seconds, and then engaged my storied method of figuring out computer applications: try this and see what happens.
I clicked various software radio-buttons. I copy/pasted a blog I had written.
It was very messy at first, but the blog was messy. It wasn’t their interface, it was my HTML. Tags were goofed up.
If I don’t use caret-equivalents in an HTML example, BlogSpot invisiblizes the example.
It cranked.
I did a bold-tag example in my blog, and it cranked everything in my blog from then on.
My bold-tag still had active carets (real carets), and there was no closing tag (</span>). —It was supposed to be just an example.
I dickered some, and fixed a few things.
It looked better.
What I say is BlogSpot “Facebooked” their user-interface.
They made it so you could compose right in their window, post useless drivel like what Facebook is often used for.
Wake up and immediately fire up your ‘pyooter, crank into Facebook your condition, e.g. the condition of your belly-button. Stuff no one cares about except you the writer.
I suppose you could compose right into the old BlogSpot interface before, but that’s not what I did.
I crank my blogs into a word-processor, and then copy/paste into BlogSpot.
And my blogs ain’t the self-absorbed maunderings of a person lacking a life.
I’m writing stuff much like what I wrote for a column I had in the Daily-Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua.
I do it in a word-processor because that automatically spellchecks.
My HTML-tags are in a file I copy/paste.
BlogSpot has radio-buttons for bolding text, etc, but I looked at their completed file as plain text, and they were doing the same HTML I do myself.
So I do it myself.
That Messenger column lasted about eight months, and then was ended after I got the flag-police inflamed.
One day my flag-mount pulled out in the wind, and Old Glory ended up on the ground. The same day, my Houdini-dog escaped my kennel, but got hung up on the chain-link fence.
So which came first, my dog or Old Glory?
I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to think my dog was more alive than Old Glory, which offended the flag-police.
So ended my Messenger column. The powers-that-be at the Mighty Mezz dared not offend the flag-police.
But I figured out BlogSpot’s new interface myself, as you can see.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. Like me she was 68. I miss her dearly.
• “HTML” is Hyper-Text Markup language, a background instruction system made invisible in text by surrounding carets (“<” and “>”). I use it only to embolden, underline and italicize text, although it can do other things. My picture-inserts and links are also via HTML-tag.
• “‘Pyooter” is computer.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost seven years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as an post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]). (“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.)

STORY TIME

Anyone who follows this here blog knows I occasionally throw photos on it.
The photo-files are actually at PhotoBucket®, an Internet image-host.
My photos aren’t at BlogSpot, but BlogSpot cranks HTML.
My blogs are written in HTML, but only to embolden, underline, or italicize text.
Or add photos.
An HTML-tag will do it; for example <span style="font-weight:bold;">??????</span> (That’s the bold-tag.)
I’d display my picture-tag here, but it’s so long it would befuddle my readers.
The image-source is PhotoBucket. My image-tag has an http address to the actual picture at PhotoBucket.
Which explains why the blog-post fires up almost immediately, then a second or two later the pictures fire up.
BlogSpot has to go to PhotoBucket to get my pictures. All my picture-files are 72 pixels-per-inch, 5.597 inches wide. That’s BlogSpot column-width (actually six inches in pixel-dimensions).
Exceed 5.597 inches and the picture exceeds BlogSpot’s column-width.
I steps on my blurb at right.
I also had to write my own HTML tag for my full column-width picture (usually at the top of a blog, but not always). (<img src="http://i900.photobucket.com/albums/ac207/RobertJHughes/MCR/2010/MCR1010/Shoebax.jpg"><span style="font-weight:bold;">caption. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Photo by BobbaLew.)</span></span>)
This was because Microsoft’s Internet-Explorer browser goofed things up.
Use a regular HTML picture-tag, and IE would cram slivers of text to the right of the picture.
I don’t know if IE still does that, but most computer-users use Internet-Explorer, the Granny browser.
I had to write my own column-width HTML tag to avoid that.
I’ve noticed that if pictures aren’t full column-width, IE doesn’t make the mistake.
(I resize the pictures in the HTML-tag; not four inches [for example] to PhotoBucket.)
I just hope it doesn’t goof up! —Who knows what mistakes go on out there in ‘pyooter-land?
I only saw the full column-width mistake because my dearly departed wife was using Internet-Explorer.
The other night (probably Friday, September 14, 2012) I attempted to upload a photo to PhotoBucket.
It crashed! I got the error-message in red.
I tried again. Again the red error message.
I tried at least five more times over two hours.
I tried renaming the image-file, taking out spaces and non-letter characters.
Still the red image-message.
I tried one more time before shutting off and going to bed.
Still the error-message. Maybe it’ll work the next morning.
It didn’t! Uh-oh........
Looks like perhaps PhotoBucket wants me to renew my account.
I fired up their home-page, and looked for a “contact-us.”
Nothing!
Was anyone else getting this problem? Cue Google-search.
Will this be the computer-problem I’ve dreaded since my wife died?
I had a computer-problem in 2011 when my wife was in the hospital.
With Google I solved it myself. I forget what it was. Usually my wife was the computer-problem solver.
Now I have no confidence at all. It seems to have vaporized with my wife’s death.
It was Saturday, a day I planned to work out at the YMCA.
I shut my computer off. I’d pursue the PhotoBucket upload problem after the YMCA, about four hours later.
I fired up my computer that afternoon after the YMCA.
I’d try a different tack: upload to my general file instead of a “ Monthly-Calendar-Report ” folder.
Holy mackerel! It crunched!
So I tried my October “Monthly-Calendar-Report” folder next.
It crunched there too.
Back in business. PhotoBucket must have fixed the problem.
The problem was apparently at PhotoBucket’s end, not my end.
The challenge to my psyche was avoided.
Obviously people contacted them, but I have no idea how.

• “HTML” is Hyper-Text Markup language, a background instruction system made invisible by surrounding carets (< and >). I use it only to embolden, underline and italicize text, although it can do other things. My picture-inserts are also via HTML-tag.
• “‘Pyooter” is computer.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. I miss her dearly. (She had been a computer-programmer.)
• 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.)

25 cars

The cover.

“25 collectable Plymouths that you must own,” blared the cover of the November 2012 issue of my Hemmings Classic Car magazine, number 98. (See at left.)
They hafta be kidding! I doubt I’d want 25 of any car, not even Corvettes.
My garage will accommodate two cars, and that’s what I have, the same two cars my wife and I had before she died.
To me that is silly. I’d like to trade ‘em both for a single newer car, but lack the gumption to make the transaction.
I suppose I could just walk into a dealer and get things rolling.
I probably will some day, but right now I feel like I’m not prepared. I feel like I’d get taken to the cleaners. I don’t even have values for my trades.
A while ago my old hairdresser had to sell his Corvette, a classic ’67 Sting-Ray roadster.


This is the actual car (a four-speed 327).

I was interested, but where do I put it?
If I put it in the garage, one car has to be left outside.
An advantage to garaging both cars is no snow to remove.
And easy starting in a fairly warm environment.
And a ’67 Corvette is hardly basic transportation.
Where do I put my dog?
Where do I put the groceries?
A SmallBlock four-speed was always tempting, but I once owned a car like that, and it was no good for basic transportation.
Too noisy and cantankerous.
And now I’d have to add my dog-problem.
The cars I now have (a 2003 Honda CR-V, and a 2005 Toyota Sienna All-Wheel-Drive minivan) easily accommodate a dog, but a ’67 Corvette wouldn’t.
The magazine pictured various Plymouths, from the first (1928) to a Superbird and Dusters.

A Superbird (1970).

The Superbird is collectible, perhaps the most collectible of all Plymouths.
They’re so collectible they cost a fortune.
On the cover of the magazine was a pretty 1947 Plymouth woody stationwagon.
Such cars were the world I was born into.
I remember in high-school a guy with a black ’48 Plymouth coupe. The car even attracted me.
The car probably had little more than a low-power flat-head six-inline motivating it.
A Granny car.
But very attractive. The post-war Plymouths were pre-war cars with a much better looking grill.
Herewith a ’41.

A 1941 Plymouth.

Plymouths are no longer made. Plymouth went the way of Oldsmobile and Mercury and Pontiac.






• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. Like me she was 68. I miss her dearly.
• 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.)
• 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.”)
• “Four-speed” is four-speed floor-shifted manual transmission.
• RE: “World I was born into....” —1944.
• A “flat-head” is a side-valve engine; the valving is down in the engine-block next to the cylinder. Many lawnmower engines are still flat-head. The cylinder-head is a flat casting. —Such engines were much easier to manufacture, so were quite common in the early days of automobiling. All automobile engines are now overhead-valve, the valves and passageways in the cylinder-head. Many are even overhead camshaft, what operates the valves. Overhead camshaft is more direct, and more efficient at operating valves. Both flat-heads and overhead-valve engines usually have the camshaft down in the engine-block. Overhead valves use pushrods to operate the valves. Flat-heads, having contorted passageways, don’t breathe anywhere near as well as overhead valves.

Yet again

Yesterday (Wednesday, September 12, 2012) another attempt to get my motorcycle inspected crashed mightily in flames.
A number of things were in the way, like -a) a segment of my lawn needed mowing, -b) the grief-share I attend since my wife died is on Wednesdays, which closes things off at 4 p.m. so I can walk the dog before abandoning her in my house.
I do so loose, with the dog in my backyard. It takes about 20-25 minutes to march around our property (4.7 acres, much of it fenced).
The dog returned with a surfeit of burrs, which meant deburring. I got many out, perhaps most, but not all.
I had to walk away so I could drive to the grief-share. The trip takes about a half-hour each way.
I’d have to remove the remaining burrs when I returned.
But I’d say the main impediment to getting my motorcycle inspected is lack of gumption.
I have no confidence at all. It seems to have vaporized with my wife’s death.
Even before my wife died, I wasn’t that good about getting my motorcycle inspected.
Having it seems pointless. I hardly ride it at all.
About all I did years ago was ride it to work.
Now that I’m retired I no longer have reason to ride it.
I’m not into pleasure-riding. Pleasure is in writing these blogs.
I should probably sell it, and probably will eventually, but for now I have no gumption to do so.
It’s like still owning the two cars we had before my wife died.
Two cars seem silly. I had decided if my wife died I’d trade both cars for a single newer car.
My Honda CR-V is 2003. My Toyota Sienna All-Wheel-Drive minivan is 2005.
That’s two cars to maintain, insure, and keep in gas.
For one person one car should do.
And the car-problem is just one of many. But I don’t currently have the gumption to consummate the transaction.
I have a surfeit of unused garden-tools in my shed: two tillers, a small walk-behind mower, and two weed-whackers.
I have lots of items to go in a yard-sale.
I also have a motorcycle that needs to be inspected.
It’ll probably sit another year, although I may be able to get it inspected Friday, September 14.
Although rain is predicted, and a segment of lawn needs mowing.
I’m running out of time. September is bearable, but October is often too cold.
Concerning my cars, the grief-share advice is to avoid heavy financial transactions for at least a year, like you won’t think properly following the death of a loved-one.
Well okay, but two cars for one driver seem silly.
A grief-share compatriot tells me she still owns four cars.

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

Talking to myself

Since my wife died I find myself talking to myself, much more than I did before.
Or more precisely, talking to no one in particular, since there’s no one here any more except my dog, who can’t understand what I’m saying.
She probably knows I’m heartbroken.
What I say through tears are things like:
-“It’s just you and me, Big Monster. Just the two of us,”
-”Maybe some day I’ll make sense,”
-”We’re home, except it isn’t the home it was. There’s a gigantic hole,” and
-”The Old Lady is gone!”
What usually happens is my voice trails off to near silence.
“The hole is in you,” my brother declared. “Houses can be replaced.”
“You got it, baby!” I said.
(“Old Lady” was a term of endearment. I was “The Old Man,” “Geezer,” whatever. No “Old Hag” for this kid!)
Living alone is frightening.
I was married to that lady 44 years, and all-of-a-sudden she’s gone.”
I’m smashed to bits. I barely exist.
A surfeit of things needs to be done, yet I have no gumption.
My confidence seems to have vaporized with my wife’s death.
Things we used to do together now seem out-of-reach to me alone.
Trips, railfan excursions, airline flights.
(I’ve been a railfan since age-2; I’m now 68.)
I’ll probably get back to doing such things, but now it feels like I can’t.
So now “It’s just you and me, Big Meat-head. Just the two of us.”
I doubt the dog knows what I’m saying, but she seems thrilled I talk to her.
(Every dog I’ve ever had I called “Meat-head.” It’s a term of endearment, like “pot-heads” like marijuana, my dog likes meat.)

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. Like me she was 68. I miss her dearly.
• 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.)

Rainbow alert

Last night (Saturday, September 8, 2012) about 5:30 a fairly strong rainbow appeared behind my house.
I’m sorry I didn’t take a picture. Usually I’m so inclined, but a recent event has changed me.
My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, and I’m devastated and heartbroken.
Conditions have to be right to generate rainbows.
The sun has to be low in the sky with rain in the opposite direction.
That is, a low sun has to be shining through rain.
If the sky is fully clouded with rain-clouds, no sun.
The sky has to be partly cloudy with one of those clouds releasing rain.
And the sun has to be near the horizon, with that rain-cloud on the opposite horizon.
When I drove bus for Regional Transit I was probably the only bus-driver to give rainbow-reports.
“Rainbow on the left,” I’d yell.
Everyone went to the left side of my bus to look out the left-side windows.
My bus would tilt to the left until the air-bellows on that side pumped up to offset the weight-shift.
Our buses were air-suspension. The air-bellows at each wheel pumped up to offset weight-sag.
If one corner had more weight than another, that bellows would pump up to make the bus ride level.
Offset was not immediate. It took perhaps 30 seconds for the system to stabilize.
I was working the rush-hours, when the sun would be low in the sky.
I remember one specific rainbow-report.
It was in the morning, and I was driving a Park-and-Ride in from out in the sticks.
I noticed a rainbow to the left in the distance.
I made a rainbow-report, and all my passengers shifted to the left.
The rainbow was far away, so I don’t think anyone saw it.
Most of my Transit rainbow-reports were in late afternoon.
I’ve seen quite a few rainbows east of our house.
I (we) have been here over 20 years.
Sometimes I’d drag the neighbors out, but they both died (over 90).
And now my wife has died, so I’m no longer what I was.

• “Regional Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.

Happy dog versus sad dog

Happy. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Last night (Friday, September 7, 2012), while looking for a photo to use in a Monthly Calendar Report, I stumbled upon the photo above of my dog Scarlett (as in “Scarlett O’Hara”) just after we got her.
Scarlett is a rescue Irish-Setter, rescued from a failed backyard breeder in Ohio.
We first met Scarlett in Buffalo (NY). She had been brought there as a proposed therapy-dog for another Rochester couple.
Some therapy-dog she would have been.
I’ll never forget when we first met Scarlett.
Four dogs were in crates in a minivan.
The lady opened the sliding side door, and “whap-whap-whap-whap!”
“I hear a thumping tail!” I shouted.
“That would be Scarlett,” the lady said. “A people-dog.”
I started walking Scarlett around, being pulled.
Obviously very high-energy.
The people looking for a therapy-dog got more interested in one of Scarlett’s puppies; he was more laid back.
Scarlett was only just three, but had already had two litters.
Do I take Scarlett or not? Obviously she was very high-energy, and I was 64 at that time.
But I had just come off a high-energy Irish-Setter, Killian, more a red-setter (smaller), a hunter.
We took Scarlett home. I promised my best.
It was my wife who wanted a dog. I was only somewhat interested.
We had just lost Killian. He got Lymphoma cancer, and we finally had to put him to sleep.
Now everything has changed.
My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th of this year, also of Lymphoma.
Like me she was 68. I miss her dearly.
So I am left with Scarlett, very much alone.
I now have all the responsibilities the two of us had, so I don’t have much time for Scarlett.
I have to shunt her aside so I can do things.
I still take her for long walks in the woods, plus another two or three short walks per day.
But I can’t point out squirrels and chipmunks that might lead to a time-consuming foray.
Scarlett has also discovered the joy of hunting; something she wasn’t interested in when we got her.
There is debate whether I give her a good life.
Dog-owners rarely walk their dog as much as I walk Scarlett.
They also may groom their dog maybe once a year, whereas I do every month or two.
I also brush seeds and burrs out of her coat, whereas others allow knots to form.

Photo by Lisa Schaal Robinson.

“I wanna go home.”

But all I have to do is compare the picture above to what I see now.
Scarlett still follows me around, and licks me like I’m wonderful.
But I no longer see the happy dog I see in the above picture.
What I see is a sad face who follows me because she has to.
I’m not sure when the sadness took over. It may have been before my wife died.
The picture at left was taken by a dog-groomer before my wife died.
What we have here is the sad “I wanna go home” look.
Of course, the dog is getting older, as am I.
Scarlett is now seven, and I’m 68.
I’m keeping up so far.
But my wife also died; I’m devastated and heartbroken.
As such I’m a wreck — always crying. I feel like I’m failing to give my dog the life I promised.
The poor dog is always having to lay down or disappear.

• A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad.

Outta here!

They’re finally GONE.
My wife’s cancer-drugs, that is.
My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th of this year. Like me, she was 68. I miss her dearly.
My siblings and I tried to drop-off her cancer-drugs shortly after she died.
They had come up here to pick out and plant a butterfly-bush in her honor. We had always wanted one, but never got around to it.
We went to nearby Baker Park in Canandaigua to walk my dog, and forgot about the drop-off — a police-organized prescription-drug drop-off, better than flushing down your toilet, which contaminates the ground-water.
We showed up at the drop-off a half-hour late. They almost took the drugs anyway when we pointed out there was morphine.
But it was too late, so they sat in a bag on a desk in my house.
Since April 17th.
I had a hard enough time getting rid of the hospital-bed we received.
At least a month passed.
Included was morphine pain-killer, which we tried to not use, not because of its evil reputation (although that was part of it), but because it caused constipation.
My wife’s final days were an ongoing battle with constipation.
The morphine was little-used, but sometimes it had to be used.
Its effect was sudden, but didn’t last very long. She tried to get by with acetaminophen (Tylenol®), which lasted longer, didn’t constipate, but wasn’t as strong.
By then we were on the downward slide. Next was hospice. We tried in-home hospice, but drug administration became messy.
So we took her to Hospeace House down in nearby Naples, NY. She lasted there a little over a day.
By then all that remained was her brain, and that was losing function. Her appetite was already gone. She wasn’t in as bad shape as Spring of 2011, when she was hospitalized with extreme edema, but she was dying.
I expected her to last there longer than a day, and when I last visited her eyes were closed as if she was asleep.
I had been told she might awake.
I don’t know if she knew I was in the room, but she probably did.
I said “so long” through tears as I left; my dog was in the car.
Hospeace called about 9:30 that night and said she had died.
OOMPH! What a let-down.
The diagnosis was not terminal; she “could” die, but not “would.”
So here I am alone.
Devastated and heartbroken.
More than I expected.
Also very scared.
And a big bag if cancer-drugs was in my house.
Including morphine.
Also there was a hyper-expensive chemo-pill we had to give up because it decimated her white-blood cells.
Giving up on that was the death-knell.
It was our final treatment option.
Only one chemo, out of about five, worked. It was C-H-O-P (Cyclophosphamide, Hydroxydaunorubicin (also called doxorubicin or Adriamycin), Oncovin (vincristine), and Prednisone or prednisolone), which you can only have eight times. It damages the heart.
It was the only chemo that killed the cancer. It would leave her with a clean cancer-scan. —It also left her hairless, since it killed all the fast-growing cells, and hair is fast-growing.
But she’d had it eight times, so she could no longer take it. The hyper-expensive chemo was different and our last resort.
Fortunately it wasn’t at our expense, although I was prepared to pay for it — on the order of $8,000-plus for the prescription. Some charity paid for it, and she managed only two of those pills (of 30).
(There was difficulty with her medical insurance because it was a prescription instead of intravenous.)
So here we were left wither a hyper-expensive prescription she couldn’t use, nor could anyone else.
It had to be tossed. Thousands of dollars incinerated.
That first drop-off was Ontario County, the county I live in.
Another Ontario-County drop-off was scheduled, but it was 30 miles away, and in October.
I happened to take along the drugs to a pharmacy in nearby Victor holding a Shingles vaccination clinic. They wouldn’t take them, but they suggested drop-offs in adjacent Monroe County (where Rochester is).
They were much closer.
Fairport, about 20 miles away, and another in East Rochester. East Rochester is closer, but Fairport was yesterday (Wednesday, September 5, 2012), earlier.
After my long 45-minute journey, I parked in the tiny Fairport Police parking-lot.
A lady was crossing the parking-lot with a bag of prescription drugs.
“Looks like I got the right place,” I said.
Inside a clerk took my drugs.
“There’s morphine in there,” I said.
Me and the other lady walked out.
“Finally rid of them,” I said to her.
“They pile up so fast,” she said.
“Those were my wife’s cancer-drugs,” I said. “She’s gone.”
“Oh how awful,” the lady said. “I’m sorry.”
Fairport was in the same direction as Pittsford, so on the way home I stopped at the Pittsford Ben & Jerry’s.
I walked out with six pints of the finest chocolate ice-cream in the entire known universe.
“This should last clear into November,” I told the proprietor.
“There’s only one of us now, and I only eat a half-pint per week.”
“Sorry for your loss,” he said, pocketing my money.

• “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.
• 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.)
•”Fairport” and “Pittsford” are suburbs to the east of Rochester (NY); Pittsford more monied, although Fairport is almost as rich as Pittsford. “East Rochester” is also an eastern suburb, but not monied, more proletarian. —Both Pittsford and Fairport are on the Erie Canal. Victor is a more rural suburb of Rochester to the southeast (not on the canal). At one time it had three railroads serving it; although one was a trolley-line.

Calendars

One-by-one my many calendars arrive.
I get seven.
So far I have three, two more are on order, one I can’t get until December, and my own I’m not so sure I can do.
Just because my wife died doesn’t stop from getting my calendars.
Anyone who follows this blog knows they aren’t really calendars.
After all, seven is extreme.
I don’t use ‘em as calendars.
Only one is used as a calendar, and that’s because I no longer have the computer-calendar my wife kept — which had no art.
What my calendars are are wall-art that changes every month.
I can also evaluate each picture. Some are extraordinary, and some are dull.
At least they’re all pretty good.
I got an antique-car calendar from Hemmings once, and returned it.
The printing was marginal; the dot-matrix setting was too big.
The dots on the calendars I get are so small I can’t see ‘em.
My own calendar is the one I worry about.
It had previously been done with Kodak Gallery®, but Kodak Gallery went defunct with the Kodak bankruptcy.
Kodak Gallery was bought by Shutterfly, so now the calendar would be by them.
I haven’t tried it yet. There are pictures I haven’t taken I might wanna include.
There also is the fact I no longer have a wife around.
I figured out Kodak Gallery myself, so I can probably figure out Shutterfly.
But I have no confidence. It seems to have vaporized with my wife’s death.
I set aside the “O. Winston Link ‘Steam & Steel’” calendar, a railroad calendar, in case my own calendar bombs.
The calendars I already have are -1) my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar, -2) My Oxman Publishing hotrod calendar, and -3) my Tide-mark Press All-Pennsy color calendar.
Both “Ghosts” and “Oxman” solicit my business. I order online — did a while ago.
Tide-mark solicits me too, finally. A number of times I missed the All-Pennsy color calendar. I ordered too late, and they ran out.
The calendars I have on order are -1) my Motorbooks Musclecars calendar, and -2) my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar.
Audio-Visual solicits my business, usually in July.
The Motorbooks calendar I have to Google. (Motorbooks is a supplier of car-literature.)
My Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar is the first calendar I got, probably in 1968.
For years it was my only calendar.
When first published it ran only railroad-images by Don Wood, including the photo below, the best photo Wood ever got.

Photo by Don Wood©.

The best picture Wood ever took.

Four Pennsylvania Railroad Decapods (2-10-0) are moving the heavy Mt. Carmel ore-train up the 1.31 percent grade of the Shamokin branch in PA. to interchange with Lehigh Valley in Mt. Carmel, two pulling and two pushing.
But this year the Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar is late.
So far, no solicitation, so I tried Google.
Late because they lost their printer; out-of-business.
The Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendars will be printed this month (September).
But I could pre-order, so I did.
I order two, one for myself, and one as a Christmas-present for my railfan nephew, now 27.
No way would I ever miss the Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar. Very few are published, and they quickly sell out. The calendar is rare, and has some the best images I’ve ever seen.
Of note is that I have two All-Pennsy calendars. That’s the Pennsylvania Railroad, now defunct, once “the Standard Railroad of the World,” and once the largest.
I’m very much a Pennsy railfan. Many of the first steam-locomotives I saw as a child were Pennsy, and they were prettiest.
I saw other steam-locomotives, like Reading (“redding;” not “reading”), but the Pennsy engines were much more attractive.
I’m a railfan because of Pennsy, I guess.
The one I can’t get until December is my Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar.
It appears in the December issue of Trains Magazine. It can’t be ordered online. It has to be snail-mail. My other calendars are online, even now the Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar, which used to be snail-mail or eBay.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. Like me, she was 68. I miss her dearly.
• “Art” is a newspaper term, referring to photos, graphs or illustrations. A story with photographs is said to “have art.” —For almost 10 years I worked at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost seven years ago.
• RE: “the dot-matrix setting.....” —Four-color printing (magenta/black/cyan/yellow) is done with color-dots. The default dot-matrix setting is 75 dots per inch, except that big you can see the dots. Smaller dots are more expensive, and if the dots are small enough they’re not noticed.
• RE: the “O. Winston Link ‘Steam & Steel’” calendar...... —During the late ‘50s O. Winston Link of Brooklyn took photographs of the last steam-powered railroad in America, the Norfolk & Western. Calendars are made from these photographs. (There is a Link museum in Roanoke, VA, headquarters city for N&W.) —Link specialized in night photography, setting up 89 bazilyun huge flashbulbs and reflectors.

Monthly Calendar Report for September, 2012

Potshot! (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

—The September 2012 entry of my own calendar is what I consider a potshot.
We were heading for the bridge in Altoona not far from Slope Interlocking, and a westbound was approaching on Track Three.
Slope is where the climb over the Alleghenies begins. It’s also where the tracks divide for entry into the massive Altoona yard complex to the east.
Pennsy also had its shops in Altoona, and locomotive manufacture.
Altoona is no longer what it was, but the tracks still divide into drag-tracks and express tracks.
There also are locomotive shops for Norfolk Southern in Juniata (“June-eee-AT-uh) just north of Altoona — It’s the old Pennsy Juniata shops.
Altoona used to be a main classification yard. It still is, somewhat.
It’s also where helper locomotives are added if needed westbound for the climb over the Allegheny mountains.
I missed orderly photos of this train; we got there just as it arrived.

Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.

Later (more organized). —The Slope control-box is at left.
A second train came later; I was more organized shooting it. (Not a potshot.)
There used to be a tower at Slope, but it’s long-gone.
All that remains is a metal equipment-box on the old tower foundation. That box is maybe 125 yards from the bridge we were on.
As we arrived I shot a potshot of the approaching train.
The camera auto-focuses, so the picture is in focus; although it’s probably at infinity.
I’m shooting through holes in a chain-link fence, and am right over Track Three.
What you don’t see here is how cockeyed my photo was, tilted at least 15 degrees.
I had to crop a lot to rectify that tilt.

Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.

SD40-E helpers lead an eastbound down Track One toward Slope Interlocking.
But the photo proves the old adage. Just shoot and see what you get!
The sunlight is right overhead in the calendar-picture. It’s shining right into the cab. I remember the engineer was eating a sandwich.
From pictures like this I’ve learned to shoot potshots.
Above is another potshot.
Quite often the potshots are what end up in my calendar.
The above picture will be in a future calendar.



Righteous!

—The September 2012 entry of my Oxman Hotrod Calendar is actually a ’33 Ford Three-Window coupe.
Although it has a ’36 grill.
This car is an assemblage of various parts to offset the fact it’s a ’33, not that attractive.
A ’33 grill doesn’t look that bad, but not as good as a ’32 or ’34 (I prefer the ’32). A ’33 grill looks much like the ’34.
But the ’36 grill on this car looks great.

A ’33.

A ’36.

The car benefits from having the ’33’s body-lines, more squarish.
The ’36 Ford is more bulbous, and not as attractive.
The ’33 Ford also has louvered hood-sides. The ’36 is a chromed applique. The louvers look better.
But the ’36 grill is attractive, more so than the ’33 grill.
The car also has a ’32 Ford gas-tank, which I think is between the rear bumper and the trunk.
The car also has the right motor and equipment, a 392 cubic-inch SVO Ford V8, injected, into a five-speed Tremac transmission into a 9-inch Ford rear-axle.
That rear-axle is antediluvian, but the car’s on a frame.
The car is old; it’s not modern. It’s not state-of-the-art.
It’s not unit-body; it’s body-on-frame.
The only thing counteracting twisting forces is the frame, not body-structure; although it contributes some.
The front-axle is beam-axle, the application found on cars at that time, and on many modern trucks.
It’s not the compliant, well-engineered MacPherson strut layout found on modern cars.
Dragsters often have simple beam-axles in front, a system that locates the axle well for straightline acceleration.
Hotrods didn’t have to do well over tortured pavement through curves like in Europe.
The hotrod’s venue was straightline acceleration over a drag-strip, or high-speed runs over smooth pavement or a dry lake-bed.
Pavement in this country is becoming tortured enough to require European suspension.
This car is essentially the calendar’s feature-car.
Combining attractive elements onto an unattractive car. A ’36 Ford grill, etc onto a ’33 Ford, a car that doesn’t attract that much attention.
The fact it’s a ’33 Ford gives it better lines than a ’36, yet it has the prettier ’36 grill ahead of the ’33’s great-looking louvers.
Plus it’s a good color with that single gold pin-stripe.




Coil-train. (Photo by Tim Calvin.)

—The September 2012 entry of my Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar is a mixed freight, although the first 16-17 cars are coiled steel in Protec© cars.
Long strips of sheet-steel are coiled for shipment, and then loaded into these cars.
The cars have covers that protect the coiled steel from the elements.
That steel sheet may eventually become a fender-stamping for a Chevrolet Cruze, or a panel for a washing-machine.
Delivery has to be made without damage, like corrosion or rust.
Which explains the Protec© cars, protection from the elements.
Never have I seen unprotected steel being delivered.
I’ve seen slab-trains, heavy steel slabs loaded into gondola-cars, slab for delivery to a rolling-plant to roll into thin steel sheet.
Once in a while I’ve seen trains of only Protec© cars. But usually the cars are folded into a mixed-freight, what this train appears to be.
The lead engine, #4638, ex-Southern Railway, is an EMD (General Motors’ Electromotive Division) GP-59, 3,000 horsepower. It’s also an “Operation Lifesaver” locomotive, which means for the “Operation Lifesaver” promotion.
A GP (“Geep”) is four axles, all driven. Geeps are no longer made. New freight-engines are six-axles, all driven. That’s six traction-motors instead of four. In EMD parlance that’s an “SD.”
“Operation Lifesaver” is to get the public aware of railroad-crossing safety, to get people to not drive around down grade-crossing gates, for fear a train might be coming that could smash the errant vehicle to smithereens, and kill the occupants.
If the errant vehicle is large and heavy enough it could derail the train.
Make it a gasoline-truck and a collision could cause a conflagration, killing the locomotive-crew.
If the train derails, and it was tankcars full of flammables or toxics, devastation could erupt that evacuates the surroundings.
As a railfan I stop at the slightest indication the crossing-gates will drop. There’s a train to see.
Yet drivers take chances trying to beat an onrushing train to a grade-crossing.
There’s a chance the train might plug the crossing and delay their trip, Heaven-forbid!
Worse yet are drivers that think trains don’t exist any more, that down crossing-gates are just an impediment to their progress.
They just drive around the gates, and are surprised when their vehicle gets clobbered.
Semis have been hit this way.
Then too there’s the clearance-problem; a low-clearance trailer might hang up on the railroad-tracks and get stuck in the railroad-crossing.
I’ve seen signs requiring 18-inch clearance at railroad-crossings.
Anything less and the trailer might hang up on the tracks, and plug the crossing until it can be freed. Call the railroad, and stop any oncoming trains. lest they smash into the hung-up trailer.
Stryker, in the far northwestern corner of Ohio, location of the photograph, is an old town with a beautiful depot and a trackside mill.
The railroad is the old Michigan Southern, once a part of New York Central’s line to Chicago, far as I know.
Norfolk Southern must have got it in the Conrail breakup and sale.
Conrail succeeded Penn-Central, the merger of Pennsylvania Railroad and New York Central that failed. Conrail was originally a government entity, but privatized as it became profitable.
Conrail was broken up and sold in 1999, with most of the ex-Pennsy lines going to Norfolk Southern, and most of the ex-NYC lines going to CSX Transportation.
But apparently this Michigan Southern line, an old NYC line, went to Norfolk Southern.
I fired up Stryker in my Google satellite-views, could see the old depot, but there appear to be mill-buildings on both sides of the tracks.




1970 Cammer Mustang (Boss 429). (Peter Harholdt©.)

—The September 2012 entry of my Motorbooks Musclecars calendar is a Boss 429 Mustang, a car brought to market to allow Ford to race the incredible 429 “Cammer” in NASCAR.
The “Cammer” was meant to compete with Chrysler’s “Hemi” (“hem-eee;” not “he-me”) in NASCAR. The Ford engine was called the “Cammer” because it had a single overhead camshaft in each cylinder-head. —Unlike Chrysler’s Hemi, which still had its camshaft down in the block between the cylinder banks.

Photo by Peter Harholdt©.

The Boss 429 “Cammer” engine.
The “Cammer” is a tight fit in a Mustang. The Cammer is huge!
It had to be just about hammered into place.
The exhaust manifolds are contorted and restrictive.
To succeed the Cammer Mustang needs steel-tube headers, aftermarket at that time.
Steel-tube headers don’t last like cast-iron exhaust manifolds.
Not limited by casting requirements, steel-tube headers can flow more exhaust and allow the engine to better breathe.
Such a car is obviously aimed at the drag-strip.
With such a big heavy engine over the front-end, the car would plow (understeer) in corners.
In fact, one wonders how the lightly-loaded rear axle would avoid spinning at the drag-strip when a Cammer was unleashed.



Box-cab. (Photo by Fred Kern.)

— The September 2012 entry of my AII-Pennsy color calendar is a box-cab version of the Pennsylvania Railroad’s P5a electric locomotive (4-6-4).
There were two versions of the P5a, a box-cab version and a steeple-cab version.
The steeple-cab version was developed after a box-cab had a grade-crossing accident, killing its crew.
A box-cab, of course, had its crew right up front. A steeple-cab put a long nose in front of the crew, which was toward the middle.

A GG1 passenger express passes a P5a-powered freight.

Photo by Fred Kern.

The July entry

Photo by Fred Kern.

The August entry.
The steeple-cab version of the P5a is at left.
Railfans make the mistake of calling a box-cab a P5 and the steeple-cab a P5a.
Not so. Both are the same engine, only different cabs.
Another Fred Kern picture.
Already Kern has had two other pictures (also at left) in this calendar.
The P5 was supposed to be a passenger locomotive.
But it wasn’t very successful.
It had to be MUed (two units) to do what needed to be done.
And then, of course, the phenomonal GG1 (“Jee-Jee-ONE;” I only say that because a friend was mispronouncing it “Jee-Jee-Eye”) was developed.
I single GG1 could do what needed to be done, which was maintain schedules on Pennsy’s electrified New York-to-Washington line.

Photo by BobbaLew.

Bad photo of a box-cab entering the Edgemoor yard-lead north of Wilmington, DE.

Photo by BobbaLew.

P5a steeple-cab, etc., at the Wilmington sanding-tower.
So the P5a was reassigned as a freight-locomotive.
Although GG1s did that too. Early ones were regeared for freight service.




Lavochkin La-9. (Photo by Philip Makanna©.)

—The September 2012 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is a fighter-plane I don’t recognize.
That’s because it’s Russian.
I’ll let Wikipedia talk about it — it’s not on my WWII warbirds site, it not being a WWII fighter-plane.
“The Lavochkin La-9 (NATO reporting name “Fritz”) was a Soviet fighter aircraft produced shortly after WWII. It was a piston-engined aircraft produced at the start of the jet age.
The La-9 represents a further development of the Lavochkin La-126 prototype. The first prototype, designated La-130 was finished in 1946.
Similarity to the famous Lavochkin La-7 was only superficial — the new fighter had all-metal construction and a laminar flow wing. Weight savings due to elimination of wood from the airframe allowed for greatly improved fuel capacity and a four-cannon armament.”
A laminar wing is one that passed air in parallel layers without disruption. It was in effect “streamlined.”
Wiki again: “Consider the flow of air over an aircraft wing. The boundary layer is a very thin sheet of air lying over the surface of the wing (and all other surfaces of the aircraft). Because air has viscosity, this layer of air tends to adhere to the wing.”
The P-51 Mustang also had a laminar wing.
“Mock combat demonstrated that the La-130 was evenly matched with the La-7 but was inferior to Yakovlev Yak-3 both horizontally and vertically.
The new fighter, officially designated La-9, entered production in August 1946. A total of 1,559 aircraft were built by the end of production in 1948.”
Its powerplant was a Shvetsov ASh-82FN air-cooled radial engine with a two-stage supercharger and fuel injection, 1,850 horsepower.
Maximum speed was 428 miles-per-hour, range was 1,077 miles, and ceiling was 35,433 feet (10,800 meters).
Only one La-9 remains in airworthy condition today, owned by Jerry Yagen of Virginia Beach, VA, restored by Pioneer Aero Restorations between 2001 and 2003.
That’s probably the one pictured.
It’s interesting this airplane is in a WWII warbirds calendar, since it’s technically not a WWII warbird.
A handful of others remain in museums in China, Korea and one in Romania. None are airworthy.




Southbound coal-empties from Sodus Point. (Photo courtesy Joe Luo Collection©.)

—The September 2012 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar is sort of crude, but it’s a steam-locomotive, a Pennsy I1sa Decapod (2-10-0).
It’s running south on the old line from Sodus Point harbor (“So-dis;” as in ”soda”) on Lake Ontario.
My guess is the Northern Central, or its predecessor, in New York state, went to Canandaigua (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”), where it interchanged with Canandaigua & Niagara Falls, later New York Central’s infamous “Peanut-line,” called that by a New York Central executive because it was such a “peanut” compared to the mighty New York Central main (four tracks) across New York state.
“Canandaigua” 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.
The Canandaigua & Niagara Falls could ship PA coal to the Buffalo and Niagara falls areas.
NYC got the “Peanut” in exchange for not financing South Pennsylvania Railroad, competition for Pennsy across PA. NYC also got West Shore, competition for NYC across New York financed by Pennsy.
Much of the South Pennsylvania, graded but never completed (no rail) became the Pennsylvania Turnpike, including tunnels.

Photo by BobbaLew.

The coal-trestle (closed) at Sodus Point.
The Sodus Point line was built by Sodus Point & Southern to a coal-wharf in Sodus Point that could transfer railroad hopper-loads of coal (or iron-ore) into lake steamships.
That coal-trestle, made of wood and abandoned, burned down in 1971 during dismantling.
The coal-trestle pictured, 60 feet high and 800 feet long, replaced an earlier smaller trestle (40 high by 400 feet long).
(I ran this coal-trestle picture before, and when I did it got a lot of comments. Memories, especially the fire.)
Pennsy acquired controlling-interest in Northern Central in 1861, and thereafter operated the line as a subsidiary. Their intent was to counter Baltimore & Ohio.
Pennsy merged Sodus Point & Southern in 1884, taking over the traffic to-and-from Sodus Point.
Northern Central was an amalgamation of various predecessor railroads, originally out of Baltimore, through York, PA, and eventually up the western shore of the Susquehanna (“suss-kwee-HAN-uh;” as in “and”) river to a crossing north of Pennsy’s Rockville bridge.
But their crossing was crude; just a single-track wooden covered-bridge.
When Pennsy took over Northern Central that covered-bridge bridge was removed, and trains switched over to Pennsy’s Rockville bridge.
Coal-traffic over Pennsy’s Sodus Point line burgeoned, and was well-suited for Pennsy’s Decapod 2-10-0 in the late ‘40s and early ‘50s.
The line is hilly and challenging, particularly north out of Watkins Glen to Penn Yan (“yan;” as in “Anne”), and the Deks could slug it out.
Here we have a Decapod returning empty coal-hoppers from Sodus Point back down into Pennsylvania.
The picture is marginal; it’s not Don Wood, what this calendar started with in the ‘60s.
For example the photo below, but it’s not on the Sodus Point line.

Photo by Don Wood©.

The best picture Wood ever did.
Four Deks are moving the heavy Mt. Carmel ore-train up the 1.31 percent grade of the Shamokin branch to interchange with Lehigh Valley in Mt. Carmel, two in front and two pushing.

There’s that word again

The word is “condolences.”
It’s not so much the word, but the way it’s delivered.
As if the word itself frees the deliverer from involvement with the recipient.
As if “condolences” are gonna make me feel better.
My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. Like me, she was 68. I miss her dearly.
So people come up offering condolences, as if that’s gonna make me feel better.
They never do. I’m devastated and heartbroken.
More than I expected to be.
The death of my wife smashed me to bits, even more than my stroke.
We were very attached, at least me to her.
I have no gumption at all. I barely exist.
I still have our dog, now my dog.
I happened to take the dog to Boughton (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”) Park yesterday (Friday, August 31, 2012) for a long walk through the woods, about four-five miles over terrible footing, exposed roots in dirt trails.
A lady approached after I parked, addressing me as “Mark.”
“Who’s Mark?” I asked.
“I thought your name was Mark,” she said.
“It’s Bob,” I said.
The lady was a park regular I’ve seen before, but I didn’t recognize her not in Winter garb, and with a different dog.
“Which car?” I asked.
“The white one,” she said, pointing to a white Ford Freestyle.
Now I recognized her, “but first I should tell you right away my wife died.”
“I know,” she said. “I came over to offer my condolences.”
There’s that dastardly word again!
Don’t snap at her. She means well. Try to not look exasperated.
Unfortunately my mood always shows. I hope it didn’t this time.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, escaping before I made things worse.
(The bathroom is a Porta-John.)
“He doesn’t wanna talk about it,” she probably concluded.
Not true. I’m just afraid of hurting feelings.

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