’56 T-Bird

Classic-Car’s unrestored original 1956 Thunderbird. (Photo by Mark J. McCourt.)

As is common to Hemmings Classic Car magazine, my April 2013 issue celebrates the wondrous joys of original unrestored classic cars still in use.
Featured are a 1948 Dodge sedan, a 1954 Packard, and a 1956 Thunderbird, among others.
Most notable to me is the ’56 T-Bird.
It’s not factory-stock, but almost.
The car was purchased with automatic-transmission, which came with a higher output, larger displacement version of Ford’s Y8 — “Y” because the cylinder-block, shaped like a “Y,” went down around the crankshaft bearings. It was a V8, of course.
But the car’s original owner was dissatisfied with the poor fuel-economy of the auto-tranny higher-output engine-package, so had the car converted to standard-shift; a floor-shift.
Yet the car continued its higher-output auto-tranny engine.
The higher output wasn’t much; only 10 extra horses (225 horsepower) and seven extra foot-pounds of torque (324 foot-pounds). —It had a higher compression-ratio of 9-to-1, as opposed to only 8.4 of the standard-tranny V8.
It also was 312 cubic-inches instead of 292.
The original owner also installed aftermarket engine-gauges in a hand-built console; oil-temperature, oil-pressure, etc.
So the car is not factory, but close.
Remarkable is the car is not restored. In fact, there is a tear in the driver-seat upholstery.
I always liked the ’56 T-Bird.
I drew up a radical customization of a ’56 T-Bird when I was in college.
My car had a 440 cubic-inch Chrysler “Wedge” engine matched to a four-speed floor-shift.
It was the styling. I was never attracted to the early Corvettes. Yet the two-seater T-Birds were stunning, what Corvettes should have been.
Of course, the T-Bird was a stone compared to a ‘Vette. The Corvette had that fabulous SmallBlock V8, a high-revving engine almost European in character.
Ford’s Y-block V8 was a boat-anchor by comparison.
I remember a ’55 Ford being drag-raced at Cecil County Drag-O-Way in the middle ‘60s. It was always getting trounced by Chevys.
So out with the Y-block, and put in a 440 cubic-inch Chrysler Wedge. (Easier said than done.)
Compared to what’s available today, such a car would be frightening. Way too much power in an antique car.
My brother’s 454 SS Chevelle, which I drove once, was like that.
The suspension of a ’56 T-Bird is antediluvian, no match for a high-output V8.
Better would be a modern Mustang. Its suspension is matched to its high-output V8.

A retro-Bird.

In fact, as far as I know, the retro-Bird, pictured at left, had recent Mustang underpinnings.
And my custom looked a lot like the retro-Bird.
I had tossed the ’56 Ford taillights in favor of more rounded fenders. —Tossing those taillights is a mistake. They make the car.
I also tossed that rear continental-kit. It was specific to the ’56 Thunderbird, but the car doesn’t need it, and looks silly with it.
That porthole window in the hardtop is also specific to the ’56 Bird.
My side-elevation of this custom is long-gone.
And of course the two-seater T-Bird was not for long. Thunderbird went to four seats in 1958.
The 1958 T-Bird looked pretty good, but it was no longer a Corvette competitor.

A ’57 T-Bird.

And the best-looking two-seater is 1957. A guy at my high-school had one. It was dashing and great-looking. Perfect for drive-ins, or top-down cruising with your honey.
But the ’57 T-Bird’s fins atop its rear-fenders were canted, and also somewhat extreme.
It didn’t fit my concept.

Photo by BobbaLew.

427 ’55 T-Bird.

I’ll add a picture of a T-Bird drag-raced at Cecil County Drag-O-Way. It had a much bigger and more powerful engine, a 427 cubic-inch Ford.
Putting that heavy 427 in there makes as much sense as a 440 Wedge, although it was probably fairly easy. —A 440 Chrysler would had been a handful to install.
That T-Bird was a poor competitor. It wouldn’t hook up its drive-tires. Starts would go up in tire-smoke.
The car is a ’55; no porthole window, and no continental-kit.

• RE: Chrysler “Wedge......” —It was called that because of its wedge-shaped combustion-chambers, as opposed to Chrysler’s “hemi” (“hem-eee;” not “he-mee”). A wedge had all its valves in a row parallel to the crankshaft. A Hemi has hemispherical combustion-chambers, its valving 90 degrees to the crankshaft.
• 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 “SmallBlock” was revolutionary in its time.
• “Drag-racing” is standing-start to as fast as possible over a flat quarter-mile. Whoever beats their opponent wins.

WHOA!

At long last, over 10 months since my wife died, yrs trly is moving on the car-problem. (“Doncha mean ‘issue?’”)
I still have the two cars we had before my wife died, a 2003 Honda CR-V, and an All-Wheel-Drive 2005 Toyota Sienna minivan. (The CR-V is also All-Wheel-Drive.)
Two cars for only one person seemed rather silly.
It’s not like I felt attached to those cars, although subconsciously I may have.
It was more logistics; getting trade-in values, and finding cars to look at.
Months ago, before my wife died, I looked at the new Honda CR-V. I even test-drove one.
It was okay, but I wasn’t impressed.
Last summer I looked at the new Mazda SUV, the CX-5. It was okay, but again I wasn’t impressed.
My determining factor is always whether it’s dog-friendly.
I need a flat floor with lots of inside ceiling clearance, plus no dog-swallowing gap behind the front seats.
The previous Ford Escape does an exemplary job of being dog-friendly.
The bottom rear seat-cushions fold forward and fill the dog-swallowing gap, and the rear seat-backs fold down leaving a flat floor.
There’s no dog-swallowing gap in my current CR-V, but the rear seats fold forward and block rear-door entry for my dog. The dog has to jump around those seats; and she’s fallen.
Two of those previous Ford Escapes were available pre-owned at a Ford dealership in nearby Canandaigua.
“Doncha mean ‘used?’” I always ask.
At least they weren’t “pre-enjoyed.”
One had already been sold, but the other was interesting.
They offered trade-in values totaling $17,250 for my two cars: $7,250 for my CR-V, and $10,000 for my van.
That’s $250 more than Blue-Book for my CR-V, and $900 less for my van.
The Toyota-dealer in Canandaigua, where I bought the Sienna, is showering me with snail-mail saying they want my car.
So I figured I’d go up there and see what they’d give me to buy it back.
The Toyota-dealer is being remodeled. It was a mess.
I managed to find the showroom, and butted in on a salesman.
An attractive young girl approached saying “can I help you?”
“Sure,” I thought. “Take off all your clothes and we’ll have at it right here in the showroom.”
It was her cleavage.
I say that, but I doubt I could do such a thing.
Or even try.
It’s depressing to think some creepy fat-cat told her she needed to expose more cleavage to sell cars.
UGH! —Poor girl; innocent too.
I’ve been loudly poo-pooed in the past for not wanting to take advantage of people.
I was laid off — some say fired — for not having that attitude.
I explained my situation, hoping they might be interested in buying back my van — for more than the trade-in value I had been offered.
I was directed to a sullen fat-cat in an anteroom.
He looked hung over, like he’d been hitting the Jack Daniel’s the night before.
He grunted something about my van being “older,” and had my pretty young salesgirl fill out a form.
Pretty as she was, it seemed like fat-cat was incensed. Like she was being a bother.
The girl went out and got my van’s VIN and mileage, then directed me to her desk.
“If I’d known I’d have to wait, I’d have brought my magazines,” I said.
I began to fidget. Time was passing quickly.
“If they were as desperate for my van as their letters seem to indicate, I wouldn’t be here twiddling my thumbs,” I thought.
Finally, “I can spare about five more minutes,” I said. “I have to hit the supermarket down the street, and get my dog.”
Pretty-girl went back to bother fat-cat, but he had already appraised my van.
She came back with my key. “He’s offering $7,000,” she said.
“WHOA!” I shouted as I jumped up and headed for the door.
“I need way more than that!” I said.
Pretty-girl was following me out. “Stay with the prospect,” she’d obviously been told.
“The Ford-dealer is offering me 10,” I said to her over my shoulder.
“What a complete waste of time that was,” I said to my friend who daycares my dog.
“The only reason I went there is they keep hitting me with letters crying for my van.
I was about to walk out. If they were as desperate as their letters indicate, I wouldn’t have been waiting.”
My brother-from-northern-Delaware later called me by mistake.
He laughed when I told him I walked out in a huff.
I told him I had been suggested the local Craig’s-List to sell my van. He started detailing all the Craig’s-List scams.
He laughed when I grabbed my wallet.
“Dunna toucha dat wallet!” I shouted.
My wife is gone, a very sad situation. But I’m still the same asshole about money I was before.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. At the time she was 68 — I am now 69. I miss her dearly.

Is this our house?

The dreaded 282 Alumni had its regular quarterly meeting last Wednesday, February 20th, 2013, at Browncroft Family Restaurant.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS — “Transit”), a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
While a bus-driver there I belonged to the Rochester Division of the Amalgamated Transit Union (ATU), Local 282. (ATU is nationwide.)
The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit upper-management retirees ran roughshod over union retirees — a continuation of the bad vibes at Transit, management versus union.
Transit had a club for long-time employees, and I was in it. It was called the “15/25-year Club;” I guess at first the “25-year Club.” But they lowered the employment requirement, and renamed it “15/25-year Club.” The employment requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years.
My employ there ended in 1993 with my stroke (disability retirement); and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then.
The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
It’s an Amalgamated Transit Union functionary. It isn’t just a social club.
It has bylaws, officers, and an Executive Board.
In many ways it’s just like our union-local, except it entertains issues of interest to retirees; like Medicare, healthcare, and diabetes and Alzheimer’s.
“Dreaded” because all my siblings are flagrantly anti-union, like the proper way for hourlies to parry the massive management juggernaut is one employee at a time; in which case that single employee gets trampled because he’s not presenting a united front with power equal to management.
The proletariate’s attempt to exact a living wage from bloated management fat-cats is what’s wrong with this country.
The meetings are held at a restaurant because they’re breakfast-meetings; a Transit retiree gig.
The friend who daycares my dog, while I work out at the Canandaigua YMCA, calls them “transient-retirees.”
Attendees load up on breakfast, and the club pays for coffee.
About 50 attended, a record.
Only one girl was waitressing our group; she was swamped.
As retirees, we’re all falling apart with aging.
The Recording-Secretary had quit his duties due to health problems, although he was still doing the club newsletter, which he does on his computer with Microsoft Word®. (Attracted to tech-stuff; I can understand that.)
The club president was unable to attend due to health problems of his own, and serious health problems of his wife.
Since Browncroft Family Restaurant is in a suburb adjacent to where we once lived in the city I decided to go see our old house, our first.
It’s been over 20 years since we left, and we used to visit occasionally while my wife was still alive.
This would be my first visit since my wife died.

Our first house (323 N. Winton Road in Rochester), after it was put up for sale. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Our first house was built about 1865, and at that time was probably the first farmhouse in the area.
The area had since become a city neighborhood; our house was surrounded by homes built in the teens and twenties.
The area used to be in the Town of Brighton, but was annexed by the City of Rochester.
The original structure was a small two-story on a stone foundation. Its frame was large barn-beams, and the cellar was dug with an earthen floor, with about a five-foot clearance. You had to stoop.
Later a one-story addition was added south of the two-story. It didn’t use barn-beams; it was wood-framed, but more modern construction.
A shed was added behind that addition, and later that shed was converted to living-space: the kitchen.
So our bedroom was in the original two-story, the living-room was in the addition, and the kitchen was in the converted shed.
The upstairs of the two-story was unheated. Its ceiling was about six-feet on-center, but the roof-pitches angled the ceiling at the sides. You had to duck. We always called it “the attic;” use was near-impossible.
In the early ‘70s we lived in an apartment across the road from this house. The apartment was the upstairs of a house.
We always were attracted to this house. It was painted yellow with green trim, and it remained true to its humble beginnings.
No picture-windows, nor any out-of-character improvements.
Then the house went up for sale.
It was interesting, but I worried about off-street parking. —I couldn’t see any.
Turns out it was a double-lot. The property went clear back to the next block.
A two-car garage was out back facing that back-street.
You accessed that garage from a long driveway up from that back-street.
At that time I wasn’t working, but my wife was, so we purchased the house based on her income.
The house only cost $15,000, and was a first-time FHA mortgage.
I should have known, being old, there were many things wrong.
Worst was the heat-loss. The house was such a sieve we were heating the outdoors.
Many of the windows were original, that is, 19th century.
There were even bubbles in the glass.
The windows were double-hung, and sealing was so poor they were drafty in Winter, very drafty.
The bathroom plumbing would freeze. It was inside the envelope, but right next to a north-facing exterior wall, and uninsulated.
The house lacked closets. There was no closet in the bedroom.
We made one, except it was standalone, not part of the house.
The original owner made closet-space in the addition by making a long hallway from the living-room to the kitchen.
The so-called closet was a long space parallel to that hallway, and had a window.
My wife removed that hallway wall to make that area a dining-area, but it was narrow.
A tiny bedroom was in one corner of the two-story first floor.
It had a rudimentary closet under a steep stairwell to the upstairs. The closet was in an area that had once been the stairs down to the cellar.
The roof over the kitchen also leaked.
And so much heat was exiting the house, ice-dams formed on the roof.
The reason we built a new house was because the old house needed so much work.
The shed/kitchen was built around the original chimney. We had to have that removed, and a new chimney built. The new chimney was behind the two-story section, was brick, and built by masons.
The leaky shed-roof had to be replaced. In so doing we were remodeling the kitchen. Out with the ancient Sears fixtures and in with new.
The contractor who did this is the one who eventually built our new house.
The shed was poorly attached. An employee of that contractor said it reminded him of construction in the outback of West Virginia, very rudimentary.
Remodeling the kitchen of the old house was a challenge. A new floor had to be installed to level it, and the foundation under the shed wasn’t square. —It was skewed at least eight inches.
Most challenging was the unsquare foundation.
Construction atop it couldn’t be squared, which made making a corner-countertop very difficult.
We had to refuse the first countertop. It didn’t fit right —too gappy. The countertop-supplier had to toss his first countertop and make a second.
That fit much better; it had the proper skew.
So the house ended better, but there were still a lotta problems. Worst was the gigantic heat-loss, and the drafty windows.
All the windows needed replacing, and the house needed to be gutted to properly insulate.
The layout was unsatisfactory to my wife.
You were always tracking mud to get anywhere in the house. Getting to the bedroom or the bathroom from the kitchen was a long hike through the living-room.
The only way to solve all these problems was new construction.
We could afford it.
The only problem was moving out to the country. Our only city option was to completely tear down the house and start over.
So we looked for land in the country — my wife was a country-girl anyway.
The only disadvantage to country-living is long travel-times to various errands.
But we never really became aware of that until we moved out here; 25 minutes from everything, and almost an hour from Rochester.
So we put our old house up for sale.
We had to do various fixes to make it marketable. A new 60,000 BTU high-efficiency furnace had to be installed. It exhausted through a sidewall; the new chimney was for naught! 60,000 BTU for only 900 square feet is ridiculous, but we were heating the outdoors.
We also had to install a new electric water-heater. A gas water-heater couldn’t be properly flued in a cellar with only five feet of clearance.
The new furnace required removal of the old furnace, a gigantic asbestos abatement. The old furnace and heat-runs were lined with asbestos. Everything was inert until removal.
Everything had to be sealed off, although I don’t know how safe things were in the cellar. There was no way for us to get down there, yet the guys removing the furnace were relatively unprotected.
Furnace-parts and worker-clothing were buried in a landfill.
We had to heat the house with a gigantic electric heater that needed its own circuit. It just about quadrupled our electric-bill.
With the old house sold, our new house was built.
But we couldn’t move until our new house had a Certificate of Occupancy.
Construction of the new house took over five months; we weren’t cleared to move until the end of 1989.
When we moved our new house was still unfinished. We were camping out in our new house. The only water was the master-bathroom shower; no working toilets yet.
But we only camped out a couple nights — the house was almost finished.
The other insanity was the bank. It was slow issuing us a mortgage, and refused to give our contractor a builder’s loan. He needed the mortgage-proceeds to finish our house. His workers and suppliers went unpaid for a week or two.
The new house solved all the problems with our old house. New draft-free windows, and a tiny heat-load due to heavy insulation. Also a much better layout.
Its only problem is distance from errands.
So now to see the old homestead — house number-one.
I drove languidly into our old neighborhood.
There was Mayer Hardware on the corner of Winton and Blossom — we lived on Winton Road.
Mayer looked pretty much the same, except for dark-green exterior paint.
I wonder if it still has “the paint-lady,” who always muttered to herself while puttering her department.
I doubt it has “Gary” any more; I saw him at another hardware. He told me Mayer laid him off; he cost too much.
How many times did Gary and I solve housing problems?
And there was “Bill and Earl’s Garage.”
I wonder if Bill or Earl still exist?
Bill, who was slightly older than me, and somewhat a loose cannon, told me he didn’t expect to see 60.
Earl may have already been 60 when I patronized. Earl was the Parts and Tool guy, Bill the mechanic.
Bill and Earl’s Garage was two sections, a service-bay, and the Tool and Parts section. Earl was off by himself; Bill was milking Granny.
How many times did I just walk up the street from our house to solve some car problem with Earl?
I drove past our house. For one thing all the green trim, like the shutters in the picture, was gone, and it looked like the windows might have been replaced. It also looked like the roof was new.
I noticed the porch-railing I so exquisitely fixed was still extant.
I drove around the block, then down the dead-end street that ended at our old driveway.
Surprise!
It looked like our old driveway was no longer being used, since it was partially grown in. Our old garden was completely grown in — it’s been that way for some time — but the lawn behind our garden was also grown in.
That was lawn when we lived there!
Garage-doors to the south bay of the garage, the doors I never opened, were hanging open. It’s an old garage; the garage-doors are not retractable. The doors are hinged, and swing vertically.
I re-roofed that garage, an awful project. I did it in June, and the sun was beating down.
A car was up ahead of the garage in the immediate backyard between the house and the garage.
I never parked there; only once to wash our van — which got stuck.
That area was backyard as far as I was concerned, not a parking-area.
I forgot to see if the deck we built was still there. My brother and I set the lumber for that deck, and when we did I could see it wasn’t level to the house.
We set it with a giant water-level.
“The deck is level, but the house isn’t,” my brother declared. He was right. One corner of the house had settled some on its foundation.
So it goes.
Our old house is no longer ours. I’d say the guy who bought it from us has since moved on, and sold it to someone else.
Most surprising was all that undergrowth in the area that was once lawn, and that car parked up ahead of the garage in what used to be our dog’s running area.
It’s our old house, but no longer lived in by people obsessed with its historic appearance.
—Apparently!
And it’s the first time I’ve seen it since my wife died — and I’ve had other opportunities.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly. I have a picture of her painting an exterior wall, which we called “the wailing-wall,” on that house. There was a lot of paint-scraping.

YakTrax

Note metal ice-grippers.

Anyone who follows this here blog knows yrs trly has recently fallen four times on ice.
The first three times, all on the same walk, last Wednesday, February 13th, 2013, were of little consequence.
But the last time, Friday February 15th, I came up hurting.
I’m 69.
I landed on my left knee, and ended rather pranged.
Obviously I made it sound worse than it was, because it’s healing quickly, but it still hurts to bend that knee.
I was deluged with a torrent of advice, admonitions to ice and not work out. I also received numerous recommendations for Ibuprofen®.
I never got around to Ibuprofen or icing. But I did work out, or rather I attempted, since inactivity seemed to make it hurt more.
Swelling was barely noticeable. You’d have to look hard to see it.
I also got advice for YakTrax®, snap-on ice-walkers as illustrated above.
I had already ordered same before I got the advice. I ordered YakTrax before I wrote and circulated the “Pranged” blog, which precipitated the advice.
I’ve always been leery of ice-walkers; I (we) never had them. I could usually walk around the ice, or gingerly if I couldn’t.
Nothing of any import happened in the past, at least not enough to spring for ice-walkers.
I’m sure I’ve been slammed to the ground, but apparently without consequence.
But this most recent fall was enough to tip the balance; plus I keep getting older.
I ordered YakTrax online from good old Zappos. There were other outlets that had them for less, but add the shipping and they end up more than Zappos. Zappos is free shipping, plus quick.
It was also suggested I try Wal*mart, but that’s a trip to Wal*mart, plus I got sick of being bussed by urine-smelling geezers at the entrance.
So now I have ice-walkers, the YakTrax pictured above.
I give them a B-plus, maybe even an A-minus. They’re not miraculous, but they do make walking in treacherous conditions easier.
That is, I’ve had my feet slide on ice even with YakTrax, but hardly ever.

• RE: “I (we)”......... —My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. At the time she was 68. I miss her dearly.

Closed

Yesterday (Monday, February 18th, 2013), in a feeble attempt to distract from the incredible sadness engendered by the dreadful fate that has befallen me, I decided to treat my friends who daycare my dog to an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast at world-famous Cartwright’s Maple-Tree Inn.
Cartwright’s is only open during the maple-sugaring season; that is, when the sap is running in their giant stand of sugar-maple trees.
They serve all-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes with the real maple-syrup they’re making.
Cartwright’s is out in the middle of nowhere on the eastern side of western New York’s vast Genesee valley (“JENN-uh-see”).
The Genesee river flows south-to-north through the valley to Rochester (N.Y.). The valley was the first breadbasket of our fledgling nation.
Wheat would be shipped up to Rochester over a long-abandoned canal. Traces of that canal are still extant.
In Rochester the wheat might get milled and/or transshipped east on the Erie Canal.
Cartwright’s is in an extremely rural area; the Genesee valley is no longer the nation’s breadbasket.
Yet Cartwright’s is world-famous. Tour-buses of doddering oldsters join others who came by car. The pancakes are good, but the draw is the real maple-syrup.
I’ve been to Cartwright’s quite a few times, first maybe four or five years ago with a bunch of Transit retirees.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS; “Transit”) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
The Transit retirees hit Cartwright’s once a year.
We took my brother from northern Delaware to Cartwright’s last year. My wife was still alive then.
Now I push Cartwright’s on everyone, including the people who daycare my dog while I work out at the YMCA in nearby Canandaigua.
My friend is the husband of a lady who owns a pet-grooming establishment.
The lady does the grooming, and her husband is her assistant.
They daycare my dog as old friends — her husband and I once worked together at Canandaigua’s Daily Messenger newspaper. His wife worked at the Messenger too.
They daycare my dog partly to offset the horrible event I’ve suffered, the death of my beloved wife.
So my friend showed up about 9 a.m. yesterday so we could go to Cartwright’s; his wife was unable to attend.
Cartwright’s is a long drive from my house, about 45 minutes to an hour into the rural outback.
South on Interstate-390, off at Mt. Morris, then up and over to Nunda (“None-DAY;” often mispronounced as “none-duh”). Then south along the “Short-Tract Road.”
Could the Governor of New York locate Short-Tract? Our state’s national senator not too long ago, Hillary Clinton, mispronounced “Nunda.”
We passed run-down abandoned houses, some in partial collapse, fodder for a future fire-department practice-burn.
There’s no longer a living to be made out here.
Short-Tract is actually a small hamlet, but if you blink, you’ll miss it.
Just south of Short-Tract, left on county-road 15A; there’s a sign for Cartwright’s.
Then a long gradual climb of about two miles, and suddenly “I think this is it.”
But the parking-lot was empty — usually it’s packed.
It looked like Cartwright’s was closed.
“Open February 12th,” a small hand-painted sign said.
I got out and walked toward the restaurant.
A small lighted sign was in a window. “Closed,” it said.
I unholstered my SmartPhone, and after arduous struggle I Googled up the Cartwright’s website.
“Closed Mondays,” it said.
“Well I wish I’d seen that,” I said.
“So much for Cartwright’s,” I said. My doggie daycare friends are only off on Monday.
“Well, we have to eat something,” my friend said.
We had come down there on empty stomachs, planning to pig out on pancakes.
Returning through Nunda, we stopped at the “Poor American Cafe,” a ramshackle dive endemic to the setting.
There was a sign on the wall: “due to budget-cuts the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off.”

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually 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 east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.
• The “Messenger” 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 a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]).

New toy

(Photo by BobbaLew.)

The other day (Saturday, February 16th, 2013) I purchased a new toy — pictured above — for my dog. The first new toy since my wife died.
My wife died 10 months ago as of yesterday, February 17th, so that’s the first new toy in about a year.
I’ve been hesitant to buy new toys since my dog’s toys are semi-retired. She has many toys, kept in a box. She occasionally drags out a toy, and I occasionally toss it for her.
But play with my dog has become just about impossible.
But thinking about it, I realized she never played much with previous toys. What’s most exciting to her is a new toy, for example the window-washer my wife got.
It has a fuzzy section for squeegying windows; “looks like a toy, feels like a toy, gimme that, SHAKE — kill-kill!”
“Yo MeatHead, a window-washer is not a toy.”
It was obvious the thrill was not playing with previous toys; it was a new toy.
So I guess I better buy her a new toy; it’s been a while.
It’ll get retired to the toy-box, but a new toy is always a thrill.
I had to hit the Canandaigua Petco to buy dog-food, treats and arthritis-medication, so I figured I’d peruse the dog-toys. I’d already perused dog-toys in pet sections at supermarkets, and found nothing attractive.
I saw nothing attractive until I saw the bug-toy above with crackly wings-n-things.
It also has a squeaker.
$7.99; is my dog worth $7.99?
SURE!
I brought it home.
My dog was jumping at my grocery-bag as I brought it in.
“A toy? For me? For me?” Bounce!
“Yippee! Gimme-that!”
Off she ran with the bug-toy, obviously thrilled. The killer-dog; SHAKE!
So I guess I better buy her a new toy on occasion, even though it soon will get semi-retired.
I think the world of that dog; I’m as committed to her as she is to me.
And with my wife gone it ain’t easy. —I always feel like I’m not giving her a good life.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my 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, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• RE: “Meathead.....” —Every dog we (I) ever owned I’ve nicknamed “Meathead.” With me Scarlett knows of herself as “Meathead.” (A previous dog, who was rather small, I called “Little Meathead.”) —“Meathead” because like a pot-head likes marijuana, my dog likes meat.
• “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 east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.

It’s my house

Every morning I make my bed.
Since my wife died 10 months ago (today, Sunday, February 17th, 2013, is 10 months), she’s no longer around to make the bed, and I couldn’t stand climbing into an unmade bed.
So I make the bed myself.
It’s a process that takes perhaps 10-15 minutes, unmaking the bed, then remaking it.
Sheets get pulled up and tucked in.
Then a bedspread gets put on, and a small blanket after that.
A quilt goes atop that, followed by a blanket to protect from the dog.
My dog is sleeping on her bed at the foot of my bed, but waiting the whole time.
She knows when the bed is made, she can jump on it.
I don’t think my wife would have allowed this, even with that blanket to protect that quilt.
But now the house is mine.
I never wanted it that way, but now it is.
I figure the dog endures enough insanity and sadness to allow her on the bed.
So, pillows shammed: “There, Big Meathead, the bed is made.”
BOINK!
“The house is mine, so you are allowed on the bed,” I say through tears.
I thereafter pet the dog.
Shamming the pillows, I always get “The Look.”
“Can I jump on it yet? Can I? Can I?”

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. At the time she was 68. I miss her dearly.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my 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, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• RE: “Meathead.....” —Every dog we (I) ever owned I’ve nicknamed “Meathead.” With me Scarlett knows of herself as “Meathead.” (A previous dog, who was rather small, I called “Little Meathead.”) —“Meathead” because like a pot-head likes marijuana, my dog likes meat.

Pranged

Anyone who follows this here blog knows yrs trly got slammed to the ground yesterday (Friday, February 15th, 2013).
I fell three times the previous Wednesday. The road at Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”) is icy.
There was no consequence Wednesday, but yesterday was different.
I had taken a different route that wasn’t icy, but then it got icy again.
SLAM! To the ground I went. But this time I landed on my left knee instead of rolling on my back.
I don’t think I broke anything, but I am severely pranged.
Swelling is minor, but bending my knee is painful.
I would do the YMCA today, but I don’t know if I can.
Walking the dog on our property before leaving seemed within range. But the YMCA may be only stretching.
Sleep was difficult.
Inaction seemed to inflame things. But up-and-around seemed better.
I ordered ice-walkers online. They can’t come soon enough. Even my property is dangerous.
I don’t want to be hospitalized. That would separate me from my dog.
(And my dog is very attached.)

• Boughton Park is a fairly-large town park in East Bloomfield where I walk my dog. I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester. (West Bloomfield is one of the three towns that own and administer the park.)
• I managed about one-third of my YMCA workout, and probably coulda kept going, but I hurt too much. (I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually 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 east. —I was able to do one aerobic session out of two, but power-lifting hurt too much. There was also a lot of bending involved in processing; getting up and down.

Park no more

The other day (Wednesday, February 13th, 2013), in my continuing effort to give my doggie a good life despite the dreadful fate that has befallen us, I took my dog to nearby Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”) for a long walk.
My wife died ten months ago, so there are no longer two of us to entertain the dog.
The dog’s toy-box had to be semi-retired. It’s still extant, but full of toys I can never play with. The dog extracts one, and I have to put it back.
I toss the toys around occasionally, but she can’t take them outside for fear of losing them.
So what I try to do is walk her as much as I can, although that comes out to about twice a day.
Boughton Park is about a four-mile walk, over two hours.
These long walks are also a distraction from my utter sadness.
The dog looks forward to park walks. Smells galore, deer-pucky to eat, and critters to chase. She’s a high-energy dog. She beats on me every morning to take her to the park.
I do so about three-or-four days per week, the days I don’t work out at the YMCA.
So I took the dog to the park Wednesday.
It was impossible.
I fell three times.
The snow had melted, then refroze, so the road in was all ice.
I fell almost as soon as I started hiking the road.
I made it about a quarter-mile, then fell again.
And falls on ice are hard —Slam!
I had to give up and turn around.
Walking the park had become impossible.
Now I had to walk the quarter-mile back to my van.
I fell one more time — Slam!
When I reached the parking-lot another regular dog-walker was just starting.
“How are the trails?” they asked.
“Terrible,” I said. “I had to give up. I’ve already fallen three times.”
It seems this happens every year. The snow melts and then refreezes making a walk impossible.
And it may be that way for months, until temperatures rise.
I tried again today (Friday, February 15th, 2013. I took a different route than the road in — a path — but got slammed to the ground again.
So much for that. My poor dog is being shorted by conditions.
I ordered ice-walkers from Zappos.

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my sixth Irish-Setter. (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, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. At the time she was 68. I miss her dearly.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually 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 east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.)

I shoulda known

...That is, I shoulda known I might be the last one standing.
As my wife and I aged, we realized sooner-or-later one of us might be left alone.
We always presumed the last one standing would be my wife.
I’d had various health-problems over the years.
—1) in 1993 I had a stroke. It was severe at the time, but I recovered fairly well from it.
It was caused by a patent foramen ovale (“PAY-tint four-AY-min oh-VAL-eee”), an opening between the upper chambers of the heart that allows blood-flow before birth to the brain when lungs aren’t working yet.
The opening is supposed to close after birth, but mine never had.
A patent foramen ovale is fairly common. Linebacker Tedy Bruschi (“BREW-ski”) of the New England Patriots had one which also caused a stroke.
A blood-clot passes through the flaw, and then goes up to your brain.
I’m left with a few minor stroke-effects: -a) my speech is halting and difficult. Obviously my original speech-center was killed, and now something else is assembling speech, gray-matter not designed for speech. -b) my balance is somewhat compromised. It’s not bad, but I notice it, and I work on it. -c) my emotional control is somewhat degraded. This manifests itself in an increased tendency to cry. -d) my concentration is compromised. It works fine while driving, but I can’t read, something I used to do a lot.
—2) About six or seven years ago I began experiencing so-called “dizzy-spells.”
To me that wasn’t precisely what they were. It was as if my heart had stopped, so blood was no longer getting to my head.
I never actually blacked out, but the “episodes” were worrisome.
After 89 bazilyun tests a neurologist suggested they sounded like a side-effect of the calcium-blocker blood-pressure medication I was taking, so I stopped taking it.
No “episodes” since.
Furthermore, every woman in my wife’s family lasted well into their 90s.
My wife’s aunt lasted until she was 98. My wife’s mother is still alive at 97. We figured my wife would make 100; her mother might too.
My paternal grandfather lasted into his 90s, but my father died at 79, although he contracted Parkinson’s.
No one on my mother’s side made 90, so it seemed I might not either.
So we presumed my wife would outlast me.
I tried to set up for this. I tried to show my wife how I pay bills, which I do online. It was a feeble effort that went nowhere — my wife wasn’t interested.
She had paid them snail-mail when I had my stroke — which we were still probably doing at that time.
But then my wife contracted cancer. We were never told she would die, only that she might.
Her cancer was non-Hodgkins lymphoma, and is fairly treatable.
And it seemed we were always defeating it, although I suppose that was partly me wanting and expecting to defeat it.
Two years ago my wife got terrible swelling in her legs.
Her cancer was blocking blood-return from her legs.
One kidney had also become dysfunctional. Ureter-tubes were also being blocked.
She had to be hospitalized. It seemed severe, but we beat that back.
Chemo just about vaporized the cancerous tumors, but they returned.
We had run out of treatment options. The only one that worked was the most toxic, the one that causes hair-loss. We couldn’t use it any more for fear of causing heart-damage.
We had one treatment option left, a hyper-expensive chemo pill. But that so lowered her immunity we had to stop.
She had to be referred to hospice, but we had beat back her cancer so many times I thought I would eventually be taking her home.
It was the old waazoo, not expecting to be the last one standing.
She lasted only one day at hospice.
Then suddenly she was gone.
It wasn’t what I expected — to be left alone.
An outcome for which I was totally unprepared emotionally.
I was devastated and terrified.
I’m still heartbroken, but probably not as terrified as at first.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. At the time she was 68. I miss her dearly.

Ascending Heavenward

The open rear-hatch of a Buick Enclave.

Ever notice how the power rear hatches of vehicles like the Buick Enclave, Chevy Traverse and Toyota Sienna open ever-so-slowly?
WXXI, the classical-music radio-station out of Rochester I listen to, has a Sunday-morning program of religious music. The announcer said something about Christ ascending slowly into Heaven from a mountain-top in front of some of his disciples.
The image of an Enclave power rear-hatch slowly opening wafted into my head.
I’ve seen it, of course. Granny crosses the parking-lot at the supermarket with a large cart of loaded plastic grocery-bags.
She takes out her radio-key, and activates the power rear-hatch of her Enclave.
It slowly opens.
You have to time this properly.
You activated the power-hatch at least 50 feet before getting to your car, lest the hatch bop you in the head.
I can imagine engineers wringing their hands over getting the opening-speed right.
The giant rear hatch of an Enclave can’t just spring open.
I’ve also seen Granny steer her loaded cart toward her Chevy Cruze, and activate the power trunklid.
It exploded open — BAM — a mere nanosecond.
Which I guess is okay for a car-trunk, but not the rear hatch of an Enclave.
My Toyota Sienna van has keyless-entry, but I don’t use it because it’s an additional fob on my keychain. If it was a radio-key I’d use it.
That radio-fob doesn’t open the rear hatch, which is not powered. But it activates the right sliding-door, which is powered, but only the right side.
It also locks and unlocks the doors, and activates the horn.
But I don’t use it; it’s an additional fob.
The van is 2005. I’m sure by now Toyota is using radio-keys.
My Honda CR-V is 2003, and as a cheaper model has no keyless entry.
My van is also a cheaper model, so lacks an alarm-system.
Probably my next car will have an alarm-system, especially if it’s “pre-owned” (don’cha mean “used?”).
I’ve been loathe to use auto alarm-systems. Every time I’m in the supermarket parking-lot I hear a car feebly bleating its horn — as if some ne’er-do-well were fixing to steal it.
A while ago I watched a girl in the parking-lot lose her composure and start crying, because her car was beeping — and she couldn’t stop it.
I go to get in my car, and suddenly a car 20 feet away blasts its horn at me.
But that’s the image. The powered rear-hatch of a Buick Enclave slowly yawning open, ascending Heavenward.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died almost 10 months ago, and I still have the two cars we had: a 2005 Toyota Sienna van, and a 2003 Honda CR-V sport-utility.

C7

The new C7 Corvette.

Car magazines like my Car and Driver magazine are trumpeting the new C7 Corvette.
The new C7 is splashed all over the cover of its March 2013 issue, and a large section is inside.
Numbered identification of Corvette models began with the C4 for 1984. C4 because the earliest Corvettes through 1962 would be the C1, the new Sting-Rays from 1963 through ’67 would be C2, and the Manta-Ray restyling of 1968 would be C3.
The C4 was a total redesign, and the C5 was a restyle of that, as was the C6 and now the C7.At some time the transmission was relocated to the rear of the car to enhance weight-balance. It may have been the C4, but I don’t think so.
Moving the tranny to the rear is about the only major engineering advance on the Corvette since the C4.

Zora Arkus-Duntov.

In fact, I would say the only major redesigns of the Corvette were:
-a) Zora Arkus-Duntov’s 1963 Sting-Ray (the C2), and
-b) Dave McLellan’s C4. (McLellan succeeded Zora.)
Duntov and McLellan were the guiding forces; Zora an old hot-rodder.
In fact, you could say the Corvette is Duntov’s baby. His ’63 Sting-Ray gave Corvette a chassis equal to its fabulous SmallBlock V8 engine. Prior to Duntov the Corvette was more a joke, a wannabee sportscar that only looked the part.
Although from 1956 on the Corvette became interesting with its SmallBlock V8 and four-on-the-floor transmission (introduced in the 1957 model-year).
The early Corvettes (through 1962) were solid rear-axle — not independent rear-suspension, like the Sting-Ray), more a glorified ’53 Chevy chassis.
The SmallBlock was a watershed engine; a Detroit V8 that performed like a Ferrari.
But those early SmallBlock ‘Vettes were hardly sportscars, not sophisticated. They couldn’t handle. They only had gobs of straight-line acceleration.
But to me the C7 is only a restyle. It’s not the mid-engine Corvette we’ve hoped for over 40 years — since ‘70s Can-Am racing showed us how extraordinary sportscars could be.
Mid-engine Big-Block Chevys in plastic-fantastic.
Mid-engine Corvettes have been dreamed about, but never produced.

This car is a Sting-Ray, a 1967.

Chevrolet keeps giving us front-engine Corvettes, admittedly with the engine toward the middle. Only one mid-engine sportscar was produced by General Motors, the Pontiac Fiero (available with a V6).

A Pontiac Fiero.

But Chevrolet, defending their Corvette, skonked it.
So the C7 is really just a restyle of the C6.
In fact to my mind, the C6 is the best-looking ‘Vette ever, basic and smallish.

A C6 Corvette.

The C7 makes the mistake of picking up styling cues of the new Camaro, which to my mind looks much worse than previous Camaros.
Car-and-Driver says the Corvette is the best car Chevrolet makes, and wishes all Chevrolets were as good as the ‘Vette.
But it’s still essentially a C4.
It’s a really good car, but not the inspiration the first SmallBlock was almost 60 years ago.

• 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 “SmallBlock” was revolutionary in its time.

I don’t know

If anything came out of this sad, sorry situation precipitated by the death of my wife, it’s that I end up saying “I don’t know” all the time.
People tell me I’m doing a wonderful job of coping on my own, and I probably am, but what I know for sure is I still feel awful, so I feel perhaps I’m not doing that well.
My cleaning-lady tells me my wife would be extremely proud of how well I cope, that I get up every morning and perform my daily routine as if nothing happened.
“Well believe you-me,” I tell her; “I know something happened.”
I make my bed every day, I cook for myself, I do laundry.
I also do other things to distract myself from utter sadness. I walk my dog, I mow lawn, I work out at the YMCA.
But to me, that’s what they are, mere distractions from utter sadness.
I still have a house full of stuff that needs to be dispensed, plus the two cars we had, when I only really need one.
Both problems are more logistics than anything. But I can’t seem to be inclined to pursue them.
So surveying all this, I say “I don’t know.......”
Everyone tells me I’m doing a wonderful job, but I don’t know.
The other problem is my dog.
People tell me I’m doing a wonderful job of taking care of that dog, but I don’t feel like it.
I walk her a lot, at least twice a day, and one of those walks may be very long at a nearby park.
But that has to be interleaved with long periods of down time when I can’t pay any attention to the dog at all.
I wonder if there were long periods of down time when there were still two of us, my wife and I?
Perhaps, but I can’t remember. In other words: “I don’t know.”
I also know those telling me I do a wonderful job of taking care of that dog are not me, and were not living with that dog beforehand.
“She just wants to be with you,” I’m told.
Well yes, but that includes long periods of inattention and non-play that didn’t seem to occur before my wife’s death.
“I can’t play,” I tell my dog. “I have to eat my own supper.”
The dog must languish while I do things.
And now that I do everything the two of us previously did, I have little time to pay attention to the dog.
Yet I’m told I do an exemplary job of taking care of my dog.
I don’t know.
She’s a high-energy dog. When there were two of us we could render lots of attention.
We could play with her, something I can no longer do.
My perception is the dog has noticed. I’m not being held to account for it, but the deficit is noticeable.
Beyond that I’m always crying. I wonder what the dog thinks of that? —Is there any way to actually make him happier?

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my 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, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually 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 east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.)

69 times around the sun

Yesterday, Tuesday February 5th, 2013, was my 69th birthday.
Yrs trly was born in 1944, which means I’ve been around the sun 69 times.
I had more celebrations of my birthday yesterday than I ever had before.
It being Tuesday, I went to the YMCA in nearby Canandaigua to work out.
Entering, you go through a reception-area, and you check in by having your membership scanned by a bar-code reader — in my case a key-tag.
The bar-code reader chirps a tingle as you scan in.
I did so, and all-of-a-sudden the thing was playing the first few bars of “Happy Birthday.”
The whole lobby heard it. The receptionist wished me a happy birthday, and then a janitor did the same as I walked toward the locker-room.
After completing one machine of my workout, I advised the exercise-coach I was now qualified to program “69” into the machines.
She wished me a happy birthday, and then said hers was last week, and she avoided the bar-code reader lest it blast the entire lobby.
“If I had known that,” I said; “I woulda skipped it too. The receptionist isn’t gonna have me arrested. I’m a regular; and it looks like I forgot.
After the Y, and a supermarket, I returned to the groomer to pick up my dog, who they daycare.
They handed me a birthday-card. “Congratulations on making 69 years! We know it’s been a tough year, but you’re improving. Here’s to a year of continued healing.” (My wife died last April.)
“69 years on this planet,” I said; “and most of those I associate with are in their 40s. In fact, I only know a couple my age, and another close.”
“Well good,” they said. “Keeps ya young.”
“Maybe so,” I said; “but what I’m more inclined to think is I just can’t get interested in geezer-pursuits. I’m not into pinochle, I don’t play bridge, and I think shuffleboard and bocci-ball are silly.
What I’d rather do is fool with my ‘pyooter, sling words together, and walk my dog.”
When I got back home my cleaning-lady had been there; I trust her — I showed her where my secret key is.
She’d left me a note: “happy birthday” it said.
Then my niece called. She’s my only relative living in the local area, and she wondered if I got her e-card.
“Not yet,” I said. “I just got home, and I haven’t opened my e-mail yet.”
My niece-and-her-husband were driving someplace, and her cellphone was Bluetoothing to the car.
She cut off, so I called her landline; not knowing she was using her cellphone.
Her mother answered, and they must have caller-ID, because she answered by wishing me a happy birthday.
Another “happy-birthday” wish.
When I opened my e-mail later, my niece’s e-card wasn’t there, although it was this morning, with a note from the e-card service demanding I get cracking.
“I never got no e-card,” I responded. “This is your first notification.” I’ll have to see if RoadRunner, my e-mail service, junked it. My computer downloads e-mail from RoadRunner, where it then becomes local. —In other words, RoadRunner “junk” I never see, unless I fire up their webmail.
A girl who I dated long ago in high-school, who “friended” me on Facebook, her birthday is two days before mine.
She just turned 67, and expects another 30 years.
She’ll probably make it; I hope she does — she probably still has the right attitude.
I might make it too.
But every morning I wake up saying “and so begins another sad, sad day.”
I made 69, but my wife didn’t.
We expected she’d outlast me.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually 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 east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my 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, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.) —To work out at the YMCA, I must daycare my dog. The groomer is nearby, and they are old friends.
• “‘Pyooter” is computer.
• I call writing “slinging words together,” since in my case that’s what it is. This blog is “slinging words together.”

“There was no BHS Class of ’59”

I hate to admit it, but yrs trly dumbly clicked one of those targeted right-side Facebook ads, precipitating a torrent of silly e-mails I can’t seem to shut off.
I’ve junked ‘em all, but they keep coming.
Usually if I “junk” something, my e-mail program, AppleMail, junks everything with that address from then on, but not in this case.
A workaround by the junk e-mailer is to e-mail from different addresses. So I just junk everything from that e-mailer, hoping that will reduce the solicitations. Examples are “Essential-Apparel,” “Hanes,” “Staples,” and “Folica” (a hair-apparatus supplier I once bought a hair-dryer from).
I suppose I could filter to only people in my address-book, but that’s not safe either. Sometimes an important e-mail is in my junk-folder.
This particular e-mailer, “Classmates,” seems to have written code that skonks my labeling as junk.
Two junkers are at play. First is my RoadRunner e-mail. There is stuff in their junk-folder of my account I never see (unless I open my RoadRunner e-mail, which is a web-mail). —Penis-enlargers for example.
(AppleMail downloads from RoadRunner.)
Then my AppleMail junks what it considers spam after it’s downloaded. Stuff like “Essential-Apparel,” “Hanes,” “Staples,” and “Folica.” —RoadRunner doesn’t junk it, but AppleMail does.
I avoid the targeted right-side Facebook ads: scantily-clad buxom young hotties supposedly looking for a mate, entreaties to reduce my mortgage with an Obama program for Seniors (I don’t have a mortgage; I own my house free-and-clear), and railroad-train oriented stuff for sale because I’m a railfan.
But this was interesting, “Classmates.” They claimed to have my high-school yearbook.
I clicked — that is, I fell for it. (Gasp!)
Thus began the torrent of e-mails.
“Look who’s joined ‘Classmates,’ check them out” (a link).
I opened the e-mail, and the joiner’s name was smudged (obliterated). To see who it was, I had to join myself, fork over a membership-fee.
Or if the person’s picture was viewable, it was their Facebook picture, which often isn’t a picture of the actual person. Mine is the American-flag.
A couple weeks ago: “Bertha, Brandywine High-School Class of ’59.”
I usually don’t respond to junk e-mail; it’s like a fish snapping up bait, and thereby getting hooked.
But I did in this case.
“There was no Class of ’59 at Brandywine,” I responded. “Its first class was 1960.”
I got a mea-culpa back from Classmates, something about they were only posting what they received. —No backup research on their part.
Brandywine High-School was built in 1958 as a response to the post-war baby-boom.
If I am right it opened after Christmas-break in the beginning of 1959, while I was in ninth-grade.
Its first graduating-class was 1960; I graduated in 1962.
I got another Classmates e-mail last night (Friday, February 1st, 2013), someone from the BHS Class of ’58 (for crying out loud).
I fired back again: “There was no Class of ’58 at Brandywine. Its first class was 1960.”
Thankfully I’m not inundated with junk. On average I junk perhaps 8-12 e-mails a day, sometimes only a few.
But Classmates keeps appearing in my “inbox,” invitations to join based on supposed graduates of non-existent classes.
Never again will I click a targeted right-side Facebook ad!

• “Brandywine High School,” north of Wilmington, DE; is where I attended high-school, and graduated from in 1962.

Seeds of Hope

Dr. Friedberg.

The other night (Wednesday, January 30th, 2013) WHAM Channel-13, the local ABC-TV affiliate in the Rochester market, held a telethon to support Wilmot Cancer Center (“will-MOTT;” as in Mott’s applesauce).
Wilmot is the cancer-center that treated my wife Linda, who did not survive.
The camera surveyed a sleepy phone-bank of inactive people. One was yawning.
The WHAM reporter brought in the CEO of Wilmot to interview.
“Wait a minute!” I shouted. “That looks like Jonathan, Jonathan Friedberg, the Doctor we dealt with so many times.”
He tried awful hard to save my wife, and then had to face the fact he was gonna lose one.
He was made CEO of Wilmot during our time there.
He never seemed the type. Not elitist enough. A nationally-recognized expert in lymphoma cancers, which my wife had, but more a researcher than a CEO.
The reporter interviewed Friedberg, and Friedberg stumbled a little.
He’s not a self-assured blowhard, full of cogent and snappy sound-bites.
All the many times we saw Friedberg, I didn’t feel like I was dealing with the Wilmot CEO.
So I wonder how he feels about being CEO? Like it might be getting in the way of what he’d rather do: find a cure for lymphoma.
The TV reporter shut him off. I could hear Friedberg off-to-the-side thanking the station for the telethon.
Seeing old Friedberg started me crying. Me, him, and my wife tried mightily to save my wife.
But we failed.
Cancer ultimately won.
The telethon was called “Seeds of Hope.”
“Medicine of the highest order,” the University of Rochester Medical-Center trumpets.
“For stories of hope, visit ‘uofrmedicalcenter.org’.” (I can’t get that to work.)
“Well,” I’d think; “my wife didn’t make it.”