Monthly Calendar-Report for July 2013

Eastbound Train 24W, a stacker, climbs past South Fork, PA. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

—In my humble opinion the July 2013 entry of my own calendar is the BEST image in my calendar, train 24W headed uphill on Track Two past South Fork, PA.
It’s a potshot, proving yet again “just shut up and shoot!” You never know how well you might do.
A friend I once worked with, who now lives in Denver, who dabbles in scenic photography, tells me it isn’t so much setting up a good photograph, as recognizing the good photographs from the 89 bazilyun you might shoot.
I find this to be true. Pictures I compose often bomb, yet some of my potshots are fabulous.
I shot a frontal-view of this train as it approached. Then I turned around and shot this picture after the train passed.
The frontal-view has good face-on lighting, yet it’s this parting view that works.
It’s called “modeling.” the backlighting is casting a shadow of the cab.
It used to be “modeling” never worked. Anything in shadow went completely black. Photographers used to have to fill-flash to get the face of a baseball-player wearing a baseball-cap.
Now you might have to still do that — after all, the shadows in my calendar-picture are black.

My 2012 Christmas-card image. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

But photography is better than it was 30 years ago. Information in shadow might depict.
My frontal-view doesn’t have that modeling.
Often it’s my photograph with modeling that works.
My Christmas-card image, at left, was very dramatic, another backlit picture.


Barely visible in the foreground are the tops of loaded coal-cars off the South Fork Secondary, awaiting movement over The Hill.
The South Fork Secondary feeds the mainline at South Fork, and has coal-tipples out along it.
One of the reasons this old railroad, originally Pennsy, was so successful, is because it was moving so much coal mined along its line.
It still is.
Coal-tipples still feed massive coal-trains, although the tipple may more likely be a transloading facility instead of a mine.
That is, coal is trucked from surrounding mines to the tipple.
I think there are two tipples out along the South Fork Secondary.
Come to South Fork, and there’s a pretty good chance you’ll see loaded coal-cars awaiting movement over The Hill.
Coal no longer in a coal-pile; warehoused in coal-cars.
Just along the west slope of The Hill are two branches that feed the main. One is the South Fork Secondary, and the second is the original Pennsy main (it was bypassed in 1898 to reduce curvature).
In Cresson (“KRESS-in”) are a bunch of feeders that used to be Pennsy, but now are a shortline. They too feed coal.
But what’s impressive about this photograph is how well it works. Just shut up and shoot!



The famous “Widow-Maker” coupe.

—The Deuce in my Oxman Hotrod Calendar looks familiar.
It’s that paint-job that looks familiar.
I remember that car and it’s paint-job, which I never liked.
The calendar says it was inspired by similar paint-jobs on Watson Indy racers from the ‘50s and early ‘60s (“Indy” is the Indianapolis 500).

Pegasus (Mobil’s high-flying horse).

I’m intrigued by the Pegasus decal.
How many people know what that signifies?
Pegasus was the icon of Mobil Oil Company.
It’s no longer used; it was retired in 1974. In fact, Mobil merged with Exxon in 1999, creating ExxonMobil.
Surely some of those Watson Indy-racers were sponsored by Mobil.
So they carried Mobil’s Pegasus icon.
Mimicking the Mobil-sponsored Indy-racers, the original owner of this hotrod decided it needed a Pegasus icon.
I always wanted a Pegasus.
Mobil gas-stations had it as a neon sign.
It had flapping wings.
Pegasus was above Mobil gas-stations flapping its wings in red neon.
It’s from the era of neon signage, no longer seen.
An era of my youth.
Despite that, this hotrod is questionable.
I’ve never been able to assimilate that paint-job.
But the ’32 Ford three-window is the BEST-looking hotrod of all time.
Spare and beautiful.
This car is not a trailer-queen. It’s driven to shows, and has a hot-rodded 350 Chevy.
But the transmission is automatic. To me a hotrod is manual tranny, four-on-the-floor.
Chopped tops look cool (this car’s top is chopped), but they destroy headroom.
Does the operator have to scrunch into this car to drive it, or sit on the floor? Is he a midget?

Flames!

Too much motor.

Two of the best-looking three-window Deuces I’ve ever seen are at left. The calendar-car is almost equal; the only thing wrong is its paint-job.
The black Deuce at top only falters because of the flame-paint. Take out that, and it would be gorgeous, although I dare not attempt a driveway with it — it’s too low.
The yellow Deuce is gorgeous; the best color.
But I bet that motor weighs at least 400 pounds more than what was in there at first.
Too much motor.
The poor thing would be a handful to drive; the front would be far too heavy.
Give it a SmallBlock Chevy; that’s maybe 150 pounds heavier.
Another car too low. The poor thing would bottom in the slightest dip.
(I’ve seen it happen. Lower too much and sparks fly.)



Boss 302. (Photo by Peter Harholdt©.)

—The July 2013 entry in my Motorbooks Musclecar calendar is a 1970 Boss-302 Mustang.
The Boss-302 Mustang was Ford’s attempt to field a successful racecar for the SCCA (Sports Car Club of America) Trans-Am series in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s.
The Trans-Am series developed into a race-series for “pony-cars,” cars of the Mustang genre.
But the car that dominated Trans-Am was Chevrolet’s Camaro. It had a fabulous engine in the SmallBlock V8, and Chevrolet brought a Z-28 option-package to market, a Camaro set up for racing.
Ford was skonked. The pony-car was their development, yet the Z-28 Camaro was dominant.
Ford wanted to field a Trans-Am racer comparable to the Z-28.
That car was the Boss-302, introduced in the 1969 model-year.
There had been earlier Trans-Am Mustangs, but they didn’t dominate.

The Bud Moore Trans-Am Boss-302 driven by George Follmer. (Photo by Bobbalew.)

302 cubic-inches is rather small, but could be made quite powerful.
A good 302 small-block might generate 400+ horsepower.
Ford had two versions of their small-block V8, introduced in the 1962 model-year at 221 cubic-inches.
My neighbor bought a four-on-the-floor V8 ’63 Fairlane, but traded for a Mustang as soon as it came out.
All Ford small-block V8s used the same block, but the “Windsor,” manufactured in Windsor, Ontario, was rather plebeian, more a grocery-getter.
High-performance versions of the Windsor V8 were made, but it was the “Cleveland” version that made the great leap. It had cylinder-heads designed for high performance.
Assembly was in Cleveland, Ohio.
The heads had gigantic intake and exhaust passageways, and valving, to maximize engine-breathing at high speeds.
The heads also had splayed valves, like a Chevy Big-Block, to better aim at the intake and exhaust manifolds; almost a “Hemi” (“HEM-eee;” not “HE-mee).
The Boss-302 was the Cleveland engine, but at only 302 cubic-inches.
The Boss-302’s engine was incredibly strong, perhaps even more than Chevy’s SmallBlock.
The Boss-302 turned into a phenomenal racecar, perhaps the best Trans-Am racer of the series.
That was because Bud Moore, an old NASCAR racer, who had raced Trans-Am earlier, took over the program.
His schtick was to apply NASCAR engineering to the Boss-302.
The main thing was making the solid rear-axle, antediluvian, more stable and dependable.
The rear-axle was located in a linkage independent of the springs. Such an arrangement was less likely to self-steer.
NASCAR racers did this. It was Moore’s experience.
Moore also hired Parnelli Jones (“parr-NELL-eee”) to be his lead driver. Jones had raced and won at Indianapolis (the 500), and once said “if your car’s not out-of-control, you’re not driving fast enough.”
Jones could drive as fast as Mark Donohue in Roger Penske’s Trans-Am Camaro.
Moore had George Follmer as his number-two. Follmer was an experienced road-racer.
Moore also apparently did cheating bodywork to increase top-end speed.
NASCAR was rife with cheating. Moore was expert. His Boss-302 might pass SCCA tech-inspection, which included body-templates, but those templates didn’t hit everything. —Moore’s cars weren’t stock. They were aerodynamically slipperier than a stock Mustang.
As such, the Boss-302 Mustangs are very collectible, as are the earlier Mustangs, and the Shelby GT350 Mustangs.

A 1969 Mach-One. (Photo by Peter Harholdt©.)

But none are what I’d want. I prefer the 1970 Mustang, as illustrated in the calendar-picture, but as the Mustang Mach-One, illustrated at left.
The Boss-302 is too much a racecar. Its motor is cammy, and would foul its sparkplugs if you asked it to idle at a stoplight.
You’d have to keep goosing it to keep it running.
Better for the street is the Mach-One Mustang with its 351 Cleveland motor.
It’s something you could enjoy. It wouldn’t be the challenge a Boss-302 would be.
Of course, a Mach-One wouldn’t attract like a Boss-302.
Both cars would be classics, but at least you could drive your Mach-One to a show. A Boss-302 would be nearly impossible.
Sadly, the Mustang became bloated. The ’70 was the most desirable Mustang, the most desirable to me.
But for 1971, the Mustang became almost a mini-Thunderbird, that is, more a personal luxury cruiser than a small sporty-car.
I don’t see any ’71-and-up Mustangs at shows, and later the Mustang became a Pinto derivative.
Recently the Mustang was reformed like the Mustangs of yore.
As recent cars, they are better than the early Mustangs.
There are even Boss-302 versions of the recent Mustang, cashing in on the old Boss-302 image.
But they are more street cars than racecars.
There is a Boss-302 image I’ll never forget.
Jones and Follmer were one-two in the Trans-Am at Bridgehampton road-course out at the end of Long Island.
I had stationed myself down a blind downhill curve at the end of the start-straight.
I heard Jones and Follmer put the hammer down as the race began.
Jones and Follmer entered the blind downhill side-by-side flat-out at 165 mph, Jones in the lead.
No quarter at all! No caution for the blind downhill.
Sparks flew as the Moore Mustangs bottomed their rear-suspension linkages at the bottom of the hill.
Donohue was in third in the Penske Camaro.
Somehow his performance didn’t seem equal to the Moore Mustangs, although it probably was.
As I recall, Donohue won the race after both Moore Mustangs dropped out.
Jones and Follmer charging flat-out over that blind brow is going to my grave.
“If your car’s not out-of-control, you’re not driving fast enough.”



An eastbound Norfolk Southern freight passes the old Norfolk & Western Roanoke shops. (Photo by Mark Erickson.)

—The July 2013 entry in my Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar, is very dramatic. It’s a nighttime shot that includes the old Norfolk & Western shops in Roanoke, VA.
Norfolk Southern has become a major power in the national railroad industry. But one has yo remember the original merger included Norfolk & Western, the most successful railroad in the nation.
Norfolk & Western served the Pocahontas coal-fields; it shipped rivers of coal.
Norfolk & Western covered a large area, but most of its traffic was from the Pocahontas coal-region, a rather small area.
Norfolk Southern also merged most of the ex-Pennsy lines when Conrail was broken up and sold in 1999. Like Norfolk & Western, Pennsy was a mountain railroad that shipped large quantities of coal. In fact, Pennsy tried to merge with Norfolk & Western but was foiled by the government.
Norfolk & Western developed and built its own steam-locomotives at its Roanoke shops. N&W was the last steam-powered railroad in the U.S.
It’s just that steam-locomotion can’t be as efficient and easy-to-operate as diesel, although N&W tried, and did quite well with efficiency.
— Norfolk & Western tried to stay with coal-fired steam-locomotion.
Pennsy also developed and built its own steam-locomotives, but was too conservative and fell apart with WWII.
Norfolk & Western developed some great locomotives, like the A (2-6-6-4), the J (4-8-4), and they maximized performance of the Y compound articulated (2-8-8-2.)
Compounding uses the steam twice. Exhaust-steam from the rear cylinders is used to power the front cylinders.
The Y is a general locomotive design from WWI, but N&W kept improving it. The design was maximized on N&W.
The Y had immense tractive-effort. It was slow but strong, and also fairly efficient. Many railroads tried compounding, but only Norfolk & Western made it work.
Improving the Y was at Norfolk & Western’s Roanoke shops.
And the locomotives developed at Roanoke shops were designed to perform well on Norfolk & Western.
They performed so well, the railroad came to think of them as “their” engines.
I doubt a Norfolk & Western locomotive would perform well out west. (The drivers of a J, at 70 inches diameter, would be too small.)
In fact, Pennsy tried a Norfolk & Western A articulated for consideration as its WWII locomotive (see below).
The A was designed to move fast-freight, which would been okay for Pennsy, but Pennsy went with the Chesapeake & Ohio T-1 2-10-4 (below), loathe as they were about articulation, and needing more of a dragger.
So do the old Roanoke shops have the cachet they once had?
Like Altoona, they were at the base of a mountain railroad.
Train-loads of coal came down out of the mountains for assembly into long drags to Norfolk. Coal also got shipped cross-country, as well as transloaded into ships in Norfolk.
Pennsy’s Altoona Works has been reduced to Juniata (“june-eee-AT-uh”) Locomotive shops, once part of Pennsy’s vast Altoona Works, which no longer exist.
Altoona Works could build locomotives, although Pennsy had such an appetite it often farmed out the work — to Pennsy’s design.
Juniata can build locomotives, although they’re a non-Altoona design; e.g. EMD diesels. It services the railroad’s locomotives.
Norfolk Southern buys non-Roanoke locomotives, diesel-electric, and operates them quite well.
Norfolk & Western was the last fully steam-operated railroad in the nation. A Y could come close, but it couldn’t move as much as a four-unit freight-diesel.
Beyond that, steam-locomotives required expensive lineside water and coal-towers. All diesels needed was a refueling stand and fuel-storage.
Also, side-rod steam locomotion delivered its power in pulses. Power from a diesel-electric was constant. (Electrification without wires.)
Side-rod steam locomotion was about at the end of its development. Boilers were already at 300 pounds-per-square-inch, and higher pressure didn’t seem worth it.
The next step seemed to be some sort of steam-turbine electric.
Experimentals were tried, but paled versus the diesel-electric.
Another option is the coal-fire directly working the turbine. But that has yet to work. Turbines haven’t been built yet that can long endure the output of a coal-fire, which includes fly-ash and soot.


War-baby caboose-hop. (Notice the tower-man is waving.) (Photo by Jim Buckley.)

— The July 2013 entry of my All-Pennsy color calendar is a Pennsylvania Railroad J-1 (2-10-4) in a caboose-hop headed past North Attica tower in Ohio, probably to pick up its train.
The J-1 is Pennsy’s war-baby.
I’m sure I’ve told this story before, but I’ll tell it again.
When WWII broke out Pennsy found itself totally unprepared for the massive increase in traffic.
It had old and worn-out locomotives. Capital investment had gone into electrification during the ‘30s, so Pennsy hadn’t developed up-to-date steam-locomotion during that time.
Pennsy was also conservative, so stayed away from some of the improvements that enhanced steam-locomotive efficiency, like those embodied in Lima’s SuperPower (“LYE-muh;” not “LEE-muh — Lima Locomotive Company in Lima, Ohio).
Pennsy developed its own locomotive designs. They might farm out construction due to needing so many, but if so it was Pennsy’s design.
So buying locomotives from Lima was anathema.
SuperPower was a bunch of enhancements to maximize steam-locomotive performance; a hot-rodded steam locomotive — stuff like feedwater heaters and front-end throttles. But its main thrust was to increase steam generation, so the locomotive could meet steam demand at speed.
Steam-locomotives could run out of steam. I have a recording of a Pennsy Decapod (2-10-0) running out of steam.
Such principles would have been misapplied on Pennsy with its grades. This was especially true in PA. SuperPower was aimed more at boomin’-and-zoomin’.
So with WWII Pennsy needed a new steam-locomotive to replace its tired engines.
But the War Production Board wouldn’t allow Pennsy to develop a replacement. Pennsy had to try out power from other railroads.

The Norfolk & Western A. (This is 1218.)

A C&O T-1.

A Pennsy T-1.

The single Q-1 experimental.

A Q-2.

It was probably just as well.
In my opinion, Pennsy steam development had fallen apart.
For whatever reason, they jumped on the duplex bandwagon.
So much that it diverted from steam-locomotive development.
Pennsy could also afford to sit tight; they had so much traffic, they could afford to get by with double-crews = double locomotives.
Duplex is multiple driver-sets on a single frame powered by multiple cylinders.
The Pennsy T-1 4-4-4-4 is essentially a 4-8-4 with four cylinders. The drivers are on a single frame, not articulated.
The Q-1 experimental is a 2-10-4 freight-locomotive with four cylinders. The front cylinders power the first six drivers, and the rear cylinders, facing backwards under the fire-grate, power the rear four drivers.
Putting the rear cylinders here limited the size of the fire-grate. The engine also had 77-inch drivers, a bit large for a freight-service.
The Q-1 wasn’t duplicated, but the Q-2 was. The Q-2 solved the problems of the Q-1, mainly smaller drivers (69 inches diameter) and a larger fire-grate. It’s rear cylinders were also turned around and placed in front of the rear four driver-wheels.
This lengthened the driver wheelbase, which was on a solid frame. A 10-drivered locomotive doesn’t work very well on curvy track. It’s driver wheelbase is so long it tends to derail.
The Pennsy T-1 had the same problem. Its driver wheelbase was so long it wanted tangent (straight) track — lines west of Pittsburgh, like in Ohio and Indiana.
But the Pennsy T-1 and the Q-2 didn’t serve east of Pittsburgh, although the T-1 did some. Like from Altoona west.
Too many curves east of Altoona.
So with WWII Pennsy had to shop around. It tried two of the most successful locomotives of all time, the Norfolk & Western A articulated (2-6-6-4) and the Chesapeake & Ohio T-1 (2-10-4), essentially a Lima SuperPower locomotive, although built by American Locomotive Company in Schenectady.
Loathe as Pennsy was to use articulation, the C&O T-1 won out. A J-1 is essentially the C&O T-1, although slightly restyled.

(This Belpaire firebox is on a Pennsy 2-10-2.)

Look carefully, and you’ll see the J-1 doesn’t have Pennsy’s trademark Belpaire firebox, a square-hipped design that enhanced steam generation.
But it does have SuperPower enhancements not found on earlier Pennsy steam-locomotives, like feedwater-heat and front-end throttles. “Gadgets” that needed maintenance, and weren’t applied to pre-WWII Pennsy steam-locomotives.
It was is if Pennsy was playing catch-up with steam-locomotive development. The J-1 showed them what they were missing, and these “gadgets” were applied to later Pennsy steam-locomotives, like the Q-1 and Q-2.
Pennsy seemed to be madly thrashing about. Duplex-drive seemed endemic of this.
The Pennsy T-1s all had Franklin-poppet valve-gear (like a car-engine); a bear to maintain.
And Pennsy refused to try articulation — a principle that would have allowed gigantic boilers.
The J-1 was a bit misapplied on Pennsy. Slogging a heavy train slowly upgrade over Allegheny Summit is not using SuperPower as intended.
West of Pittsburgh a J-1 could get rolling, boomin’-and-zoomin’ is SuperPower applied as intended.
All the J-1 did was give Pennsy the freight-engine it needed to replace its tired power for WWII.
None were saved, which is just as well. The J-1 wasn’t a Pennsy design.
Unlike most railroads, Pennsy saved one example of every steam-locomotive it designed. Most are now at Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania in Strasburg, PA.



Not a B-1! (Photo by H. Gerald MacDonald©.)

—I was fooled.
My first thought upon seeing the July 2013 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar was it was the B-1 electric switcher, but it’s not.

Two B-1 switchers.

No pantograph (“pant-uh-GRAFF”); in fact, it’s 0-4-0. The B-1 is 0-6-0.
I was fooled by the fact both are box-cabs, so look identical.
It’s Pennsy’s first diesel-electric locomotive, built in 1929 as a gas-electric, re-engined to diesel in 1930.
My vaunted Pennsy-Power II book, which I will never part with, trumpets an EMD SW switcher as the first Pennsy diesel-electric.


Purportedly Pennsy’s first diesel-electric.

Well, first entry of the EMD invader, built by other than Altoona. —The calendar-switcher was built by Altoona.
The calendar unit proceeds it; the EMD is 1937.
Pennsy was a coal-road. It wanted to stay with coal-fired steam-locomotives.
But a coal-fired steam switcher made little sense where this calendar-unit was based.
The locomotive pictured switched the tiny yard in Norristown, PA, west of Philadelphia.
The Norristown line was electrified; I think it still exists as a commuter-line.
Freight delivered to Norristown is probably now delivered by trucks.

A modern TrackMobile.

What switching needed to be done almost could have done with a TrackMobile, although TrackMobiles weren’t around back then.
Drive the trackmobile over to the track the cars to be switched are on, then shift the cars.
The calendar locomotive is 450 horsepower, yet seems to be coupled to a string of cars.
I don’t know as a TrackMobile could move that many. Plus the TrackMobile might need pavement to get to the tracks — although I’m sure TrackMobiles with off-road capability have been built.


A Pennsy A-5 switcher (0-4-0).

Pennsy used tiny steam switchers, 0-4-0, on the Delaware River waterfront in Philadelphia; Reading too (“REDD-ing;” not “READ-ing”).
Stubs to pier-side had very sharp radius. Only a short wheelbase locomotive could negotiate such trackage.
A diesel switcher like that pictured might have made more sense.
But those tiny 0-4-0 steam switchers had been around since time immemorial.
I’m sure the steam switchers were replaced by diesels of the EMD variety. With rotating trucks, such a switcher could negotiate sharp radius curvature.
And I’m sure shunting freight to pier-side is now done by trucks. Trackage is torn up or paved over.



Fieseler Fi 156 Storch.(Photo by Philip Makanna©.)

—I forgot! (Or almost forgot.)
The July 2013 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is so laughable I almost forgot it.
I thought I was finished, but I planned to run this calendar-picture last.
It’s a Fieseler Fi 156 Storch; hardly one of the dramatic planes of WWII. (Next month is the Chance-Vought F4U Corsair.)
With its gimpy wings and long landing-gear it looks ridiculous.
But goofy as it may appear, the Storch was very impressive.
It could do very short landings and take-offs.
That gangly landing-gear is tube shock-absorbers  with 18-inches of travel.
The Storch could operate on a very rough field. It didn’t need runway.
And since it could do short take-offs and landings. it didn’t need an airbase.
It looks like the Storch could operate of the field below, at least the road pictured above the plane.
It was a Storch that rescued Mussolini from a mountaintop. It landed in 100 feet, and then took off overloaded with Mussolini in 250 feet.
A helicopter had been planned, but it broke down.
The Storch also had wings that folded back along the fuselage, hinged at the wing-root.
A Storch could be trailered to a site. In fact, it could even be towed slowly.
It was designed for reconnaissance. Trailer a Storch to a location, take off, then scope out the location from above.
The U.S. Army Air-Corps had reconnaissance airplanes too, but they weren’t the Storch.
You don’t trailer a Cub or a Taylorcraft to some far-away location.
So for reconnaissance the Storch was a better plane.
With its extremely short take-off and landing requirement, it was built as a private aircraft after the war.
If the headwind was strong enough, a Storch’s landing-approach was so slow it might land vertically or backing-up.

Killing time

Whether it’s because I’m retired and/or because of the dreadful fate that has befallen me, I find myself with a lot of time on my hands.
My beloved wife of over 44 years died over a year ago. I miss her dearly.
This, of course, alternates with too much to do at other times.
I must stay ahead of a huge lawn (at least 3.1 acres), which I’ve been able to do so far, although last year my mower was giving me trouble.
The mower would be in the shop a week or more, and the lawn would jump ahead. I don’t think I had to farm out mowing.
This year has been rain.
Right now it’s raining hard as I write this, and it will rain all day.
Thankfully I caught up the mowing the other day. But I need a dry weekend.
Rain also makes it impossible to walk my dog at the park.
I also work out at the YMCA, but have been unable to do neither due to being utterly fagged out.
This could be because -a) I began an antidepressant, and/or -b) I had bronchitis.
I find I’m still treating the bronchitis, but I’m on the down side.
It’s the antidepressant I worry about. One’s first try is often wrong. One has to try something else, and then something else.
I’m not even sure I should be taking it. I did long ago after my stroke, and all that happened was extreme fatigue.
So here I sit, nothing to do. It’s raining, so I can’t walk the dog or mow. And I’m too fagged out to work out at the YMCA. —That also applies to walking the dog if it’s not raining.
Mowing I can do. I’m not pushing a walk-behind. All I’m doing is sitting, my mower propels itself.
A segment may take an hour or less, a large segment may take two. I have a big zero-turn lawnmower, 48-inch cut. It’s pretty quick.
I could never keep up with that 3.1 acres without that zero-turn.
I also am mowing in the afternoon, not morning when I’m utterly fagged out. —Which is when I’d be walking the dog or work out.
So “Do these things in the afternoon,” it was suggested. I have walked the dog in the afternoon, but usually I need to mow.
Working out in the afternoon gets into a doggie-daycare problem.
I also find as a stroke-survivor I have to be very specific about scheduling. I can’t make the sudden game-changes the average person can.
Order out of chaos!

• I try to 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.) —It seems working-out may be more more beneficial than the antidepressant-pills.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• A “zero-turn” lawnmower is a special design with separate drives to each drive-wheel, so it can be spun on a dime. “Zero-turns” are becoming the norm, because they cut mowing time in half compared to a lawn-tractor, which has to be set up for each mowing-pass.

Slough of Despond

 “It seems I get this thing stuck every year,” I said to Brenda Tripp, the lady who does my interior painting.
My gigantic zero-turn lawnmower was stuck in a Slough-of-Despond.
(Sorry; I should have taken a picture.)
“Two years ago (2011) I got it stuck over there,” I said, pointing to the south.
“At that time Linda was still alive, but in no shape to extract that lawnmower.
In fact, within a couple days she was hospitalized with acute anemia and leg-swelling.
The anemia was caused by lymphoma cancer, which killed her about a year later.
The leg-swelling was caused by restricted blood-flow back from her legs; restricted by the cancer.
I miss her dearly.
“Kenny Britton pulled me out with his QuadraTrak.”
Kenny is the guy who does yard-work for me, including a tiny bit of mowing.
“Then last year, shortly after my wife died, I got it stuck over there, in the woods, and your brother, who was up-the-street mowing a neighbor’s yard, came over and got me out.
In fact, what I think he did, big strapping dude that he is, was move the mower where I could drive it out.”
I had called Brenda hoping she could ring up her brother. She couldn’t, so suggested maybe she could help push me out.
“I don’t know, Brenda. That thing weighs about 700 pounds.”
Brenda came from a painting-job, and we walked back to my stuck mower.
“Maybe I could push,” she said.
I got on, started it, and Brenda pushed.
The mower went straight ahead, out of where it was stuck, but still in the wet.
We tried again. More straight, still in the wet.
“We gotta get over here on the path,” Brenda said. The path was dry.
We grabbed the front, and turned the mower about 90 degrees. Now it was aimed at the dry.
We tried again. I noticed Brenda beside me pushing for all she was worth.
It caught, onto the dry, and leaped merrily ahead.
“I’m puttin’ this this thing away,” I yelled, as I roared out of the woods.
Across my huge lawn I went, headed for my shed where I store it.
I noticed Kenny in my driveway. “I’m out!” I said. He had no idea what I was talking about.
I had left a message earlier that my mower was stuck, but he hadn’t heard it yet.
He was only there to do some mowing for me, not get me out.
“I’ve gone out-of-my-way to avoid wet spots,” I told him. “Parts have gone unmowed for fear of getting stuck.
But I am so used to carving around that tree, the wetness didn’t register,” I said.
Brenda left for home in triumph.
My wife was like that: tough as nails.
I used to tell her the reason I married her is because she’d help move a piano.
My sister and mother always cried “That’s man-work,” and deferred.
I remember our moving a heavy precast concrete staircase. It probably weighed 900 pounds.
But now I’m alone, and 69 years old. I don’t wanna get that mower stuck.
I was able to mow the next day, but I avoided the paths in the woods. They might be wet.

• A “zero-turn” lawnmower is a special design with separate drives to each drive-wheel, so it can be spun on a dime. “Zero-turns” are becoming the norm, because they cut mowing time in half compared to a lawn-tractor, which has to be set up for each mowing-pass. Mine is 48-inch cut. I could never keep up with my huge lawn without it.

“This is the fourth card”

I am currently without a computer-printer, so I set about ordering another printer online from the Epson site.
My failed printer is an Epson Stylus Photo 1280. It’s at least 10 years old.
I keyed in the entire order, including my credit-card. It didn’t crunch. My credit-card wouldn’t crunch.
I tried again; again failure.
I called Epson. Try ordering by phone.
We set up the complete order, and again my credit-card wouldn’t crunch.
“Use another card,” they suggested.
“I can’t,” I said. “This is the only credit-card I have.” Silly me, only one credit-card to keep track of. Un-American, I tell ya!
I called my bank, the 800-number on the back of my credit-card.
I explained the problem to “Credit-Card Services,” and they determined the account was blocked. I was referred to Security.
“There is a suspicious charge,” they said. “It’s not much, from Evergreen Motel for $7.40.”
“I never heard of Evergreen Motel,” I said.
“Okay, what this is is someone trying your account to see if it works. Someone has your credit-card information.”
SLAM! Account closed!
“We’ll send you a new card with a new number. You’ll get it tomorrow.
Any more questions, Mr. Hughes?”
“Yeah , how do you guys find this stuff? This is the third time. I’ve had that account since 1969, and this is my fourth card. The third card was about three years ago, and the second maybe three years before that.”
“Well, that’s what we’re here for. We monitor your account. The suspicious charge wasn’t actually initiated by Evergreen Motel. That’s what flagged it.”
“I haven’t had to eat anything yet, and one charge was over $1,000!”
“You won’t. You’re never liable for fraudulent charges. These criminals are savvy, but we find ‘em.”

• “Mr. Hughes” is me, Bob Hughes, Bobbalew.

Bugaboo Creek

My niece, my only relative in the Rochester (NY) area, likes to eat out.
She lives with her mother and husband and daughter in her mother’a homestead.
So I guess this technically makes more than one relative in the Rochester area.
Her mother is my wife’s brother’s first wife. I think my wife’s brother is now on wife number-four, I’ve lost count.
I’ve seen my niece quite a few times since my wife died, more than when she was alive.
My wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I was kind of stunned at first and devastated. I’m perhaps not as much now, but I’m still affected by it.
Obviously my niece is making an effort. I appreciate it, but she’s not my wife.
I’m told I need people around, and that’s what she’s doing.
But no one can replace my wife.
So when they eat out I get invited. This is on top of other visits.
Last Sunday June 16th was Father’s Day, an excuse to eat out.
Her husband, being a father, would pick a location.
A Golden Corral has recently opened in the Rochester area.
That was our first choice, but it would be so crowded we avoided it.
Our next choice was Red Lobster, but it too was crowded.
So they decided to keep looking when they passed.
Down the street was Bugaboo Creek, and it wasn’t crowded.
They stopped there, and called me to say they’d changed restaurants.
I was on-the-road by then — it takes about 35-40 minutes to get from my house to the road with the restaurants.
But my car is Bluetooth-enabled, so I answered while driving.
Her call promptly went south, so my niece tried again.
I know where Bugaboo Creek is; my wife ate there once.
Once inside I sat with my relatives.
This wasn’t a buffet; we’d be ordering from a menu.
Bugaboo Creek is a restaurant that plays upon the character of its name.
It conveys itself as swashbuckling, full of Canadian outback.
All I could think of is how do they keep this place dust-free?
The rafters were all open, and antlers were everywhere. There are mounted deer-heads and moose-heads. An old wooden canoe was up there.
Some trophy-heads have flapping mouths that talk or serenade you.
Every once-in-a-while a moose-head did this. It was so noisy we couldn’t hear it, and all l I could think of was “Marcy it’s everywhere!”
On the menu, “moose-juice” is listed as an alcoholic drink. All it is is pineapple-juice mixed with vodka. Coke for me!
My niece’s daughter got a soda-drink with an illuminated ice-cube. First it glowed red, then blue, then red, then blue, and so on ad infinitum.
Seeing this, all I could think of was “Marcy it’s everywhere!”
A loud waiter for the next table gushingly described a chicken entré. “We take the chicken out back at beat it.” Um, Marcy it’s everywhere!
Silliness was occurring all around me.
Someone brought a gigantic plate of nachos and dip while we waited for our entrés.
Her explanation was it was to compensate for our long wait. Funny, it seemed like every table got this.
I split an entré with my sister-in-law. There was enough in that entré to feed a family of five in Bangladesh.
My niece’s husband got a charred, greasy rack of spareribs. He also got what looked like an entire roasted chicken.
He dove in. How does anyone eat that much?
He also kept getting “bread.” Tiny rye-loaves that looked like turds. He’d saw off a slice and slather it with real butter.
He must have eaten four of these loaves.
So all I ate were five deep-fried chicken-strips and baked-beans from my sister-in-law’s entré. No nachos, no turd-bread.
The deep-fried chicken was excessive, like where’s the chicken? (Out back being beaten!)
So is it worth eating out with these people who aren’t my wife?
Yep! It’s always fun to socialize.
But I don’t know about Bugaboo Creek. It’s okay, but a friend described it well: “Chuck E. Cheese for adults.”

• RE: “Marcy, it’s everywhere!” —“Marcy” is my number-one Ne’er-do-Well — she was the first I was e-mailing stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. At one time she asked how I managed to dredge up so much insane material to blog, and I responded “Marcy, it’s everywhere!”

Joy of hunting

The blood-thirsty four-legged carnivore. (Photo by Linda Hughes.)

Yesterday (Friday, June 14th, 2013) my blood-thirsty four-legged carnivore spent the entire afternoon harassing a never-seen critter under my house air-conditioning compressor.
My air-conditioning compressor rests out back on a concrete pad.
Apparently critters can get under it, or inside the compressor-unit.
Mice or moles or chipmunks.
Everything still works, although one time a dog messed up the wiring.
While the dog scurried merrily back-and-forth around the compressor-unit, I mowed half my gigantic lawn (about 2&1/2 hours, including a 10-15 minute break), made the muffins I eat for lunch (about 45 minutes), plus prepared the dog’s supper (about 20 minutes). —I’d say the dog entertained herself for at least 4-5 hours.
I let the dog lick out the pitcher and bowl I use to make muffins — after which the dishes go in the dishwasher!
She went right back outside to the compressor-unit.
Finally, she gave up, or decided her supper was more dependable than catching a critter, which she never eats.
Last Wednesday night (June 12th) she caught a rabbit, probably her 10th, or maybe even her 15th.
She didn’t eat that rabbit. It now resides outside in my trashcan consumed by maggots.
Usually no maggots if the trashcan is in my garage, where it usually is.
But the rabbit was stinking up my garage.
I (we) had a dog once who consumed her rabbit. I went outside to get her rabbit, and no rabbit.
Just a plump and satisfied dog.
She survived; it didn’t make her sick.
People wonder if I’m feeding my dog enough when she catches so much.
My garbage-service probably thinks I’m into animal-sacrifice — I’m tossing something every week.
Lately it’s been baby robins. They fall out of the nest, can’t fly, and get snared by my dog.
Anything within her purview is dead meat.
I’m helpless; I have a hunter.
The dog wasn’t a hunter when we got her, but now is.
She discovered the joy of hunting.

• “Linda Hughes” is my beloved wife of over 44 years. She died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• My “blood-thirsty four-legged carnivore” is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s eight, 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.)

Penicillin shots

Yesterday (Wednesday, June 12th, 2013), despite being sick, I was well enough to transport myself 14 miles to the supermarket in Canandaigua to purchase milk and bananas, which I was running out of.
I carve the bananas onto my breakfast-cereal.
On the way home I happened to stop at the pet-grooming shop that daycares my dog while I work out at the Canandaigua YMCA.
I know these people. I used to work with the husband at the Messenger newspaper.
Hubby came out, the public contact, who I jaw with a lot. His wife does the actual grooming.
Hubby asked if I was feeling better.
“My doctor’s assessment was bronchitis and sinusitis,” I said.
“So did he give you a penicillin-shot?”
Oh, the memories that elicited.
My first doctor was the one who attended my birth. His name was Glover, and he made house-calls. —Remember house-calls?
He’d come in our house armed with his black pill-satchel and stethoscope.
Usually he’d dispense sulfa-pills of some sort, very much the in thing at that time (late ‘40s).
Another doctor, Gleason, moved into our neighborhood and set up a practice out of his house.
But my mother refused to use him.
He was Catholic (gasp), and therefore of-the-Devil. My mother was very religious.
But I was hit by a car one night riding bicycle, and Glover was unreachable.
My mother caved and called Gleason.
Gleason came and took me to the hospital to be patched up. I remember his car, a puke-green ’49 or ’50 Chevy four-door fastback. It wasn’t an ambulance.
My injuries weren’t serious, only a cut on my head. I didn’t even need stitches.
And so began our long use of Gleason, Catholic or not.
Gleason was also nearby; Glover was a trip.
Gleason’s practice quickly outgrew his house; he had to build offices up on the main drag. —It was the postwar baby-boom.
His office was one-story brick, with perhaps four examination rooms — and a waiting-room.
It seemed I was visiting that office every couple weeks. I was always getting sick, usually bronchitis.
The exam rooms had Fedders window air-conditioners, set to about 60 degrees. Gleason always had his office ice-cold.
Gleason was into penicillin-shots into the rump, what replaced sulfa-drugs, which became suspect.
It seemed like every visit Gleason was telling me to “drop your trousers, please.”
I still feel like he was a pervert. —But he wasn’t doing anything untoward. It was just “drop your trousers, please.”
And every penicillin-shot was frightening and a little painful.
There would be freckled, red-haired, bespectacled Gleason with his gigantic syringe full of milky penicillin, with its needle an inch-and-a-half long.
Me cowering on his ice-cold uncarpeted floor with my corduroys down.
And it seems I was always in there getting shot with penicillin. I almost had to redo second-grade I was out sick so much.
Thankfully, penicillin-shots and terrifying little children seem to no longer be the norm.
Now I have a cardboard pill-folder no elderly person could possibly access.
I had to tear it apart, after attacking it with scissors.

• 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.)
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s eight, 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.)
• The “Messenger” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 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]).
• I was born in 1944.
• “Puke-green” is a yellowish green color. My siblings always called it “puke-green,” since it was the same color as vomit.

Here we go again......

Yrs Trly is gloriously sick.
The doctor’s assessment is bronchitis and sinusitis.
To me that’s coughing and sneezing/sniffling.
I could feel it coming last week, so I tried to fight it my usual way, aerobic workouts at the YMCA (get the blood flowing), plus citric fruits like an orange each day. Plus grapefruit-juice each morning.
It didn’t work. My fever was 101.9 degrees the other night (Monday, June 10th, 2013), although back to 97 degrees the next morning (Tuesday, June 11th, 2013).
I decided I should see my doctor.
So off I went for a doctor-appointment Tuesday, about a four-mile auto-trip.
After poking and prodding I was prescribed an antibiotic: “Azithromycin.”
“I don’t know if you know it or not,” I said to my doctor, a woman; “but my wife died over a year ago.”
“Yes, I know that.”
I started crying.
Here we go again!
Between the vet Monday, and my doctor Tuesday, a lot of crying has occurred.
“I haven’t been sick since my wife died, and I was always worried about it.
Now that I am, it’s like what am I worried about?
It’s because I have a dog, and being the only one left to entertain her, I didn’t wanna get sick. That getting sick was failing her.”
“I’m sure the dog wants now to just comfort you,” the doctor said.
“That seems to be the case,” I said. “I have to always take naps, and my highly energetic dog seems to want to just sleep with me.”
By now I wasn’t crying as much, but it always seems to happen. I can’t stifle it.
All I have to do is mention my wife dying to someone new, and I start crying.

• 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.)
• 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 eight, 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.)

Here we go!

My dog developed a limp on her right-front paw. She started limping Sunday, June 9th.
I poked around and discovered two burrs in the fur right above her paw. I cut them out.
But I figured I better have the vet check it. Once it was an inch-long thorn between the pads. I couldn’t find any such thing, but to me a limp could be serious.
So we went to the vet.
“Is she licking it?” the vet, a woman, asked.
“No.”
They took her outside for a walk. Still limping slightly, about every fourth step.
The vet concluded I shouldn’t worry. If she’s still limping after a week, call back. —She doesn’t appear to be limping now.
“You may or may not know it,” I said; “but my wife died over a year ago.’
The poor vet reacted like she’d been punched in the solar-plexus.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said.
I started crying.
The skirts love that, that a husband would be so devoted to his wife.
“So now I’m the only one to entertain the dog, and I feel like I’m failing.”
“Well you’re not,” the vet said. “You seem to have a very healthy dog.”
This tearing up seems to never go away.
It happens all the time, and I never can stifle it.
I miss my wife dearly.
It doesn’t take much.
All I gotta do is say anything, and I start bawling.
At which point I say “Here we go!”

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s eight, 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.)

It’s that time of year

On weekdays when I take my dog to nearby Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow), a local high-school is bringing students out for canoeing lessons.
Boughton park has two large ponds formed by dams. It used to be a water-supply.
As I walked my dog out on the west-pond dam-dike the pond was full of canoes.
A schoolbus brings the students, and they get out the canoes.
I noticed a 30-ish lady atop the dam-dike with a clipboard surveying her charges.
“Never had anything like this when I was in high-school,” I commented.
“Yes, it’s really nice we can do something like this,” she said.
DEFLECTION ALERT!
My wry comment was parried with diplomacy, or in one ear, and out the other!
I continued walking my dog.
Later when I returned the second class had arrived and was piloting the same canoes.
As I started out on the dam-dike, I noticed the nasty lady I never say anything to.
She avoids me, and could bite my head off.
“Never had anything like this when I was in high-school,” I commented.
“Yes, it’s ridiculous!” she snapped. “Waste all that gasoline to bring these kids out to play in a boat!” (Schoolbuses use diesel-fuel.)
Snap-lady passed, and then I approached an older gentleman with the “Missy” dog.
He’s always yelling at her.
That guy gives my dog a treat, and she looks forward to it.
Yank-pull!
“Never had anything like this when I was in high-school,” I commented.
“Me neither,” he said. “High-school was supposed to be drudgery.”

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s eight, 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.)
• 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.) —Boughton Park is about four miles from my house.

Triggers

Last Friday, May 31st, I sent an e-mail to a friend I worked with at the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua.
The name of the e-mail was “Triggers;” things that start me crying.
My friend watches over me, and me over her. She lost her husband about six months before I lost my wife. Losing a spouse is very hard, especially a beloved spouse.
I detailed five things that start me crying. I’ll only mention three; the last two aren’t as much a trigger as the first three.
—1) Every morning I empty my dishwasher, which I used to do before my wife died.
I open a cupboard to put away glasses, and there are her cups I’ll never use.
I always made decaf in a small ceramic pitcher; she made green tea in a cup.
—2) Auto-trips to Canandaigua involve a bypass to avoid the infamous Bloomfield speed-trap.
I’ve been snared by it many times.
I head south a short ways, and ahead in the distance are the verdant Bristol Hills.
They always start me crying.
My last trip with my wife was to a hospice in the Bristol Hills.
—3) “If you or anyone else sits in that chair Linda used while we watched the news and ate supper, I’ll start bawling. No one has sat in that chair for over a year. The chair just waits. I haven’t gotten rid of it.”
I’ll mention one other trigger I forgot to put in the e-mail.
I use a semi-roundabout route to get into the nearby village of Honeoye Falls (“HONE-eee-oy;” rhymes with “boy”).
The supermarket and bank and pharmacy are on the west side of town, so if they’re where I’m going, I take that roundabout route.
It passes “Countryside Flower-Farm,” a farm-market we frequented often, yet I’ll never go to.
That farm-market was my wife’s discovery. How many tomato-plants from Countryside Flower-Farm did she bring home? There are flowers in front of my house from Countryside Flower-Farm.
Countryside Flower-Farm always had a store-dog that welcomed you after checking you out. He wanted to be petted. “Oh, you’re the guys with that Irish-Setter. Tomato-plants are out back.”
I no longer have an excuse to patronize Countryside Flower-Farm and pet their store-dog.

• The “Messenger” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 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]).
• “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. (Adjacent is Bloomfield village.)
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. (Her name was “Linda.”) 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: “Slinging words together”

The other day (Monday, June 3rd, 2013) I received an e-mail from an old friend I graduated college with in 1966.
He was in my class, and like me he’s into snide-remarks.
He made the mistake of equating “slinging words together” with “slinging it.”
“Slinging words together” is what I call my writing, this blog for example.
“Slinging it,” and I’ll use his terminology here, is letting the mind “wander,” generating copy out of thin air, making things up.
“Slinging words together” is more assembling words into readable understandable copy, avoiding syntactical errors.
“Slinging words together” goes back to high-school, when my 12th-grade English teacher told be I could write really well.
I thought him joking!
“But Dr. Zink,” I said; “all it is is slinging words together.”
I forgot about it, despite acing nearly every college paper.
In fact, I nearly aced college-physics based on my lab-reports.
After college I fell into writing motorsports coverage for a tiny weekly newspaper in Rochester.
(I was following sportscar racing.)
Some of my writing was pretty good, although I often destroyed it with turgid self-editing.
I remember tossing an entire race-report and then just letting ‘er rip. Describe all the sliding racecars and sawing at the wheel. —That story crashed when I realized I still had to report the race results.
I also remember covering sportscar races at Watkins Glen from lakeside. That is, I spent more time reporting swimming in the lake than the actual races; which weren’t professional.
During my tenure as a bus-driver for Regional Transit Service I fell into doing a monthly voluntary newsletter for my bus-union.
It was a bucking-bronco, and I no longer had time from self-editing.
Just let ‘er rip! Depend on my ability to successfully sling words together.
I had Transit management cowering. I was writing stories on scrap-paper and keying them in until 3 a.m.
My newsletter was circulated to politicos that funded transit, and they’d read it because it was a good read.
I’ve found I never have to let my mind “wander,” make things up.
Insanity is all around me. All I have to do is report and describe it. I’ll see it, then let my talent for successfully “slinging words together” describe it.
Little editing is required, although sometimes I get syntactical errors I can correct without destroying my story — that is, I’m not restructuring things.
If there’s any talent, and I surmise there is, it’s I can depend on what I write, that little editing is needed.
For example, I was returning home that day from a medical appointment, and some pretty young mother, car full of kids, blithely cut me off in her Subaru Outback.
I had to juke around her.
Before my wife died, that would have merited a blog. But with my wife gone, I rarely have time to blog traffic-insanity.
I used to blog almost every day; now I’m down to 1-3 times per week.
But I’m not “making things up,” “slinging it.” I’m just describing what I see, “slinging words together” to do so.
I certainly do enough factual research.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. While there I belonged to the local division (“Local 282”) of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union. Our local holds a regular business meeting the third Thursday of each month.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012.

Am I the only one?

Am I the only user of my bank’s online bill-pay?
I think not when my confirmation-numbers are in the teens.
This tells me someone else used the system to set up bill-pays ahead of me.
But on the other hand......
I fired up my bank’s website, and then fired up their online bill-pay website. I then fired up my “scheduled bill-pays.”
Interesting......
I set up a bill-pay a few weeks ago, then another a few days ago. They have consecutive confirmation-numbers.
Um, did anyone else set up an online bill-pay between my two when over two weeks passed?
I have other online bill-pay options, like having the payee automatically charge my account.
I don’t like that. That’s not me initiating the bill-pay.
I don’t like it after what my friend Marcy told me about the automatic charges to her checking-account to pay off her college loan.
Her creditor went bonkers, multiple mistaken charges per month instead of one, which cleaned out her account and she started getting unexpected overdraft penalties.
That’s not her mistake, that’s the creditor. And try to get that corrected with some service-rep in India whose command of English is little more than “I’m deeply sorry.”
Nope! PASS!
That ain’t hap’nin’ to the Keed.
Only I initiate the bill-pays. If anyone fouls up, it’s me.
Which I guess is why some folks continue to pay bills by check.
They’re initiating the bill-pay instead of the payee.
But sending checks is a pain.
Plus there’s postage.
Electronic fund-transfer makes sense.
Online bill-pay is attractive to me.
But only if I initiate the bill-pay, not the payee.
That’s like walkin’ into a car-dealer where a sign tells you to turn over your checking account number and/or credit-cards.
Nope! Ain’t doin’ it! I’d turn around and walk out.

• The Keed” is me, Bobbalew, Bob Hughes.