Monthly Calendar-Report for November 2015

UPS-train charges up The Hill at Brickyard. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—The November 2015 entry of my own calendar is the westbound UPS-train — 21E — charging The Hill at Brickyard Crossing.
It’s my November picture, but was actually taken in March of 2014; my so-called “stealth-trip.”
I told no one I was going, neither my brother-in-Boston, nor Phil Faudi (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”), the Altoona resident and railfan who helps me chase trains.
I was on-my-own; with only my railroad-radio scanner, and what knowledge I gleaned from Faudi.
Brickyard Crossing is actually Porta Road. It’s the only remaining crossing-at-grade of the old Pennsy main through Altoona.
The line is busy, but Porta Road isn’t. There used to be a brickyard adjacent, but no more.
It’s now warehouses and truck-docks.
No matter; the railroad and railfans still call it “Brickyard Crossing.”
Pennsy is of course gone; now operated by Norfolk Southern, a 1982 merger of Norfolk & Western and Southern Railway.
Various companies operated the old Pennsy main. First was Penn-Central, a merger of Pennsylvania Railroad and New York Central in 1968 — which went bankrupt after two years.
Then there was Conrail, at first a government attempt to sort out the eastern railroad mess, then later privatized as it became profitable.
Conrail was broken up and sold in 1999. Part went to CSX Transportation, and part went to Norfolk Southern. CSX’s portion is mainly the old New York Central; and Norfolk Southern got the old Pennsy main across PA.
I was doing okay, although not as well as with Phil.

#8102, the Pennsy Heritage-unit, in Gallitzin. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I managed to snag the Pennsy Heritage-unit leading an eastbound unit coal-train up Track One on the west slope of The Hill.
My scanner made that possible. I had already waited over an hour in Gallitzin (“Guh-LIT-zin;” as in “get”) in the cold. But then I heard the engineer call out a signal.
So I stayed put.
Norfolk Southern’s “Heritage Units” are new locomotives painted in the schemes of predecessor railroads.
There are 20.
The Pennsy Heritage unit is painted Tuscan Red (“TUSS-kin;” not “Tucson,” AZ) with five gold pin-stripes.
They are used like regular locomotives, so are often seen.
I’m sure I went to other places after that Heritage-unit, and one was Brickyard Crossing.
It’s a famous location. Next to the tracks is an embankment, and I’m on it.
Brickyard doesn’t work from that embankment in morning-light; it’s too backlit.
Even afternoon light is challenging. A westbound approaching on Two or Three will have its front lit.
So I’m shooting the wrong direction. An eastbound down One won’t work in afternoon light.
I’m shooting a westbound going away.
Afternoon light illuminates the locomotive-sides, but the cabs are in shadow. It’s called “modeling.”
The UPS-train is special, mostly UPS trailers-on-flatcar, and perhaps some FedEx or Postal Service.
The railroad must deliver the UPS-train on time — I think to Chicago, where another railroad would deliver it to the west coast.
If the UPS-train is late the railroad gets penalized.
The UPS-train gets a lot of reliable power, and in this case has a shared Union Pacific locomotive.
My guess is this photo is a pot-shot: just shoot and see what ya get!




A Stearman trainer. (Photo by Philip Makanna©.)

—I don’t like biplanes. (“BYE-plane;” not “BIP-lane. I only say that because for a long time I was mispronouncing it).
If a biplane was in my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar I usually ran it last.
Compared to a Mustang they were turkeys.
But photographer Makanna made the old girl look pretty good.
The November 2015 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is a Stearman “Kaydet” trainer made by Boeing.
Boeing purchased Stearman in 1934.
I’ll let my WWII warbirds site weigh in:
“Even though the Army Air Corps needed a new biplane trainer in the mid-‘30s, it moved slowly to acquire one because of the service-wide lack of funding for new airplane purchases.
In 1936, following the Navy’s lead the previous year, the Army tentatively bought 26 airframes from Boeing (the Model 75), which the Army named the PT-13.
With war on the horizon, this trickle of acquisition soon turned into a torrent; 3,519 were delivered in 1940 alone.
Originally built as a private venture by the Stearman Aircraft Company of Wichita, this two-seat biplane was of mixed construction. The wings were wood with fabric covering, while the fuselage had a tough, welded steel framework, also fabric covered.
Either a Lycoming R-680 (PT-13) or Continental R-670 (PT-17) engine powered most models, at a top speed of 124 mph with a 505-mile range. An engine shortage in 1940-41 led to the installation of 225-hp Jacobs R-755 engines on some 150 airframes, and the new designation PT-18.
The Navy’s early aircraft, designated NS-1, eventually evolved into the N2S series, and the Royal Canadian Air Force called their Lend-Lease aircraft PT-27s. (The Canadians were also responsible for the moniker “Kaydet,” a name eventually adopted by air forces around the globe).
The plane was easy to fly, and relatively forgiving of new pilots. It gained a reputation as a rugged airplane and a good teacher. Officially named the Boeing Model 75, the plane was (and still is) persistently known as the “Stearman” by many who flew them.
By whatever name, more than 10,000 were built by the end of 1945 and at least 1,000 are still flying today worldwide.”
When I was a child, late ‘40s, many Stearmans had been sold out of war surplus.
The original Philadelphia Airport, in south Jersey, was near where I lived.
That airport is long-gone. It couldn’t be expanded = runways lengthened to accommodate more modern airliners than the DC-3.
But at that time a banner towing-service flew out of that airport (as did RCA’s Twin Beech).
They were using Stearmans at first.
They’d fly over my neighborhood towing long advertising banners.
“Smoke Lucky-Strike cigarettes,” or “Look for the three-ring sign: Ballantine Beer.”
I always enjoyed watching. Sometimes two would fly at once; they had to make sure they didn’t hit each other.
Probably the first words I wrote (slung) were “Banner Biplane Antics.” I was about 10 or 11, and pretty much had to make it up. I had no idea how things worked.
Eventually the Stearmans were retired, and the service converted to Piper Cubs.
When’s the last time you saw an airplane towing an advertising banner? I only see ‘em at the seashore, advertising a radio-station to beach-goers.



1970 Trans-Am Pontiac.

—Everything from now on is not inspiring; except my Jim LePore muscle-car calendar.
The November 2015 entry is a 1970 Trans-Am Pontiac Firebird, perhaps the greatest ponycar ever made = the one I’d want.
The shape is perfect, one of the best-looking cars of all time.
And unlike Chevrolet’s Z-28 Camaro, it avoids the Ferrari grille.
About the only thing wrong with this car is size: it’s a little too big — and its gigantic sedan doors.
The Trans-Am makes a few styling mistakes, like that vent on the side of the front fenders, and those add-on fiberglass wheel-pants.
Supposedly they had worthwhile function. The Trans-Am had good aero. The hood-scoop faces rearward. It scooped air pressurized by hitting the windshield.
But I don’t know about that fender-vent. I doubt it’s functional. It looks like plastic filigree.
The 1970 Trans-Am had a rip-roaring 400 cubic-inch engine, same as the G-T-O.
345 horsepower, it claimed. And it had the reputation of being a stormer.
Hopefully it wasn’t as heavy as that boat-anchor 455 that came later, although that engine was a stormer too.




All auto-racks. (Photo by Eric Johnson.)

—Time to move on — although I’m not inspired from here on.
The November 2015 entry of my Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar is an all auto-rack train passing through Homestead, PA on its way to Newark with new autos from Fostoria, OH.
The auto-racks probably have three decks inside, and are fully enclosed.
At first they weren’t, but miscreants would rock out car-windows and dent sheet-metal.
The photographer used such strong telephoto the track curves are compressed into spaghetti.
Which is what ruins the picture for me.
Ya gotta be careful with telephoto. To me the aim is to see what the eye sees.
Spaghetti-curves are not what the eye sees.
Auto-racks are “high-cars.” I doubt you could run ‘em on Baltimore & Ohio’s “West End,” its original line to the Ohio River.
I’ve seen the “West End;” it’s very difficult, so is no longer a mainline to the Ohio River. The only reason B&O built that way is because Pennsy wouldn’t allow them to Pittsburgh, although that was in the 1800s.
B&O finally attained Pittsburgh, so its main became its line to Pittsburgh.
The “West End” still exists, and was part of B&O’s line to St. Louis. But now it’s mainly heavy coal-trains, and coal-cars aren’t “high cars.”
The “West End” attains Grafton, WV, where many coal-branches fed it, including the original line to the Ohio River.
One wonders if the “West End” will be abandoned if coal becomes a dinosaur. It crosses two mountains on horrible grades.
I remember seeing a highway overpass in Oakland, MD, and it wasn’t the Pennsy main. It was two tracks, but they were close, and clearance through the overpass was tight.
But this line through Homestead looks like a main. It has the clearance to run doublestacks and wide loads.
Studying this picture I see a forested hillside behind. It looks like the train may have just exited a tunnel.
So I fired up Homestead in my Google-maps, and I don’t see a tunnel.
Homestead is near Pittsburgh, so there are railroads galore. Homestead is on the Monongahela River.
I’ve never been there.




The way it was. (Photo courtesy Joe Suo Collection ©.)

—I was gonna run this photo later; but decided I shouldn’t. After all this is the way railroading was when the picture was taken back in 1959.
The November 2015 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar is the tail end of a northbound train about to tackle infamous Madison grade.
Look at that ’59 Ford, and that ’57 or ’58 Plymouth. The ’57 and ’58 Plymouths are identical except for the taillights in the huge fins. And I can’t remember which was which.
My beloved wife, now gone, learned to drive in a ’57 Plymouth, and she hated it. Big as a barge; and it started to rust almost immediately.
Try to imagine parallel-parking that thing!
Madison grade, at 5.89 %, was the steepest mainline grade in America.
Even Saluda (“Sa-LOO-duh”) in NC, which I’ve seen, is not as steep. Madison is 5.89 feet up for every 100 feet forward.
I’ve seen various percentages for Saluda; from 4.7 % up to 5.1%. Whatever, it looks steep.
I have a hard time imagining a side-rod steam-locomotive holding the rail, not slipping on Madison grade, especially if the rail is wet.
Diesels would do better; constant torque from their electric traction-motors, instead of piston-thrusts.
I also can’t imagine a train not sliding down the hill with its brakes locked — but probably it would hold.
Plus I don’t imagine a train being very long or heavy.
Trains up Saluda had to triple the hill; break the train into three manageable segments.
Saluda is inactive, although the tracks are still there.
I’ve never seen Madison grade, but I did see Saluda. What I remember most is its start at the top of the hill. The tracks suddenly drop like a rollercoaster.
You see that in Gallitzin where Track One begins “The Slide.” Suddenly the tracks drop, but that’s only 2.28%.
And steep grades were just as bad going down. Saluda had at least one runaway track — two at first. And it was routed into the runaway track — a train had to be under control and stop so a brakie could throw the switch.
17-Mile Grade on Baltimore & Ohio’s “West End” also had runaway tracks, but trains weren’t routed into them. The switch to the runaway track only threw if the train exceeded a certain speed descending. 17-Mile-Grade maxes at 2.28%.
I did some poking around with Google, hoping to find Madison grade.
At first I was looking at Madison, OH on Google-maps — wrong state.
I then tried “Madison Grade” in my Google-search, and found it was actually IN.
Some historical artifact was written about “Madison Grade;” it goes back a long way. It was started in 1836, and finished in 1841. It was climbing up out of the Ohio River valley, and had a lot of near-impossible challenges.
At first it was built as an inclined-plane railroad, with stationary steam-engines winching cars up the grade.
An attempt to make an adhesion locomotive that could climb the grade failed, so the grade was converted to rack-and-cog, just like the Mt. Washington Cog Railway.
Eventually a locomotive, the “Reuben Wells,” went into service in 1868 that successfully climbed the grade by adhesion.
Eventually the grade allied with Pennsy, and in the picture we see a PRR train about to attack the grade.
Apparently the grade still exists, used as needed by the Madison Port Authority. But it’s almost grown over.
If I look carefully at my Google-map, I see a railroad out of Madison.
Indianapolis is now the capital of IN, but in the early 1800s it was a mere hole-in-the-wall compared to Madison.
I also note that caboose is wood. Pennsy called ‘em “cabin-cars,” and replaced their wooden cabooses with steel.
But the train will climb Madison Grade with a wooden cabin-car.
I did Mt. Washington Cog Railway back in 1968; and back then it was all-steam.
The rail was very tiny; it didn’t need to support much.
But Mt. Washington Cog Railway has since converted to diesel.




Old-looking. (Photo by Scott Williamson.)

—The November 2015 entry in my Oxman Hotrod Calendar is a 1933 Ford hotrod.
It’s a hotrod, but very old appearing.
It’s those wheels, the fact they are spoked.
And they look rare; the fact they appear to be knockoffs. (A hammer applied to one of those wings takes the wheel off its center-stud; it’s not bolted.)
I’ve never seen such a thing. Apparently they are “Wheelsmith” custom wire wheels. So says the calendar.
The car is based on a ’33 Ford roadster. Not bad, but not as desirable as the ’34. It looks pretty much the same; I thought it a ’34 at first.
This car has what I consider two mistakes:
—First, the motor is a 350 Chevy SmallBlock. I feel it should be a FlatHead Ford V8; those wheels make it appear very old, like ‘40s.
—Second is the two-piece DuVall windshield. I feel like the standard one-piece stock Ford windshield, chopped, looks better.
The tiny Carson top also looks too minimal; a tiny top on a bigger-looking car.
Carson tops were very popular, but in this case too spare. —Something tells me you’re gonna have to remove the top to drive this thing; it’s not a convertible top.
And if you can’t drive it — if it’s only a trailer-queen — what fun is that? As my old friend, since deceased, once said: “If ya can’t drive the bitch, ya can’t enjoy it.”
The car also has a Halibrand Quick-Change differential. A Quick-Change allowed you to quickly change differential-gearing — a racecar application, to allow changing rear-gearing to maximize performance for an individual track.



Three “Sharks” lead westbound coal-train on the Pennsy main across PA. (Photo by Fred Kern.)

—The November 2015 entry in my All-Pennsy color calendar is a westbound coal-train at Perdix on the Pennsy main across PA. It’s November of 1959.
The train is bound for Altoona, and it’s powered by three Baldwin RF-16 “Sharks.”
The Sharks are considered the prettiest cab-units. They were styled by Raymond Loewy, a take-off of his T-1 (4-4-4-4) steam-locomotive for Pennsy.
But even the Shark couldn’t save Baldwin. Other railroads beside Pennsy purchased Sharks, and they were much better-looking than Baldwin’s initial “baby-faces.”
There were even passenger-Sharks, but only Pennsy, 2,000 horsepower.
But Sharks weren’t reliable. EMD’s plain-Jane F-units were more reliable — the locomotive that dieselized the railroads.
If a Shark crippled, it blocked the railroad. You can’t just drive around a cripple. You gotta send out rescue-locomotives to bring in the cripple.
Baldwin was a long-time supplier of steam-locomotives to our nation’s railroads. Pennsy, even though it built its own locomotives, was one of Baldwin’s biggest clients.
But with dieselization Baldwin declared bankruptcy, and went out of business. All that remains of its giant plant in Eddystone, PA is the administration-building.
My guess is that coal-train is empty, but that’s looking at it from today’s viewpoint.
Three locomotives seems like a lot of power to move a empty train, so it may not be empty.
Most westbound coal-trains now are empty, going back to the mines. Two units unassisted can pull 100 or more empty coal-cars over The Hill.
Those RF-16s were 1,600 horsepower. Road-units now average 4,000 horsepower or more per unit.




1968 Mercury Cougar 427 GT-E. (Photo by Peter Harholdt©.)

—The November 2015 entry in my Motorbooks Musclecar calendar is a 1968 Mercury Cougar 427 GT-E.
At least it looks quite a bit different from the Mustang, on which it’s based.
But the roof is Mustang.
I always had a hard time thinking of the Cougar as a ponycar.
It was a little too glitzy.
Later the Cougar was moved up to Ford’s intermediate platform. No longer was it based on Mustang.
But before Bud Moore Engineering started racing their fabulous Boss-302 Mustangs, they raced Cougars in the SCCA (Sports Car Club of America) Trans-Am series.

A Bud Moore Cougar.

Moore was an old NASCAR racer. He’d modify his cars per his NASCAR experience — his Boss-302 Mustangs were probably the fastest car.
He also had Parnelli (”par-nell-EEEE”) Jones driving for him. Parnelli won the Indy 500 once.
The most important thing Moore did was firmly locate the car’s rear-axle with a Panhard rod and track-bars. With that the car didn’t boogaloo when drifting.
Putting a 427 mega-motor in a glitz-wagon is a bit of a stretch. And the engine was the notorious 427 side-oiler.
The side-oiler was essentially a NASCAR racing engine. It wasn’t very streetable.
Ford was phasing out the side-oiler in 1968, replacing it with its new 428.
But this car is the side-oiler.
Good luck driving it on the street!

Flag Police

(Photo by BobbaLew.)

Not too long after I started my unpaid internship at the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua, which was after my stroke, I began slinging together columns which the newspaper published weekly atop its “Op-Ed” page.
My columns were unpaid, and my first was how presidents no longer wore hats — that I’d vote for the first presidential candidate sensible enough to wear a hat.
There was Jimmy Carter, obviously aging, showing up for Obama’s first inauguration, in frigid temperatures, bare-headed.
And all the other ex-presidents too, like George H.W. Bush in a wheelchair.
I hope they had kerosene heaters wafting the podium.
It was so cold Yo-Yo Ma couldn’t play his cello, and Aretha Franklin was so wrapped up in scarves, blankets, and a gigantic fur hat she was unidentifiable. All I could recognize was her voice.
Unwearing of hats began with President Kennedy, who despite being half-crippled by back-pain, wanted to project an image of youthful “vigah.”
Eisenhower wore a hat, as did many presidents before him.
I’m not president, I guess because I wear a hat.
There’s Obama, leaping out of Air Force One, hatless.
Ever since Kennedy, presidents go without hats; although I wonder about Nixon. Wingtips and tie on the beach at San Clemente?
Many columns got published after that first, and they even deigned to take a mug-shot to go with my column.
My all time favorite was “the sun always shines at 35,000 feet.” That came from my time driving bus, a Park-and-Ride from the suburbs.
I pulled into the terminal behind Midtown Plaza in Rochester to discharge my passengers, and it was snowing awful. You couldn’t even see the tops of buildings.
A passenger commented about the snow and poor visibility. “The sun always shines at 35,000 feet,” I said.
Our airliner often took off in snow or rain from Rochester’s airport. But when we got up to cruising altitude, 35,000 feet, we were above the weather, and the sun was shining.
It had to end sometime, and it did when I infuriated the flag police.
I’ve always loved Old Glory, and fly it in front of my house.
Except when it rains or snows, or at night.
One day I came home from the newspaper and Old Glory was on the ground. The flag-holder had pulled out — it was windy.
I was gonna retrieve it, but noticed one of our two silly dogs, Houdini, was hung up on our Cyclone fence in the back-yard. She had caught her lip on the chainlink trying to jump the fence.
What to do! Rescue Old Glory or the dog?
I decided the dog was more alive, so I rescued the dog first.
I happened to mention this in a column, thereby upsetting the flag police.
They called the newspaper’s head-honcho. The flag was clearly more alive than our silly dog, so I had dissed Old Glory by not rescuing it first.
So ended my column at the newspaper. It made more sense to pull the plug than try to defend me.
I look again at Old Glory, which I just hung outside. It didn’t whine on the ground years ago, and hasn’t whined at me yet.
It rarely blows down; I fixed the flag holder with longer screws.
Nevertheless, I’d probably still rescue my dog first.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• Over 10 years I worked at the Daily Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua after my stroke; I started there as an unpaid intern. It was the best job I ever had, and probably enhanced recovery from my stroke.
• I call my ability to write “slinging words.”
• “Vigah” is Kennedy’s Boston pronunciation of “vigor.”
• 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.

Is this for real?

I’m a Chevy-man, but this is embarrassing.
An ad for Chevrolet trucks is in my most recent Car and Driver magazine, November 2015.
Chevy is doing this: interviews of its car-designers. It’s a fairly good idea.
The ad claims “Grilles are like cowboy boots — they are your calling-card.”
The fact Chevrolet thinks its pickup grille is a premier selling-point is ridiculous.
At least to me.
Like I’m gonna buy a Chevrolet pickup based on its grille.
I admit the appearance of a car is probably the most important factor in my purchase decisions.
—And that it be All-Wheel-Drive; to reduce my snowblowing.
I currently have a 2012 Ford Escape, which I felt looked better than the 2003 Honda CR-V I had.
Although that wasn’t the reason I bought it. It was the age of the Honda, plus the Escape was much friendlier to my dog.
I don’t think Chevy’s pickup grill looks very good.
It’s a shame Chevrolet takes grille-appearance so seriously — which reflects that truck-buyers take it seriously.
Then yesterday I saw what appeared to be the new Dodge RAM pickup.
They ruined it! I’m not attracted to the Dodge’s scoop front-end, although I feel it saved Dodge trucks. And I know a lotta people think it looks butch.
But the new front-end of the Dodge RAM pickup is a disaster.
I bet a lotta truck buyers are turned off. And the Chevy and Ford front-ends aren’t inspiring.

The dreaded D-word

Lilly. (Photo by Lisa Robinson.)

“I bet your wife took that with a digital camera,” I said.
Two weeks ago (Saturday, October 3rd, 2015) I went to George Eastman House in Rochester (NY) with my younger brother and his wife.
My brother will soon turn 57, his wife is 55. I, of course, am 71.
George Eastman House has become much more than just the mansion of George Eastman, founder of Eastman Kodak.
It became a museum of photography, and also restores stuff and has a repository of original films.
A museum with galleries was built on the back of the mansion.
There is also a 500-seat theater for showing movies.
While there we attended a presentation by a museum docent about the history of photography.
After detailing every photographic process through the years, from daguerreotype to albumin prints through inventions by Kodak, such as the Brownie camera, Kodachrome, and Instamatic cameras.......
......We got to the dreaded D-word: “Digital.” (GASP!)
Kodak invented digital photography, but didn’t run with it, probably because they had so much investment tied up in film.
A large area of Rochester is “Kodak Park,” an entire city-like area dedicated to the manufacture of film, cameras, and photography paraphernalia.
It even had its own fire department and railroad. Miles and miles of buildings.
Kodak eventually declared bankruptcy. Many were laid off, and its retired employees were left hanging. Years ago a job at Kodak was what one dreamed about.
Photographers called it “Yellow Father.”
Many of those buildings in “the Park” were imploded. Kodak stopped making Kodachrome not too long ago.
And now the best-selling camera of all time is not the Instamatic, It’s the SmartPhone.
And they’re digital (GASP).
I have one myself, an Apple iPhone-6.
Some of the pictures in this blog were taken with that iPhone.
I also have a digital Nikon camera, a D7000.
I started with a D100, Nikon’s attempt to break into the high-end digital camera market.
The people at George Eastman House poo-poo digital. They say it’s inferior to film.
Well, I guess so, if you’re picking nits.
People at Eastman House claim they can tell if a picture is digital; they can see the flaws.
Well, in my humble opinion, what they’re missing is what matters most about a photograph: CONTENT.
Which is why I posted that picture of Lilly above; it’s a great photograph, taken with a digital camera (GASP).
Ya don’t find some elitist badmouthing that daguerreotype of Abe Lincoln.
That picture of shooting a Viet Cong in the head, that Woody Allen uses so much, is not grist for the elitists. —It was probably shot with Tri-X developed in Dektol.
People tell me how wonderful my calendar is, but it’s just JPEGs. JPEGs are the el-cheapo digital format. They have compression, but I still think they look pretty good. I could use .TIF, my camera will shoot .tif, but why bother? I get a lot more ,jpeg files on a memory-chip, and to me they look impressive.
My brother’s camera is shooting 300 pixel-per-inch ,jpeg just like me.


It picked out the signals a mile away! (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

After George Eastman House I ain’t sure about digital.
I certainly have felt what digital I’ve shot is very impressive.
And I certainly am glad to be free of a darkroom; I had one years ago.
I also am glad to no longer be browning my fingertips with developer.
And I can do more with this computer — the triumph of Photoshop.
Okay, so maybe film is superior, but digital is great.
And I doubt the average photo-viewer complains about digital. I certainly hear enough huzzas about my calendar-pictures. And in fact one was recently stolen — a picture was torn out.
What matters, more than technical quality, is CONTENT.

• “Lisa Robinson” is the wife of Bill Robinson. Both she and he worked at the Messenger newspaper during my employ — he with me. “Lilly” is their daughter.
“Phil Faudi” (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”) is the railfan resident of Altoona (PA) who helps me take pictures of trains. —I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2.

“Every time I come here....

.....I leave with more knowledge of my iPhone,” I said to the solitary clerk at “PC & Wireless Shop” in Canandaigua.
I came with a question about my iPhone GPS apps, like how I had gotten Google-Maps to prompt through the phone, instead of my car’s speakers; yet still take BlueTooth phonecalls through my car.
With Apple-Maps I have to turn off BlueTooth. I also wondered if I could get Apple-Maps to do the same as Google-Maps.
The poor guy was flustered. Did I want Google-Maps to prompt through my car?
No. As a stroke-survivor I get this a lot, inability to make myself clear.
I didn’t wanna change anything. All I wanted to know was how I could.
Poking around: “Oh, I see you have a lotta apps on,” he said.
He started shutting things off; it’s just a finger-swipe.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What are you doing? I’m not familiar.”
He showed me what apps were still on.
“So how do I get to that?” I asked.
“Just double-click the ‘home’ button.”
“I thought switching apps shut off the app you were in.”
“No, it doesn’t. That app will run until ya swipe it off.”
Another iPhone trick gleaned unexpected from PC & Wireless, where i bought the phone because they’re allied with Verizon, my cellphone provider.
I suppose I could pose my questions to some pimply geek at the Apple-store, or take an iPhone course.
PASS!
All I want are answers, not a sales-pitch. Just because I don’t fully understand my iPhone-6, doesn’t mean I want the new 6s.
And I can imagine trying to get answers at a Verizon-store. Get in line. Take a number.
And of course being a stroke-survivor means I can’t handle a SmartPhone. Like I should drive a 50-year-old rotary.
PC & Wireless also answered my GPS question. There was a a “Settings” in there, and often as a stroke-survivor I don’t see such things.
Visual overload!

• I have a friend whose wife got mad at her Dell computer. So she went out and bought another Dell. Go figure!

Would you cart manure in this thing?

Would you cart manure in this thing? (Photo by BobbaLew.)

It’s a Ford small-block.

Um, HELLO.........

65 turns west from the south.

About 400-500 yards north of my house, State Route 65 turns sharply left 90 degrees toward Honeoye Falls (“hone-eee-OYE;” as in “boy”).
It used to be a four-way intersection, and still is. It’s just that the highway department rebuilt and regraded it, so that traffic on 65 can be continuous.
The turn is banked.
What’s happening is that Ontario St. from Honeoye Falls is turning south on Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road.
I live on Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road, but it’s also State Route 65.
Go straight north through the intersection, and you continue on Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road.
Straight east from Ontario St. goes onto Baker Road.
It probably used to be a flat four-way intersection, but Route 65 made the turn, so the intersection was rebuilt.
Traffic turning has the right-of-way.
The other two streets have stop-signs.
But as a retired bus-driver I don’t trust that.
I may have the right-of-way, but I signal my turn. There’s always a chance some idiot will drift through a stop-sign and cut me off.
I was on my way to Honeoye Falls to buy groceries. To do so I have to make the turn.
I cranked on my signal, and noticed a blue-metallic Honda Odyssey van at the stop-sign headed south on Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road. She would need to cross the intersection.
Sure enough, despite having my signal on, and having the right-of-way, little miss Odyssey pranced slowly into the intersection cutting me off.
I slowed and waved.
She never saw me, or pretended she didn’t.
Thank goodness I once drove Transit-bus. My driving-instructor told me to expect anything.
“Oh Dora, look, a bus. PULL OUT, PULL OUT!

• “Honeoye Falls” is the nearest village to the west to where I live in western New York, a rural village about five miles away. I live in West Bloomfield, south of Rochester (NY).
• “Pittsford” is a ritzy suburb southeast of Rochester. The Erie Canal goes through it.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.

“Are you nuts?”

For the past couple weeks Yr Fthfl Srvnt, the old codger, has been trying to use the GPS-navigation technology on my iPhone. My Ford Escape has it too, as part of Microsoft’s “Sync” technology. But I refuse to use it. It’s too unreliable.
Yesterday (Wednesday, October 7th, 2015) my Transit Retirees Club held a cruise on the Erie Canal. It started in Fairport, a suburb east of Rochester (NY). The Erie Canal goes through Fairport, and has a place where boats can dock. It’s called “Packett’s Landing.” Freight on the canal was carried by packet-boats.
Part of the reason Rochester became prominent was the Erie Canal. It could tap the agricultural output of the vast Genesee (“jen-uh-SEE;” as in “Jell-o”) River valley, mainly wheat.
The Genesee River valley was this nation’s first bread-basket.
A feeder-canal was built in the valley from Rochester.
The main reason New York City is our premiere ocean-port is the Erie Canal. Other cities, like Philadelphia and Baltimore, could have become the premiere ocean-port, but they didn’t have an Erie Canal.
What they had was an Appalachian mountain-barrier, which the Erie Canal didn’t have.
I thought I would try GPS to get to Packett’s Landing; no Google-maps, just follow the voice-prompts.
I still don’t have my GPS up where I can see it.
I programmed Packett’s Landing into my iPhone’s “Google-maps” GPS. I have two GPS apps: one is ”Apple-maps,” which was on my iPhone when I got it. The other is “Google-maps,” which my computer-store suggested was better.
I was about 20 miles away in Canandaigua (NY) leaving my dog at doggy-daycare.
So I started it — it wasn’t the route I’d planned, but looked like it might be better.
“Turn right at Greig Terrace, and go east 800 feet to Main St., Route 332.
“Nope. Can’t do it.” Greig Terrace is one-way, and east on it is the wrong way.
So I proceeded toward Gibson St., the next street north.
“Turn right on Gibson St., and go east 800 feet to Main St., Route 332.”
“Okay, now yer making sense. I can allow one error.”
“Turn right on Main St.”
“WHAAAA......? You gotta be kidding.” Right is south; Fairport is north.
“Make a U-turn at Greig Terrace, and proceed north on Main St., Route 332.”
“ARE YOU NUTS? I ain’t doin’ that, not when I can turn left off Gibson to go north on Main.”
Suddenly I realized where Garrison Keillor gets the inspiration for his GPS skits on “Prairie Home Companion” with the GPS lady. Where the GPS lady says “That’s it! I’ve had it! If you don’t wanna take my advice, I’M OUTTA HERE! Yer always arguing with me!”
My friend Jim LePore (“luh-POOR”) and I ate out last night, as we do every Wednesday night.
We couldn’t eat out last Wednesday because he had to attend a wedding in Virginia Beach. His daughter drove.
His daughter had four GPS apps, including a Tom-Tom. They each suggested different routes.
His daughter got lost. A nine-hour trip took 12 hours.
Jim was just sitting in the back seat twiddling his thumbs.
Finally he said to his daughter “Will you just throw that thing out the window!”
That was after it had them do four right-turns around a block.
Once out of Canandaigua my GPS did pretty good. Their suggested route was more direct and made sense.
So I programmed it back to Canandaigua from Packett’s Landing.
Interestingly, it suggested the same route I was originally gonna do, more roundabout but involving expressways and the Thruway.
One wonders how a single GPS app can suggest one route there, and a different route back.

• 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 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
• The “Genesee River” is a fairly large river that runs south-to-north across Western New York, runs through Rochester, including over falls, and empties into Lake Ontario.
• The “Thruway” is a toll interstate from New York City to the Pennsylvania state line west of Buffalo. It’s the main east-west highway through New York state. —It more-or-less parallels the Erie Canal, avoiding mountains. Across western NY it’s Interstate-90. South of Albany to New York City it’s Interstate-87.

Mahz-n-Wawdzzz

(That’s Myers & Watters, but that’s how the boss, a Greek, pronounced it; as in “ah.”)
After my freshman year at college, I needed a summer-job, supposedly to make money for college.
During the summers of 1959, 1960, and ’61 (college is ’62-63 to ’66), I worked at a religious boys-camp in northeastern MD on Chesapeake Bay.
it was a really neat place, horseback-riding, swimming, and canoeing on the bay.
I was a Counselor-In-Training (CIT), 15 through 17, high-school age.
We lived in open-air screened cabins, not tents. We ate meals in a common dining-hall, not cooked outside over an open fire.
How I got that job I wonder, since I’m not religious.
I suspect it was my ability to sling words — what I’m doing now.
I spun a delicious story about finding redemption at that camp, a dramatic religious conversion, as it were.
This actually happened, but only lasted a week. Fear of being caught: a legacy of my parents.
I was a stablehand; also questionable, since I was no good at horseback-riding.
But the stable-guys loved me because I mucked the stalls. I also became a horsemanship teacher.
Our camp had a paradigm, that every camper should be able to ride a horse.
That being the case, horsemanship was one of the camp activities.
A camper could choose horsemanship, and hopefully get to make a trail-ride.
This rarely happened, since campers were terrified on a horse.
So to kill time — I had to do three days for each class — I did horsemanship training: parts of the horse, parts of the saddle, parts of the bridle, how to saddle a horse, how to bridle the horse, how to get on and off, etc.
On the last day of the class we did “ring-riding.” That’s when you ride a single horse around a 100-foot diameter fenced riding ring.
The riders were usually terrified. “Don’t hold the horn, Johnny. That’s what’s making you bounce.” —We rode western, not English.
After that we chose a few campers for a trail-ride, those not terrified.
The stable-guys loved this. It meant they didn’t hafta teach horsemanship to the campers. So even though I was no good at riding horse, they loved having me around.
Also that I mucked the stalls (horse-manure, urine, hay, mud, etc.), meaning they didn’t have to.
My horseback riding got better over those three summers, so by the last summer I was leading trail-rides. I was also named the Assistant Horsemanship Director.
I didn’t work at the camp in 1962, the year I graduated high-school, since I had to attend summer-school at the college to prove I could do college-level work.
The camp’s director was also head of the college kitchen-staff, since both the college and camp were religious institutions.
So he was lining up his camp staff from college students, and we struck a deal: I could join the college kitchen-staff if I agreed to be his camp stable-director.
(And thereby have additional income while at college.)
But my father had other ideas. No way in a million years could that camp pay me a good income.
Counselor pay might have been $50 per week. For 10 weeks that’s $500. One semester of college cost about $1,700 back then.
The idea was that faith would make up the difference — that was often your parents, and my father was a skinflint. No son of his that refused to kowtow to is self-proclaimed Godliness deserved any money. That was for his missionary friends!
So much for the deal with the camp-director.
Faith was not enough; my father worshipped the almighty dollar.
At that time my father worked in an oil-refinery in northern DE. He was an inspector; he’d inspect the work of contractors.
At that time the refinery was having its tanks and high-steel painted by Myers & Watters, an outside painting-contractor based in Philadelphia.
Myers & Watters had a crew of about 15 at the refinery. A few were actual employees of Myers & Watters, but most were hired out of the union local in northern DE.
The crew had a local foreman named “Billy Gardiner,” and his boss was “Vic,” the Greek, out of Philadelphia.
My father asked Vic if he get me a summer-job.
There were hairballs, but Vic presumed it was “you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.”
The biggest hairball was I wasn’t union, but that meant they could pay me less. Yet way more than I’d make at camp.
So Vic paid off the appropriate union-officials, and hired me on.
Eight hours per day at my father’s refinery for Mahz-n-Wawdzzz.
I didn’t do any painting — I was a helper, a laborer.
What I did at first was sanding pipe-bottoms on the pipeline from the refinery to the docks.

Making love to the pipes. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I used to call it “Making love to the pipes.”
They were about a foot off the ground, so I’d sit on the pipes, bending over to sand their bottoms. —In the hot sun.
Painters came along later to prime the bottoms with a roller on a stick, which my father inspected with an outside car rearview mirror screwed to a broomstick.
The painters all hated my father, who they called “Tommy” — his name was “Tom,” and he could be a jerk.
What they hated was having to extinguish their cigarettes when “Tommy” showed up. Smoking wasn’t allowed on the pipeline.
I did that pipe-sanding for maybe six weeks.
After that Gardiner decided to try me at sandblaster tender.
The exterior shells of large heaters were being sandblasted and then painted. The heaters would heat hydrodesulfurization feed, and burned natural gas from the refinery.

Sandblasting the heaters. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I looked through a peephole once, and it was the fiery furnace-from-Hell. No sign of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. But it was Lebenty-Times-Seben.
Two Myers & Watters employees, using extension-ladders, climbed up on the heaters, and sandblasted the shells, which probably encased firebrick inside. It was hot work.
My job was to keep two three-bag sandblaster canisters full of sand.
When a blaster ran empty, I’d lift and dump three 100-bags bags of sand into a funnel atop the blaster.
Then I’d seal the canister shut, and turn it on.
Both blasters were being pressurized by a 100 cubic-feet-per-minute Schramm air-compressor.
They worried I might be unable to lift a 100-pound bag of sand, but I got so I could do it.
And every couple weeks a semi would come with 180 bags of sand. We had to unload it, and stack it near the blasters.
Mahz-n-Wawdzzz became my summer-job the entire time I was in college.
Gardiner loved having “Little Bobby” (me). I was a good worker, more dependable than most. I even got so I could work heights, although Gardiner made allowances for me.
After my sophomore year we were painting a tank-farm in south Jersey.
They were floating-roof tanks; that is, as the tank emptied, the roof, which floated atop the contents, also came down.
What we were doing was brush-blasting the inside walls of the empty tanks. The owners had the tank full at first, then partially emptied it to expose about eight feet of the tank-wall.
We had four large six-bag blasters pushed by a gigantic 650 cubic-feet-per-minute Schramm air-compressor powered by a V8 bus diesel.
I was the Operating-Engineer, much to the dismay of the local Operating-Engineer union.
I’d start it, let it warm up, then engage its four-foot clutch-lever. IMMENSE POWAH!
Gardiner also loved that I was blaster-tender. I’d have the six-bag blasters filled and back online so quick his coworkers couldn’t finish their cigarettes.
Which was illegal of course; the tanks held av-gas.
“Bobby, ya gotta slow down,” they’d say.
But of course Gardiner thought it was funny.
I was inadvertently making those guys work.
After my junior year at college Myers & Watters rehired me, and agreed to my request for $2.75 per hour.
That was all of one semester, plus part of the second.
I remember watching my college business-office suck an entire summer’s savings.
Plus I worked an extra week by not doing student-teaching — I felt it was a waste = too political.
We did the neatest job I ever did, just brush-blasting and painting a brand new golfball water-tower on the south Jersey seashore.

Ventnor’s new golfball. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

There were only three of us: Gardiner, and me, and a Myers & Watters employee named “Jerald.”
It was in Ventnor, south of Atlantic City.
It replaced an old water-tower that was too small, and leaked profusely.
And it was only 125 feet high. We tried a 175 foot golfball in Baltimore, and it was frightening.
We painted both the inside and the outside; inside with a ladder-rig we made, and outside with a spider.
My job was to help, and also tend a small three-bag blaster, pushed by a 100 cubic-feet-per-minute Schramm. That compressor also powered the spider, and Gardiner’s spray-equipment.

Gardiner brings the spider down. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Gardiner sprays. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

All the painting was spray, which meant at least half blew away in the wind outside.
And we were applying all kinds of paint, including ship’s-bottom. Ventnor could afford it.

Atop the water-tower. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Neatest job we ever did. It took over an hour to get to it, and over an hour to get back. Often me and Gardiner and Jerald stopped for breakfast along the way.
And the scenery was fantastic; pretty young teeny-boppers in skimpy bikinis headed for the beach.
When I left Gardiner and Jerald had to finish that water-tower themselves; I was sorely missed. But it was back to college for me.
What my father didn’t realize was he was exposing me to every kind of sin.
I drank my first beer with the Mahz-n-Wawdzzz crew in a Sinclair refinery in Marcus Hook, PA.
We’d often stop for a six-pak on the way back from Ventnor.
My father was trying to offset the money drainage that would have occurred if I continued at camp while at college.
He was also trying to expose me to worldliness.
What happened was I became more worldly, as it were, working for Mahz-n-Wawdzzz.
And some of the neatest persons I ever met couldn’t read nor write, and smoked, for God’s sake.
(I never have.)
Mostly all hated my father so much their goal was to deflower “Little Bobby.”
And they did, although my father probably never knew.

• I went to Houghton College (“HO-tin;” as in “oh,” not “how” or “who”) in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I graduated a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college.

Moving on

At long last I feel like my season-of-grief is over.
That is, the grief that came with losing my beloved wife to cancer three years ago.
We were married more than 44 years, despite the nattering nabobs of negativism in her family.
They said I’d got her pregnant, and we’d never last a year. I wasn’t the blonde idiot they wanted, whose name was “Dave Green.”
I snagged a really good one.
She put up with me, so I accepted her for who she was.
I feel like my grief ended with my prostate operation.
It was a HUGE distraction; I had little time to think about the death of my wife.
I haven’t cried for a while.
So now I feel like starting over; going back to my roots, perhaps.
I’m a native of south Jersey. All my siblings feel like Delawareans. But I was 13 when my family moved to Delaware. (I’m the oldest.) I feel like I grew up in south Jersey.
I’ve always said New Jersey is comprised of two parts.
North Jersey is the dump for New York City, and south Jersey is the dump for Philadelphia.
Beyond that, PA is/was a hyper-religious state. One had to buy liquor at state-stores. Therefore, Pennsylvanians driving back from the Jersey seashore would stop at a south Jersey liquor store.
And there were plenty, along with nightclubs, bars, and houses-of-ill-repute.
South Jersey was a den-of-iniquity. My upbringing reflects that. Not a participant, just an observer — of madness.
I always say the world indeed has an asshole, and it’s south Jersey.
Since my wife’s death I’ve been sort of a hermit. I didn’t feel like going anywhere.
But now I feel like I should go visit south Jersey; see my original home.
My first home at 625 Jefferson Ave. in Erlton (“ERL-tin;” as in name “Earl”) is still there according to Google Street-Views. As is “the Triangle,” a vacant lot across the street where kids played baseball.
But I feel like I need to see it in the flesh.
Perhaps see the first-floor addition to our house my father designed with his tee-square.
Our next-door neighbors also built an addition, but it wasn’t as good as my father’s.
Our house was built about 1940, which makes it pre-plywood. It was sheathed and roofed with tongue-and-groove.
I’d like to visit “Christopherson’s Woods,” and see if it’s the same as when I played there. Back then the Christopherson children had to cross a creek in that woods to get to school. Last time I visited that bridge was gone.
I’d also like to visit Camden County Park and Cooper Crick. Erlton is in Camden County. (“Crick” was how “creek” was pronounced.)
Last time I visited the park was different.
A dam had washed out, or was removed.
And my elementary school is gone; apparently torn down.

TERRIFIED in corduroys and StrideRites. (First day in kindergarten, September 12th, 1949 — Erlton School has been torn down.) (Photo by my mother.)

I was terrified when I started kindergarten there. Never before had I been away from my parents. —There was no Pre-K back then.
And in the background was always the threat of nuclear annihilation. We practiced “duck and cover,” but how does one survive a direct hit from an atom bomb?
And in the early ‘50s it became even worse, the hydrogen bomb.
‘Lebenty-Times-Seben!
Isil beheadings seem tame compared to being vaporized by the Russkies.
I feel like I need to make that climb up Kings Highway to Haddonfield (“ha-din-FIELD;” as in “at”) to pass the old high-school where my father took me to a Thanksgiving football game.
We hiked to it.
And pass the stately Haddon Fortnightly near Grove Street, and the house where my piano-teacher lived. She was choir-director at our church, and would get my sister and I crying over Clementi exercises. Then blow her nose in triumph into her soggy handkerchief, which she then stuffed into the front bodice of her dress.
And find Centre St., where I went sledding with my father.
That hill was so long, they only closed the bottom third.
I’d continue south on Kings Highway past ancient Indian King tavern, where supposedly George Washington once stayed. Haddonfield is an old Revolutionary-War town, and has a cemetery with grave-stones from the 1700s.
I’d continue south and cross Haddon Ave., the main east-west drag from Camden, south Jersey’s extension of Philadelphia.
Hard by the intersection on Haddon Ave. was the Haddonfield Fire Department, with its incredibly loud fire-horn, that terrified me every day at noon. Auditory hallucinations, plus parents that raged when I got scared.
After Haddon Ave. I might pass the building that housed the old Acme (“ak-mee”) supermarket, where my mother refused to shop because it was “Of-The-Devil.”
Farther along I might pass the building that housed the A&P supermarket where my mother did shop, and where my maternal grandfather stole plums.
If you think I’m making this stuff up, I’m not.
My grandfather also begged, stand on the corner in his frumpy suit and fedora shaking a tin cup. How many times did we have to rescue him from the police-station?
Supermarkets are now 10-15 times bigger than that old A&P.
Finally I’d come to where Kings Highway crossed the railroad-tracks, though no longer at grade. That railroad is now a rapid-transit to Philadelphia. When it was converted, it went through Haddonfield below grade.
Kings Highway crosses the Haddonfield transit-station on an overpass.
It was that or elevate it. That grade-crossing was a bottleneck, both for drivers and trains.
After that I’d drive east out South Atlantic Ave. next to the tracks. When I was a child, S. Atlantic was a dead-end — now it’s through — and the railroad was Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines to Atlantic City.
South Atlantic is where I first watched trains at age-2 with my father, and became a railfan for life (I’m now 71).

Where it all began in Haddonfield. (Photo by Robert Long ©.)

So ends my visit to my roots, although I’d also try Pakim Pond, where a Navy Corsair fighter-plane from Willow Grove Naval Air Station crashed and disappeared.
Plus eight Campbell Soup tomato-pickers drowned when their top-down Oldsmobile convertible sailed into the pond.
I was also told a railroad-locomotive was in that pond, but last time I visited, the dam that backed up the pond had washed out, and the pond was empty. No Corsair, no Oldsmobile, and no locomotive, although I wondered how it could get there with no railroad nearby.
So now I think I can go back.
A lot has happened since my childhood, including sublimation of myself in order to get along with a really good wife.
But now I am back to being unmarried, so I can be the person I once was.
This involves starting from scratch: going back to the madness that was my childhood.
I can’t say I’d wanna live there, but south Jersey is who I am.
If anyone wonders why I have a jaundiced-eye, it’s my south Jersey upbringing. Nothing like having your hopes dashed by finding that little hottie I lusted-after was nothing but another south Jersey slattern — sunning naked on Bare-Ass Beach.
I think I can make the visit.

• “Erlton” is the small suburb of Philadelphia in south Jersey where I lived until I was 13. Erlton was founded in the ‘30s, named after its developer, whose name was Earl.
• “Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines” (PRSL) is an amalgamation of Pennsylvania and Reading railroad-lines in south Jersey to counter the fact the two railroads had too much parallel track. It was promulgated in 1933. It serviced mainly the south Jersey seashore from Philadelphia.
• RE: “Bare-Ass Beach.........” —There actually was a Bare-Ass Beach (“B-A-B”) south of Christopherson’s Woods, a sandbar along a north branch of the Cooper River not far from Kings Highway. And I did see my little hottie there sunning herself bare-naked. But I’d say that was more the social pressures of south Jersey; she may not have been a slut. —No hanky-panky was going on, at least not during my viewing. And this was despite some hard-rock greasers also sunning themselves bare-naked.