Verbosity

I’ve noticed my e-mails are usually far more wordy than responses I get; this includes my own responses.
There are exceptions.
A guy I graduated college with, who lives in Ottawa, usually cranks out more than me, which I find pleasant.
Another guy I graduated college with, who lives in MA, cranks out quite a bit. I find myself hoping for his e-mails.
Both majored in English. Does that mean something?
Most responses I get are only a sentence, perhaps only five words. I even got an e-mail of only one word, “Do,” regarding my 50-year college reunion blog.
I’ve decided my wordiness is because of my stroke 22&1/2 years ago — the slight aphasia I have.
It doesn’t affect my writing, just my ability to find words for speech — my ability to carry on a conversation.
Perhaps the greatest joy after my stroke was finding I could still write — what I call word-slingin’.
My observation and deadpan reporting of life’s insanities was unaffected.
What’s difficult are phonecalls: hesitation and stony silences, sometimes even stuttering.
I’ve had people get angry when I can’t get words out.
I tell people I phonecall I had a stroke, and may have difficulty getting words out. I may even lock up.
So writing has become more an outlet than it was before my stroke — when I could sling words fairly well.
And having done it the past 22 years, I’ve fine-tuned my word-slingin’.
Having worked at a newspaper, I find myself limiting word-usage, cutting out unneeded words.
“You talk just fine,” people say. “Look at your blogs.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But that’s writing. That ain’t speech.”

• The newspaper I worked at was the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger, from where I retired over ten 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 away.)

Sometimes I’m glad I drove transit bus

People are all too happy to remind me I never amounted to anything.
Thereby fulfilling the prophecy of my twelfth-grade Social Studies teacher.
All I did was —A) sell some car-racing photos to a national magazine, —B) drive transit bus for 16&1/2 years, and -C) work for a newspaper after my stroke.
 “You have a college degree? What are you doing driving bus?”
 “Well, I majored in bus-driving,” I’d say.
So here I am the other morning motoring east on 5&20 through my little town, West Bloomfield.
At the center of town is a traffic-light, where State Route 65, the road I live on, meets 5&20.
Usually I approach that traffic-light on 65, then turn left (east) on 5&20 toward Canandaigua.
But I had probably gone to the tiny post-office, which is west.
A guy driving west on 5&20 is coming toward me, approaching the traffic-light.
Engage wariness, as I always did driving bus. This guy may suddenly make an unsignaled left turn in front of me.
The old waazoo: expect anything!
Fortunately nothing happened.
The guy just continued west through the traffic-light and past me.
But I noticed as he drove past he was looking down in his lap.
WHAT?
How can someone drive through a traffic-light without looking?
In fact, how can he ever drive without looking?
No doubt he verified the light was green while approaching. But how can he take his eyes off the road through a traffic-light, for crying out loud?
It’s the old bus-driver waazoo.
You have to be fully engaged all the time.
 “I can’t answer your question right now. I’m driving. Wait until I’m stopped.”
I used to pull over just to answer a question.
My career driving bus ended in 1993 with my stroke.
But I still “drive bus” driving my car.
I can’t play the radio. It’s a distraction.
My car has Sirius, and it drives them crazy I won’t subscribe.
Play the radio in my car? I can’t. I used to, but not any more.
The fact I drove bus saved me hundreds of times. People cutting me off, or the girl on her cellphone who blew a stop-sign at a cross-road right in front of me.
Or the idiot in a pickup who turned in front of me without looking — his passenger saw me, and was terrified.
When people make insane moves in front of me I say “let ‘em, this ain’t NASCAR.”
I always drive expecting anything. I can’t break the habit.

• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) through my area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where I live. It used to be the main road across Western New York before the Thruway.
• 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.

Monthly Calendar-Report for April 2016

10N leaves Altoona. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—Every time we go to Altoona, my brother-from-Boston arrives a day before me.
The April 2016 entry in my own calendar is an eastbound freight leaving Altoona yard.
The picture was taken by my brother the day before I arrived.
So my brother is photographing trains two days, and me only one.
I do what I call a “surgical strike.” Drive to Altoona the first day, photograph the next day, then drive back the day after that. To Altoona is a five-hour trip for me — for him it’s nine.
This is because I don’t want to abandon my dog at the kennel four days.
I also doubt I could stand chasing trains two days. I’d get bored.
Altoona is the marshaling-point where the Pennsylvania Railroad faced its greatest challenge, Allegheny Mountain, which had made trade with the nation’s interior almost impossible.
New York had been able to skirt Allegheny Mountain with its Erie Canal — Allegheny Mountain didn’t go that far north.
The Erie Canal faced numerous challenges, particularly the Niagara Escarpment, which required seven locks to climb — now it’s three — in Lockport, NY.
But the Erie Canal didn’t have an Allegheny Mountain.
Capitalists in Philadelphia were afraid the Erie Canal would allow New York City to leap ahead — it did.
They instituted the Public Works System, a state-sponsored combination canal and railroad to get across PA.
Philadelphia to the Susquehanna River was railroad that already existed.
The Susquehanna to Allegheny Mountain was canal.
Public Works had to build an inclined-plane railroad over Allegheny Mountain; it couldn’t be canaled.
Johnstown to Pittsburgh was canal.
Grading back then was unable to build railroads over mountains without inclined-planes.
Canal-packets got transferred to railroad flatcars, then winched up the inclined-planes by stationary steam-engines at the top of the plane.
Ten inclined-planes, five each side, were required to get Public Works over Allegheny Mountain.
Horses were used on the railroad at first.
But Public Works was incredibly cumbersome compared to the Erie Canal, which required no transloading.
Meanwhile, railroad engineering was leaping ahead, as was grading.
Even the Erie Canal paled compared to a New York Central railway.
Philadelphia capitalists founded the Pennsylvania Railroad, mainly because Public Works was so cumbersome and time-consuming.
John Edgar Thomson was brought in from building railroads in GA to lay down a railroad across PA, including Allegheny Mountain.
Thomson had earlier contributed to building the Philadelphia & Columbia and Camden & Amboy railroads.
Surveys were made putting the railroad up on mountainsides to ease the grade over Allegheny summit.
But Thomson refused. He knew railroad traffic gathered in valleys. He would tackle Allegheny Mountain with a giant leap — a hill requiring helper locomotives.
So Altoona was founded at the base of Allegheny Mountain, a place to add helpers to trains.
Altoona would never have existed but for Pennsy. The railroad came and bought a couple farms. Altoona thereafter germinated.
Pennsy at first used Public Works to get over the mountain.
But finally Allegheny Crossing was complete, which includes mighty Horseshoe Curve, Thomson’s trick to get over the mountain without impossibly steep grades, which would slow traffic.
Unlike Public Works there was no transloading. A train would need helpers to get over the mountain, but it was still a through train.
Pennsy quickly put Public Works out of business. The railroad bought it for a pittance, and quickly abandoned it. Although in 1890 Pennsy incorporated the right-of-way and tunnel of a New Portage Railroad, which had replaced the original inclined-plane railroad, to give Pennsy a second tunnel, plus an alternate route, beside Pennsy’s original tunnel and route.
Altoona became the locus of Pennsy operation. Shops were erected to build and repair locomotives. Car-shops were also built.
Altoona is out in the country. It was possible to easily expand.
Yard upon yard was built as Pennsy became a busy conduit for cross-state traffic to and from our nation’s interior.
Some of those yards have since closed. Go north of Altoona and you’ll find vacant land where a yard once was.
This picture was taken at a location the railroad calls “Rose.”
A long highway overpass crosses the old Pennsy main, plus many yard tracks.
Rose is in the town of Juniata (“june-eee-AT-uh”) north of Altoona, where Pennsy built a giant shop-facility called “Juniata Shops.”
Those shops still exist, a main shop facility for Norfolk Southern Railroad.
Rose is also a crew-change point.

Crew-change complete at Rose. (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

I once flew a picture in my own calendar of a train that had changed crews at Rose.
Except the new crew had already got on the train. No one was visible, but the front locomotive door was open.
10N is leaving one of Altoona’s many yards.
It had stopped in Altoona, probably to drop helpers or change crews.
Helper locomotives also hold back a train down The Hill. They add dynamic-braking, and thereby help prevent runaways.




Ready to couple. (Photo by Jim Shaughnessy©.)

—The April 2016 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar is a Pennsy Decapod (2-10-0) about to couple onto a cut of loaded coal-cars to shove them up onto the trestle at Sodus Point, NY to unload into a ship.

A Dek is on the trestle to position coal-cars.

The track in the foreground is probably the track on the trestle.
The railroad is the old Northern Central from Baltimore up to Sunbury, PA, then Canandaigua (NY), and also Sodus Point.
Pennsy took control of Northern Central in 1861, to counter Baltimore & Ohio. The Sodus Point coal-wharf was an outlet for coal.
Pennsy never actually merged Northern Central. It just controlled it, but operated it as a subsidiary.
Pennsy fell to using Decapods to get heavy coal-trains up to Sodus Point. Coal would be shipped to Williamsport in central PA. From there it would be taken up to Sodus Point wharf for transloading onto lake-ships.
The line was torturous and difficult. I’ve driven part of it toward Penn Yan, NY. Curve after curve, and uphill.
No wonder Pennsy used Decapods — they were suited for difficult railroading.
The line was still used after dieselization, but eventually quit. Sodus Point wharf was abandoned, and accidentally burned during disassembly in 1971. It was wood.
Parts of the line still remain in service, but much was abandoned.
Finger-Lakes Railway operates the segment from Watkins Glen to Penn Yan, and Ontario Midland operates from the old Hojack near Webster (NY) down to Newark (NY).
The Hojack was originally Rome, Watertown & Ogdensburg’s main up along Lake Ontario, but later became part of New York Central.
It served the Xerox plant in Webster, but now is gone.
It became so grown over Penn-Central crews called it the “Jungle.”

Uh-oh...... (Messenger news-photo by Jack Haley.)

#4483, the only remaining Pennsy Decapod.

The line out of Williamsport is almost obliterated, and not too long ago a farm-implement loaded on a truck-trailer took out the old railroad overpass on this line in Flint (NY).
The abandoned line had been converted into a walking-trail.
Not much is left of what constitutes this picture.
The only remaining Pennsy Dek, #4483 near Buffalo, was used on this line, but the wharf and line to it are gone.
Pennsy used the Deks to get coal traffic up to Sodus Point, and then to switch the coal-trains up onto the wharf.
Audio-Visual Designs apparently thought very much of this photo. They used it as their calendar-cover.
In my humble opinion Shaughnessy did much better. He stood across Sodus Bay, and let the Dek and wharf silhouette the sky.
In fact, my trestle picture above may be Shaughnessy.




I learned how to drive in one of these things. (Photo by Dan Lyons©.)

—A ’53 Chevy? One of the worst turkeys ever foisted on the American car-buying public.
The April 2016 entry in my Tide-mark Classic-Car calendar is a 1953 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible.
The car I learned to drive in was my family’s 1953 Two-Ten two-door sedan.
At 5,000 miles, it was the newest car my father ever bought. He bought it after the 1954 model-year began.
It cost $1,200 used, and he bought it directly from a matron in Philadelphia.
He had to borrow from my paternal grandfather to buy it, which I’m sure caused weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. My grandfather would be continually harassing my father to get repaid.
The motor was the ancient “Stovebolt” inline six updated in 1937 by Chevrolet. “Stovebolt” because it could be repaired with bolts available at a hardware.
The Stovebolt was introduced in 1929 at 194 cubic-inches, but only had three main crankshaft bearings. The 1937 update had four.
The 1937 update was 216 cubic-inches, but our ’53 was 235.5. That increase came in 1950.
Various improvements came to the Stovebolt after WWII. The engine gained full-pressure lubrication (as opposed to splash), and also hydraulic valve-lifters (as opposed to solid).
The Stovebolt was known as the “cast-iron wonder,” but was hardly inspiring like the fabulous new V8s introduced by Cadillac and Oldsmobile. Chevrolet wouldn’t introduce a V8 until its 1955 model-year, and it weighed about the same as the Stovebolt, if not less.
Our car was automatic-transmission: “slip-and-slide with PowerGlide.” At that time auto-tranny was anathema compared to standard transmission. They were slow, and sapped power.
Our ’53 Chevy was our first car with auto-tranny. It was also our first car with turn-signals. Prior to the ’53, my mother had to stick her arm out the window to signal a turn.
She also had to clutch-and-shift, and the shift-lever was on the steering-column, and it was probably vacuum-assisted on our ’41.
The ’53 replaced the ’41, which was sold to a hot-rodder.
My father had considered ’49 though ’52, and brought home a couple. Then the ’53 presented itself.
A PowerGlide was only two speeds, “Lo” gear, and I think then direct.
I remember Dinah Shore belting out Chevrolet ads in the early ‘50s. “See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet.”
I thought the world of those Dinah ads, but the was plugging the ’53 Chevy.
My father, mad at me as always, refused to allow me to drive. By then we had moved to DE, where teenagers could drive at 16, 1960 in my case.
My mother weighed in at age-17. “Thomas, you have to let him drive.” I think another factor might have been that I could be the family taxi-driver instead of her.
Whatever, my father finally took me for my first driving-lesson in a junior high-school parking-lot in our ’53 Chevy.
No Driver-Ed for this kid. But I coulda done it that way.
Perhaps my father was against Drivers-Ed. —Or was at least then.
I still remember the car slowly moving as I carefully depressed the gas-pedal.
I think by then the ’53 may have already become our second car.
My father bought a two-tone green ’57 Bel Air four-door sedan from a car-dealer.
It was even slower than our ’53; it was also a PowerGlide Stovebolt.
I passed the state driver’s test, and soon it was “sink-or-swim” with my mother.
What I remember most is careering through deepest, darkest Philadelphia on expressway at night. “Sink-or-swim!”
Later I made a left turn in a shopping-center parking-lot at the behest of yelling backseat drivers, including my mother.
I almost got clobbered. It was a shining moment. I decided it was me driving, and I wasn’t listening to anyone.
They could yell all they wanted, a decision that boded well later when I began driving transit bus.

Me at 17 (1961) with the “Blue Bomb.” (Photo by Lynne Huntsberger, now Killheffer.)

After the accident. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

At my high-school. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The ’53 Chevy became my car, the “Blue Bomb.” I used it to cart dates hither-and-yon, and drive to my high-school.
One Sunday morning on my way to church I slid on ice at a railroad-crossing into the rear of a Mercedes Benz sedan. The Benz had no damage, but the Blue Bomb’s front-end was caved in. The radiator was also holed.
A local garage made it operable, just not pretty. I drove it that way into my first year at college, no heat.
But unlike our ’57 it would start in the cold. It finally failed state-inspection. My father never maintained it, and the brakes were worn to the backing-plates. Over 100,000 miles, including to St. Paul and back in 1960.
It was the only family car to not break down on vacation.

Sergey’s car. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

My sister, now gone, began dating her first boyfriend, one Sergei Serochnikov (Sp?) (“sir-GAY sir-OTCH-ni-KOFF”) — my father called him “sock-in-the-wash.” He was a really nice guy, and had a powder-blue ’54 Chevy convertible. He let me drive it; it was a pig, even slower than the Blue Bomb.
But it was a convertible, like this calendar-car. My sister loved convertibles.
Her second boyfriend, the one she married and later divorced, also had a convertible, a blue-metallic 1964 326 Pontiac Tempest. She loved driving it.
Our ’53 Chevy was awful, hardly a car that helped you on a curvy road. It could hardly get out of its own way, and the shocks were gone. Bouncy-bouncy!
I pushed it hard, even found passing-gear. 60+ mph in “Lo” gear, held manually.
Once it left 17 feet of tire-rubber at an intersection making a left turn. Amazing! I measured.



E-units head a passenger-train at Duncannon (PA) in 1964. (Photo by Robert Malinoski.)

—The April 2016 entry in my All-Pennsy color calendar is two EMD E-8As pulling a westbound passenger-train through Duncannon, PA, next to the Susquehanna River.

Mail leaves Chicago. (Photo by Robert Olmsted.)

Mighty Rockville. (It would take a direct hit from a thermonuclear warhead to take this thing out.) (Photo by Robert Malinoski.)

At least it’s not the photo this calendar used at least twice, maybe three times — Pennsy E7s pulling a mail-train out of Chicago’s PRR Union station.
Pennsy followed the Susquehanna after crossing it on mighty Rockville Bridge  north of Harrisburg.
It follows it to where the Juniata River joins.
From there it follows the Juniata inland across PA.
The picture was taken in 1964. The locomotives look pretty spiffy, but passenger service was winding down.
By decade’s end those locomotives were looking bedraggled; deferred maintenance.
Pennsy merged with arch-rival New York Central in 1968, and Penn-Central went bankrupt in 1970.
That bankruptcy was the final blow to railroad passenger service, and many railroads exited the passenger business with the coming of Amtrak in 1971, including Pennsy. The multitude of Pennsy passenger trains once crossing PA are now down to one Amtrak, and that is state-sponsored.
Duncannon is a famous location for railroad photography. The railroad is the original Pennsy main laid down in 1847 with the founding of the railroad.
Pennsy was still moving a lot of freight over its main stem, much of it behind steam, its M-1 Mountains, 4-8-2, extremely well-suited for Harrisburg to Altoona.
Beyond Altoona Pennsy faced Allegheny Mountain, and M-1s got changed out for locomotives better suited for mountain-climbing.
Pennsy, a coal-carrier, stayed with steam as long as it could. Steam-locomotion of course burned coal.
But diesels were incredibly attractive. Steam was difficult and costly to maintain. It also required lineside watering facilities, and often coaling-towers.
Diesels didn’t require much of anything; just fuel, which unlike coal was liquid.
Here we see evidence of dieselization of passenger trains.




Gooney-bird. (Photo by Philip Makanna©.)

—It’s been said the three things that won WWII for us are 1) the Douglas DC-3, 2) the Jeep, and 3) the GMC 6-by truck.
The April 2016 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is a Douglas C-47, the military version of the DC-3.
The DC-3 was nicknamed the “Gooney-bird.”
The C-47 had a larger cargo-door toward the rear of the plane to allow swallowing larger cargo.
It also made it easier for paratroopers to jump out of the plane.
I think at least two other factors allowed us to defeat the Japanese and Hitler.
They should have known better than to engage a nation protected by two vast oceans.
And they should have known better than to engage a nation of farmers used to fashioning solutions from the most rudimentary elements.
Americans got even more horsepower out of the Merlin V12 aircraft-engine than the Brits. (The Merlin was Roll-Royce.)
But all three things were instrumental in the war effort. A lot of war is moving people and supplies. The humble DC-3 was perfect.
I’ll let my WWII warbirds site weigh in:
“The designation ‘DC’ stands for ‘Douglas Commercial.’
The DC-3 was the culmination of a development effort that began after an inquiry from Transcontinental and Western Airlines (TWA) to Donald Douglas. TWA’s rival in transcontinental air service, United Airlines, was starting service with the Boeing 247, and Boeing refused to sell any 247s to other airlines until United’s order for 60 aircraft had been filled.
TWA asked Douglas to design and build an aircraft to allow TWA to compete with United. Douglas’ design, the 1933 DC-1, was promising, and led to the DC-2 in 1934. The DC-2 was a success, but there was room for improvement.

A TWA DC-3.

The DC-3 resulted from a marathon telephone call from American Airlines CEO C. R. Smith to Donald Douglas, when Smith persuaded a reluctant Douglas to design a sleeper aircraft based on the DC-2 to replace American’s Curtiss Condor II biplanes. The DC-2’s cabin was 66 inches wide, too narrow for side-by-side berths.
Douglas agreed to go ahead with development only after Smith informed him of American’s intention to purchase 20 aircraft.
The new aircraft was engineered by a team led by chief engineer Arthur E. Raymond over the next two years, and the prototype DST (for Douglas Sleeper Transport) first flew on December 17, 1935.
Its cabin was 92 inches wide, and a version with 21 seats instead of the 14-16 sleeping berths of the DST was given the designation DC-3.
There was no prototype DC-3; the first DC-3 built followed seven DSTs off the production line and was delivered to American Airlines.
The DC-3 popularized air travel in the United States. Eastbound transcontinental flights could cross the U.S. in about 15 hours with three refueling stops; westbound trips against the wind took 17&1/2 hours.
A few years earlier such a trip entailed short hops in slower and shorter-range aircraft during the day, coupled with train travel overnight.”
The C-47 is not as dramatic as the Mustang or the Corsair. But when the Allies invaded German-occupied France on D-Day, the paratroopers were jumping out of multiple C-47s.

Whiskey-Seven.

The 1941 Historical-Aircraft Group in nearby Geneseo has one, the so-called “Whiskey-Seven.” It flew all the way to Europe to participate in exercises commemorating the 70th anniversary of the D-Day invasion.
Paratroopers jumped out of Whiskey-Seven to re-enact that. Whiskey-Seven was the actual lead C-47 in the second wave of the invasion.
Even 75+ years hence the DC-3 is still in use. People change out the ancient radial piston engines for modern turboprops, and have for years.
But the airframe remains; although I’ve seen different rear rudders, and fuselages were extended.
Recently the feds decided the DC-3 could no longer be used as an airliner. They don’t have escape-chutes.




Kookie, Kookie, lend me your comb. (Photo by Scott Williamson.)

—Ya hafta be my age to understand that caption.
It’s from the TV crime-program “77 Sunset Strip” that ran from 1958 through 1964.
1958 to 1962 are the years I was in high-school. I graduated in 1962.
“Kookie” (Gerald Lloyd Kookson III) was a parking valet for Dino’s Lounge, actually Dean Martin, next door to 77 Sunset Strip.
“77 Sunset Strip” is a misnomer, as all addresses on Sunset Boulevard were four-digit.
Two private detectives worked out of 77 Sunset Strip, and “Kookie,” played by Edd Byrnes, was a young hipster hot to help solve crimes.

Much better. This car is also a remake, but identical to the original Kookie-car, which got changed.

The car pictured is a remake of the car Kookie drove. Kookie’s car was the first hotrod to make it onto TV.
The guy who built the first car, Norm Grabowski, built this calendar-car 37 years later.
But in my opinion, the first car looked much better. It’s an open 1922 T-bucket pickup, but actually a ’22 T-bucket with a shortened Model-A pickup-bed.
The calendar-car is a “tub,” the open body found on many cars, seating four or more. It’s not a two-seater like the original Kookie car.
It’s interesting, but not very attractive. That nose is too long, and then there’s that two-piece windshield.
It also uses a ’33 Dodge radiator surround. Not as pretty as Ford.
And generally I don’t like flames. Those on the original look okay. But those on the calendar-car look poor.
Why Grabowski used a tub is debatable. Tubs were supposedly chick-magnets.
Your girlfriend might wedge herself into your T-bucket, yet a tub might attract four or five.
Quite simply, the calendar remake is only in concept. The only homage it makes to the original are the color, and Grabowski’s carved-wood skull shift-knob. (The shifter-knob on the original car was actually a plaster casting from Disneyland.)
That original engine is Cadillac.
I don’t like bucket-T pickups that much, but the original is much more attractive than the remake.
I was tempted to post the original as the calendar-picture, but it ain’t the calendar-picture.
The calendar-car uses a supercharged 500 cubic-inch Cadillac engine. For Heaven sake! It could do very well with a SmallBlock Chevy.
Somewhere, Grabowski, now dead, is smiling.
But not for this kid. “A sucker is born every minute.”
Grabowski is a hot-rodding icon. The T-bucket was his idea.
77 Sunset Strip did extremely well. The “Kookie” character made the show. A rock and roll-loving, wisecracking, hair-combing, hipster and aspiring private-investigator.
He was an inspiration for all us would-be hipsters in high-school.




Not this time. (Photo by Roger Durfee.)

—Another picture by Roger Durfee.
The April 2016 entry of my Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar is a photograph by Norfolk Southern Conductor Roger Durfee.
Durfee has had many photographs in this calendar, and usually does pretty well.

The April 2014 entry. (Photo by Roger Durfee.)

But I don’t think this one is very good — and I can only think of one other.
So there’s Durfee out there with his Canon Rebel, shielded from the elements in his car.
It’s raining cats and dogs, and like my brother-and-I in Altoona, he has his railroad-radio scanner monitoring Norfolk Southern’s operating frequency.
He notices a train of crude-oil tankcars passing in Cleveland, OH, so he drives out ahead to photograph it.
The downpour gets worse, but the train appears.
Window down, Durfee photographs the train in the downpour.
He got soaked.
How many times have I protected my Nikon D7000 from the elements, whipping it out at the last minute to snag a photograph? I get drenched, but the camera doesn’t.
Then I wipe the raindrops off my camera and lens.
Interviewed regarding this picture, Durfee notes how the average photographer might skip this picture.
But not Durfee, and not me. With me it’s “shaddup-and-shoot” — what I get might look pretty good.
I imagine it’s the same with Durfee. He sees a location that might work, sets up accordingly, then it’s shaddup-and-shoot.
What he gets might look good, and others might not.
As far as I’m concerned, this location didn’t work. Ditch that switch in the foreground, and it might work. There is that signal-tower.

Loaded coal-train 534 heads east on Track One near Cresson. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I have a photo like this myself, although without the rain. It took a lotta setup on my tripod, but still was not worth it.
The train in the calendar-picture is led by the Penn-Central heritage-unit. It’s one of 20 new Norfolk Southern road-locomotives painted the colors of predecessor railroads.
The heritage-units are very popular. Railfans chase ‘em all over the system.
Penn-Central’s colors weren’t much to look at. Just black with white lettering and the fornicating snakes symbol — it’s on the nose.

The Nickel Plate heritage-unit. (Photo also by Roger Durfee.)

Durfee claims the picture benefitted from having the plain-jane Penn-Central heritage-unit; but I don’t think so.
The train might look better with the Pennsy heritage-unit, or Virginian or Illinois Terminal.
The Nickel Plate heritage-unit is the best-looking of them all.

---

Unflopped.

—They did it again!
The April 2016 entry in my Jerry Powell “Classic-Car” calendar is a Corvette Sting-Ray, flopped again.

The way it was published.

I flopped it back; at left is as published.
Jerry told me the only Sting-Ray with that power-bulge hood was the 427 Big-Block.
Could be; I’m not an authority on Corvettes.
I noticed the car pictured has the medallion on the side. So I got out my spee-glass. “396” it said.
I also noticed 396 was backward. So I looked for the steering-wheel. On the right side!

As published.

They did that for the January entry, pictured at left.
Details, details! “The car looks better that way. Who will notice?”
ME; and anyone else looking hard.
The Sting-Ray Corvettes were very important. Corvette was becoming a great car.

Zora.

It was Zora Arkus-Duntov, a hot-rodder impressed with the new Chevy V8.
The first Corvette was a joke. Sportscar styling on sedan underpinnings. With the old Chevy Stovebolt six, slightly souped.
Field a Corvette in a sportscar race and it would probably blow, if it didn’t slide off-course first.
Zora took over. He wanted to make the Corvette a true sportscar. He had a great engine to start with, Chevrolet’s new V8.
His first move was to stick that new V8 into an early ‘Vette.
The ’55 ‘Vette was available with the V8.
For ’56 and ’57, Corvette styling was dickered.
It looked better; to me those two years are the best-looking of the early ‘Vettes.
In 1958 four headlights were grafted on, and for 1961 a ducktail rear.
But it was still the same old chassis.
Independent-Rear-Suspension was the coming thing in the early ‘60s, so the new Sting-Ray had to have IRS.
The fact Zora got through a complete remake of the Corvette is amazing.
GM management was stodgy. The Corvette wasn’t a Granny’s car.
(Neither were Bunkie Knudson’s Wide-Track Pontiacs.)
To me what’s pictured is a bad Corvette. Put that heavy Big-Block up front and you’re throwing the balance off.
A Corvette would be a better sportscar with the original V8 of 1955 that wouldn’t be as heavy.
Unfortunately I let the following Corvette go.

My hairdresser’s Corvette.

A 1967 Sting-Ray with 327 SmallBlock and four-speed, four-barrel carb instead of fuel-injection. F.I. could be stronger, but was less reliable.
A carb-car you could drive and enjoy — an F.I. would forever be in the shop, confusing mechanics.
The car pictured belonged to my hairdresser, who bought it after his first wife died.
He remarried, and put the car up for sale.
If I’d had any idea what was gonna happen, that I’d lose my wife too, I woulda bought the car.
My wife was still alive at that time, and seemed like she’d survive. We had two cars, both of which we garaged.
If I’d bought my hairdresser’s ‘Vette, something would have to go outside.
Now my wife is gone, and I only have one car, occupying only half of my two-car garage.
My hairdresser’s Corvette is long-gone too.
I have a garage where I could park my hairdresser’s ‘Vette.

Racino

Yesterday afternoon (Easter Sunday, March 27th, 2016) I ate out with my niece at Finger Lakes Racino.
The Racino is Finger Lakes horse-race track, with gambling casino attached.
I’ve been there before, a few times with retired Transit employees, and once with people from a bereavement group.
They have a buffet behind all the slot machines.
Thankfully it’s away from the din.
It’s a nice place, although pricy.
My bereavement people weren’t happy; it cost too much.
I don’t remember any complaints from the retired Transit employees.
The buffet cost $22.52; increased Easter pricing.
$22.52 is a fortune, considering what little I eat.
At least at a restaurant my cost is negligible.
So $22.52 for not much of anything.
The price of a pleasant time.
After dinner my niece and her daughter got up to play the slots.
Not this kid; for which I was declared by the daughter to be “boring.”
To me, playing the slots is the same as flushing your money down the toilet.
 “Yeah, but you may win,” my niece said.
 “May,” I said. “More than likely you won’t. This place can’t survive by forking over winnings all the time.”
Dinner finished, we all got up. My niece, etc for the slots, me to leave.
I stuck around planning to say goodbye to my niece’s mother — my niece lives with her mother. But her mother was on her cellphone talking to my wife’s 100-year-old mother down in FL.
After ten minutes I gave up.
Past the slots I walked.
I can’t stand the racket, the din of the slots.
Everywhere angry Grannies punching the slots, flushing away their money, hoping they’ll win sometime.
I’m sorry but I think this is fruitless. The Racino is making like a bandit. Ever more money flushed away in hopes of winning.
The place is awash in walkers and wheelchairs. Cripples seeking redemption.
Outside you have to avoid all the smokers noisily asserting their right to pollute — my lungs as well as theirs.
Some guy in a Trump tee-shirt was completely zonked on a park bench.
Shades of the Walmart* videos on You-Tube — flaccid shoppers in their pajamas.
I tiptoed past to avoid getting shot.
Nevertheless the Racino buffet is a nice place to eat, once past the slots, and the rumpled patrons frustrated by not winning.

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

Do I or don’t I?

For the past couple weeks yrs trly has been trying to decide whether I should attend my 50th college class reunion.
My college, Houghton (“HO-tin;” as in “hoe,” not “how” or “who”), about 70 miles south of Rochester in the Genesee River valley, makes a big deal of class reunions; I graduated in 1966.
A class reunion, every five years, is hooked to the college’s commencement in May.
I’ve decided I should attend, -A) partly because my bereavement counselor said I should, but -B) mainly because social events like this seem beneficial.
I attended my 50-year high-school reunion back in 2012 shortly after my wife died, and it was pleasant.
But Houghton is different, it’s a religious college; dare I say it, “evangelical.” I hesitate because Houghton’s president rightly notes “evangelical” has taken a negative connotation.
To me the negative word should be “zealot,” like Isis jihadists.
Houghton was much more “evangelical” than “zealous,” a word that applied to Bob Jones University back in 1962, or perhaps Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University today.
At Houghton I was out-of-it, a “heathen” among righteous.
At Houghton classmates prayed for me by name.
Some could be judgmental.
A few years ago I attended the 35th or 40th reunion of my class, and felt very out-of-it.
I tried to convey this to my bereavement counselor. “Oh after 50 years your classmates will have become more tolerant.”
That’s just what I need, another discussion of great religious workings in my life.
I decided to limit my attendance to a surgical-strike. The reunion takes an entire weekend; I will just attend a Saturday luncheon and a class picture.
If I find myself in another witness-circle, I will just note I’m missing three things.
I’m missing —1) my left knee, it was replaced. I now have a metal knee.
I’m also missing —2) my prostate gland. It was found to be cancerous, so was removed last August.
—3) I no longer have a wife, who also graduated in our class.
At which point some classmate will say “you’ll see her again some day.”
Engage nerve; can I do it, or can’t I?
“I never believed that stuff, nor did my wife.”
Classmates will gasp.
“But thanks for your concern.”
I never regretted attending Houghton.
It was the first place I had adult authority-figures solicit my opinions. Instead of automatically berating me as “of-the-Devil.”
Houghton was at the behest of my hyper-religious father, who ended up mad because Houghton didn’t “straighten me out.”
He wanted me to attend Moody Bible Institute in Chicago like he did.
But in 1962, Moody wasn’t a college, and Houghton was.
Moody was urban = frightening. Houghton is very rural, not a party school. This encourages intellectual pursuit.
The “little island of decency;” very suburban.
We compromised.
Some time between the luncheon and class-picture we may also be greeted by the college president.
I probably shouldn’t attend, for fear of getting all-and-sundry bent outta shape.
“Ya gotta watch that Class of ’66. It has Ne’er-do-Wells.”

• “Houghton” is Houghton College 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.
• The “Genesee River” (“jen-uh-SEE”) 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 Genesee Valley was our nation’s first breadbasket.
• My wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely.

So long Cutie-Pie

“I have to force myself to look at you,” I said to my young Physical Therapist, who is incredibly cute.
As a consequence of my knee-change, I had to do physical therapy, first at a nursing-home, then at my house, then at a Physical Therapy after I was cleared to drive.
“I should explain,” I said to a young student shadowing my therapist.
“I am a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations,” I said; “whereby pretty girls like her,” I said, pointing to my therapist, “are entirely off-limits.”
“I am a complete and utter scumbag,” I added; “totally unworthy of female companionship.”
“It’s been that way over 70 years,” I said; “intimidated by pretty girls.”
This goes back to an earlier encounter with my Physical Therapist, who I always refer to as “Cutie-Pie,” although not to her face.
I was explaining why I wasn’t very talkative.
—1) I explained the slight aphasia left from my stroke, and
—2) I told her she was very cute, and I found that intimidating.
She laughed warily, as if to say “Uh-oh. Another lust-crazed geezer hot to hit on me.”
I thereafter explained I was a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, and thereby convinced I was totally unworthy of female companionship.
“Well I’m not intimidating,” she crowed. “You can talk to me. I like it.”
So now I am “graduated” from outpatient physical therapy.
-When I was discharged from the nursing-home, I commented wryly they were throwing me out — tired of my snide remarks and sick jokes.
-When the in-home physical therapist cleared me to drive, I started crying.
She was a really great person, but I also explained my crying was a stroke-effect. It’s called lability: poor emotional control.
-I thought about how I’d tell Cutie-Pie we were doing more than physical therapy. We were proving Hilda wrong.
I wasn’t gonna say anything, but managed to pull it off.
“I may never see you again for the rest of my entire life,” I said.
“Come visit some time. I’m always here.”

• On December 7th, 2015, my entire left knee was changed. The arthritis was so bad, I was bone-on-bone. I now have a metal knee.
• When I was a child, Hilda Walton was our neighbor, and Sunday-School Superintendent of our church. How she ever managed to produce two sons I’ll never know. Beyond that, her husband smoked. Her maiden name was “Quincy.”

Copy/Paste

Last week a technician from Isaac Heating and Air-Conditioning, my HVAC contractor, came out to fiddle my tankless water-heater.
“HVAC” is heating-ventilation-air-conditioning.
A tankless water-heater is just that. No hot-water holding-tank.
Instead, water gets circulated over a gas flame as it passes through, and heats almost instantaneously, 120 degrees in my case.
A tankless is on demand. Water is not heated then stored in a holding-tank.
Isaac installed the tankless. As originally designed, our house had a tankless water-heater. But it was Swedish, and very hard to get parts.
Beyond that it had a pilot, which blew out on windy days. How many times did I relight that pilot?
We ended up getting a tank-type water-heater, 40 gallons.
That tankless was too much trouble.
I’ve been in this house 26 years. During that time we had two tank-type water-heaters.
That second tank-type was about to fail, and our gas-company was offering a rebate on tankless water-heaters, 250 smackaroos.
So we bit, although that tankless cost a fortune — way more than a tank-type.
Supposedly a tankless saves money. I don’t know if it does. You’re not preheating water and storing it.
It only works when you draw hot water.
And of course, in the shower you don’t run out of hot water after 10 minutes.
My tankless, a Rinnai (Japanese) is about the size of a small microwave, and mounts to an outside cellar wall.
It’s eight years old. It would work a while, then cut out.
It displayed an error-code saying the exhaust vent was blocked.
Whatever: no hot water.
I’d go down-cellar and reset it. Back to hot water.
Isaac technicians had been here a couple times.
Once they decided a flame-sensor was overheating, which didn’t make sense, since it has no connection to a blocked exhaust-vent.
So Isaac came a third time, same technician as previous.
The hot-water demand of my shower is not as heavy as my washing-machine, which would trip the tankless.
The technician got it to trip again, so poked around. He determined the finned coil the water passes through above the flame was corroded, so partially blocked the exhaust-vent.
A thermister is above that coil, and would overheat since exhaust air was partially blocked.
Viola! An explanation that made sense.
The repair was to remove the corrosion from the water-coil. That was done last week, mainly with vinegar.
Back in business, I guess. No recent resets.
The repair cost me about $150; not covered by my annual service contract.
The technician and I started jawing as I cut a check on this computer.
He said he’d e-mail me the service-ticket, and there was a survey i could fill in. “If you don’t wanna do that survey, you can always call Isaac.”
I allowed I had a stroke 22 years ago.
As a result I have slight aphasia, which translates to difficulty making phonecalls.
“I’d rather use the written word,” i said.
“It’s amazing how we improvise around various detriments,” he said.
“Right!” I thought. I’d never thought of that before.
I copy/paste a lot more than the average person, because I’d rather do that than type myself. Because of the stroke I have sloppy keyboarding.
“When I hafta type in my e-mail address, I might get it on the first try,” I said. “Usually I make at least one mistake. I have to look for mistypes.”
“Is that inability to identify keys?” he asked.
“No, just hitting the wrong keys by mistake,” I said.
“And you can be sure I don’t use Microsoft Word®,” I said.
“That punishes stroke-survivors. Hit the wrong key by mistake and your entire document gets zapped.
“Why thank you, Bill!” Start over.
“I have Word on this machine, because it can do tricks my regular word-processor can’t, but I hardly use it.”
“The word-processor I use is Apple’s Pages; it doesn’t punish you for having had a stroke.”
So I have hundreds of Pages files I can copy/paste into Word, for example. Ask Word to make a mailing-label for me, and I do it from a Pages address — which I copy/paste into Word.
At the Messenger newspaper I had similar: a desktop-folder called “Grady’s Junk; Dunna-toucha.” (See Grady explanation top-right.)
“Dunna-toucha” because the Messenger ‘pyooter-guru liked to clean up your computer desktop.
I also did a Senior Calendar at the Messenger; a calendar of events for senior-citizens.
I never threw out the previous calendar. I’d just overwrite last week’s calendar, since a lot was the same, especially headings.
That way I wasn’t typing the entire calendar from scratch, which would have taken four-five times as long with my mistypes.
“It’s amazing what workarounds we develop,” he said.

• My wife and I designed our house, but a contractor built it for us. My wife died almost four years ago.
• The “Messenger” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over ten 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 away.)
• “Grady” was my nickname at the Messenger newspaper. See blurb top right.

“What’s a steam-locomotive?”

Nickel Plate 765. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

So asked Garrison Keillor the other night on his “Prairie Home Companion” program.
He was referring to the fact people today don’t know what a steam-locomotive is, and those that do are ridiculed as “geezers,” old and over-the-hill.
Railroads started dieselizing in the ‘40s. Is it any surprise most people born since then have no recollection of steam-locomotives? Especially millennials.
Fortunately for me, the Pennsylvania Railroad was one of the hold-outs. It stopped using steam-locomotives in late 1957.

This is the exact location where I first watched trains. (Photo by Robert Long.)

The first trains I saw, in the late ‘40s, were powered by steam-locomotives. They’re why I’m a railfan.
I was scared to death of thunderstorms and camera-flash, but could stand right next to a throbbing steam-locomotive.
In south Jersey where I grew up, the seashore was served by Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines (“REDD-ing;” not “REED-ing”), a 1933 amalgamation of Pennsylvania and Reading railroad lines to counteract they had too much parallel track.
Since both Reading and Pennsy were coal-roads, both still used steam locomotion. And since PRSL used both Pennsy and Reading locomotives, I’d still see steam.
Most railroad steam-locomotives generate steam in a coal-fired boiler. That steam is used to work pistons back-and-forth. Those pistons attach to rods that rotate wheels.
I was lucky enough to still witness steam-locomotives in regular revenue service.
Which makes me an old fogey I guess. Too bad for these younger types; they never witnessed steam locomotion.
Quite a few  steam-locomotives were preserved, and some remain operable. And they actually operate on steam — not a steam-locomotive in appearance with a secret diesel inside.
One is Nickel Plate 765 (above), a steam-locomotive once operated by Nickel Plate Railroad.
It pulled two excursions last August Buffalo to Corning and back. Railfans love steam-powered excursions.
I chased both excursions with my camera.
Nickel Plate 765 is the BEST restored steam-locomotive I’ve ever seen; and I’ve seen many. It’s very dependable, and can run hard and fast.
I rode behind 765 at least 20 years ago down in West Virginia. We clocked it at 70+ mph pulling 34 heavy passenger-cars uphill.
765 is a 2-8-4 Berkshire — 2-8-4s are “Berks” — named after the mountains in western MA the first 2-8-4s were built to conquer.
A photograph was in the local newspaper of 765 crossing the giant trestle over Letchworth Gorge. They captioned it “an old steam-engine.”
Well yes, it’s 72 years old, same as me. But it’s been overhauled and rebuilt two or three times since retirement, so is in better shape than I am.
The chief goal of a rebuild is to repair steam-leaks. A steam-locomotive is hammering itself apart.

Rich Melvin.

765 is benefitting from the input of volunteer Rich Melvin. 765 was restored by a volunteer group, not a railroad.
Melvin wants 765 to run just like it did for Nickel Plate, hard and fast. Melvin is often the engineer.
That newspaper caption-writer had no idea 765 and her sisters were state-of-the-art back in 1944.
765 is SuperPower, tricks by Lima Locomotive (“LYE-muh;” not “LEE-muh”) to correct some of the flaws of steam-locomotives.
Steam-locomotives are awash in compromise.
Their chief flaw was inability to keep up with steam-demand.
So SuperPower is a hotrod, able to generate steam at a prodigious rate.
Tricks from stationary steam-boilers were engaged to get railroad steam-locomotives to generate more steam.
This wasn’t important in many railroad applications, where at best they might average 10-20 mph.
Where brute power climbing hills was more important, plus coal consumption.
Where trains ran out of steam was over 50 mph. This was perfect for Nickel Plate, which was flat and straight enough to boom-and-zoom.
Railroads tend to be conservative, but were attracted to SuperPower.
So 765 is hardly “an old steam locomotive.” And the way it’s restored it can boom-and-zoom.
So what did these young pups think after seeing 765 at a grade-crossing?
Yes Melissa, that’s a steam-locomotive, and years ago they were the chief method of pulling trains.
Before airlines and interstates they were the way of getting around.
Across this nation to the Pacific was behind a steam-locomotive.
A steam-locomotive was romance.
While chasing 765, I managed to pace it a while on a parallel highway. HASHA-HASHA-HASHA-ROAR! What a thrill that was.
Too bad millennials; you missed the steam-locomotive. One of the most dramatic achievements humanity ever made.

“Four-speed, dual-quad, PosiTraction 409”

After playing “She’s real fine, my 409” by the Beach Boys over-and-over to go with the other day’s ’59 Mercury blog, I recalled the explosion of sheer elation prompted by Chevrolet’s introduction of its 409 motor back in late 1961.
I was in twelfth grade. Chevrolet had already departed its image of Granny’s car with Ed Cole’s 265 cubic-inch V8 in 1955, a phenomenal motor that would rev to the Moon.
The 409 sealed it. No longer was Chevrolet Granny’s car.
I remember parrying a friend in seventh grade: “Ford;” “Chevy;” “Ford;” “Chevy.”
Our family had a ’53 Chevy, the ultimate Granny’s car.
His family had a ’53 Ford. It’s motor was the hoary old FlatHead since 1932, but at least it was a V8.
Another friend wrenched one of those Flattys into his ’41 Chevy, replacing its stodgy Stovebolt six.
After 1955, the desired V8 was the Ed Cole motor. My Ford-partial friend ended up with a ’56 Chevy in high-school.

“She’s real fine, my 409.”

The 409 was Chevrolet’s 348 cubic-inch truck-motor, bored and stroked, and then hot-rodded.
In earlier years Chevrolet was installing hot-rodded 348s in its cars. I remember sending away for literature — which they sent, as if I was a potential buyer at age-15.
Bored and stroked the 409 was troublesome. Can you say “casting porosity?” Technicians had to inspect each 409 block to make sure it wouldn’t leak antifreeze into the cylinder-bores.
The cylinder-walls of a 348 were thick enough to skonk antifreeze leaks. But bored out to a 409, the cylinder-walls ended up thin enough to chance porosity leaks.

A ’61 bubble-top Bel Air 409 (very rare).

Grumpy’s ’63 409 is behind this ’62; that’s probably the one I saw.

Would-be hot-rodders wanted a 409. Instead of having to trial-and-error in your backyard, you could go to your Chevrolet dealer and buy a hotrod already set up.
And a 409 Chevy was strong. I started going to a local drag-strip while in college, and Bill “Grumpy” Jenkins of Jenkins Competition was drag-racing one.
His driver was Dave Strickler. Jenkins was just tuning.
Nothing would beat that Jenkins 409. Strickler was always driving back to the pits, his 409 having beat its competition.
That is, until Dodge and Plymouth started showing up with 426 Hemi-powered drag sedans. Jenkins had to get one himself.
Jenkins’ 409 was advertising for Jenkins Competition.
He made his living tuning drag-cars, mainly Chevrolet.
I’d see many Chevys at the drag-strip with a “Jenkins Competition” sticker.
The 409-Chevy was a siren-song. Hot-rodders traded their ’55-’57 Chevys so they could get a 409.
So here I’d be driving our ’53 Chevy through a parking-lot, and I’d notice a ’62 or ’63 Chevy two-door. I’d drive closer, and there on the side was the 409 medallion. YOW-ZUH!
Chevrolet went on later to replace the 409 with its more powerful “Big-Block” motor, with “porcupine” heads, valve-angles that encouraged better breathing. Ball-stud rockers allowed that.
The Porcupine motor came in 1964 for NASCAR.
What blew me away most is the 409 surpassed the 400 cubic-inch displacement barrier.
Manufacturers had been inching toward it. Chrysler made a 392 cubic-inch Hemi.
But Chevy did it, and I was thrilled. 409 cubic-inches. “She’s real fine, my 409.”

• That headline is a link to the You-Tube Beach-Boys 409 video. Click it, dudes!
• “Four-speed” is the transmission, a manual with four forward speeds, shifted by a floor-lever. “Dual Quads” is two four-barrel carburetors, which made the motor breathe extremely well. Most cars at that time had only a single one- or two-barrel. “PosiTraction” was a special differential option to offset once a tire broke traction and began spinning, all the power went to that spinning tire. I’ve never known how “Posi” worked, although it may be clutches. If a tire wanted to spin, power was delivered to the other tire, maybe even both.
• The Chevrolet overhead-valve inline “Stovebolt-six” was introduced in the 1929 model-year at 194+ cubic inches. It continued production for years, upgraded to four main bearings (from three) for the 1937 model-year. In 1950 the Stovebolt was upsized to 235.5 cubic inches (from 216), and later upgrades included full-pressure lubrication and hydraulic (as opposed to mechanical) valve-tappets. The Stovebolt was produced clear through the 1963 model-year, but replaced with a new seven main-bearing (as opposed to less — like four) inline-six engine in the 1964 model-year. The Stovebolt was also known as “the cast-iron wonder;” called the “Stovebolt” because various bolts could be replaced by stuff from the corner hardware.
• Bill Jenkins got the nickname “Grumpy” because he wasn’t very talkative, and would walk away from talkers.

Should I blog a ’59 Mercury?

Front. (Photo by Jeff Koch.)


Rear. (Photo by Jeff Koch.)

Yes; I was pleasantly surprised.
The May 2016 issue of my Hemmings Classic Car magazine has a feature on a 1959 Mercury Park Lane.
1959 was not a banner-year for Detroit auto styling.
Every General Motors offering for that year except Buick looked dreadfully ugly.
Even Buick was garish, but looked pretty good. They succeeded despite the idiom.
Ford Motor Company was debatable. Its Ford looked passable, but then there was Edsel, advanced but blessed with its vertical horse-collar grille.
The Lincoln looked insane.
Chrysler I had to look up — indicating their cars were forgettable.
It was the time of Exner excess, gigantic tailfins from Virgil Exner.
I remember Plymouth, inordinately ugly after the 1958, which didn’t look too bad — what the ’57, the same body, shoulda been.
I also remember Dodge, a complete disaster.
But then there was Mercury. It made a few small mistakes, but otherwise looked great.
The front was simple, and those rear rocket-shape side concavities define the taillights and rear — which also look great.
It looked pretty good compared to 1959’s styling disasters.
Mercury went out on its own with its 1957 model.
It looks ridiculous, but back then I thought it looked pretty good, especially with Cruiser-skirts.

A ’57 Mercury Turnpike-Cruiser (this car has Cruiser-skirts).

Back then I lusted after styling excesses like the Mercury Turnpike-Cruiser with its funky opening rear-window.
One also has to remember Mercury was first to break the 400 cubic-inch displacement barrier. Available was an engine at 430 cubic-inches.
For some reason it didn’t generate the press of the 409 Chevy, which came two years later.
And the Park Lane was a special car. Its wheelbase was three inches longer than the new 1958 models.
Ford was considering dropping the Park Lane, the premium Mercury model.
But they didn’t, and the Park Lane is still very much a Mercury.
Compared to the ’59 Pontiac, Oldsmobile, and even the ’59 Chevy, the worst-looking Chevrolet ever made, the Merc looks great.
It’s a shame not many ’59 Mercuries are around.

• Dudes, click the 409-Chevy link.

DST

Last night we switched to Daylight-Savings-Time.
“Spring ahead, Fall back.”
I have three time-tellers that automatically switch.
—1) Is this laptop, which gets its time-signal from the atomic clock in Boulder, CO.
—2) Is my iPhone, which I’m told follows the satellite time-signal, also from the atomic clock, and
—3) Is my bedside alarm, which also gets the satellite time-signal.
My wife’s mother, who just turned 100, also has (had) an automatic clock. But we could never get it to tell the right time.
So much for that gizmo!
My wife, who died almost four years ago, had a Windows PC, since her work was based on Windows PC.
My computer is a Mackintosh, an Apple MacBook Pro.
It’s Mac number-three, perhaps number-four.
My first computer was a Windows PC, but I switched to Mac when my employer back then, the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua, computerized with Macs.
My first Mac was a beige desktop G3.
Its motherboard eventually failed, and I may have gotten another beige desktop.
But maybe not.
That may have been when I got my G4 tower which I still have.
I started with OS-9, but eventually switched to OSX. (The tower had both.)
By then I’d retired from the Messenger, where my iMac drove OS-8.6.
This MacBook Pro is the suggestion of a friend who noted the 60-gig hard-drive on my tower was not big enough to store a video.
I wanted to do a train-video for You-Tube.
The tower had two gigs of RAM; this laptop has four. And its hard-drive, which is probably a chip, is 500 gigs,
For crying out loud! That’s big enough to swallow the entire known universe, not just the Pacific fleet.
Not too long ago I encountered a one terabyte hard-drive; that’s 1,000 gigs. I coulda got one terabyte on this MacBook Pro.
For whatever reason, whichever Mac I had displayed the correct time after a time-change.
My wife’s PC didn’t.
She’d finesse various Windows settings, yet after a time-change her PC would be off an hour or two.
Finally she’d give up and set her computer-clock to agree with my Mac.
Why do you have to have a degree in computer-engineering to get your Windows PC to display the correct time?
It ain’t rocket-science!
I never do anything. My Mac is following the atomic clock.
Yet my wife had to set her PC according to my Mac. (Gasp!)
She’d fiddle this-way-and-that, yet every time-change it went gloriously WRONG!

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Her final job was as a computer-programmer.
• I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2. (I’m 72.)
• RE: “Mac (Gasp!)..............” — My siblings insist anything Apple is of-the-Devil, and I am rebellious to use a Mac. A reprise of various evils I do, like eating cereal that isn’t General Mills. (“Jesus eats Choco-Puffs; what’s YOUR problem?”)

The last K-4

#3750, one of two remaining Pennsy K-4 Pacifics. (Stored unserviceable at Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania.) (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The last steam-locomotive I saw up close was a rusty Pennsy K-4 Pacific (4-6-2) on a race-track train. It was 1956; I was 12 years old.
I’m a railfan. and have been since age-2.
In south Jersey our family lived near a horse-race venue named Garden State Park. New Jersey calls itself the Garden-State.
Garden State Park drew most of its patrons from PA, which was rather puritanical at that time. Liquor was only available at State Stores, so south Jersey had liquor-stores galore.
Pennsylvanians returning from the Jersey seashore could stop and load up.
Garden State Park was adjacent to a line the Pennsylvania Railroad built just before the turn of the century. It connected to Pennsy’s Camden & Atlantic in Haddonfield.
From there it went northwest to Delair Bridge, Pennsy’s crossing of the Delaware River, opened in 1896.
Delair Bridge was the first Delaware River crossing from Philadelphia.
The line in effect bypassed Camden, NJ, which had become a bottleneck.
Camden was originally accessible only by ferry — from Philadelphia.
Camden became congested. Yard after yard was built.
The new line was meant to bypass Camden, and was originally intended to go south of Haddonfield. But that line was never built, and south Jersey freight eventually fell to trucking.
But the new line gave Pennsy a river-crossing that bypassed Camden, and eventually ended ferry-service.
That ferry-service became all Pennsy — it ended in 1952. Which means I rode those ferries.
Pennsylvanians could railroad direct to the seashore, without ferries. The railroad also served two horse-race tracks, Garden State, and one near Atlantic City.
Camden & Atlantic went to Atlantic City; the railroad was the main reason Atlantic City was founded.
Atlantic City became so popular a second railroad was built between Camden and Atlantic City; Atlantic City Railroad, a Reading (“REDD-ing;” not “REED-ing”) Railroad subsidiary. Reading and Pennsy used to hold races to see who could get to Atlantic City fastest. 100 mph or more!
For some reason I peddled my bicycle up to where Pennsy’s line crossed four-lane Marlton Pike on a girder overpass. Marlton Pike was the main east-west road through our town.
Marlton Pike was how one got to Garden State Park, which was on the north side of the highway.
When I got to the overpass, I noticed a K-4 simmering next to the race-track.
I peddled as close as I could, which was in the vast parking-lot across the railroad from the race-track. The K-4 was at least 100 yards away.
Obviously the crew was inside betting on the horses, but had to come out before the last race to fire up the K-4.
The last race was at 5 o’clock, and the train left at 6. Back to Philadelphia.
Hanging around would get me home late for supper, risking hellfire and damnation. My parents were tub-thumping Christian zealots, firm believers in “spare the rod and spoil the child.”
I weighed this knowing this might be the last steam-engine I’d ever see.
I stayed, knowing I might get beaten when I returned home.
I watched the train leave, impressed with how quick the chuffs were.
Amazingly, nothing happened.
Nothing but deafening silence when I returned.
I didn’t even have to explain anything.
Actually that K-4 wasn’t the last steam-locomotive I ever saw.

Tri-Pacer.

That was from a Piper Tri-Pacer at 1,000 feet. We were flying over Pennsy’s Camden & Atlantic.
It looked like a Mikado (2-8-2), but was probably a Consolidation (2-8-0), what Pennsy used on Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines to deliver freight out its line.

• “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. —I’m a railfan because of PRSL.

Saturday

The day of the week I least look forward to is Saturday.
That’s because the classical-music radio-station I listen to, WXXI-FM, switches to airing programs I can’t stand.
They are “The Score,” about movie-music, “Fascinatin’ Rhythm,” locally produced, about songs from the ‘20s through recently, and worst-of-all, a complete opera.
I used to enjoy “Fascinatin’ Rhythm,” but after a few years tired of it.
I can’t stand opera at all. Stringy-haired 350-pound blondes screaming “Ride of the Valkyries” at the top of their lungs.
And do you ever hear sung dialog in the real world?
And all operas seem to end with stabbings and murder. The heroine jumps to her death out of a castle tower.
Every time a soprano belts out a “high-C,” I say “they goosed her again.”
So every Saturday morning come 10 a.m. when “The Score” starts, I switch off my radio, and fire up this laptop.
I fire up my Station-Inn website in Cresson, PA — I have it tabbed. They broadcast the railroad’s radio over the Internet.
I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2. I’ve been to Station-Inn many times.
Station-Inn also has a streaming webcam, and I try that.
It’s aimed right at the railroad across the street, so I can view passing trains.
With railroad-radio on at the same time I know if I’ll see a train.
Engineers call out signal-aspects, and defect-detectors fire. I know where they are.
“Norfolk Southern milepost 253.1, Track One; no defects.” I’ll soon see that train on the webcam.
The webcam works until the gamers up the street get on the cable, and bolix my Internet.
Both are somewhat interesting, but ain’t classical music.
It’s fascinating to know what horrible faux pas are entertaining the railroad down there: stalls, failed locomotives, brakes in emergency, frozen switches.
It’s the old Pennsylvania Railroad main over Allegheny Mountain, now Norfolk Southern. Incredibly busy.
Defect-detectors fail, and trains have to limit to 30 mph to the next detector, with “roll-by” inspection by railroad employees not running the train.
But not much happens. Train-engineers call out signals as they pass, and defect-detectors usually work.
Listening to railroad-radio is interesting, but boring compared to classical-music.
Watching the webcam is interesting, but I only do it in the background. I’ll look at it only if I hear a train.
I’ve taken to taking my dog to the Petco pet-supply in Canandaigua. They allow leashed dogs, and my dog loves Petco.
All kinds of interesting smells and treats to steal.
People shower the dog with attention, and say how beautiful she is.
They also give her treats. “Hey, gotta steak? I can eat that!”
They also are amazed at how energetic she is at 11 years old.
Gray in the face. “So what are ya feedin’ her?”
“I mix meat in her dog-food,” I say; “cooked chicken. Dogs love meat.”
“You can’t have that! Put it back you monster.”

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

Return to the YMCA

The other day (Tuesday, March 1st, 2016) I went to the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym for the first time in slightly over two months.
I like to work out, and used to do it two or three times per week.
I haven’t been able to do it since my left knee was changed; I now have a metal knee. Say that to the Transportation Security Administration at an airport and they go ballistic. “You in deep trouble, boyeh!” Aging geezer arrested for bomb in leg.
When I walked in I noticed good old Michele Andrews, the morning exercise-coach. She knows me.
“Boo,” I said to her. “What am I gonna find different about this place since I last was here?”
She started leading me around; she’s a really nice person.
“All the machines in our exercise-circuit are new,” she said; “but only a different make.”
“I’m only interested in three,” I said; “the leg-press, a calf-crunch, and a recumbent bicycle, and it looks like the recumbents are same as before.”
“They are,” she said; “but the leg-press is different.”
She led me to the new leg-press.
“Let me show you,” she said.
I got on, and we fiddled various adjustments.
We cranked it to the lowest weight-setting.
“Don’t overdo it,” she said. “You guys just outta surgery have to be careful, even though you’re walking pretty good.”
“That’s what they all tell me, but I feel wobbly,” I said.
We went over to the calf-crunch, an entirely different machine. “Our old machine was sitting,” she said. “This one you lie face-down to do your calf-crunches.”
I tried it. Body-location has to be just so. “Not as easy as the old machine,” I said.
Years ago I called Michele “Amazon-Lady,” but not to her face. She’s very muscular, and does body-building. She walks like Arnold Schwarzenegger.
But I haven’t called her that for some time. She’s a really nice person. Although that may be because she has to be, although I doubt it.
I was told she used the be fat. But she sure ain’t now.
“Be careful,” she said. “No higher than the lowest weight-setting.”
Which is what I did. At my rehab I use a higher weight-setting, but I couldn’t at the YMCA.
At the rehab I also do the leg-press with only my surgical leg.
But that seemed impossible at the YMCA. I couldn’t halve the weight.
All machines are different.
Another thing we do at the rehab is balance-training, mainly to offset my feeling wobbly.
They have a four-inch foam pad, and I try to stand on it with one foot.
They don’t have those pads at the YMCA, but they do have a partially inflated half-ball.
We got out the rehab’s half-ball, but “Don’t try only one leg on that thing,” they said. “Only on the floor.”
Which is what I did at the YMCA, and no half-ball at all.
What I forgot was step-ups. Six inches at the rehab, and I coulda done ‘em at the YMCA. I used to, and they have the same step pads.
The step-ups make a difference. There is a giant staircase outside up to the YMCA. I call it “Jacob’s Ladder.”
I started doing step-ups about a year ago, and discovered doing them made it easier to climb Jacob’s Ladder.
What I could also do was the recumbent bicycle, which my rehab does as warmup. Ten minutes at a modicum of resistance.
Tain’t much, but it loosens up my surgical knee.
I did it twice at the YMCA; once as warmup, then as cool-down after exercising.
I probably will try to get my rehab to allow that cool-down after my next rehab session. I seem to recover better having done it.
The Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym is lined with mirrors.
So I can view myself working-out.
I’m on the recumbent. I glanced to my right, and there I was, a bloated old geezer with lily-white hair.
I’m told I look better than years ago when I was heavier.
But what I see is depressing.