“I hereby apologize......
......For not saying anything to you the other day, or perhaps I should say not being able to say anything.”
I happen to have one if my train-calendars up at the West Bloomfield post-office, the calendar I make with train-photos by my brother and I. I do it with Shutterfly.
That tiny post-office is staffed by only one person, a youngish pretty lady.
A few years ago my wife worked there too, after she retired, and before she died.
“There are a few things you should know about me.
—1) I had a stroke almost 23 years ago, and it left me with slight aphasia. What speech you’re hearing comes from what’s left, an area of my brain not designed for speech. The original speech-center was killed by the stroke.
—2) I am a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, whereby interesting ladies like you are entirely off-limits.
Hilda was my neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent. Together with my parents she convinced me I was unworthy of female companionship.
These sound like excuses. I can pass for never having had a stroke, but am still intimidated by ladies.
—3) More than anything the April entry of my calendar isn’t worth talking about.”
During past visits I usually discussed my calendar. For example: “Three trains at once, a gold-mine,” or “Pramp-pramp-pramp-pramp! Look out! Here it comes around the curve,” and “See that lead locomotive? It’s the Pennsy Heritage-unit.”
And off we went discussing heritage-units.
“Useless facts,” I called ‘em. The girl loved it. In most cases girls are bored silly by railfans, “but this guy’s talking to me, bubbling enthusiasm.”
So when I came yesterday the girl was excited our discussion would continue.
But it didn’t. Broke the poor girl’s heart.
We kind of backed away from each other, me speechless, the girl disconsolate.
I felt bad about it later. The girl wanted me to talk to her, and I kind of locked up.
That happens occasionally due to my stroke.
And I shouldn’t feel intimidated, not after Cutie-Pie, my extremely cute young Physical Therapist, who thoroughly disproved Hilda.
After the post-office I went to the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym to work out.
There I’ve befriended a lady in her 50s or early 60s. I suggested a better way of stretching her hamstrings.
We became friends. She always waves at me, and we often talk.
So here we are again.
I decided I should say hello to make up for not talking to the post-office lady.
I couldn’t. “She won’t wanna talk to you.”
That’s Hilda. And no matter what Hilda says, that little voice encouraging you to say hello ain’t Satan.
Next time I see that lady at the YMCA, I’ll force myself to walk over and say hello.
I bet it goes over well.
And next time I go to the post-office, I’ll apologize. I bet that goes over well too.
Hilda is spinning in her grave, 14,000 rpm.
• Hilda’s maiden-name was “Quincy.”
• On December 7th, 2015, my entire left knee was changed, which was why I had to do physical-therapy.
I happen to have one if my train-calendars up at the West Bloomfield post-office, the calendar I make with train-photos by my brother and I. I do it with Shutterfly.
That tiny post-office is staffed by only one person, a youngish pretty lady.
A few years ago my wife worked there too, after she retired, and before she died.
“There are a few things you should know about me.
—1) I had a stroke almost 23 years ago, and it left me with slight aphasia. What speech you’re hearing comes from what’s left, an area of my brain not designed for speech. The original speech-center was killed by the stroke.
—2) I am a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, whereby interesting ladies like you are entirely off-limits.
Hilda was my neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent. Together with my parents she convinced me I was unworthy of female companionship.
These sound like excuses. I can pass for never having had a stroke, but am still intimidated by ladies.
 |
| April. (Photo by Jack Hughes.) |
 |
| January. (Photo by BobbaLew.) |
 |
| February. (Photo by BobbaLew.) |
 |
| March. (Photo by BobbaLew.) |
During past visits I usually discussed my calendar. For example: “Three trains at once, a gold-mine,” or “Pramp-pramp-pramp-pramp! Look out! Here it comes around the curve,” and “See that lead locomotive? It’s the Pennsy Heritage-unit.”
And off we went discussing heritage-units.
“Useless facts,” I called ‘em. The girl loved it. In most cases girls are bored silly by railfans, “but this guy’s talking to me, bubbling enthusiasm.”
So when I came yesterday the girl was excited our discussion would continue.
But it didn’t. Broke the poor girl’s heart.
We kind of backed away from each other, me speechless, the girl disconsolate.
I felt bad about it later. The girl wanted me to talk to her, and I kind of locked up.
That happens occasionally due to my stroke.
And I shouldn’t feel intimidated, not after Cutie-Pie, my extremely cute young Physical Therapist, who thoroughly disproved Hilda.
After the post-office I went to the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym to work out.
There I’ve befriended a lady in her 50s or early 60s. I suggested a better way of stretching her hamstrings.
We became friends. She always waves at me, and we often talk.
So here we are again.
I decided I should say hello to make up for not talking to the post-office lady.
I couldn’t. “She won’t wanna talk to you.”
That’s Hilda. And no matter what Hilda says, that little voice encouraging you to say hello ain’t Satan.
Next time I see that lady at the YMCA, I’ll force myself to walk over and say hello.
I bet it goes over well.
And next time I go to the post-office, I’ll apologize. I bet that goes over well too.
Hilda is spinning in her grave, 14,000 rpm.
• Hilda’s maiden-name was “Quincy.”
• On December 7th, 2015, my entire left knee was changed, which was why I had to do physical-therapy.
posted by BobbaLew at 1:25 PM
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