Suckerberg is desperate

“How in the world did this ever happen?
These lackeys are following me (us) too much.
I don’t fire up Facebook much; you are number 57.”
That’s my post to the Facebook of recent “friend” ****** **** ******.
****** **** is my aquatic-therapy coach at the Canandaigua YMCA; a feeble attempt to improve my balance, which I perceive as terrible.
We do it in the YMCA’s swimming-pool, twice per week.
I have a Facebook; I hardly look at it. Facebook is so complicated I can’t make sense of it. Nor do I wanna.
Simple words, like “share,” take on obtuse technical meanings.
I hate to be a pest, but Facebook “friends” seem more like acquaintances. Why can’t they call ‘em that?
An actual friend says Facebook is for those needing a life.
Like in order to give credence and value to one’s life, you need to accumulate as many Facebook “friends” as you can.
I have only 57. ****** **** is number 57.
I don’t have 89 bazilyun “friends;” I think the limit is 1,000, or perhaps 5,000.
Thousands of acquaintances YES; but not many actual friends — maybe 50, or even less.
Out of that 50 I’m only gonna spill to maybe 10 or five, or even fewer.
I don’t need 89 bazilyun Facebook “friends.”
Furthermore, Facebook has frozen this rig — although not recently.
Every time I fire up Facebook, and that’s perhaps once per week, it displays a row of “friend” suggestions, usually “friends” of my own Facebook “friends.” Often complete strangers I wouldn’t know in a million years.
Yet here was ****** ****, no mutual “friends” that I know of. Just the fact she’s my aquacize coach.
How did they figger that? Suckerberg and his lackeys are “following” me.
Somehow they got that I was doing aquatic therapy at the YMCA, and ****** ****, a Facebooker, was my coach.
A few weeks ago I ordered a new radio scanner online — got it from Home Depot.
I use a scanner to monitor railroad-radio. I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2.
So now my Facebook  is suggesting I buy a scanner online from Home Depot.
They follow me like leeches.
My grocery gives me discounts so they can monitor my purchases. It’s called “Shoppers Club.”
They can see it’s me cleaning them out of 60% Ghirardelli baking-chocolate bars.
A while ago they sent me a coupon for standard applesauce, because they were discontinuing macintosh applesauce.
They noticed I was buying macintosh applesauce, and didn’t wanna lose me.
Windows applesauce, mayhap?
Give it up, dudes, and quit screwing on your caps so tight I gotta use a three-foot pipe-wrench.
Is this what our world is coming to? Suckerberg, etc following us like leeches?
They probably already know I’m blogging this.
I’m glad to add ****** ****, but what prompted that?

• “Suckerberg” is of course Mark Zuckerberg, head-honcho of Facebook.
• RE: “‘Windows’ versus ‘Macintosh’ applesauce......” —This computer is an Apple MacBook Pro (“Macintosh”). All my siblings use Windows PCs, and loudly declare Apple ‘pyooters are toys. The fact I use a MAC indicates I’m rebellious and stupid.

Role-reversal

“The thing about trying to silence a nation built on free speech is we've had 200+ years of practicing it. It'll take a lot more than a thin-skinned orange-skinned reality TV personality to keep people down!”
So says my friend ***** ******* out in L.A. ***** is ex of the Mighty Mezz, the best reporter they ever had, at least during my employ.
Others ex of the Messenger are **** and **** ********, who now run a pet-grooming emporium in nearby Canandaigua. They daycare my dog when I’m in Canandaigua.
**** was in ad sales, **** was a reporter/page-editor; I worked with ****. Both moved on before I retired.
****, like me, is a “bleeding-heart liberal.” (Gasp!) He counsels inmates at Ontario County Jail, which I think is really cool.
**** thinks a Trump victory is the beginning of Armageddon.
I, surprisingly, side with *******.
“Trump might proclaim himself ‘Der Führer,’ and suspend the Constitution,” observes ****.
“Never Fly!” I shout. “241 years of free speech, and that’s just from the Declaration.”
Trump declares a 20% tariff on Mexican imports to fund his Wall.
“So who eventually pays? “ asks the dreaded media. “Us, the taxpayers.”
Trump and his advisors quickly repair to the Oval Office.
Welcome to 241 years of free speech, Donald.”
I predict he may be impeached; perhaps even hanged.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 11 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 26th, 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.)

“3,000 tons overweight”

“I don’t know if we’re gonna make it,” said the engineer of a heavy westbound freight-train climbing Allegheny Mountain west of Altoona, PA.
“Even with them helpers, we’re 3,000 tons overweight. I’m down to a crawl, and bells are ringin’. I coulda used a second helper-set.”
Yrs Trly monitors railroad-radio down near Altoona on this laptop. I get it over the Internet. I even get video streamed from Cresson (“kress-in”) west of summit.
I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2.
“Oh, you’ll make it,” the dispatcher in Pittsburgh chirped. “You’d be surprised what makes that Hill.
“The Hill” is Allegheny Mountain from Altoona to the summit. The railroad climbs 1,016 feet (according to Trains Magazine), around 12 miles. There’s a tunnel at the summit.
RE: “bells are ringin’......” —The locomotive has alarm-bells to indicate its traction-motors are being overworked — they overheat.
Allegheny Mountain has always been a challenge. In the early 1800s it was the barrier to trade from Philadelphia to the midwest — there’s no notch through it.
The reason NY built its Erie Canal was because Allegheny Mountain could be avoided. Allegheny Mountain didn’t cross the state.
Philadelphia capitalists, worried the Erie Canal might plunge their city into economic morass, got PA to build a competing canal system, the so-called “Public Works.”
But it had to be partially railroad; Allegheny Mountain couldn’t be canaled.
That portage railroad was also an impediment. Grading at that time was so rudimentary the railroad had inclined planes: sections so steep a stationary steam-engine winched cars up the planes.
There were 10 planes.
Public Works was so slow and cumbersome, Philadelphia capitalists came together to build a cross-state railroad. Railroad technology was just beginning. Baltimore capitalists earlier built a Baltimore & Ohio railroad, including across Allegheny Mountain to the south.
The biggest challenge to a cross-state Pennsylvania Railroad was Allegheny Mountain. The founders brought in John Edgar Thomson from Georgia to lay out the railroad.
Regarding the mountain, he did that somewhat suddenly. Some planners suggested putting the railroad up on hillsides to ease the grade.
But Thomson knew traffic was down in valleys, so located in valleys until Allegheny Mountain.
Thomson’s grade over the mountain wasn’t impossible. It averaged 1.75-1.8% (which is 1.75-1.8 feet feet up for every 100 feet forward) — 4% woulda been difficult. It could be done, but only if you break up a train into sections.
All that were needed were helper locomotives. A train would stop in Altoona to add helpers, but it wasn’t being split into sections.
A complete train could conquer the mountain with helpers.
That railroad became a cash-cow. The Midwest was suddenly open for trade. No longer did it have to depend on horse-and-wagon, or Public Works, to cross Allegheny Mountain.
The Erie Canal became a cash-cow too, but railroading skonked it. Railroad was built parallel to the Erie; it became New York Central.
Railroads, unlike canals, didn’t freeze in Winter.
Pennsy, and New York Central, became primary conduits of trade with our nation’s interior.
But Pennsy still had Allegheny Mountain to cross. Helpers were still required.
And so it remains. The railroad is no longer Pennsy; now it’s Norfolk Southern.
But Thomson’s alignment is still used, so helpers are needed.
Diesel-locomotive technology seems better than steam.
With side-rod steam-locomotives, pulling is in thrusts. Diesels use electric traction-motors, so torque is continuous.
With thrusting a steam-locomotive can break traction.
Diesel-electrics can also convert their traction-motors into generators, and thereby provide dynamic braking.
Helpers now go downhill as well as up. Years ago steam helpers uncoupled at the summit for return to Altoona. With dynamic-braking those helpers continue downhill past the summit to help hold back the train.
Downhill used to be as much a challenge as up. Before descending a train had to stop to set up brakes.
With Dynamic-Braking that no longer happens. Dynamic-Braking provides the extra braking.
Years ago, Labor Day 1970, my wife and I were at Horseshoe Curve, Thomson’s trick that made conquering Allegheny Mountain possible.
A long freight was slowly climbing the grade. Its diesels were slipping.
As it rounded the Curve, it stalled.


“Too many cars.” (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“Too many cars,” the engineman said. Two GP-35s, and two Alco C630s pushing; 125 cars. It was Penn-Central at that time.
“3,000 tons overweight,” is what I heard. A possible replay of that stall years ago.
Didn’t happen. If it had, the Pittsburgh dispatcher woulda called an additional helper-set.

• My wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.

GG1

This is why; it would usually be sucking juice off overhead wire.

(“Jee-Jee-ONE;” I only say that because a friend was mispronouncing it “Jee-Jee-Eye”)
I’ve said it many times: “Pennsylvania Railroad’s GG1 electric is the greatest railroad locomotive I’ve ever seen.”
I saw many GG1s growing up as a teenager in northern DE in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s.
That recent diesel locomotives can put 4,400 horsepower to railhead is astounding. But a single GG1 could put over 9,000 horsepower to railhead for a short time — any longer and traction-motors overheated.
It would take two recent diesels to get 9,000 horsepower.
GG1 development began in the late ‘30s — that’s almost 80 years ago. Pennsy, unhappy with its P5 (4-6-4) electrics wanted a better locomotive to pull its passenger-expresses toward New York City on what is now Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor.
The next step was the R1 (4-8-4), but after New Haven Railroad’s success with a 4-6+6-4 electric, a GG1 was also built.
The GG1 is two 4-6-0 Gs hooked together under a single cab. A Pennsy 4-6-0 steamer was the G5.
The two-4-6-0 units were hinged = articulated.
Testing began near Claymont, DE. the GG1 was winner; it tracked and rode better. The R1 was kept and used a while, but eventually scrapped (1958).
The GG1 uses 12 of the same traction-motors used in the self-powered MP54 commuter car.
Two motors per drive-axle, of which there are six.
11,000-volt alternating-current is collected via pantograph (“pant-uh-graff”) sliding along an overhead wire, strung from a cable catenary (“kat-un-airy”).
It’s transformed in the locomotive for use in the traction-motors, which are also AC.
Time to trot out my GG1 pictures:


STAND BACK! (Photo by BobbaLew.)

About 1960 I went to Claymont station in DE along Pennsy’s electrified line. By then Claymont had become a commuter-stop.
With my father’s camera I set up trackside, my left arm hooked around a lightpole.
In earlier visits father south, expresses ran on the inside tracks, and slower trains on the outside tracks. There were four tracks.
All-of-a-sudden, here it came, a southbound GG1 express doing 90-100 mph, on the outside track, the one I’m 10 feet from.
WHAM!
Scared the daylights outta me!
Had I not hooked my arm around that lightpole, I wouldn’t be here. It was sucking me into it!
The fastest my father’s old Hawkeye would do was 1/125th of a second.
Amazingly, it stopped it.
Even now, 60 years hence, the sound and image of that GG1 is still in my head. I’ve stood trackside in Newark (DE) station along Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor — used to be Pennsy.
WHAM! AEM-7-powered MetroLiners flash past at 100+ mph.
A yellow line is on the station platform. Don’t cross it! Signs warn of trains passing at 100+ mph.
That GG1 at Claymont is goin’ to my grave. I guess the first time is more impressive.
Another time I visited “the flyover” with another railfan friend. The flyover is north of Wilmington (DE). The northbound express track flew over two yard-entrance tracks.
I guess that flyover is where express-trains went from inside to outside northbound, and vice-versa southbound.
Only Pennsy did so many flyovers, a means of keeping slower trains, like freights, from blocking express tracks.
I’m sure other railroads did ‘em too, but Pennsy did many. All along its main across PA were flyovers at yard-entrances. Most are now gone. The railroad is no longer running passenger expresses, and freights are no longer yard-to-yard.
The old Pennsy electrified line from Washington DC to New York City is now part of Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor.
The picture below is a northbound GG1 express atop the flyover, crossing the Wilmington yard-entrance (Edgemoor).
After the flyover it will go downhill back to track-level, gaining speed. It will approach 100 mph, if not exceed it.
Sensory overload! Model trains, by comparison, are just toys.


Northbound “Red Apple” crosses the Edgemoor yard entrance. (Pennsy crews called ‘em “Red Apples.”) (Photo by BobbaLew.)


Over Shellpot Creek. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

That flyover also crosses Shellpot Creek outlet into the Delaware River.
That’s the second picture.
The train just left Wilmington station, and is about five-six miles out. It’s headed for Philadelphia — probably up to 80 by now.
Quite a few GG1s were saved. Best is #4935, pictured below, at Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania in Strasburg, PA.
None are operable. They had transformer casings inside filled with cancer-causing PCB-based fluid.
Those casings were drained, then filled with concrete or sand.
I’m not sure electrification used now on the Northeast Corridor would be compatible with a GG1. It ain’t the same.
The GG1s lasted almost 50 years; 10-20 years longer than the average steam-locomotive, and 20-30 years longer than a diesel. I used to say to a fellow railfan friend “When the last GG1 is retired we’ll know we’re getting old.” —That was 30 years ago.
GG1 memories:
—A) While I was in high-school a GG1 passenger-express, doing 100+ mph, hit a bulldozer on a flatbed at a grade-crossing in Newark, DE.
The ‘dozer was sent flying and totaled. The GG1 stayed on the track, and stopped with only a dent. —Inside they were built like a truss-bridge,
—B) While in high-school our football-team played a very important game against Newark High. It would decide the conference championship.
We lost, but Newark’s stadium was next to Pennsy’s electrified line to Washington DC.
It was pouring rain, but the entire time a railfan friend and I sat in the top row and watched GG1 expresses zoom by behind us, giant arcs flashing as their pantographs bounced off the wire.
—C) Years ago my paternal grandfather rode Pennsy’s Congressional Limited. It was powered by a GG1.
He was thrilled. Boombita-zoombita!
Years later he and my grandmother had an apartment in Edgemoor, DE, within earshot of Pennsy’s main.
Doors and windows closed, you could still hear ‘em pass.
“Must be the Congressional, he’d say, awe in his voice.
It’s always a toss-up. -A) I was lucky enough to witness steam-locomotives in actual revenue service, or -B) I was lucky enough to witness GG1s, the greatest railroad locomotives ever made.
And every time I saw one it was doing 90-100 mph!
It could be said the GG1 was overkill. But engineers loved ‘em. It took four EMD E-units to equal a single GG1.
“I have no idea why they switch after this thing!”
(No wire after Harrisburg.)


#4935 in front of Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania. (Photo by Tom Hughes.)

• “Tom Hughes” is my nephew, my brother in northern DE’s only child. Like me, Tom is a railfan; his father isn’t.

Please forgive

“Next time CC your dog if you want an audience.”
So said my friend *** ******, regarding my response to an e-mail he sent pertaining to Obamacare.
I e-mailed my response to both *** and another friend.
I usually let political and religious comments go, since I’m a “bleeding-heart liberal” (my sister’s term; she was tub-thumping REPUBLICAN, also now dead - cancer). Many of my friends are CONSERVATIVE.
I don’t wanna lose ‘em as friends — actual friends, not Facebook.
I coulda reacted like The Lone Ranger’s fiery white speed-of-light stallion, rearing up “Hi-yo, Silver, away!” BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!
But I been on this planet almost 73 years, and know such behavior would be unproductive.

The brochure.

I also remembered without ****** my Boughton (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow) Park brochure woulda been a cheap-shot.
My artist-jones was at play = if my name is on it, it’s gonna look good.
We worked together. ******’s ‘pyooter-savvy, and my artist-jones. That brochure still looks pretty good.
My membership on that Park Board is long over, and they’ve since produced another brochure.
Four-color (or whatever) as opposed to mine which was only black ink on yellowish card-stock.
In my humble opinion, our brochure looks better. Where was their artist? It wouldna passed The Keed.
What set me off was to lump other friends who rely on Obamacare with welfare single parents who also get Obamacare for their 89 bazilyun kids.
If Obamacare gets dumped, my friends will lose their healthcare insurance.
Those friends are hardly “welfare single parents,” pigging out on Obamacare. They’re married, and have only one child.
I felt I was reading Limbaugh-lingo slanted toward his audience of angry white honkies.
My friends are what “The Donald” tweets as “losers” like Meryl Streep — perhaps the greatest actress of all time — all because she had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to badmouth “Mega-Brain.”
So I copied my friends into my ****** response, thinking they might be interested. Like all e-mail responses, it included ******’s original e-mail.
So ****** is justifiably incensed. My mistake.
Please forgive. I don’t wanna lose ****** as a friend.

• “‘Pyooter” is computer.
• “The Keed” is me, Bob Hughes, BobbaLew. (See above.)

’57 Buick

1957 Buick convertible. (Photo by Richard Lentinello.)

The feature car in my March 2017 issue of Hemmings Classic Car magazine is the black 1957 Buick convertible pictured above.
In my opinion, 1957 is the year General Motors’ auto styling turned awful; I wouldn’t purchase a 1957 GM anything.
Way too much chrome ladled on bloated car-bodies, the result of General Motors’ ascendency with the Eisenhower Interstate System.
1957 is the year I started being intrigued by ferrin cars, especially sportscars.
Thankfully, Chevrolet stayed with its smaller ’55 Chevy body — although as I understand it, you can’t make a ’57 Chevy on a ’55 body.
They lowered the firewall a tad.
But for 1957 Chevrolet wasn’t what Americans wanted. It was the first year Ford outsold Chevrolet in some time.
The ’57 Ford wasn’t awful, but tended toward wretched excess: quite a bit bigger, with canted tailfins, mere appendages.
And Plymouth was a disaster; gigantic tailfins that dominated the car.
My wife told me a ’57 Plymouth was car in which she learned to drive. Way too big and intimidating, it had been purchased new by her father for a cross-country trip.
Like her father my wife was “automotively challenged.” Her mother, her teacher, was more normal. She ran her ragged.
1957 was also the year Chrysler styling tanked. I can’t remember the ’57 through ’62 Dodges.
My wife’s parents’s ’57 Plymouth almost immediately started rusting. Road-salt accumulated in its tailfins, and rusted ‘em out.
The ’58 Plymouth looked slightly better — an early girlfriend’s parents had one.
But it was still excessive. And rust-prone.
I remember checking out the new ’58 Buicks with schoolmates at a car-dealer in Haddonfield (NJ) near where we lived.
I woulda been 12, and our family moved to northern DE in December of 1957.
Annual new-model introductions were a big thing at that time.
The new year’s models were kept secret to encourage anticipation.

A 1958 Buick Roadmaster four-door.

The new Buicks were draped in obscuring cloth covers.
Those covers would be removed on the intro date.
The cars were also behind cyclone fence. We couldn’t get in to lift the covers.
We deduced the new Buicks had a waffle-iron grille.
This was an advance from Harley Earl’s angry Buick facade.

’58 Limited.

Finally revealed, the ’58 Buick was almost as bad as the ’57. Quad headlights beside a punched-in chrome-laden front-end, all atop that glittering waffle-iron.
At the rear were gigantic chrome-wrapped tailfins with integral taillamps and fake exhaust ports — an attempt to mimic a jet airplane.
One dare not route exhaust through that exhaust-port; it quickly soiled.
Is it any wonder ferrin sportscars were more appealing? GM’s chrome-laden boats were ridiculous.
For 1958 Chevrolet bought into the boats.
The ’58 Chevy became a swollen barge compared to the ’55 through ’57. I was depressed.
The ’58 Impala looked okay, but needed a much bigger motor than what became the SmallBlock; a wonderful motor towing a bloated barge.
The ’55-’57 Chevys were far more attractive.
For 1959, GM’s automotive styling really tanked, although the Buick looked pretty good.
The ’59 Chevy is the worst-looking Chevrolet ever made. and the ’59 Pontiac and Oldsmobile were disasters.
It wasn’t until 1960 that GM styling started recovering. Their cars were still barges, but no longer bloated.
1960’s Pontiac looked pretty good, although more a cruiser than a hotrod.
The 1961 bubble-top two-door hardtop Pontiac is one of the best-looking cars of all time, plus 1961 was the first year of the 409 Chevy. (That’s the YouTube 409-Chevy link.)
For many years I lusted after a ’55 Chevy Two-Ten hardtop with a four-speed SmallBlock (first 283, then 327, now 350).
But after 1957 GM styling fell apart.
The magazine says this Buick is one of the most desirable classic-cars of all time.
The Keed doesn’t think so. I’d stop with the ’56.

• RE: “Automotively challenged........” —meaning scared to drive. For my wife, standard-shift was completely impossible. She also abhorred driving in traffic — too scary. I was exasperated at first, but finally accommodated. I drove her all over so she didn’t hafta drive. If she was driving, I was also driving from the shotgun seat. I’d make decisions for her. “Yer gonna pass that semi before it merges.”
• “The Keed” is of course me, “BobbaLew.” (See above.)

Self-perception versus age

“Oh *****,” I said audibly.
(Again, no names. I don’t want some creep hittin’ on this lady.)
*****, a high-school classmate of mine when we graduated in 1962, had just posted a recent picture of herself on Facebook as her profile pik.
***** and I are Facebook “friends.”
She still looked good, but hair dyed. It probably woulda been silver by now. Mine is.
It may have been a wig — I hope not. My wife had to switch to wigs after all her hair fell out with anti-cancer chemo.
She died almost five years ago. I miss her immensely.
***** was still thin, but visibly pushing 73. I think her birthday is July; mine is next month.
I hope she doesn’t get wind of of this — I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.
***** was probably the majordomo of my high-school class. She was daughter of a school-board member, and aced all her courses.
She married her high-school sweetheart after college, a guy who was a star end on our football-team.
I think she was named our school’s academic or humanities scholar; another dude was named science scholar.
Our high-school, feebly attempting superiority to others in northern DE, didn’t have a Valedictorian or Salutatorian. Instead we had an academic or humanities scholar, plus a science scholar.
Our graduation processional wasn’t Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance;” Too conventional.
It was Purcell’s “Trumpet-Voluntary.”
Our high-school served the ritzy postwar developments in northern DE.
Many of the residents were elitist Dupont engineers.
Like Rochester (NY) was once Kodak, Wilmington, DE was Dupont.
At that time we lived north of Wilmington. We moved there when I was 13.
My father wasn’t a Dupont engineer. He worked for a new oil-refinery.
Unlike *****, I was just a clueless bottom-feeder, no idea what I was doing.
I was in low-level College-Prep because I wouldn’t do shop.
I would be guaranteed matriculation at University of Delaware, as all Delawareans were at that time.
Like most I’d flunk out during first semester, and thereby become fodder for the Vietnam war.
I would have none of it. I knew U. of D. would be a disaster, and wanted to remain alive = no ‘Nam for The Keed.
I also knew U. of D. would be impossible because I’d be staying home. College-level work in a madhouse was clearly not possible.
So instead I matriculated at Houghton College (“HO-tin;” as in “hoe,” not “how” or “who”), 360 miles away from home, in western NY.
That was a compromise with my hyper-religious father, a super-long story not worth doing at this time.
Much to my surprise, I was welcomed with open arms. Unlike my childhood, adult authority-figures valued my opinions, instead of telling me I was disgusting and rebellious.
Things were touchy at times, but I graduated, first in my family to earn a college degree — although I think my father coulda, had he not come of age during the Depression.
I met ***** at my 50th high-school reunion, shortly after my wife died. The reunion was in northern DE.
I learned ***** had been a computer programmer before retirement.
Well of course! She was just like my wife. Smart enough and savvy enough and self-driven enough to figger out some contorted programming glitch that sent things awry.
I probably coulda done that too, but other things were interesting; mainly train-watching. (I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2.)
I found ***** has a Facebook, so one night years ago at home I began looking for it.
Lots of bare-chested hussies with maximum cleavage named ***** *******, but they were clearly not *****. ***** had class.
Weeks passed; I was getting nowhere. I wasn’t looking every night.
Then one night I stumbled upon *****’s Facebook. I almost immediately sent her a “friend” request.
Surprise-surprise; she accepted. She allowed she only had a Facebook for family.
Okay, I hardly look at Facebook myself; I only have 56 “friends.”
I don’t bother her much; we don’t have much in common. Anyway, I’m borderline insane, and she’s not.
But she reminds of my wife, and we both play with computers, perhaps me more than her.
Hers too is a MAC. (Dread!)
Another friend, with whom I graduated college in 1966, and I have been having a discussion about self-perception versus actual age.
This was prompted by another friend sending a photo of me receiving a medal from Houghton’s president at my 50th class reunion last year.
“Is that me? Yow-zuh! I look horrible!”
I get this at the Canandaigua YMCA too.
I encounter full-length mirrors before starting aquatic therapy in their pool.
Again, Yow-zuh!
One’s self-perception is more-than-likely not the same as reality.
I may still feel youngish, but I’m an old geezer.
I stumble along, and people pass. All but oldsters.
I also now have a Handicap-tag. (I only requested it as a result of my knee-change.)

• My wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012.
• “The Keed” is of course me, “BobbaLew.” (See above.)
• Houghton College, in western New York, is 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.
• “MAC” is Apple MacIntosh. All my siblings have Windows PCs, and loudly tell me Macs are toys. The fact I use one indicates I’m rebellious and stupid.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA, now doing aquatic therapy twice a week in their swimming pool. Supposedly this will improve my balance, which is awful. In-my-humble-opinion it’s bad because of leg-strength having withered away.

“I have a life to live”

“I can’t hold forever,” I said. “I have a life to live.”
I called Urology Associates of Rochester.
They do my urology doctoring.
Last year they removed my prostate because it was beginning cancerous.
They left a message on my phone saying I needed to reschedule an appointment.
“Please hold,” their receptionist said, after enduring their minute-long machine introduction.
Not usually the case, but minutes added up.
My cellphone counts time, and I remember seeing over seven minutes.
Must be they’re on donut-break.
After 10 minutes I hung up and tried again.
Again, the minute-long machine introduction, followed by “Please hold” from their receptionist.
Again, the minutes added up.
After maybe five minutes I gave up. “I got a life to live,” I said. The appointment is in February = “Later, dudes.”
Years ago, at the Messenger newspaper. I discovered how heavy-hitters deal with this.
A vice-president was doing my annual review.
She made a phonecall, and got put on hold.
She switched her phone to speakerphone, and began my review. She’d stop when her party came on.
I did this myself. I switched my cellphone to speakerphone and put it aside.
But I wasn’t doing anything. All I was doing was killing time. I wasn’t where I could grab a magazine; if I could have, that silly phone would distract.
Urology Associates of Rochester has at least three receptionists. They’re fairly busy.
I found myself wishing for more, but usually not from Urology Associates.
Most irksome is my HVAC contractor. i think they have only one receptionist. Get put on hold, which always happens, and their head-honcho tells you how wonderful they are.
“Ray, ya gotta hire more help,” I shout.
They came last year to replace my air-conditioning, which after 26 years failed.
So I told ‘em: “Ya gotta get your boss to hire more receptionists, and stop the self-congratulatory breast-beating.”

• The “Messebger newspaper” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger, from where I retired over 11 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 26th, 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.)
• “HVAC” is heating/ventilation/air-conditioning.

“Don’t shoot the messenger”

That was an inside joke at the newspaper where I worked almost 10 years following my stroke.
The newspaper was the Daily Messenger in nearby Canandaigua.
It was a wonderful job, largely responsible for my recovery from a stroke.
The Messenger was part of the dreaded media, scurrilous scumbags with the awful temerity, unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to report the actual news instead of what people wanted to hear, especially fat-cats.
Of course, even a newspaper is a human endeavor. It could promote a so-called “fevered agenda.” Limbaugh CONSERVATIVES loudly accused us of holding furtive meetings to advance our liberal agenda (Gasp!).
Like, when did we ever have time to hold such meetings?
A gang of idiots and ne’er-do-wells arrived before the crack of dawn to slam together the equivalent of a book.
“Yo K-man, I got an eight-inch hole on 4A.”
“How about that Uganda brief? You’ll hafta cut.”
All the news that fits.
Not too long ago my brother in northern DE set up a private Facebook called “Connor-Jeans.”
I’ll be diplomatic and not explain the name, except it’s a takeoff on “genes.”
Connor is my mother’s maiden name.
Like my father, she became a strident Christian, and somewhat badmouthed some of her siblings. There were many.
One was my Uncle Bucky (Walter), and his wife Francis.
Perhaps Bucky made some wisecrack that inflamed my mother, or perhaps he pilloried Bible-beaters.
Whatever, this negatory brainwashing rubbed off on me, so I felt Bucky and Francis were unsavory.
We visited occasionally, but I was always warned.
On Connor-Jeans I apparently made some comment reflecting this negatory brainwashing.
Quite justifiably it got some of Bucky’s children, cousins, all bent outta shape.
I began to realize my parents were the ones wrong; Bucky was pretty cool.
I tried to apologize, but that didn’t work.
My parents were both dead, but I was still alive.
I was the messenger, so I should be shot.
Finally I decided the only thing for me to do was pull all my comments, plus take down old photographs I posted — but only because such pictures might also have comments, and I don’t know how Facebook works.
Suddenly deafening silence. Connor-Jeans went dead. No more weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Except just recently one of Bucky’s daughters posted an old picture of two of her sisters, one of whom was later murdered. The messenger, me, wasn’t allowed to see it.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

MailMerge

“WHOA!” I gloated audibly.
“It’s nice to encounter a ‘pyooter function that doesn’t render hairballs,” I said; “after wrastling with Amazon the other day.”
I say that, but 23 years ago I came home from the hospital, after my stroke, and found slinging words (writing) was much easier due to computer word-processing.
30 years ago if I had to insert anything, or fix errors (like spelling, etc), I’d find myself retyping whatever I wrote. (ARRRGH!)
Often I let errors fly to avoid retyping. Priorities man!
The best word-processing advance was spellcheck. It flagged mistypes,  which often result from a stroke = sloppy keyboarding.
Spellcheck flags most, but I still hafta edit to fix valid words — like “top” for “to.”
The next best advance was no longer using paper. What you wrote displayed on-screen.
You can insert willy-nilly. Just locate your curser and start typing — although sometimes I create a separate document to avoid mucking the first.
Then I copy/paste that.
Wrastling computers is fun! I know a stroke-survivor, now dead, who ended up half paralyzed.
Yet he continued driving his Windoze PC.
My rig is a MAC (Gasp! Of-the-Devil I tell ya!).
A couple weeks ago I hit Word’s MailMerge manager by mistake. There was my Avery label sheet displayed with inserts marked.
Started me thinking. (Gasp again!)
My niece in south FL does her Christmas-Card labels with Word’s® MailMerge.
We talked about setting up my own MailMerge next visit (probably next month).
“You hafta set up a data-file,” she said. “MailMerge imports that.”
Her data-file was Excel®.
“Wait a minute!” I thought.”I already got a data-file, so-to-speak. All my addresses are ‘Pages’ text-documents.”
Perhaps I could copy each, then paste to MailMerge.
Not as fast as importing an Excel data-file, but creating that Excel data-file would take hours.
So I tried it. Copy the Pages address text-file, then paste into the MailMerge thingy.
Worked! Soon I was printing entire sheets of varied labels.
Importing an Excel data-file is a slam-dunk idea. But creating that data-file would involve mucho hair-pulling.
I got better things to do. Laundry awaits, as does my dog, lawn to mow, and slinging words.
Why should I create an Excel data-file when I already got all my addresses as text documents?
Right at the moment I only got one possible import, MailMerge. I need many more to go to all that trouble creating that data-file.

• RE: “MAC, Gasp!........” —All my siblings drive PCs, and claim MACs are toys.
• Avery is my label-sheet maker. They are 8&1/2 by 11 and fit my printer. Multiple labels are on them.
• I’ve always been somewhat intimidated by Word’s MailMerge. The name itself is lousy. Microsoft, in its infinite wisdom, had to call it something.

Encounter with Amazon.com

“Dread!” I thought. “Another e-mail from Amazon suggesting I review my “Subscribe-and-Save.”
I’m running out of dog-food, so I need to verify Amazon is about to ship me a bag.
“Subscribe-and-Save” is a bit where Amazon ships me a bag of dog-food every month (or two) to save money.
You sign up for regular shipments.
People Subscribe-and-Save Pampers®, for example.
Last month it looked like I should skip, so I did after madness and calling my sister-in-law in south FL.
I call her my Amazon-lady, which isn’t fair, because she’s not “Amazon-Lady” at the Canandaigua YMCA, muscle-bound ********, a nice lady, but striding around like Arnold Schwarzenegger.
I started dorking around. Utter madness ensued. An hour passed. Finally “How come I gotta call my sister-in-law in Floridy every time I fiddle Amazon?”
I called her up. We were both at our ‘pyooters. I had Amazon on, and so did she.
“I’ve already blown an hour,” I screamed. “This is not progress! All I had was a simple question, but it’s not answered. What I get is a deluge of madness.”
She opened my account, and suggested I call their secret help-desk based in India.
We dorked around, trying this link and that, all of which seemed to lead to what’s pictured above, a site that’s no help at all.
And of course every time I tried to do anything it wanted me to log in. Security, ya know. Techy alert!
Generally my log-ins failed. “Wrong password” it kept saying.
Might it say “wrong e-mail address,” what was actually wrong?
When I cranked in an e-mail I haven’t used in years, log-in worked.
She hung up so Amazon could call.
“We’re deeply, deeply sorry,” said the dude in India.
“Deeply sorry” seems the extent of their mastery of English.
I managed to fire up Amazon’s Home-Page; cranked “Subscribe-and-Save” into their search.
“There it is again,” I cried. “Seen it hundreds of times” (what’s pictured above), “no help at all.”
“Do you see ‘manage Subscribe-and-Save’?” the dude asked.
Yet again I slowly pored through their gigantic list.
Minutes of stony-silence passed.
“Hello?”
“I’m still here,” I said; “trying to read your gigantic list.
I haven’t mentioned it yet, but years ago I had a stroke. Yer list is visual overload.”
“I’m deeply, deeply sorry, but do you see ‘manage Subscribe-and-Save’?”
“Uhhhh, no! I’ve fiddled this page hundreds of times, but never ‘manage Subscribe-and-Save’.”
Finally “Tell ya what! I give up! I can always buy my dog-food at Petco. Yer site is too much for a stroke-survivor.”
Meanwhile Amazon’s e-mail is telling me my dog-food will deliver next week.
Yet my sister-in-law, fiddling my Amazon account, deduced I have no Subscribe-and-Save.
Her I trust, but not Amazon.
We’ll see if it arrives. If not, Petco.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

So much for “Connor-Jeans”

“So tell us about him; you say enough about my father.”
So says a cousin on a private Facebook set up by my brother in northern DE called “Connor-Jeans” (a takeoff on “genes”).
I don’t wanna talk about my father — that was all 50-70 years ago.
“Let it go!” I’m told.
“Connor” is my mother’s maiden name. She was one of a large family.
Right-or-wrong, the Connors were portrayed as stupid by my father’s mother.
Even now an aging aunt, the last remaining sibling of my father, poo-poos the Connors.
My parents badmouthed one uncle among my mother’s siblings. Probably he made some wisecrack. Whatever; he was declared inferior.
This brainwashing gravitated to me. Every visit to that uncle, and there weren’t many, I was warned he was unsavory.
If I asked why I got clobbered.
Apparently that uncle was “pretty cool.” He and his wife were wonderful parents.
I never knew that. We avoided them.
So this brainwashing made it vaguely onto “Connor-Jeans,” getting those cousins all bent outta shape.
And justifiably. All kinds of madness passed as Godliness to my parents.
And since I was still alive, and they were dead, I could be personally badmouthed.
Nothing new; I’ve heard it since I was born.
I tried apologizing, but that crashed.
I decided the best thing for me to do was delete everything I posted on Connor-Jeans.
That included old photos, since I don’t know how Facebook works, and my comments might still fly with those photos.
So much for Connor-Jeans!
My brother-in-Boston, who refuses to have a Facebook, has the right idea.
“Don’t touch Facebook with a 10-foot pole.”

• My mother got better as she got older — she realized my father’s constant badmouthing and beatings were turning me away. But early-on her judgments had Biblical connotation, like Acme supermarkets were “Of-the-Devil,” whereas Jesus shopped A&P. —This may seem inconceivable to my younger siblings, but was the world I grew up in. (I’m the oldest.)

Prewash

Prewash. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“Wash the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.”
That’s the advice I always gave to friends about to marry.
“Seems I never hafta clean out my dishwasher,” I observed. “My dishes are always free of garbage when I put ‘em in.”
I am on dishwasher number-three, a Bosch, purchased new at Lowe’s.
Dishwasher number-one, a Maytag, lasted over 20 years. It’s the one we installed when our house was built, 27 years ago.
I forget why we gave up on it, but we replaced it with an el-cheapo Kenmore.
Within two years the rubberized plastic on the grillwork began disintegrating. End-caps came off, allowing the grillwork to rust. Flakes of rust were being left on our dishes.
My wife also developed the cancer that would eventually take her life. I’m no longer crying as much as I did at first, but I’m still devastated. I barely exist.
She was the best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one.
She actually liked me. Most adult authority figures, including my parents, convinced me I was abominable.
I took her aside one day. “If yer gonna die,” I said; “I need a dishwasher I can insert my filthy dishes in, and viola, the next morning they are spotless.”
So we went to Mighty Lowe’s in Canandaigua, and scoped their dishwashers.
Stainless-steel interior, as opposed to plastic, and nylon covering on stainless-steel grillwork.
That was our Bosch bought from and installed by Lowe’s.
Only two years from our Kenmore — it was junked. Ya get what ya pay for.
It just so happens I have a dog I spoil rotten. I let her lick off my plates, and lick out my pans.
“Mashed potatoes? Yippee! I can prewash that pan! Gimme-gimme!”
She also likes broccoli and tomatoes. Who ever heard of a broccoli dog?
But “You can forget that there spinach. Am I Popeye?”
Anything the dog prewashes goes in the dishwasher.
The one thing the Bosch didn’t have, compared to all the other dishwashers at Lowe’s, was a garbage disposal.
But I don’t need one. I have a four-legged, big-tongued prewash.

• “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.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s twelve, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. We cut off her feathers, because she collected burrs. (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, I (we) avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett wasn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)

Classical-Music Jones

“There it is,” I say. “That’s one of them.”
WXXI-FM, the public-radio classical-music radio-station out of Rochester I support and listen to......
.....occasionally plays one of two classical music pieces that began my appreciation of classical music long ago.
One is Finlandia by Jean Sibelius, the other is Dvořák’s New World Symphony.
Back in 1955, when I was 11, my sister and I were taking piano lessons from Mrs. Dager (“day-grr”), the organist from my parents’ church.
Although all that church could afford was a Hammond C-3.
Mrs. Dager was a blowzy old matron. She’d blow her nose into her soggy handkerchief, then stuff that hanky into the front of her dress.
(Is it any wonder my sister and I came to naming “sonatas” “snottas?”)
Mrs. Dager’s greatest thrill was to get my sister and I crying, which wasn’t hard. She dumped the Thompson piano books. instituted by an earlier piano teacher, and had us trying Clementi piano exercises: 32nd-note arpeggios up-and-down the keyboard. CURVE YOUR FINGERS! (Smack!)
Mrs. Dager was part of hoity-toity Haddonfield culture. She belonged to “Haddon Fortnightly.” In fact, she lived in an old mansion across the street.
Haddonfield is an old Revolutionary-War town in south Jersey adjacent to where we lived.
Mrs. Dager wanted me to become a Billy Graham pianist: up-and-down the keyboard with sweeping flourish. I’d be a star for whom she could take credit.
Regrettably — awful temerity, unmitigated gall and horrific audacity — I was hornswoggled by “The Killer,” boogie-woogie rock-’n’-roll pianist Jerry Lee Lewis. (Gasp!)
I had to give up. Jerry Lee played glissandos, which hurt.
Mrs. Dager arranged for my sister and I to attend a youth concert in Philadelphia by the Philadelphia Orchestra. We sat in the second row.
“Finlandia” and “New World Symphony” were played, and perhaps another I forget. All were implanted in my head. I’d bicycle through nearby woods to “Finlandia” and “New World Symphony.”
I’ve never considered liking classical music a superiority gig. I just like it.
I like other stuff too, especially ‘60s acid-rock: Cream and Hendrix.
In high-school it was Tšaikovski’s “1812 Overture;” my band-leader had a Mercury recording. Over-and-over: “Tyah-tyah-tyah-TYAH; BOOM; tyah-tyah-tyah-tyah-dah-dah-DAH; BOOM!”
And it just so happened my college, Houghton, south of Rochester, was heavily into Bach.
They had a fantastic pipe-organ, 3,153 pipes, and definitely not a Mighty Wurlitzer — pretty much baroque.
I became a Bach freak.
Not long ago I gave away all my ‘60s vinyl albums, including Dylan and The Beatles.
The last rock album I bought was by Def Leppard.
I only hung onto one vinyl album, Cactus by Cactus.
To me that’s the BEST one. I also have it iTunes.
Once in a while I listen to it, thinking I probably shouldna given away Disraeli Gears.
But I’m always listening to WXXI. And every once in a while they hit me with “Finlandia” or “New World Symphony.”

• Nine years of classical piano-training — got so I could play “Rhapsody in Blue.” All vaporized by my stroke over 23 years ago — sloppy keyboarding is a stroke-effect. I could probably do it, but not interested.

“Yer lucky”

“Yer lucky you have a hobby,” says my counselor.
I don’t consider it a hobby. It’s an avocation; I’m a railfan.
I have been seeing a counselor for some time. I was advised to do so because I was so devastated by my wife’s death.
“You have no idea how many I see, retired, who find themselves bored silly — nothing to do.”
NOT THIS KID! I don’t have enough time to wedge my interests among my many appointments.
Mention railfanning to people and they think model trains. “My uncle has a layout in his basement.”
My favorite gauge it 4 feet 8&1/2 inches, the real thing. Model-trains are just toys.
There’s nothing like the real thing blasting past: total sensory overload.
There’s more to it than chasing trains. There’s also fiddling computers, which photography has become.
I fell into train photography; an attempt to depict the drama of a train passing.
Yesterday I was making new Excel® spreadsheets for my tax-accountant.
“I only do this once a year, so how can I make Excel do what I want?”
“Don’t save that! It’s goofy. Toss it and start over.”
My cleaning-lady was quietly cleaning my house while I tried things on this here laptop.
This laptop also gets used to fly these blogs. I suppose blogging is another counter to boredom.
Every morning I draft a blog as I eat breakfast. This very blog is an example.
I’m thrilled my muse still works, despite my stroke long ago.
It won’t shut up; it’s always cooking.
And enough gray matter remains to drive this here ‘pyooter.
I know too many who get exasperated and walk away.
Put all these things together, and I generate an annual train-calendar with my own photographs. My brother’s too, since he has become a railfan like me.
I’m waiting for those calendars. I got delayed. I usually send ‘em out as Christmas-presents.
It’s the old waazoo, the artist-jones: “if my name is on it, it’s gonna look good.”
No way is The Kid gonna watch Oprah or Dr. Phil. Boring!

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.

Profanity included

I shall repeat EXACTLY what I e-mailed my Boston brother:
“Damn thing finally ordered.
50 calendars; $1,880.71 — free shipping.
Shutterfly was refusing my credit-card, which they crunched many times in the past.
‘Contact-us’ on Shutterfly? Go figure!
Fevered calls to Chase in New York City; I guess they refused my charge, but accepted when I called.
(‘Connor.’)
Around-and-around we went; turned on Christmas lights, made bed, walked dog, closed gates while waiting.
At least an hour passed and it still wouldn’t crunch.
Now we’ll see if they show up: between Mon. 1/9 - Fri. 1/13.
(I was about to lump it!)”
My brother is Nazarene, I guess, which makes me try to not use profanity.
I am a sinner (gasp!), or so I’m told, mainly by those Biblically advised to “judge not.” Which makes me tend to avoid profanity.
Although I will admit to gravitating toward F-bombs as a result of my being a bus-driver.
Among other bus-drivers, use of F-bombs in ordinary conversation was the norm. I had to restrict my F-bombs at the Messenger newspaper. Those people were much more civilized than Transit.
The past couple years my Boston brother and I have traveled to Altoona, PA, to chase and photograph trains.
My brother and I are both railfans, me all my life; my brother some time ago.
Altoona is at the foot of Allegheny Mountain, long ago a barrier to trade with our nation’s interior.
Just west of Altoona is where mighty Pennsylvania Railroad conquered Allegheny Mountain. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern.
Pennsy did it without steep grades or switchbacks.
Grading in the early 1800s wasn’t what it is now. Often to get over a mountain a railroad had to employ switchbacks. The train had to go into the first switchback, then reverse up to the next switchback.
Operation was time-consuming.
Often steep grades were required. An earlier attempt financed by the state included inclined planes. It was PA’s attempt to parry NY’s Erie Canal. It was a combination railroad and canal system, since Allegheny Mountain couldn’t be canaled.
Railroad cars had to be winched up the planes by stationary steam-engines.
The planes were as much as 8 percent. That’s eight feet up for every 100 feet forward. Adhesion railroads won’t hold rail that steep — they’ll slip.
The Pennsylvania Railroad avoided both switchbacks and steep grades. Helper locomotives had to be added to get over Allegheny Mountain, but at only 1.75 to 1.8 percent average, the grade was no longer a barrier.
4 percent woulda been a barrier. Trains can do that adhesion, but hafta be broke into sections. A 4 percent grade would probably require three or four sections.
At 1.75 to 1.8 percent, the railroad didn’t hafta break up the train. Just stop to add helpers.
I first went to Altoona in 1968, soon after marriage.
I’ve visited many times, mostly to Horseshoe Curve, the trick Pennsy used to get up the eastern front of Allegheny Mountain.
Pennsy installed a park in the Curve apex; they were very proud.
That park is my favorite railfan pilgrimage-spot.
My stroke in 1993 stopped my visits for a while. But I finally went again post-stroke.
I started photographing there my first visit, 1968, when film was the photographic medium.
Maybe 15+ years ago I switched from film to digital with a Nikon D100.
Perhaps 10 years ago I became friends with Altoona railfan Phil Faudi (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”), who was friends with another railfan who ran a bed-and-breakfast I patronized in nearby Gallitzin (“guh-LIT-zin”) atop Allegheny Mountain.
Phil was running a business carting railfans around the area to chase and photograph trains.
So began a monstrous cache of fabulous train images taken with Phil.
I considered a calendar. Kodak Gallery had an online calendar application to make a calendar with your own images.
Usually it’s family pictures made into a calendar for Granny. I decided to use my own pictures instead.
I did at least two or three calendars with Kodak Gallery before Kodak tanked. I called the calendar “Allegheny Crossing” with “photos by Bob Hughes with Phil Faudi.”
With Kodak’s bankruptcy, Kodak Gallery sold to Shutterfly®, another computerized photography application. Could I get Shutterfly to produce as impressive a calendar as Kodak Gallery?
My artistic bent was at play. “If my name is on it, it’s gonna look good. No cheap-shots!”
“Will this font do?”
“NOPE!”
“How about this?”
“What you been smokin’, dude?”
Then....
“There it is..... That looks great! The artist has spoken.”
My brother began discovering some of the great photo-locations Phil had shown me.
Soon he was joining me on train-chases; I think our first was when Nickel Plate 765 ran excursions through Altoona a few years ago.
Nickel Plate 765 (2-8-4) is the BEST restored steam-locomotive I’ve ever seen.
What happens now is my brother and I visit Altoona four or five times per year to chase and photograph trains.
The calendar determines photo-choice, mainly the seasons. January, February and December are Winter pictures = snow. October is Fall-foliage: “I need a Fall-foliage picture.” March is melting snow, if possible.
Having done it so many times I picked up tips from Phil, and my brother has caught up. Phil no longer leads me around; his wife has Multiple Sclerosis, so he stays home.
As trains operate over the mountain, the engineers call out signals: e.g. “26T, east on Two, 252, CLEAR!”
We hear that on our railroad-radio scanners, and I know where milepost 252 is.
The railroad also has lineside defect detectors, so on our scanners we hear “Norfolk Southern defect-detector, milepost 253.1, Track Three, no defects.”
253.1 is Carney’s Crossing, a grade-crossing west of the mountain. Track Three is westbound.
If I am west of 253.1, I’ll see that train.
Or....
Do I have time to beat that train even farther west so I can set up and photograph without waiting too long?
What a thrill train-chasing becomes. Ziggity-zag! Up-and-down The Mountain we race. Train-images pile up.
That railroad serves the east-coast megalopolis, so waits aren’t long.
The train engineers also broadcast their train-number as they pass a signal, so we know the train-number of the train we just photographed: e.g. “26T.”
Over a year we end up with hundreds of photographs of trains. Again my artist-bent weighs in. I look at each photograph to cull the extraordinaries.
My philosophy, and my brother agrees, is “Shaddup-and-shoot.” Some are planned, but many of those bomb. Often the “oh, what-the-heck” shaddup-and-shoots are extraordinary.
So out of hundreds of photos I select 13 for a Shutterfly calendar. Crop and process, apply Photoshop if needed, and edit my captions for spelling and syntax errors.
My brother-in-Boston is my train-number guy. I e-mail him a picture, then “I need the train-number, dude.”
After perhaps a month of dorking around, I order from Shutterfly.
I usually do this late November — no more mowing — because those calendars are Christmas presents to people.
Although I vastly enjoy doing them. I make Shutterfly give me an impressive calendar.
I ran late this year, mainly because Shutterfly dumped my format template without telling me = thank you Shutterfly.
They thereby began their own format selection, which in my humble opinion looked AWFUL. (The artist speaks.)
Their format was chopping off parts of locomotives.
Never in a million years! (Again the artist speaks.)
I started from scratch, which put me perhaps a month behind.
I also do a proof calendar — only one — to make sure things are right and look good.
At least their insanity was only one calendar.
Finally the other day I was ready to order.
So 50 calendars, belated Christmas gifts to all-and-sundry.
Shutterfly and Chase-Visa refused to crunch my order.
Yet another delay.
As I said in my e-mail, fevered calls to Chase in New York City. They had refused my charge, but then approved it per my phonecall.
“For security purposes, please state your mother’s maiden-name.”
“Connor,” I said.
Meanwhile, can I engage an actual person at Shutterfly?
Techy Alert!
Shutterfly has 89 bazilyun walls erected, solutions to possible problems they surmised.
Somebody sold all that to Shutterfly so they could hire fewer humans to man their help-desk — if it exists.
“Contact-us.” ARE YOU KIDDING? No sign of any such thing.
At least an hour passed; I thought I was gonna hafta call Chase again.
I also re-entered my credit-card information to Shutterfly, after I stumbled where I could do it.
Finally my calendar-order crunched. Maybe Chase-Visa’s approval took an hour to apply.
Now we’ll see if the calendars actually arrive. Years ago the Post-Office lost a huge Kodak Gallery order — which Kodak had to eat; no wonder they went bankrupt.
I don’t consider all that insanity and hair-pulling progress.

• 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 “Messenger newspaper” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger, from where I retired over 11 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. (“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.)
• “Bob Hughes (‘huze’),”  is me, BobbaLew.