Desolation revisited

The original Union Pacific right-of-way atop Sherman Hill. (Photo by BobbaLew 30 years ago.)

“Bob,” my hairdresser exclaimed; “this magazine is November 2012.”
I take along magazines to read in case I hafta wait for my hairdresser.
“Indeed it is,” I commented. “2012 is the year my wife died. She died in April, and that magazine probably came in late September or early October.
I put it on my master-bathroom window-shelf with many other 2012 magazines, and there it stayed.
I rediscovered ‘em recently taking down my Christmas candles. ‘I woulda read this; this too.’ All shoved aside after my wife died.”
The August 2012 issue of Trains magazine had a giant treatment of Union Pacific Railroad, half our nation’s first transcontinental railroad. The Pacific Railroad Act passed in 1862. Union Pacific was therefore 150 years old in 2012.
I finally read the article. It prompted consideration I never had. Our nation’s first transcontinental railroad was conceived at the end of an era of building railroads for public good. This had earlier been true for canals. Unite the nation: sea-to-shining-sea.
It was finished after our nation was sundered by Civil War, when railroading became the playground of capitalist charlatans eager to pillage and plunder. Railroading became a stinkpot, rife with ripoffs by crooks pigging out on the public till.
Premier was the Crédit Mobilier scandal. Crédit Mobilier were the heavy-hitter stockholders of Union Pacific Railroad, and they doled out gumint funds with gay abandon = little regard for expense accounting.
They made off with millions, what now would be billions. Not long after the Transcontinental was finished, Congress investigated. It wanted to revoke the railroad’s charter, and indict heavy-hitters as criminals. Some heavy-hitters were congressmen.
In 1987 my wife and I aimed our huge gas-guzzling Ford Econoline west. We made it to Montana on Interstate-90, but then turned back east. As a railfan I always wanted to visit UP’s Sherman Hill, where the railroad crossed the Continental Divide. Sherman Hill is a blessing, the only route over the Divide without a twisting climb or tunnels through rock-bound battlements.
Sherman is fairly gentle, 8,247 feet above sea-level via the original route, 7,921 at highest on the bypass built in 1901. The east slope is not a craggy rockface like down in Colorado. Sherman was the easiest route over the Front Range.
Union Pacific no longer uses its original route over Sherman. The original summit was at Ames Monument pictured below.


Ames Monument. (Photo by BobbaLew 30 years ago.)

It memorializes Oakes Ames, a congressman instrumental in building the original Union Pacific. He later fell out of favor with the Crédit Mobilier scandal.
We went to that monument in search of that original right-of-way (pictured as lede). It’s visible, but what I remember is how rudimentary it looked. No cut or fill; just lay the track on table-flat land. Surroundings are bone-dry, and sloping is gentle. No trees, no shrubbery = utter desolation.
The new bypass required one tunnel, 1,800 foot Hermosa. I’ve ridden through it behind Union Pacific #3985, a 4-6-6-4 Challenger articulated.


3985.

A second much longer bypass was opened in 1953, Harriman Cut-off. It made climbing the east slope of Sherman manageable, .82%. The original main ruled at 1.55%. Harriman returns to the original UP main at Dale Junction, gated so therefore inaccessible. I had to 180 that giant van up a steep hillside. My wife was terrified.
I also rode that bypass behind 3985. Deep cuts and circuitous routing. It was built by Morrison Knudsen. We sheltered inside a lineside building as they turned the train. Only five cars, $250 per ticket, and that was almost 40 years ago. 3985 wasn’t challenged much. I rented a gigantic VHS video-camera.
Inside that building it started snowing. I think it was May or June. Howling wind and snow; we shivered at least two hours.
So now 150 years have passed, and Union Pacific is no longer the disaster it ended up being in the 1880s. It’s been reorganized twice, chartered again in 1897, no longer encumbered by the Pacific Railroad project.
Now it’s our nation’s largest railroad, and is much more than the original line from Omaha to Ogden, UT.
And finally I’ve read that article. Look what I missed after my wife died?

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

WE-SHALL-SEE

“Wait a minute,” I said to Spectrum’s techie-girl. “Did I hear you call me ‘dear?’”
“Yes you did,” the girl said.
“Ya know,” I said; “I’m 74 years old. Born in the wrong century. As we all know the 20th century was a giant stunt by Hollywood and Walter Cronkite. Kennedy wasn’t assassinated, we never went to no Moon, and Elvis works in a Kentucky-Fried in Memphis.
We’re what’s wrong with this country, sloughing off Social Security and pensions negotiated long ago. We hold back fat-cats lining their pockets.”
Spectrum, previously Time Warner, is my cable-TV and Internet provider. I was calling because my cable-TV locked. I have a Spectrum DVR box, and it hung deleting a TV-news program.
My call was interaction number-three. Number-one was rebooting my DVR myself per a YouTube video. It still fired up frozen.
This prompted interaction number-two, where some their-end Spectrum machine did what I call a “kick-in-the-pants.” (This goes back to the Mighty Mezz, where a ‘pyooter might freeze at 3 a.m. Sunday morning, delaying publication of the Sunday paper. Our guru at that time might hafta drag out of bed, come in, and “kick the ‘pyooter in the pants.”)
My DVR was emptied and restarted from-scratch. Yellow-to-green flashing lights, then software installation, then “Your TV will return in a few minutes.” 9, 8, 7 slowly through 3, 2, 1. But it refroze almost immediately.
So interaction #3, tortured discussion with an actual human. Toe-to-toe phonecalls are difficult for this kid, due to slight aphasia, a stroke-effect. I hafta pre-warn contacts. Do that and I get tolerance. Not do it and I get anger.
Spectrum’s techie administered another their-end “kick-in-the-pants,” but this time we walked through it, avoiding possible intervention on my part that might muck things.
Kick-in-pants finished, back to TV, and she wished me well, calling me “dear” and “honey.”
Um, WE-SHALL-SEE!
I was back-in-business after interaction #2, but it froze again almost immediately.
It might freeze yet again. Guess I better not delete anything. Recordings pile up until the hard-drive runs outta space. I think it thereafter self-empties automagically.
That’s another day, I hope. What if it freezes again? I gotta call Spectrum again? Put up with their time-consuming machines?
And of course such problems are blessings to powers-that-be. “Works, don’t it?” —What if I gotta call again?
“Fire up the Mercedes, dear!”

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I was employed 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).

YouTube and Facebook

Yr Fthfl Srvnt has a fantabulous video of my rescue Irish-Setter slurping out of a Petco toilet.
I had to give up on that dog just after Thanksgiving. She was 13 years old, and starting to get seizures.
I miss that dog immensely, and was told I should get another. I go about it slowly, and located a rescue Irish-Setter facility in southeastern PA.
They were harboring an Irish-Setter in which I was interested.
Only recently I found they were a rescue Irish-Setter facility, and they had other Setters I might be interested in, mainly oldsters.
I’m age-74 with questionable balance, so don’t know that I could easily handle a lunging maniac.
E-mails were exchanged, and I thought my toilet-slurping video might be interesting.
E-mail wouldn’t crunch it, it was too big. So crunch it on YouTube or Facebook. Both crunch videos.
Easier said than done.
As far as I know I have a YouTube account. I occasionally comment on YouTube videos, and apparently can. I uploaded a Smartphone video years ago. If I YouTube search my dog’s name, “Scarlett,” I get the video.
Things changed since then. No longer does one easily fly a video — or so it seems. The techies got hold of YouTube, such that those of us born in the prior century became entirely stupid.
As we all know, the 20th century is mere fabrication = a massive stunt by Hollywood and the TV-news. Kennedy wasn’t assassinated, we never went to no Moon, and Elvis works in a Kentucky-Fried in Memphis.
Perhaps it was because I was operating from YouTube’s search-window. I’ll hafta try otherwise.
I asked an old friend now living in Oneonta (NY) to help me. Unfortunately I need her beside me: “WAIT A MINUTE!” I’d say.
In other words: mental lockup, bane of a stroke-survivor/old geezer.
Okay, scotch YouTube. I know I can fly videos on Facebook, and that rescue Irish-Setter place has a Facebook.
So I cranked slurpy-tongue on their Facebook. Twiddle thumbs while upload-bar advances, Then “Your video is ready to view.”
Success, I thought. I viewed it: there’s silly Scarlett slurping out of Petco’s hydration-station.
So I fired up the rescue Irish-Setter’s Facebook, and it wasn’t there. Maybe it shouldn’t be — I never know how Facebook works = born in the prior century.
I also tried flying the video to my Oneonta friend. She said something about “file-compression” for e-mail. No idea how that works — I need her beside me.
“Thinkin’ is dangerous,” I’m told. “If I don’t understand it, I can’t do it,” I respond.
So I cranked the video onto her Facebook, but only as a FB “comment.” She’s one of two Facebook “friends” I have who took down their “wall.” Nothing wrong with that — she had good reason.
Slurpy-tongue successfully uploaded, I viewed it, but now I can’t find it on her Facebook. I hope she can successfully view it, although it’s not pertinent.
Same with rescue Irish-Setter. But I perceive my video wandering around in cyberspace; I no longer can find either.
WHAM-BAM! Try this, try that! Born in the wrong century, I tell ya!
Mention rabbit-ears to a millennial, and they think yer talkin’ about rabbits.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

Uh yeah

Why do I get this stuff? (Screenshot by BobbaLew.)

“Just because I’m 74 years old means I’m a ‘dirty-old-man?’” I ask.
My deceased wife could be cute, but I had to move Heaven-and-earth to convince her of that.
50 long years ago when we married, I wanted her to remove her bat-wing glasses. I wanted to marry a pretty girl.
Her mother was appalled. I had the awful temerity, unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to not wanna marry the frump she raised.
Her mother was a piece-of-work. She growled at me the first time we met. She actually growled, as if to say “Look what the cat dragged in. I dunno what she ever sees in him!”
I have two pictures of my wife: one I took long ago for a photo-class at Rochester Institute of Technology (RIT) when she was about 24 or 25. No bat-wings.
The second is not long before she died. She looked bedraggled. Her legs were starting to swell again because of poor circulation due to cancer. She’d gone back to wearing glasses; she was nearly blind without ‘em. At least glasses-styling had gone beyond bat-wings.
Despite fervent motherly advice we’d never last: 44+ years. And during that whole time the wife I pictured was that pretty girl in my RIT picture.
I related all this to a young girl at my pharmacy. “Ya gotta ditch them glasses,” I told her. “You’ll look prettier without ‘em.” She loved it; smiling profusely. Apparently I got away with it by -a) being 74 years old, and -b) mentioning my wife.
“I’m nearly blind without ‘em,” she said. “Same thing my wife said. She switched to contacts,” I commented. “I have too,” the girl said. “But I needed a break. They can dry out my eyes.”
“So switch anyway; you’ll be prettier without ‘em,” I said. “The Keed has spoken!”
I avoid that pharmacy — I don’t wanna be perceived a creep. But I bet she’s back to contacts the next time I visit.
“What matters is what’s between the ears,” I said to my wife as I drove her to hospice. How come SuckerBird and his lackeys can’t comprehend that? They think because I’m 74 I’m in pursuit of some buxom young hottie. Wondrous technology tells Facebook I’m 74 years old, so I’m a “dirty-old-man.”
Hit ‘im with floozies!
A couple years ago I attended my 50-year high-school reunion. I happened to meet a high-honors female classmate who I found had programmed computers in the job from which she retired. She reminded of my wife, also a retired programmer. She had intelligence and drive similar to my wife. She told me she had a Facebook, so a few months later I tried to find her Facebook.
What a search that was; I don’t fire up Facebook much. It’s gotten overly complicated. I cranked in her name, and got 89 bazilyun buxom young tarts baring maximum cleavage.
“Too bad they couldn’t finish their dresses,” quoting Minnie Pearl. Excessive cleavage was not my classmate. Do any of these tarts have what matters = the brains my wife had? My classmate wasn’t a sexpot either, but like my wife I think she has what matters — or I’d like to think so.
Since my wife died I gained a few female friends; some far prettier than I feel I deserve. My Sunday-School Superintendent, who was also my neighbor, convinced me very early all men, including me, were scum = utterly despicable. My parents more-or-less concurred. No pretty girl would wanna talk to me. —My Sunday-School Superintendent is therefore spinning in her grave; 14,000 rpm, enough to power an entire town. My parents are probably spinning too: “rebellious I tell ya!”
Harness ‘em all, and south FL could go green.
Every once-in-a-while I get one of these lecher appeals. Somehow they pass my cleavage filter — perhaps in this case because the ”unsubscribe” links don’t work. Usually I “unsubscribe” such junk, but the links bombed.
Since my wife died Yrs Trly has befriended a few pretty girls, much to the angry chagrin of my Sunday-School Superintendent (again, 14,000 rpm), I think partially because I’m not a Trump wannabee. (“How ‘bout it honey?”)
The two girls at my pharmacy are smashing. And both seem to look forward to my showing. (14,000 rpm yet again.)
Treat a pretty girl like a human being, instead of a toy, and they love it. Others are wary, and justifiably. How many lechers have taken advantage of them in the past? I think of one who seems wary, but I keep working on her. She’s coming around, I guess. I ain’t Adonis. 74 years old with lousy balance.
Yet apparently enough men my age are lechers, enough for SuckerBird et al to cash in.
The girl pictured is cute and attractive, but I bet not real “Romance Tale.” (“Tail?”) “Chat Now” with a witch eager to drain my wallet? I bet the girl pictured is just a model, no more than 18, hardly in her 40s or 50s.
Sorry; I prefer the female contacts I already have. Most are not the chesty tarts on Facebook or the ads. What matters to me has always been what’s between the ears, and pretty girls love that. Some don’t, but some do. “You make me laugh,” they tell me.
Fortunately I had a wife that had what mattered.

• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.
• “The Keed” is of course me.
• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

Time-saving technology

“Book it,” texted my niece from Fort Lauderdale.
**** is the only child of my sister who died of cancer six years ago. Together she lives with her husband **** in the northern reaches of Fort Lauderdale. They have two children, one by a previous marriage.
My sister was a year younger than me; I’m the first-born. My wife died of cancer too. I find myself wondering why I’m still here. “Yer here to make us laugh,” people tell me.
I visited my niece last year, based on the fact I flew to my wife’s mother’s 100th birthday a year before. That was my first long-distance flying journey in the three years since my wife died.
Things were messy after my wife died. I wasn’t inclined to go anywhere. About all I could do was drive to Altoona (PA) to chase and photograph trains.
**** is much like her mother, more prone to take command than me. This is my own mother mainly — the so-called ******-genes; my mother’s maiden-name was ******.
I’m more like my paternal grandfather, more laid back, reserved, whatever. Not as inclined to make a decision. Push hard enough and it gets my Irish up — somewhat a ****** I guess.
Yr Fthfl Srvnt is figgerin’ to visit my niece again. That means arranging a flight to south FL. I started poking around a week ago, noting Allegiant Airlines no longer flew to Fort Lauderdale. That was a direct flight; I used it last year.
So I poked around some more — I ain’t travel-savvy. I found both Delta and United flew out of Rochester. But they were both tiddly-wink cigar-wrappers, requiring plane-change at JFK or Philly or Atlanta to get to Fort Lauderdale.
My guess was there were more serious ways to get to Fort Lauderdale that didn’t involve cigar-wrappers. More research was needed, but other things intervened.
Last night I tried again. Southwest Airlines, not suggested per a previous Expedia (or whatever) search, got to Fort Lauderdale without cigar-wrappers. I tried other airlines, but not the sputtering Curtiss Jennies Garrison Keillor always used on “Prairie Home Companion.” Southwest seemed preferable. Down was one fairly short plane-change, and back was direct. I coulda booked right then, but was hesitant. My niece said “book it,” so I set about booking it.
Things went well until “wondrous time-saving technology” reared its ugly head. Sometimes this laptop doesn’t trip my printer. That is, the document gets sent to my printer-queue, but won’t print. (This began when I upgraded my operating-system to OS-X El Capitan [10.11.6].)
So delete document from printer-queue and try again. Except it wouldn’t delete. Now we’re really hung. I’m gonna hafta kill this entire laptop; it won’t even “Force-Quit,” an OS-X feature.
Do that and I lose Southwest’s “Confirmation,” which also has my flight-numbers. How come bedtime every night approaches midnight? Can you say “Wondrous Time-Saving Technology?” What will supposedly will take five minutes is blowing an entire evening.
ZAP! Southwest’s confirmation is floating out there somewhere in cyberspace, and their site is drowning me with 89 bazilyun “features” well beyond the wherewithal of a stroke-survivor.
Okay, find “Contact-Us,” a struggle of course. Sites are always secretive about “Contact-Us.”
I set up another reservation just to determine flight-numbers. I didn’t process, but it’s the same flight-numbers. (And per usual that reservation wanted about $40 more = give ‘em a few minutes.)
“Contact-Us” also got sent an e-mail to which I hope they respond. If not, I think I saw an 800-number. I eagerly look forward to all their machines, which can route me in circles. —Plus “Please hold during the silence: BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA! Yer hold will be 26 minutes.” (Indonesia probably.)
Still figgerin’ to visit my niece. Last year was a flat tire; I drove to the airport on the donut.
I should want “Wondrous Time-Saving Technology” to drive my car?
Railroad locomotives now have a whiz-bang ‘pyooter-app to run trains without engineer input — the engineer is only stand-by. All-the-time I hear dickerin’ about “Trip-Optimizer” on my railroad-radio scanner. Train engineers reporting “Trip-Optimizer” is promoting locomotive wheel-slip, or shutting down locomotives.
“Run without it,” Trainmasters say.

• My wife 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.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

Born in the wrong century

“That does it!” I said to this laptop as I put it to sleep. “This has to stop. I’ve already blown an entire morning.”
Per my doctor I ate my protein, Eggbeaters®, as soon as I got up. Now, four hours later, it was time to eat my breakfast cereal.
I spent the morning setting up online access to my investment account. It began as initiating text access.
As one born in the prior century I don’t take text for granted. In fact, I’m amazed by it. Here I am alone last May in faraway Altoona (PA) chasing trains without my brother. My balance is bad, and I’m worried I might fall.
I didn’t, so I texted my aquacise-coach 250 miles away back home. I do aquacise in a YMCA swimming-pool to improve lousy balance.
Later I texted her again — I don’t remember why — from here at home. I found out she was responding from Hampton Roads, VA. This is amazing. A couple weeks ago I texted her again, and she responded she was in line to board an airliner. “Where?” I texted back. “Detroit,” she said.
56 long years ago, when I graduated high-school, this was Dick Tracy stuff.
Here I am at home texting my niece in Fort Lauderdale, FL. That’s well over 1,000 miles away. WHOA!
(Used to be long-distance phonecalls cost a fortune, and required a lotta dorking around.)
So, textual notifications from my financial advisor. He’s not the first. My pharmacy does it, as do my counselor and dentist; and of course my aquacise coach. I also do it because I can ask questions without interrupting. Plus text limits verbiage, which can be excessive with e-mail.
It’s the old newspaper jones: the average reader tunes out after a sentence or two. Possessed of the writing talent, I can freeze readers.
To set up text with my financial advisor, the investment firm wanted a log-in.
CRASH! Call ****, the office-administrator who helps my financial advisor. Mano-a-mano, **** facing her office ‘pyooter, me facing this laptop.
My stroke-jones makes things difficult. Throw too much at me, and my brain locks. I also hafta get off by myself to avoid messiness. “No offense ****; I like calling you. You tell me I’m funny.”
The investment-firm didn’t like my log-in. “Reset password?” I suggested. There was an 800-number I could call, but **** was doing it for me, I guess.
A lady from 800-land patched in. “Put yer phone down, “ 800-lady told ****. Guarded secrets were being exchanged. I still was lost, but it appeared we were resetting my password — which I’ve done before.
“IN!” I shouted. There was my financial advisor pictured next to a statement of my account.
“Have a nice day,” 800-lady said.
I let my Internet-browser memorize everything, although I thought later I shouldn’t. Lest Donald and the Russkies hack my investment holdings.
That’s another password reset, although I think I could do it without ****.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

“Memorialize”

The dog is rescue Irish-Setter #5. We lost that dog to cancer. (My wife, worried about security, did not have her Facebook named her actual name.) (Screenshot Photoshopped by BobbaLew.)

“How did you do that?” my niece from Fort Lauderdale texted. “Mom’s Facebook is still open.”
I inadvertently “memorialized” my deceased wife’s Facebook. She died almost six years ago. Yet her Facebook remained open; closing it was too much trouble.
My sister, my niece’s mother, is also GONE; December 11th, 2011. Her Facebook remains open too.
“Damned if I know,” I texted back. The usual Facebook insanity: “Try this and see what happens!” No idea how I got there, but finally Facebook admits my wife is gone.
Like I remember what I did. Wild fiddling and stabbing around. Is it any wonder I rarely fire up Facebook? It’s too complicated.
Unknowable mysteries wrapped in conundrums. I could engage “guile-and-cunning,” and probably make sense of it. Why bother? All to line SuckerBird’s pockets? I got things I’d rather do.
Yesterday I fired up Facebook and clicked their “notifications” globe — it indicated I had a notification.
It was my aquacise coach. “Notifications” indicated I had a “saved” post from her.
“WHA-A-A-A?”
“Just delete it,” she texted me. The fact I have her as a FB “friend” is a fast-one on Facebook’s part. They trolled my iPhone contacts after I got Facebook-for-iPhone.
The fact I even have a Facebook is yet another fast-one on FB’s part. I could dump it, but too many of my actual friends use FB as e-mail. Which I rarely look at, since I was born in the previous century — which is all Hollywood and Walter Cronkite, e.g. we never went to no moon, Kennedy was never assassinated, Elvis is still alive working at a Mickey-D’s in Memphis, etc.
So my nephew’s latest child was already six months old when I found out; the birth was announced on Facebook.
So now my wife’s Facebook is “memorialized.” But still not closed = still too much trouble. Far be it we take away SuckerBird’s ads of muscled young hunks for my departed.

• My wife 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.
• “SuckerBird” is of course Mark Zuckerberg, head-honcho of Facebook. He’ll run for prez in maybe 20-25 years; hopefully I’m gone by then. (It’s bad enough to have Tweet-boy’s finger on the nuclear trigger — which thankfully my beloved wife never knew. “How ‘bout it honey?”)

Pennsy’s most venerable steamer

Perhaps Pennsy’s most venerable steamer. (Photo courtesy Joe Suo collection©.)

—The February 2018 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar is an M-1a Mountain (4-8-2).
The Mountain was probably Pennsy’s most successful steam-locomotive, or at least the one they most venerated. It was developed in 1923, and there are two versions:

M-1 (uncast). (Photo by Gene Foster.)

M-1a (cast). (Photo courtesy the Pennsylvania Railroad.)

The one pictured is an M-1a. Its steam-chest between the smokebox and the two drive-cylinders is cast. The M-1 has piping to the cylinders, much like most Pennsy locomotives.
The “M” is essentially the giant Decapod (2-10-0) boiler and firebox (70 square feet) with a long combustion-chamber penciled in.
The combustion-chamber allowed coal to better burn, and increased heating-surface.
The Mountains weren’t passenger power, nor were they drag freighters. They were more all-purpose = 30-60 mph. With driver-diameters of only 72 inches (6 feet) they weren’t runners like the E-6s Atlantic (4-4-2) or the K-4s Pacific (4-6-2), both of which had 80-inch drivers.
The M’s were used to haul freight all over Pennsy, but especially on Pennsy’s vaunted Middle Division, Harrisburg to Altoona, right until the end of steam in late 1957. Diesels mighta done better, but no sense dumping the M’s when they were excellent for the service.
The one pictured, #6775, was built by Lima Locomotive Works, one of 24. There were 100 M-1a’s, some built by Baldwin, others in Juniata.
The M-1a’s also had giant “coast-to-coast” tenders, 22,090 gallons, 31&1/2 tons of coal. The only problem running them on Pennsy’s Middle Division is they needed to be re-coaled, etc.
That was done at Pennsy’s giant Denholm coaling facility, long ago removed. Foundations of the old facility remain, and the right-of-way still widens. In 1906 Denholm had twelve tracks. Three remain. Never did any railroad have a 12-track coaling facility.


Re-watering at Denholm. (Photo by Don Wood©.)

Trains pulled in and stopped for re-coaling from hopper-cars above on a cross/right-of-way bridge. The engines also got serviced and re-watered from trackside standpipes supplied by a Pennsy-owned reservoir. I have many pictures of M’s stopped at Denholm.
Sadly, that’s all gone. What remains are memories of one of Pennsy’s favorite steamers. And it’s not a 4-8-4, with which many railroads ended steam. It’s only a 4-8-2, but Pennsy used it like a 4-8-4; they were fabulous locomotives.


Heading out onto Rockville Bridge. (Photo by Don Wood©.)

• Two things: “Rockville Bridge” is a link to a blog I wrote a few years ago. Since then I’ve received updates regarding two possible mistakes. -A) Rockville may indeed be all masonry, no concrete core, and -B) Norfolk Southern trains toward New York City use Rockville, since that’s more direct to the old Reading line. Via Enola probably could be done, but would involve a lotta time-consuming backing and switching.

58 Corvette

A 1958 Fuely. (Photo by Dan Lyons.)

—The February 2018 entry in my Tide-mark “Cars of the Fab ‘50s” calendar is a 1958 Corvette, fuel-injection no less.
Corvettes were still rudimentary at that time, a fiberglass sportscar body on an antediluvian chassis.
What made ‘em attractive was their motor, the fabulous SmallBlock introduced in the 1955 model-year at 265 cubic inches. (It wasn’t called “the SmallBlock” until after “Big-Block” motors were introduced by Chevrolet in 1958.)
For Chevrolet the SmallBlock was revolutionary; it turned droll Chevrolet around. That motor is still being produced, sorta. About all that’s left are the bore-center measurements. It’s still two valves per cylinder activated by pushrods activated by a single camshaft down in the block.
The SmallBlock was a major leap forward. It put Old Henry’s FlatHead V8 of 1932 out to pasture. Ford’s FlatHead was the foundation of hot-rodding, but Chevy’s SmallBlock was much more desirable.
It responded well to souping, it was cheap and available, and would rev to the moon. It was still cast-iron like most Detroit motors, but its light-weight valve-gear allowed it to rev. It was European in character, almost a Ferrari motor.
Pretty soon all Detroit was making their own versions of the SmallBlock, light-weight valve-gear with ball-stud rockers.

Ed Cole.

Ed Cole can take credit. Were it not for Cole, Chevrolet would have developed a V8 much like Ford’s turgid Y-Block.
Cole drove his engineers crazy. Short deadlines galore. They had to think outta-the-box, and they did.
The SmallBlock attracted hot-rodder Zora Arkus-Duntov. Corvette was only a sportscar wannabee at that time. The SmallBlock would make it exceptionally attractive.

Zora Arkus-Duntov.

Not until 1955 did Corvette get the SmallBlock — the original Corvette body with the SmallBlock available. Although I’m not sure of that. SmallBlock ‘55s may only be experimental.

A ’56.

A ’57 Fuely.

Most desirable of these early ‘Vettes were the ’56 and’57. Great to look at, plus that fantastic motor. But the chassis was still terrible.
And for 1958, Corvette fell for the four-headlight craze.
About the only thing desirable about these early ‘Vettes was that SmallBlock motor, and in 1957 fuel-injection was introduced. 290 or so horsepower out of 283 cubic-inches; one horsepower per cubic-inch, phenomenal for a Detroit V8 at that time.

A “Black Widow” ’57 Fuely.

265 two four-barrels.

The FI SmallBlock was also available in the ’57 Chevrolet; such cars raced NASCAR.
Fuel-injection wasn’t electronic as it is now. It relied more on mechanical air-flow sensing. It wasn’t very popular. Auto mechanics were more accustomed to carburetion. FIs were often swapped to multiple carbs. Early ‘Vettes often had two four-barrels.
That SmallBlock motor was a siren-song. All through high-school and college I lusted after a ’55 Chevy hardtop with Corvette motor and four-speed.
A guy in a small department-store near where we lived in northern DE had one, the car pictured below. A ’55 210 hardtop converted from six-inline to 283 SmallBlock with four-on-the-floor.
He traded to a ’58 Corvette, a SmallBlock devoté.


Lust! (Long ago photo by BobbaLew.)


Moons, baby! (Long ago photo by BobbaLew.)

I was crushed. A ’58 ‘Vette wasn’t as attractive as his ’55 hardtop.
And his wasn’t the only one. Somebody at my high-school had one, a teacher mayhap. It was a navy-blue ’55 Bel Air hardtop with 283 four-on-the-floor.
Early ‘Vettes were attractive, but after 1958 I lost interest. Not until 1963 did ‘Vettes become interesting again. Zora triumphant: make the ‘Vette a true sportscar. Independent rear-suspension and great styling.
That’s the C-2, the ‘Vette that makes early ‘Vettes unattractive. My hairdresser got one after his wife died; ’67 with a four-barrel 327 and four-on-the-floor. Remarried he had to sell it. I was interested. If I had any idea my wife was gonna die too, I’d-a bought it. A classic ‘Vette, not what Corvettes became later, but the Corvette I always dreamed of.

My hairdresser’s ‘Vette.

Looking at that blowsy old ’55 hardtop I think what did I ever see in that? Buick styling, faux fins, and that silly wraparound windshield. All it has is that grill = ersatz Ferrari. Plus that fabulous SmallBlock motor, preferably with four-on-the-floor, a layout that found fruition with Ford’s Mustang.
A ‘Vette, by comparison, was more a toy. Not good to hit the supermarket.
In 1958, age-14, I pedaled my junky balloon-tire RollFast into the parking-lot of a shopping-center near where we lived. Parked in front of the bowling-alley were three ‘Vettes, two ‘57s and a ’56. One ’57 was fuel-injection.
Suddenly three dudes burst from the bowling-alley toward the ‘Vettes. I quickly pedaled my bicycle to the exit onto the highway. I knew I was about to witness an event.
Sure enough the ‘Vettes cranked onto the highway, each revved to-the-moon; 6-7,000 rpm, maybe 8. Spinning drive-tires laid long stripes of rubber, and generated towering plumes of smoke.
I will never forget it! That’s goin’ to my grave.

• My wife 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.

Teenage takeover

Every weekend Yr Fthfl Srvnt tries to hit the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool at least one day if not both.
It’s part of my continued attempt to improve my balance, which can be dreadful. I do aquatic therapy two hours per week — it’s a class. I usually show up maybe a half-hour early, and often stay 15 minutes after class. Such time is on-my-own, as are my weekend visits.
Quite often my good friend **** ******** is there, as she was today (Sunday, February 11th). **** was a co-leader of the grief-share I attended after my wife died.
So there we were sloshing around in the deep-end. I try to not bother ****, but we often talk.
“I feel like I’m gonna bite somebody’s head off,” **** said. The pool was awash with noisy teenagers — total disregard for diplomacy and tact. “Whatever happened to peace-and-quiet?” **** asked.
“Yeah, usually we have this pool to ourselves on Sunday morning. Only *****-not-the-lifeguard swimming laps. I come here planning to crank an hour,” I said; “but this time I can’t. The racket is unbearable. That and teenagers gayly crashing into me.”
45 minutes was all I could stand.
“I been coming here since 2000, and it’s never been like this,” **** said.
“See ya later alligator,” I said as I climbed out.
“After while crocodile,” **** said.
“This place is a zoo,” I said to a lifeguard as I departed. “I don’t know how you guys can stand it.”

• My beloved wife 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.

Calm, kewel and collected?

Obviously time has passed since my wife died. It’ll be six years come April.
Yrs Trly locked his keys in his car Thursday in the supermarket parking-lot, inadvertently of course.
It’s a Ford, so has key code buttons on the driver-door. I have that code written somewhere, but it wasn’t in my wallet.
I called AAA on my cellphone. I can do phonecalls from my stone-quiet house, but a supermarket lobby is a surfeit of racket.
“Welcome to AAA.” Machine-city! “Punch 1 to initiate a service-call, 2 to cancel.” Quickly engage dial-pad while holding phone to ear. This is progress?
The deluge of machines began, plus the usual “monitoring for quality assurance.”
Do they allow me to hear anything? Fire up speakerphone, but here in a noisome supermarket lobby I still hafta hold to my ear.
Punch this, key that, on-and-on it went. My iPhone displays the numbers I punched in: I counted seven.
And then there were the stony silences where I couldn’t hear the question. Machines can’t process “Wha-a-a-a?” I made at least two phonecalls starting over.
Finally I got a human. He wanted my account-number. Unholster wallet and rifle through it one-handed on bench while holding iPhone to ear with other hand — trying to not dump everything on floor.
“I can process with just yer name!” amidst the din.
“‘H’ as in ‘Harry,’ ‘U’ as in ‘under,’ ‘G’ as in ‘get,’ ‘H’ as in ‘Harry,’ ‘E’ as in ‘enough,’ ‘S’ as in ‘Sally.”
“Robert?”
“That’s me.”
“And yer address is......”
“Yada-yada-yada-yada.”
“Yer service-tech will arrive in two hours, 24 minutes. You will get text updates.”
“Groovy,” I thought.
Okay, engage guile-and-cunning. Who can I call to avoid that long wait?
I was in the Canandaigua Wegmans supermarket, so I figgered I’d call my doggy daycare, who also is in Canandaigua.
I no longer have a dog, but the owners worked at the Messenger newspaper when I was there.
“Please leave a message.”
“Any chance you guys can help an old geezer that inadvertently locked himself out of his car?”
How about the Ford dealer where I bought the car? They’re right down the street, and might be able to give me the key code.
I called them walking to my car. “Service please.” I got the pretty girl who picked me up at the YMCA a couple weeks ago. My car was in for service.
I wondered if they might have the key code, since I bought the car from them, and I always do service there.
“*****.” “In!” I shouted. “You just saved my butt.”
I thereafter called AAA, held for what seemed eternity, then canceled the service-call.
What’s notable is this madness didn’t phase me a bit. It didn’t prompt the usual angst and exasperation that woulda occurred right after my wife died.
In fact, it didn’t prompt the anger my wife often endured. Which has me wishing I coulda been to my wife what I am now.

• The Messenger newspaper is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger, from where I retired 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I was employed 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). A co-owner of that grooming emporium that daycared my dog was once an editor at the Messenger, and his wife was in ad-sales.
• My previous dog was “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She was thirteen, and was 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 avoided puppydom, but such a dog is often messed up. —Scarlett wasn't bad. She was my fourth rescue.) I had to put her down because she was getting seizures. —She was my longest-lived Irish-Setter; still chasing rabbits at age-13.
• “Wegmans,” is a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.

The sun always shines at 35,000 feet

What follows is one of my favorite columns I wrote at the Mighty Mezz:

The sun always shines at 35,000 feet. That's something I used to say to my passengers, back when I drove a bus for Regional Transit Service.
I’d pull into my space behind Midtown Plaza in downtown Rochester, the snow would be coming down in sheets, and people would be holding onto their hats as the wind ricocheted off the buildings. You couldn’t even see the top of the Xerox Tower, as it was socked in by fog. Invariably, some wise-acre would comment on the weather, as my riders trudged off for another day of work in the city.
So I’d turn around and say “Well, you know, the sun always shines at 35,000 feet.” I haven’t flown a lot, not enough to be labeled a jet-setter. But I have flown some, enough for it to make an indelible impression.
My first flight was back in 1956 when I was all of 12. I had saved up my allowance, enough to go up for 15 minutes in a new Piper Tri-Pacer at a small grass-strip airport near where we lived.
It doesn’t really count — we never exceeded 1,200 feet — not enough to escape Flatland. But it’s something I’ll never forget. After taking off, our pilot let me take over the controls, which I happily did with blunderbuss enthusiasm and blind naiveté.
I circled our house in the South Jersey suburbs, and then waggled the wings in case anybody below was watching. I then flew the plane back to the airport, and descended to 100 feet, after which the pilot landed the plane.
But I never joined the Civil Air Patrol as I’d hoped, and I did not get my pilot’s license. In fact, I never did any flying again until my parents and my wife’s parents moved to Florida.
Since then I’ve flown enough to say, “Let’s put the hammer down,” as the pilot steers the airliner onto the runway. And up on the flight deck the boys comply, ramming the throttles full ahead, and we start accelerating faster and harder than any car.
After a long rollout that takes what seems an eternity, the nose comes up, wings take hold, and the big stainless steel cigar gently sags into the air.
Climb-out is always abrupt and steep, but if we used the north-south runway at Rochester International, soon we’d level off some, although still climbing, over the Thruway, and the tracks of the old Erie Railroad branch to Avon.
Hemlock, Honeoye and Canadice lakes would heave into view on our left, and as we climbed some more we’d slice into the overcast that always seems to cover our area. Finally, after climbing through the soup for a while, we’d break out on top at maybe 10,000 feet and the sun would be shining. Eventually we’d attain cruising altitude where all you’d see was the fluffy white blanket below, with our shadow racing across it surrounded by a circular rainbow.
What I’m describing here is the hop, skip and jump USAir takes to fly to Pittsburgh, where we’d catch another plane to Fort Lauderdale or Orlando, depending on who we were visiting.
One time we flew to Los Angeles, though, a long and arduous flight, most of which was in darkness. Occasionally we could see small towns on the ground far below, marked by the faint glow of street lights.
But when we jumped the San Gabriels and curved into the bowl that was the L.A. basin, the ground was covered with lights as far as the eye could see. At first it seemed surreal, and passengers dashed across the aisle to get a better view. But if you focused on detail you could see orange sodium-vapor lights illuminating parking lots, white hot halogen lights over baseball diamonds, and street lights and bobbing headlights lighting the boulevards below.
A few days later we took off in the afternoon, and as we climbed out and headed inland, I couldn’t help notice the shortage of greenery. L.A. was all strip-malls, tract houses with swimming pools, and stucco cliff-side dwellings ready to tumble into a ravine at the slightest hint of a mudslide. Open parkland was hard to find.
Then the plane jumped the San Bernardino mountains, and the ground below became the Mojave Desert; sand and Joshua trees. Later, as we headed farther east across the Great American Desert, even the Joshua trees disappeared, and the sand turned barren and red as the sun went down.
One time we flew to Denver, and as we descended over Kansas on approach to Stapleton, I couldn’t help noticing most of the prairie had been carved into giant circles by irrigation derricks. Later, on the ground, I discovered the derricks were powered by oily old car engines, preferably V8s, which connected to pumps and the huge tractor wheels that slowly walked the rig around its pivot.
But the most significant aspect about flying is how it lifts you up out of Flatland, making all that’s happening below seem insignificant and petty. Flatland is reduced to an artificial patchwork created by farmers and civil engineers. The only other signs of civilization are the highways and railroad tracks that stitch the land.
Humans aren’t visible at all, and if you’re lucky you might be able to make out that gleaming 18-wheeler hurtling down the interstate. It’s hard to take seriously the wars and other human endeavors that take place down there.
So please excuse me if I pause to reflect while shoveling my drive way or mowing my lawn. I’ve been in the sky, and it affects my earthly pursuits. My home is barely visible from 35,000 feet.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I was employed 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” 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.)
• This column was published December 20, 1995, shortly after my stroke. There was no charge.

Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar

Looks like something my brother and I might do. (Photo by Anthony Randall.)

—BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! “Rise-and-shine, sunshine!”
It’s my brother-from-Boston, 7:30 a.m. or whatever, pounding my room-door at Wye Motor Lodge south of Altoona (PA).
We are there to chase trains, and he didn’t hafta do that. I been up at least an hour getting dressed, brushing teeth, pills, etc. But I don’t mind. Like me he’s a railfan, and we always have a good time chasing trains.
The February 2018 entry in my Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar looks like something my brother and I might take. Except it’s late afternoon, not early morning.
The train is in Missouri headed for interchange in Kansas City. It’s a unit-train of all corn-syrup. Single commodity unit trains can run point-to-point avoiding yarding.
Quite often my brother and I see unit-trains near Altoona. All-coal or all-grain or all crude-oil. Often we see trains of only auto-racks. I suppose they could be called unit-trains too.
But ya gotta have lots of that single commodity to make a unit-train. Five or 10 cars don’t qualify — even 30 or more. One unit coal train may be 130 cars.
Short car consists get yarded to become manifest trains = trains of multiple car-blocks all going to the same destination.
Railroading loves unit-trains. They take out yarding expense, mainly sorting cars. Yarding also takes takes time.
We have to be careful in lighting like this. Shadows might partially obscure locomotive-fronts. This might not be a problem on cloudy days. But if it’s sunny we hafta be east of the tracks — southeast is preferable.
Depends what season it is too. Early morning from northeast becomes possible come summer. Where the light falls determines success of a picture.
“Modeling” plays in too = a train partly in shadow. Often that’s attractive, but an engine-front partly shadowed rarely works.
There are locations that only work a very short time; like into deep rock cuts.
This picture reminds of one I used as the cover for this year’s annual train-calendar. The lighting is similar. My picture was taken in late afternoon; the only time the locomotive-front would be lit.
I discovered this location on-my-own. I’m sure my Altoona railfan friend Phil Faudi, who showed me many of my photo locations, has been there. But he never showed me it.


The cover-shot on my 2018 train calendar. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“Hey Jack, where we headed?” (I let my brother drive; he’s only 60, but I’m 74.)
“Main Street Bridge in Gallitzin.”
“You are not! Yer headed for Jackson Street Bridge.”
“Negatory Dude. Main Street Bridge next to Tunnel Inn.”
“WRONGO-WRONGO-WRONGO-WRONGO-WRONGO! Tunnel Inn is 702 Jackson Street, manager-boy.”

• Tunnel Inn is a trackside bed-and-breakfast I once used. It’s in Gallitzin atop Allegheny Mountain.

“No way José”

“Ten buckaroos to ship $8.35 in merchandise? No way José!
I gotta blow 15-20 minutes on this ‘pyooter to avoid $10 shipping-and-handling?” I yelled.
You lose, Staples!
Yrs Trly is looking for Paper-Mate “Flair” pens. My Flair pens are about dry. I Froogle Flair pens. My first hit is Staples. There are alternative hits, but they’re buried.
I click Staples, and as always they’re secretive about shipping-and-handling. I figger maybe $4.95, which is ridiculous enough. Four pens $8.35 or so; $9.95 shipping-and-handling. For Heaven sake! They shippin’ in a chauffeured Rolls? “Yer pens, sir.”
I hit an alternative at $7.32 for the pens. $4.95 shipping-and-handling.
PASS!
Wally* wants about $8.50 for the pens, $3.95 shipping-and-handling.
Still PASS!
Amazon wants $8.50, then maybe $2.59 shipping-and-handling; free with “Prime.” No Prime for this kid! Triggered it once, then had to quickly shut it down before it automatically charged a maintenance-fee.
EBay wants about $8.50 for the pens, no shipping-and-handling.
Now we’re talkin’. Into-kart, checkout, submit.
$8.50 is also ridiculous for four pens I might be able to get in the supermarket. But that’s part of a supermarket trip, and what I want may not be available. It usually isn’t.
There used to be an OfficeMax nearby, maybe eight miles away, but they closed. I had to be going that way, plus just like the supermarket they usually didn’t have what I wanted.
So online it shall be, after which my browser suggests I order more pens. What is it with these goofballs? I order something online, and Facebook, whatever, wants me to order more.
Yesterday was my birthday. I fire up Google and it displays flickering candles. Used to be Santa knew everything; now it’s Google.
Ten smackaroos to ship $8.35 worth of merchandise? And my EBay order came in an Amazon envelope. Shipping was supposedly by UPS, but it was in my mailbox.

The Iggles won

Hang yer head in shame!
(It’s a YouTube link, Dudes.)

74 years old

“Sometimes I feel like I’m at death’s door,” I said to **** ********* yesterday in the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool.
We were sloshing around in the deep-end. **** hits the pool often, and I go there on my own try to improve my balance. I also do balance-therapy twice per week in that same pool. It’s a class.
I first met **** a few years ago. She was co-leading a grief-share I attended following the death of my wife.
“Depressed? Gloomy?” she asked. “Physical, not mental,” I said. “I don’t like getting old. Things happen I didn’t expect. Like needing more time to get up.”
Today is my 74th birthday. That makes me even more an old geezer. Prostate out, total knee replacement, plus my wife is gone. “Why am I still here?” I ask.
“Yer here to entertain us,” others say. “Make us laugh!”
“As long as I get up each morning,” I respond. I daily monitor my blood-pressure, which I’m told is exemplary. The reason I had my stroke was repaired long ago with open-heart surgery — I have the zipper. My doctor tells me I’m good-to-go.
Yet sometimes I feel like I’m at death’s door, especially after my aquacise class when my legs are jelly.
How’s it gonna be today? How many attempts do I hafta make to get erect? Balance and weight-distribution play a part. I can usually get up no-handed. But how many seconds will it take before blood gets to my head?
My carotid arteries are clear — that is, my doctor listens, and would tell me if they weren’t.
I suppose delay getting blood to my head is aging. I hafta be careful getting up. I haven’t fallen in some time, but I hafta be extremely watchful.
“What’s happening” versus “This wasn’t supposed to happen!” Keep running, eat right (no red meat), = forever young!
Then suddenly BAM! A totally unexpected stroke, due to an undiagnosed heart-defect long ago repaired. I remember my doctors wondering why a runner had a stroke.
A patent foramen ovale (“PAY-tint four-AY-min oh-VAL-eee”) in my heart had passed a clot toward my brain. This was at 1 a.m., and well before everyone was stroke savvy. Shoulda called the ambulance, but hospital was not until the next day = too late for clot-busters. We had no idea.
Paralysis of my left side at first, especially my arm. But I got all that back. Ornery as Hell! “I used to be able to tie my shoes,” and “I used to be able to sign my name;” all of which I got back, probably because being ornery I was working fast.
I been told if a stroke-victim works quickly, what remains of yer brain learns what the killed part did. That may be what happened; I’m told my recovery is miraculous.
Things were lost, like my ability to play piano and hold a tune, also eye-hand coordination that made drawing possible. Not lost were —a) my ability to “sling words” (writing), and —b) my artistical judgment, i.e. “if my name is on it, it’s gonna look good!”
I also got back to riding motorcycle. That was also supposedly miraculous, but ya don’t tell someone like me they no longer can ride motorcycle.
But I keep getting older. (I gave away my motorbike last year.)
Not too long ago I put down my beloved dog. I took her picture earlier, and not until now do I see that crazy monster looks sad and old; 13 years, 91 in human years. I couldn’t see it earlier, because she was still chasing rabbits.
I dread that coming in my case: “sad and old.” Often I hafta wait 2-3 seconds for blood to get to my head. After aquacise I hafta take a nap, and even after that I feel clumsy.

• My wife 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.

“Tag” and “share”

“Keep it short,” my good friend ****** ****** says, an editor at the Mighty Mezz when I was there.
She was expounding a basic tenet of newspaper production, namely the average person zones out after maybe six words. In fact, yer doin’ good if ya can get ‘em past a sentence.
This isn’t criticism; it’s just an observation.
Word-generators love the fact they can easily sling verbiage. More-than-likely the average reader will stop and glom a potato-chip.
So how do I say this without losing readers? It’s rather arcane.
My verbiage is aimed three ways: -1) blogging,-2) e-mail, and-3) Facebook.
The average word-slinger cranks directly into their blog, e-mail, or Facebook post box. Not this kid! I write first into a word-processor, in my case Apple’s “Pages.” I don’t use Microsoft Word® because it punishes sloppy keyboarding, a result of my stroke 25 years ago.
What I do is copy/paste from my word-processor into the appropriate post box. I don’t remember why I fell into doing this, but it probably was to offset some stroke-effect.
It also gave me the option of “Save-As.” I could save the document as a separate file on this ‘pyooter. E-mails are sometimes a document; even some Facebook posts are worth saving. I also wanna continually save my post, in case some mistype sends it flying to Never-Never Land. I’ve had that happen.
Apparently now a Facebook or e-mail post is much like a word-processor. I’m sure blogging is. Misspells get flagged, and you can even have it say “Naughty-Naughty” when you use passive voice.
But I like “Saving-As;” that is, saved as a separate document I keep saving. No doubt e-mail and Facebook are saving things too, but finding stuff ain’t easy. My folders are easier.
Now I find my way of doing things causes trouble. The fact I type separately disallows Facebook autofill of names. If I were to type directly into Facebook, instead of copy/paste from my word-processor, it would autofill names. And now I hear autofilling is the same as “tagging.”
Not that I care, but I do use Facebook occasionally, so wouldn’t mind knowing what was going on.
I e-mailed a blog-link to a lady in Valley Forge (PA) who interviewed me by phone regarding my getting another rescue Irish-Setter. The lady represents Above-and-Beyond English-Setter Rescue. She liked my blog enough to crank it on her Facebook and “tag” it. Maybe she meant “share.”
Terms like “tag” and “share” have special meaning to Facebook. Having been born in the prior century I have absolutely no clue what this stuff imeans — or so I’m told by youngsters.
My questions prompted a phonecall to my brother-in-DE’s wife, who uses Facebook a lot.
“So what’s ‘tagging?’” I asked.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada.” Translated: “‘Tagging’ is to tag someone.”
“I need to know what happens if I ‘tag someone.’”
As I understand it, the person “tagged” receives a Facebook notification they been “tagged.” They can thereafter read what they’re “tagged” in. I guess this only works between Facebook “friends;” i.e. I can only “tag” a “friend.”
Also as I understand it, tagging occurs only when a “friend’s” name has autofilled in a text or picture post. But I’m not sure of that. My Valley Forge contact said she “tagged” my blog. This implies something beyond autofill.
“So define ‘share,’” I asked my brother’s wife. “And not scantily-clad Cher. I need to know what happens if I ‘share.’” If I get a post from one of my “friends” I can “share” it, whereby people who aren’t my “friends,” but are “friends” of my “friends,” can read what I shared.
Utterly confused. What happened to Facebook’s “wall?” I suppose it still exists. What little I know is to post something to a “friend’s” wall. And if I post something to my own “wall,” my “friends” can see it.
And when I get a FB notification some “friend” commented on a “friend” post I can view that.
Or so it seems....
I gotta understand all this just to know my nephew had a baby?
That was months ago, and I never knew because I rarely fire up Facebook. No e-mail, no phonecall.
WRONG CENTURY, Dude!
Say something about rabbit-ears to a millennial and they think yer talkin’ about rabbits.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I was employed 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”  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.)

“Iggles” versus “Pasties”

“Just don’t call during the Super-Bowl,” said the lady from Above-and-Beyond English-Setter Rescue regarding my adopting a rescue Irish-Setter.
“Are you going to be watching the Super-Bowl?” the lady asked. She was from Valley Forge, PA, which is near Philadelphia.
“I doubt it,” I said. “I’m not interested in football, and after 10 minutes it becomes just another football game.”
“Go Eagles!” she said. “It’s ‘Iggles,’” I interjected. “I can hear yer accent, and the correct Philadelphia pronunciation is ‘Iggles.’”
Her accent is what I call the Philadelphia accent. I have a little myself — I’m from south Jersey and northern DE. I been in Rochester over 50 years, so not much accent is left.
Not much was left in the lady from Valley Forge, but I could hear it, mainly her pronunciation of “O’s.”
“Iggles” versus “Pasties.” The Super-Bowl, which my brother-in-Boston proudly misspelled ”Supper-Bowl” and “Bowel.” It presents an interesting mano-a-mano. One brother lives near Boston, and trumpets the Patriots, who my other brother’s wife called “The Patsies” — which my brother-from-Boston promptly misspelled as “Pasties.”
My other brother, from northern DE, who is more laid back, supports the Eagles, who I pronounce “Iggles.” Northern DE is part of the Delaware Valley, and people from that area pronounce it “Iggles.”
At least “Booger” did. ”Booger” was a resident of Marcus Hook south of Philadelphia. “The Boog” proudly attended “Iggles” football games, got drunk, and led noisy parties in the grandstand. If his beloved “Iggles” mucked up, and back then they often did, he’d hurl garbage onto the gridiron.
“The Boog” was on my summer painter-crew during college. He was a company regular, not from the union-hall.
The world does indeed have an armpit, and it’s Marcus Hook, PA. Marcus Hook was once the location of two oil-refineries. One was Sun Oil, now gone. The other was Sinclair, but after numerous owners it’s now Monroe Energy, LLC, a subsidiary of Delta Air Lines. It gives Delta a stable source of jet fuel, especially when Gulf Coast refineries are closed due to hurricanes.
Sun’s refinery is being repurposed to distribute natural-gas from PA fracking. The refinery was torn down.
The old Sinclair refinery was not actually in Marcus Hook. It’s in Trainer, PA, which is right next door. It’s been renamed “Trainer Refinery,” and is still an oil-refinery. But it’s close enough to make Marcus Hook stink. (Although it’s no longer as bad as it was; refineries had to limit release of volatile [stinky] vapors.)
So who wins? Iggles or Pasties? I hope it’s the Iggles, but only because I want the vaunted Pasties to get beat. They could hang their head in shame, while the Iggles show at the White-House. —Unless they get fired beforehand.
I don’t really care who wins; it will quickly be forgotten. What I wanna do is replace my silly dog. Only Irish-Setters seem nutty.
(Sinclair was acquired by the Atlantic Richfield Company (ARCO) in 1969.)

• During the summers of 1963, ’64, ’65, and after I graduated college in 1966, I worked as a laborer for an independent painter-crew, first at my father’s DE oil-refinery. I first met “The Boog” in 1963. and he loved to intimidate “Little Bobby” until I came after him with a broomstick.

Nedloh

Nedloh Brewing in Bloomfield.

A friend tells me majestic Nedloh Craft Beer, nearby, is toast. It opened then closed within the five years since my wife died. That is, she wasn’t around to see it built, and now it’s kaput.
Other things happened that would surprise my wife. —A) Ontario County Sheriff’s Deputies no longer patrol in Crown Vic’s, and —B) a reality TV blowhard has become prez.
I have too many friends I don’t wanna inflame, but it’s hard to take seriously gumint by 3 a.m. tweet from the Great White Throne.
I remember watching Nedloh get built a few years ago. It seemed like overkill, since so many restaurants along my main drag go belly up.
Beyond that Nedloh was out in the middle of nowhere, or so it seemed. It’s near “Toomey’s Corners,” the intersection of east/west Routes 5&20 (both on the same road), and Route 64 to the south.
A ways down 64 is Bristol Ski Center — at least six miles, maybe more. Perhaps Nedloh was hoping to make a killing with skiers.
Years ago when I was driving bus, I passed a corner along a route I had. I’d turn the corner facing a building there. Seemed like every month or so something new was in it: a restaurant, buffet, nightclub, whatever.
Who was paying for this? Probably you-and-me to a bank. Some dreamer applied for a loan, and the bank’s manager gladly forked over the funds.
The business promptly tanked —“oh well, no problem; we’re still making money.” That is, the bank’s fees and minimal interest offset the charge-off. “We can’t pay more interest and finance dreamers at the same time.”
And so it goes. Restaurant after restaurant along 5&20 goes belly up, and majestic Nedloh, which probably never shoulda been built, hits the skids.

• My wife 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.
• 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 well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that 12 years ago.

My own calendar

Five-tracks! (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—“Of all the railroad mainlines I’ve been to,” my brother says; “I’ve never seen one with five tracks.”
The February 2018 entry in my calendar is an eastbound Norfolk Southern freight at a location my brother and I call “five tracks.”
It’s from the bridge PA highway 53 uses to cross the old Pennsy main toward Allegheny Mountain. It’s not actually a five-track main. The tracks right-to-left are Four, Three, Two, One, and Main-Eight. Main-Eight, barely visible, is a storage siding. Often heavy coal trains are stored on Main-Eight before being dragged over the summit.
But it is four-track main. Usually mains are one or two tracks. Union Pacific’s heavily traveled main across NB is I think only two tracks, although it may now be three. Burlington-Northern Santa Fe into Los Angeles is now three tracks, if you include Santa Fe’s original 3% grade down from Cajon Pass. It used to be two tracks, and the second was to bypass that 3% grade. The third track was recently added next to that second track.
South to FL from Washington DC is mostly two-track, but often only one track across bridges.
Tracks Four and Three are on the original Pennsy grade aimed at the original Pennsy tunnel in Gallitzin. Track Four is westbound only; Track Three can be either direction.
Tracks Two and One (and Main-Eight) are on New Portage Railroad’s alignment, and aim at New Portage Tunnel. New Portage Railroad was built long ago to bypass the original Portage Railroad with its inclined-planes.
That Portage Railroad was part of PA’s response to the hugely successful Erie Canal. Allegheny Mountain couldn’t be canaled, so PA built a combined canal/portage railroad that eventually went bust. Transloading canal packets for portage was cumbersome and slow. By then railroad technology was surpassing canals.
When PA abandoned its canal/portage railroad, Pennsy got it for peanuts. It gave them a second summit tunnel atop Allegheny Mountain. That tunnel was slightly higher than their original summit tunnel, but they could ramp to it. That ramp is known as “The Slide,” and was originally 2.36%.
The Slide was reduced to 2.28% when both tunnels were enlarged in 1995 to clear doublestacks. Pennsy’s original tunnel was also switched back to two tracks. It was two tracks at first, then reduced to one track as railroad equipment got bigger.
(Pennsy opened a third tunnel in Gallitzin in 1904, next to its original tunnel. But it was abandoned in 1995 when the original tunnel was enlarged.)
So this NS freight is eastbound on Three, and will start down the east slope toward Altoona through the original Pennsy tunnel.
I have no idea what train this is, although it looks like trailer-vans in well-cars, plus trailer-on-flatcar. Maybe also double stacked trailer-containers toward the rear, also in well-cars.
This picture is before my brother became savvy about train-numbers of every train. We probably heard this train clear “MO” on our railroad-radio scanners, after which we jumped out of my brother’s car and ran to our photo locations on the bridge.
“MO” are the telegraph call-letters of a railroad-tower once there. “MO” once was, and still is, the location of interlocked switches and crossovers. It’s also where the main goes from three to four tracks, plus the origination of branches once Pennsy but now Corman.
Helper SD40Es and the SD80MACs are maintained in a facility in nearby Cresson.