Louie-Louie

“The greatest rock-‘n’-roll song of all time is.....”
Suddenly the entire Messenger newsroom fell silent, 70-80 people — you could hear a pin drop.
“‘Louie-Louie’ as covered by the Kingsmen,” I said.
The newsroom erupted. Sheer cacophony.
“No-no-no,” people screamed. Hits from the ‘80s and ‘90s were loudly trumpeted.
The guy who day-cared my dog, ex of the Mighty Mezz, who I once worked with, says it’s “Johnny-B-Goode” by Chuck Berry. It is indeed one of the best. It has one of my three favorite rock-‘n’-roll lines: “Strummin’ with the rhythm that the drivers made.”
Ya gotta be a railfan to understand that. A two-cylindered steam locomotive — most are two cylinders — makes four chuffs per driving-wheel rotation: “chuff-chuff-chuff-chuff!” That’s four beats to the bar.
The other two fabulous lines are: -a) “just like a Willys in four-wheel drive,” from “Sugar-Magnolia” by the Grateful Dead, and -b) “roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair,” from “Thunder Road” by Bruce Springsteen.
“Louie-Louie” has no good lines. You can hardly understand it. What it has is that fabulous background riff that gets me swaying, that prompted sin-and-degradation among listeners. “Dah-Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp.....” Bodies writhing in torrid sex-moves. (Gasp!)
“Dah-Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp.” Hear that and I start groovin’.
Over-and-over I listened to it the other night, at least six YouTube clips — that headline and the first “Louie-Louie” are different YouTube links; click away readers.
I also listened to an interview with Jack Ely, lead-singer of the Kingsmen at that time.
“Greatest rock-‘n’-roll song of all time.” I’ve e-mailed that all over the planet. I’m not a dancer, but “Louie-Louie” always loosens me up.
It became a hit during my sophomore year in my Bach-worshipping college. I’d play Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring on our dining-hall upright, then segue into “Ba-Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp.”
Ely said the recording engineer went out of his way to boost the back-beat, and thereby made the wording just about inaudible. Ely’s mic was on an overhead boom. He had to just about shout, and that was up into it. He was also singing through braces back then.
Lyrics were so slurred they became bait for the morality police. Wording was legit, but it was so garbled zealots could make it dirty. Even the F.B.I. weighed in; J. Edgar Hoover in highest dudgeon.
Salacious lyrics were posited, and “Louie-Louie” was banned here-and-there. I’ve gone over the wording the F.B.I. came up with. It’s pure fabrication, plus they missed what we always heard: “I’ll never leave her again” as “I’ll never lay her again.”
Even without the supposed dirtiness I think “Louie-Louie” could stand on its own. It’s that driving back-beat. Pity the poor keyboard player, like the snare-drummer in Ravel’s Boléro, doomed to no variation at all.
Check out that second YouTube Link, readers. There he is, over-and-over, slogging away at his keyboard.
“Ba-Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp.
Ba-Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp.
A-Louie-LewEye; oh no; me gotta go.”
What the marching sousaphones played in “Mr. Holland’s Opus.”
The greatest rock-‘n’-roll song of all time.
Sadly Jack Ely died in 2015 almost age-72. I read somewhere he got into Christian-rock, although to me that’s an oxymoron. My neighbor Sunday-School superintendent told me Elvis was “the bane of western civilization.” (Her exact words.)

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

******

“Every once in a while ya meet one,” I Face-booked *-***, a friend who worked as an editor at the Mighty Mezz while I was there.
I was referring to “******,” a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool. Last Saturday I went there on-my-own to get frazzled, and thereby hopefully improve my balance.
“Do I dare say this? I see yer name is ‘******,’ which means you were named after transmissions used in our buses,” I said.
“You got it backwards,” she said. “Those transmissions were named after me.”
“I like it,” I thought to myself. “Next time I attend the Geneseo WWII warbirds airshow, and see a P-38 Lightning or P-40 WarHawk,” I said; “I’ll say the V12 motor in them things was named after a lady not born yet who would eventually become a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA.”
I then got in the swimming-pool, but noticed a bulletin board had ******’s name on it, and it had only one “*.”
On getting out I returned to ******, and commented her name had only one “*,” yet our bus-trannies had two.
“Yer right!” she commented. “They spelled it WRONG.”
“WHOA!” I thought. 74 years on this planet, not very sociable, yet I’ve met hundreds.
I have many good friends, yet only a couple have been like ******. Fortunately I was married to one for 44+ years. And gender doesn’t matter; the slam-dunks were both male and female.
My wife is gone, she died of cancer six years ago.
“Cousin ****” was first = a fabulous discussion. Relatives would be angrily banging pots in an adjacent kitchen, and Cousin **** and I would be out in the living-room quietly discussing Kierkegaard.
Next was “da Wooze,” a Class-of-‘68 student at my college. She worked with me in the college kitchen. (I’m Class-of-‘66.)
All we ever did was jabber-jabber-jabber, metaphysics, philosophy, meaning-of-life, etc, etc. But she had plans to marry another, so I gave up.
Next was the girl who eventually became my wife, also Class of ‘66. Not talkative at first, but she comprehended what I was saying, and liked the way I thought. I may have brought her out. She had female friends she could talk with, but no one male.
We became fast friends. My wife said we thought alike — that we often thought identically; like we had a shared brain.
And now that “shared-brain” is gone. I miss her immensely. Few understand me.
Except there stands ******. Never in a million years did I expect her to run with that tranny-reference. I was planning to explain.
“Every once in a while ya meet one.”
Where does this leave *****, another lifeguard at that swimming pool? I should note again gender doesn’t matter, At least one male so far, maybe two. #1 tried to convert me into a “Dead-Head.” “Better living through chemistry!” I refused.
*****’s possible, but I don’t like the way she snaps her gum. Not a game-changer. Honky values, I guess. She seems to like jawing with me.
But she better not dye her hair green. I say that, but another of my best friends dyes her hair red; flaunting my tastes. —She laughs at my jokes. I crack her up!
****** and I said goodbye, since Saturdays at that pool would become impossible when I got a dog. “I may never see you again in my entire life,” I said.
“Oh don’t say that,” she wailed. I may hafta rearrange my weekends so I can jaw with ******.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 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 east.
• 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. —Our buses were powered by Detroit-Diesel engines with ******* auto-trannies.

Try it and see what happens

“Text Cleaning-Lady,” I said to Siri, the voice-recognition personal assistant on my iPhone.
A text-window quickly appeared.
“What do you want to say?” Siri asked.
“Lollypop took all my needles,” I said.
“Lollypop” is Lollypop Farm, the Rochester area’s humane society. I had a huge box of syringes to inject insulin into my diabetic dog. That dog is now gone, leaving me with 89 bazilyun sealed and unused syringes.
Siri cranked gibberish into her text window — it even included an F-bomb.
“Is this what you want?” she asked.
“Nope!” Gotta be slow and deliberate with Siri.
I tried again: “Lollypop took all my needles.”
This time she got it, but wouldn’t send without me first logging in by thumbprint.
I did that thumbprint thingy a while ago, but no longer use it. It wasn’t reliable; perhaps it is now — I think my iPhone’s operating-system has been upgraded three or four times since.
Back to Ground Zero: login first, then “Text Cleaning-Lady.” “Cleaning-Lady” is what’s in my contacts, although I think I also have her in there by name.
Don’t push Siri too hard. She’d probably get it, but “Cleaning-Lady” I’m more sure she’d get.
Again she got it. Speak slowly and deliberately and she usually does. She even got my text!
BAM! Off it went. My cleaning-lady responded almost immediately. She probably didn’t know I used voice-recognition with Siri.
It was my first Siri text-try. Previously I did texts voice-recognition with followup editing on my iPhone’s virtual keyboard. All I ever did previously with Siri was call people. Siri’s reliable. Microsoft’s “Sync” in my car isn’t. Some calls it successfully makes, e.g. “call Jack,” my brother. Anything else is a wrong number, especially if it’s more than one syllable.
I’m doing what got me as tech-savvy as I am: namely “try it and see what happens;” never any manuals = real men don’t use manuals!
Cleaning-lady’s immediate response started me crying. That’s poor emotional control, a stroke-effect. It’s called “lability;” Google it.
56 long years ago in 1962 when I graduated high-school, stuff like this was utterly unimaginable. Science-fiction, Dick Tracy, I’m interacting with machine intelligence. And I’m still here to experience it.
Sadly my wife isn’t. Too late for her; I’m sure she’d be as interested as me. She died six years ago — another cancer victim.
Can artificial intelligence “try it and see what happens?” Maybe so, but I’m leery. They’re gonna hafta uncurl my cold, dead fingers from the steering-wheel before I allow some self-driving car I’m in do 80 mph bumper-to-bumper. Nor do I want my self-driving car to kill a pedestrian.
Garbage-in, garbage out!
But it’s coming: silicon-based life to replace carbon-based life. I give us perhaps 30-50 years. We’re making our air unbreathable, and will soon flood our lowlands. South FL is doomed, or else will be surrounded by seawalls; at least Mar-a-Lago.
Perhaps the only carbon-based life remaining will be insects.
Silicon-based life will worship Bill Gates and Steve Jobs as its creators, its dual God-head. Along with Elvis to make a Trinity.
Will the universe notice? I doubt it. We still keep rolling along, killing perceived enemies. Our planet keep spinning, the Moon keeps circling, and the Sun keeps shinning, as it has billions and billions of years.
So carbon-based life gets replaced by silicon-based life. There’s lots of sand to mine in south Jersey.

• 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.

“It’s a miracle, Bobby!”

“Holy mackerel!” I exclaimed.
For once my text was readable. It was black, not puke-gray.
For months my printer wasn’t printing “photo-black.” That nozzle was apparently clogged. I forsaw printer repair. 89 bazilyun dollars, and probably gouts of time.
My printer is a gigantic Epson Stylus “Photo R3000.” I prefer a large printer in case I gotta print big documents — maps for example.
Months ago I asked a guru at nearby PC & Wireless if they repaired printers, or if they knew anyone who did.
“Trash it!”  they said. “If it’s only a peanuts printer, get another.”
I guessed my “Photo R3000” was fairly substantial — it takes an entire shelf. 10 inches high by well over a foot deep by over two feet wide. Cost almost 2,000 smackaroos. My TV is what’s peanuts — my computer technology is astounding.
I never watch TV. I’d rather drive this computer. TV’s a waste. I only watch the local and national TV-news; Heaven-forbid I miss The Donald’s latest 3 a.m. tweet, or his latest firing.
My scanner, also Epson, is another entire shelf. Almost a yard wide; the largest scanner I could buy. No more merging multiple scans with Photoshop. I have a calendar slightly bigger than that scanner-platen.
I fly these blogs almost immediately, but only so I can proof. Flown I print the blog, but no notification until I proof.
Previous printouts were thin — puke-gray. Often I include a photo or two. Lacking photo-black they looked putrid.
It’s been that way for months. On a ‘pyooter-screen they look fine, but printouts looked awful. Only one person refuses my e-mail links; they freeze his e-mail. We never know why — probably some mysterious setting. He’s a train-guy in faraway Altoona, PA; he’s the only reader for whom I print. Only train-guys get train blogs; most others get everything. I figured that train-guy could accept a goofy photo print.
My R3000 has three black nozzles. Only the full black wasn’t working; the others are “light-black” and “ultra light-black.” I printed a blog last night to proof. WHOA! It’s black; it looked normal.
For whatever reason the photo-black nozzle unclogged itself. I ran a nozzle-test. All eight nozzles were printing.
No printer repair = wonders never cease!

• “It’s a miracle, Bobby!” is something my God-fearing mother used to say about anything lacking simple and immediate explanation.

Banana-man

“Here I am again to discombobulate yer elegant banana display.”
“Sixth time today,” said banana-man at the Canandaigua Weggers. A sixth-time restock.
Proving yet again what I say usually never registers.
Unlike most I am one of those Ne’er-Do-Wells that unhinges banana-hands. Most purchase a complete hand, and end up tossing the rear bananas. I, on the other hand, purchase only the front bananas, breaking them off, thereby consigning the rear bananas to the homeless.
“That’s against the rules,” banana-man once told me.
“Really?” I said. He shook his head “no.”
All-of-sudden “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPP!”
“What’s that?” I asked: “the end of the world?”
“Sounds like someone went out a fire-door,” banana-man said.
The Voice-of-Doom took over the store PA. “Attention all Wegmans employees and customers. We must evacuate the store!”
Suddenly 300 or more people barreled toward the front entrance. Loaded carts were abandoned hither-and-yon. We all headed outside into the store parking-lot; the sun was shining.
Memories of long-ago fire drills at Erlton Elementary School. The fire-alarm in the school hallway was a four-inch square clanger of pressed quarter-inch steel about six inches deep. Beside it was a flashing red beacon.
It was loud enough to wake the dead, and struck terror into me. It was so loud it prompted the same response as the fire-horn atop Haddonfield’s fire-station.
“Robert-John,” asked my 87-year-old aunt. “Do you remember how that Haddonfield fire-horn freaked you out?” (My aunt was pushing 14 when I was born.)
“Auditory hallucinatin’,” I say; “plus fear of my mother. Biting her tongue, she’d start smacking me. I was making her parenting look bad.” It was like my frenzy indicated I was possessed.
Thankfully my mother became less demanding as I got older. She realized my father was losing me.
My school’s fire-alarm elicited the same frenzy. I’d quickly exit to escape the clanger; the fact it got me crying was embarrassing. We’d all line up outside 75-100 yards from the building, and our teacher took count: “All present or accounted for, sir!”
Our school was a three-story yellow-brick edifice built in 1926. It still had “boys” and “girls” carved on opposite door lintels. That building has since been torn down.
By then, early ‘50s, separation by sex no longer applied. I even had ***** *******, the class cutie, in my class. By eighth grade ***** became ordinary.
And the early ‘50s were “Duck-and-Cover.” Intermittent clangoring or horn-blowing meant possible nuclear annihilation. We’d crawl under our desks, clasp our hands behind our heads, and await vaporization.
I’d seen the TV footage. Innocents reduced to nothing by atomic-bomb flash. “Atomic-bomb” became “hydrogen bomb;” ‘lebenty times seven. “It was them Russkies, I tell ya!” Eager to vaporize the tail-finned American Dream.
“At least it’s not snowing,” a lady commented in Weggers’ parking-lot. “What’s the holdup?” asked another in shorts and paper-thin jacket. It was about 35°. “I need a sub. They’re losing business,” he wailed.
(That Weggers also makes subs.)
Far away, maybe a mile or two, I heard sirens indicating the Canandaigua Fire-Department was dispatched. It took at least five minutes for that fire-department to arrive; parking their gigantic trucks, red lights flashing, outside the store-entrance.
A razor-edged white Caddy idled slowly in, then parked in a “handicap” slot. “That looks like ****,” I thought. And it was.
“This is all yer fault,” I said. ****, in his early 90s, laughed. “Alarm works!” he said.
Ninety-some years old; no glasses, no hearing-aid, nor any other props that signify aging. No cane, no walker, and still drives; but hardly visible in his Caddy = a little-old-man, but only in appearance.
We clambered inside his Caddy to keep warm, 87,000 buckaroos, awaiting reopening the store. Time passed: “What can I eat for supper to replace what I planned for from here?”
Finally they let people back in, and I cashed out what few groceries I had. That included deli coleslaw, part of that evening’s meal. Plus the next day’s bananas, compliments of banana-man.
No Canandaigua Weggers going mightily up in flames.

• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua. (“Canandaigua” is a small city to the east 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 east. I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.)
• “Erlton” is the small suburb of Philadelphia in south Jersey where I lived until I was 13. Erlton was founded in the ‘30s, named after its developer, whose name was Earl. Erlton was north of Haddonfield, an old Revolutionary-war town.
• **** and I are the only males in our YMCA aquacise class.

Killian #2

Killian #2. (iPhone photo by Tim McKee.)

Years ago my wife and I had a Killian. Irish-Setter #5, rescue #3, dog #6 (our first dog was not Irish).

“Come down outta that tree and fight!” (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Since Killian #1 we got one more rescue Irish: beloved Scarlett, gone at age-13, my/our longest-lived Irish. Six years ago, during that dog’s life, my wife died of cancer. Leaving me alone with Scarlett.
Tim McKee of Kittanning, PA had a 9-year old Irish named Killian he’s had since a puppy. Divorced, he found himself alone with Killian.
Not the first time.
Our dog #3, Sabrina, was also a divorce victim, I think. Except Sabrina was returned to her breeder. We got her from that breeder. Nevertheless, Sabrina was rescue.
That poor guy is still working. Unlike me he’s not retired. Killian had to be inside his house all day. This was perceived as unfair to a sporting-dog.
So that guy contacted Irish-Setter Rescue of north Jersey. I’m on their Yahoo e-mail list, so was immediately notified. “Interested?” BAM! “I have someone interested in Killian.
rhughes3@rochester.rr.com, he lost his last Irish in Nov.
He has always adopted from us and lives in Bloomfield, NY south of Rochester.”
It’s beginning to sound like I‘m gonna get Killian #2 — maybe Easter weekend. McKee called. 9-years-old is fairly old; 3-4 more years, maybe more.
The guy hates letting go of his dog; I can understand that. I hated giving up on Scarlett; she was still very spunky, and probably coulda snagged a few more critters — even at age-13. At least 20 rabbits died in her jaws, innumerable mice and moles, and once four baby chipmunks at the same time. But she was getting seizures, and looked bedraggled.
With me it becomes lotsa walks for Killian #2, plus my dog-park property. I hope the dog can accommodate swapping masters.
“Best $16,000 we ever spent: 3.5+ acres fully fenced, five-foot chainlink; keeps a dog outta the highway.” I live on a two-lane state highway: loud Harleys blast past at 80 mph. Crotch-rockets hit 100! —And of course the speed-limit is 40.
My wife and I loved Scarlett. That fence was slam-dunk. We could afford it, since no Corvette, no speedboat, no motorhome. Also no kids to put through college.
Scarlett escaped once = scary. With my wife gone, Scarlett became The Queen = no longer any competition. I was still boss-dog: leader-of-the-pack.
I spoiled Scarlett rotten. Often two long walks per day, plus she pre-washed all plates and pans before I put ‘em in the dishwasher.
Spunky as she was, she was getting old. She became hard-of-hearing; I had to shout. Eye-contact became our signal.
“Aye MeatHead, a kitty-cat is in yer back yard.” 13 years old, 91 in human years: ZOOM!
If a rabbit was inside her pen, it was dead meat.
She began getting seizures, and was diagnosed with diabetes. Finally I gave up; my boarder, who also loved Scarlett, calls it “caring about your dog.”
I was devastated! Best dog I ever had.
“So get another dog,” friends advised. I’ve given this advice myself. My wife was dog-catcher before. Every prior dog was her doing. I had no idea where to start.
Somehow I contacted Ohio Irish-Setter Rescue, probably from a Google-search. They were Scarlett’s original source. Rescue Irish-Setters were very rare, so I switched to English-Setter Rescue. I’ve always been in contact with that rescue Irish-Setter organization in north Jersey. That lady keeps a Yahoo e-mail group, and I’m on it. She e-mails a couple times per week.
“There’s another, and I can’t do anything.” (I had Scarlett back then.) That north-Jersey Irish-Setter rescue may have had something to do with Scarlett; I wasn’t involved.
Around-and-around I went. Various English-Setter Rescues lined me up for an English. They also did an assessment of my home, and their English didn’t wanna leave.
Suddenly that north-Jersey Irish-Setter lady Yahooed me about Killian #2. So now it sounds like I might end up with that dog.
I’m a little scared. I’ve never done this before. But I sure miss having a silly dog around. And I prefer Irish-Setters. Irish are nutty, and that’s what I want.
Walk the silly dog; hunt-huntity-hunt! Sniff-snort; “I’ll get it, Boss. Take it home and cook it over an open fire.”
As one of my tee-shirts says: “Irish-Setter; anything else is just a dog.” Don’t know as that’s true, but Killian #2 would be Irish-Setter number-seven. Scarlett wasn’t a hunter at first, but quickly found it thrilling.

• 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.
• RE: “MeatHead.....” —Every dog we (I) ever owned I’ve nicknamed “MeatHead.” With me Scarlett knew of herself as “MeatHead.” (Killian #1, who was rather small, I called “Little MeatHead.”) —“MeatHead” because like a pot-head likes marijuana, dogs like meat.

Utter madness

“Welcome to my life — utter madness,” texted my niece from Fort Lauderdale.
I planned to fly there to visit my niece. An annual surgical-strike, four days, down tomorrow, March 22nd, then back home Monday, March 26th.
Last year was my first try, after flying to my deceased wife’s mother’s 100th birthday in Deland, FL two years ago. Everything had to be rigorously planned to avoid unpredictables. My confidence is marginal. —A) No more cheering-section (my wife), and —B) my stroke 25 years ago.
Loss of my wife was more influential. My younger sister’s oldest son married shortly after my wife died. I lacked gumption to attend; doing so woulda meant numerous phonecalls, plus plane-changes along the way. Plus a tiny cigar-wrapper TurboProp to Lynchburg, VA. Driving there was beyond-the-pale.
Primary was the fact my wife died = I was a wreck. Phonecalls are challenging: I have slight aphasia, a stroke-effect. Mainly stuttering and difficulty getting words out. My wife made phonecalls.
A nephew, my northern DE brother’s only child, also got married, but immediately after my wife died. I could attend that, and did. It was just a day-long drive.
Last year’s trip to Fort Lauderdale became an immediate hairball: a tire went flat the day before my flight. I had to drive to the airport on the mini-spare, the donut. 50 mph max.
And once down there my trip became Smartphone-city. I used GPS to get from the airport to my niece, amidst a torrent of texts and phonecalls.
“Giving other drivers a break may be okay where you come from, but not in south FL. Don’t let anyone cut in front of you — PUT THE HAMMER DOWN!”
And “Why Commercial Boulevard instead of Cyprus Creek? Yer GPS is WRONG. We never go that way.”
Then “Turn right on 12th!”
“Too late! I’m in the middle lane and already half-way through the intersection.”
“Cut-cut-cut! Engage Connor-Jeans (‘genes’). Everyone does that here in south FL. Be assertive!”
I portray this to be worse than it actually was. It became a wild rocket-ride in a creme-white rental Cherokee, GPS lady quietly nattering on my iPhone: “turn-right; straight on Commercial,” etc, etc. Try to -a) not get lost, and -b) avoid crashing mightily in flames.
My mother’s maiden-name was “Connor.” She could be very Irish. My niece’s mother, also my sister, was very much a “Connor” = take action! I’m more like my paternal grandfather, also a “Robert.” Anyone named “Robert” in my father’s family was automatically despicable. This included my “Uncle Rob,” my grandfather, and of course me. But I was despicable to my parents, not my grandparents. My “Uncle Rob” was in deepest doo-doo with my grandmother, perhaps because he sold Fords instead of Chevrolets. (I’m not making this up!)
I got there; I successfully located my niece in deepest, darkest south FL. Tiny bungalows cramped will-nilly with bathtub swimming-pools, all awaiting the next hurricane or rising sea-levels.
The trip became multiple misplaced driving-glasses, all recovered. Plus a weekend trip to a Googled Urgent-Care to treat a swollen fingernail. 145 smackaroos.
Now to try again. Allegiant no longer flew to Fort Lauderdale, only Orlando-Sanford. Check out flights to Fort Lauderdale, Delta/American/United all involved cigar-wrapper TurboProps out of Rochester, plus Jet-Blue wanted a fortune. Then wait hours in JFK/Philly/Atlanta for a connecting flight.
Southwest had actual airliners out of Rochester. They could get me to Fort Lauderdale with a connection at Baltimore-Washington, except departure was at the crack-of-dawn. Southwest is also cattle-car seats.
I haven’t done a change-planes since my wife died. But it seemed do-able. The wait was only an hour or two.
Then the madness began. I happened to reconcile my credit-card statement, and wondered what two transactions were. I thought they might be legit, but my bank declared them fraudulent, and froze my account.
Great; I planned to use that credit-card in Fort Lauderdale. Despite my difficulty making phonecalls, I called my hotel in Fort Lauderdale wondering what I should do.
“Can’t they overnight you a replacement card?”
“I already tried that. I gotta be here to sign for it, and I got other appointments. I know I have a HUGE IRS tax-refund in my checking, so how about a blank check?”
“No personal checks.”
“Yer getting my Irish up,” I commented.
“Sorry Mr. Hughes.” Click!
Before this trip I was feeling scared. Now I was mad. Connors never get angry; instead they get mad. I’m not much a Connor, but something is in there.
I called my credit-card bank: they promised a new card overnight.
The insanity got worse. My motorized garage-door began acting wonky. No water was in a toilet-tank; it wouldn’t flush. And now this morning it sounds like a nor’easter is cancelling my connecting flight to Baltimore-Washington.
I’m told it’s my politics and religion, topics I avoid. If I would just become REPUBLICAN, and start going to church, all would be sweetness-and-light.
It’s gonna take a full frontal lobotomy for me to do that, at which point a friend regals me with “a bottle in front of me is better than a frontal lobotomy.”
I have too many tub-thumping CONSERVATIVE REPUBLICAN friends, and I don’t wanna lose ‘em. I also have many zealots trying to convert me. I don’t wanna lose them either.
The nor’easter is making things impossible. It’s not like I hafta be in Fort Lauderdale. So an entire morning got blown shutting things down. Car reservation, flight reservation, mail-hold, hotel reservation: all phonecalls, often into ridiculous time-consuming surveys. Never again do I call Southwest’s 800-number.
Plus texts and online chats. And madness on this laptop.
I glanced out my garage people-door, and there was my replacement credit-card. Those clowns had to UPS-express that replacement for a trip I had to cancel.
And of course “activate credit-card” online took me to Never-Never Land. I had to phone the bank.

• 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.

“OOOOOHMMMMMMM.......”

******-**** ******, my aquatic-therapy coach at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool, in a semi-fetal crouch, was ending our class with yoga. I stood speechless, almost laughing. “Sorry ******-****,” I thought. “I can’t do this. It’s my honky values.”
Another lady laughed when I said “real men don’t eat quiche.” She mentioned “quiche” as a way to remember her name. I was gonna tell her my sushi story, but she was busy.
My values are sorta Terry Bradshaw. Bradshaw goes into a restaurant with Doug Flutie. Flutie orders sushi. Their waitress brings out Flutie’s sushi. “Waitress, ya forgot to cook this,” Bradshaw says.
A while ago my supermarket was passing out free sushi samples. An employee tried to get me to try one. “Where I come from that stuff is called ‘bait,’” I said. That’s stolen from Bradshaw. The poor store-employee was utterly flummoxed.
******-**** and I have come a long way. I used to feel my balance was dreadful; now it’s questionable. I still can’t balance on one foot, and both feet are challenging. But it’s no longer as bad as it was. That’s partly ******-****, and is despite my torrent of useless texts, many of which I later regret; e.g. “Get off yer high-horse, Hughes.”
I text her because I can. It’s my means of avoiding verbal contact, which for me as a stroke-survivor can be messy. It’s called “aphasia;” a stroke-effect. In my case it’s only slight; it can be so bad the stroke-victim can’t talk.
“You talk just fine,” most say. But my brothers hear it. “You talk just fine” is people that never heard me before my stroke. I know I have it. Some stroke-victims don’t know they have it, and get angry if I point it out. I’ve learned to not say anything.
Sure, just talk to ******-****, except I know text will be easier; since I know writing works extremely well, although I write too much.
Same thing with phonecalls; I hafta warn my contacts in advance -a) I may have difficulty getting words out, and/or -b) I may hafta have them repeat. If I don’t warn in advance I get anger.
I also had a difficult childhood. My parents, in cahoots with my neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent, convinced me at an early age I was utterly disgusting. I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right-hand of Jesus, which made me rebellious and Of-the-Devil.
******-**** became aware of that because I got so easily frustrated with my condition, like I was doomed to fail. I.e. I had a negative self-perception. She encouraged me to be more positive.
“Oh get over it, Hughes,” a friend says. “Your parents and neighbor are long-gone.”
Easier-said-than-done! You don’t just flip-flop 70+ years of negatory self-perception successfully delivered by adult authority-figures.
Only recently have I discovered I can talk to pretty girls. (Cue Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor here: “No pretty girl will ever wanna talk to you.”)
No doubt that Sunday-School Superintendent is spinning in her grave, 14,000 RPM. Harness her and my parents, and south FL could go green.
So give ******-**** a break. My tub-thumping Republican Conservative sister, deceased six years ago, labeled me a “bleeding-heart liberial”. —And that’s not a typo. Bellicose Conservatives loudly tell me that’s how “liberal” is spelled.
My guess is I’ve been ******-****’s most challenging student. She’ll tell me otherwise. I ain’t her ex-Marine husband, who unlike me is probably normal. Plus I have a penchant for blurting things I later regret.
People tell me I’m rebellious when I convey my tortured childhood. Couldna been that bad.
But I can’t handle “OOOOOHMMMMMMM.......” It just makes me laugh. “Where I come from,” etc, etc. And “Real men don’t do yoga.”
Years ago a fellow Messenger employee dragged out his gigantic 10-pound Quark© software manual when I had a Quark question. He advised I read it.
“Put that manual away, dude. Real men don’t use manuals! Just show me!”

• “QuarkXPress©” was the computer pagination software used by the Messenger newspaper at that time. (Before retirement I worked for the Messenger.)

“I hear a fire-siren”

“I distinctly hear a warbling fire-siren,” I said to myself. I was quietly making my bed last night to the dulcet pipe-organ tones of “With Heart and Voice,” one of my favorite WXXI radio programs.
WXXI, 91.5 FM, is the classical-music radio-station I listen to. It’s publicly supported.
“Pipe-organs don’t warble like that,” I thought. “Is my tiny town testing its fire-siren, but on Sunday night instead of Monday night when I take out my trash?”
I hardly ever hear that fire-siren, since 9-1-1 uses pagers to summon our volunteer firemen. That siren is also our noon whistle, but I’m usually not around to hear it. Other towns do the same, and that’s the only time I hear their sirens.
I waddled into the room where this computer resides. Viola! Railstream is streaming Cresson’s fire-siren.
Cresson is on the west slope of Allegheny Mountain, where the Pennsylvania Railroad crossed that mountain years ago down near Altoona, PA. Station-Inn, a bed-and-breakfast for railfans like me, is trackside in Cresson. Railstream, in cahoots with Station-Inn, installed a streaming webcam looking out on the old Pennsy main, so railfans can watch trains via the Internet.
The railroad is now Norfolk Southern, and Station-Inn was once a trackside hotel. Cresson, near the mountain-top, was once a health resort that promoted mountain air. “Cresson-Springs” is long-gone.
I have that webcam on often, usually when WXXI airs something I can’t stand, like opera. 350-pound stringy-haired blonds screaming “Ride-of-the-Valkyries” at the top of their lungs. Shootings, stabbings, star-crossed lovers in fervent embrace jumping hand-in-hand off castle parapets into roiling ocean.
“26T on One, MO, CLEAR!” That’s train-26T’s engineer calling out the MO signal near Station-Inn. I hear it on my Internet railroad-radio scanner-feed. I already hear 26T approaching the webcam. It’s not visible yet, but will be shortly.
26T’s engineer has his locomotives in Run-Eight, pedal-to-the-metal. 26T is climbing the west slope of Allegheny Mountain.
With Railstream’s Station-Inn webcam I hear everything. Blatting Harleys roaring noisily by, lawnmowers/snow-blowers, and bells of a nearby church. I use ‘em to tell time.
And also Cresson’s fire-siren. Cresson isn’t that large, but takes its fire-department much more seriously than up here. Or so it seems. It’s like that fire-department is what little excitement Cresson has. The railroad is very busy — it’s a main east-west shipping artery with the east-coast megalopolis. Plus the railroad has a maintenance facility in Cresson.
But little else is happening. If not for that railroad, Cresson would be a sleepy little bedroom-burg in PA’s outback. Much like the tiny town I live in = almost forgettable. There are no industries in West Bloomfield, and none but that railroad through Cresson.
So it’s no surprise that fire-department is so vocal. Fire-siren = “We’re still here.” Within minutes I hear screaming firetrucks scurrying about, on-board sirens at full-wail. Sometimes they pass the webcam, lights flashing. That bed-and-breakfast is on a heavily-traveled street. It’s where I hear the Harleys.

• “MO” are the long-ago telegraph call-letters of a railroad tower once at that location. MO is now just crossovers and a signal location, plus where a Corman branch starts — once a Pennsy branch. The railroad is dispatched electronically and by radio from Pittsburgh.

Yet another obit

******* ******, the lady instrumental to our first rescue Irish Setter, died suddenly according to an obituary I recently received.
She was born in 1955, 62 years old.
“Good grief,” I thought to myself. “That’s ****’s age, also *****-the-lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming pool. She’s 62.” ****’s pushing 64.
My wife made 68. She was taken by cancer almost six years ago. We were the same age, so now I’m 74.
She was the one supposed to make 100. Dunno if I will, but I might. Her mother made it. Her aunt made 98. Their mother, her maternal grandmother, made 96 or so. Anyone female on her mother’s side made well over 90.
My paternal grandfather made 92 or so. Had my wife not developed cancer she woulda made 100.
“Age is just a number,” **** says. ***** I don’t worry about. Ya’d never know she’s 62. She swims laps. She’s in stellar shape.
So was I years ago. I used to run, and was also in stellar shape. Then I had a totally unexpected stroke due to an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. Open heart surgery; chisels, buzzsaws, the whole shebang. That was 25 years ago.
My doctors wondered why a runner had a stroke.
I was able to return to running, but stopped when my wife died. She was the one who took our dog. Now I’ve had a knee replaced. I hafta tell airport security lest I trigger Armageddon.
**** I worry about. She’s a great friend, but she’s not *****-the-lifeguard. “50% blockage of my carotid arteries,” she tells me.
“What am I doing here?” I always ask.
“Not yer time yet,” said a lady at the YMCA front desk. “Anyway, yer here to entertain us.”
**** and I swap stories about our childhoods. I wasn’t the mistake she was accused of being, but I was convinced early I was scum. My parents were always mad at me; I had to leave that all behind.
“So why, pray tell, did I hafta lose the BEST friend I ever had to realize I’d been hornswoggled?” **** lost her husband.
So there we were, both bereft of mates that made our lives easier. We could avoid outside contact because we got that at home. **** lived far out in a very rural setting. I still do, but not as far-out as her. She no longer does.
“At our age it’s a blessing just to get up every morning,” **** observed.
Nevertheless, when someone only 62 kicks the bucket I worry.

• Over the last 40 years I’ve had seven dogs, six of whom were Irish-setter, and four of those were rescue. I am currently dogless, hopefully not for long. A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. My most recent rescue was from a failed backyard breeder. By getting a rescue-dog we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —My most recent rescue wasn't bad. The one before her had been severely abused.
• I do aquatic therapy in the Canandaigua YMCA swimming pool to counteract questionable balance. I have two classes per week, and try to do extra on-my-own at least one day per weekend, sometimes both days. **** is usually there whenever I am, since she hits the pool often. She co-led the grief-share I attended after my wife died.
• My beloved 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.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

I hope you weren’t standing on the tracks

My 2017 Christmas card. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“I hope you weren’t standing on the tracks,” cried one of my aquacise coaches at the Canandaigua YMCA.
I had given them all one of my Christmas cards. I used a train-picture I took down near Altoona, PA.
“No-way, José,” I said. “Look at that picture and the train is on the outside track. My rule is no closer than 10 feet to the nearest rail. That train will pass about 20+ feet from me.
I’m inside a tiny open bus-shelter Amtrak station in Tyrone, PA. Eastbounds are generally on the faraway track. And at 90 mph, 10 feet is too close. That train is doin’ about 40.”
I do aquatic therapy in my YMCA’s swimming-pool to improve my balance. It’s gone from “dreadful” to “questionable.”
You all know my brother and I take train-photos near Altoona, PA. It’s where the Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain. That railroad is still there, but now it’s Norfolk Southern. The train pictured is Norfolk Southern. It looks like loaded unit coal eastbound on Track One. A unit-train is all coal cars, probably well over 100 cars.
The Pennsylvania Railroad was once the largest railroad in the world. It merged in 1968 with arch-rival New York Central to become Penn-Central. That went bankrupt two years later, and was succeeded by gumint-funded Conrail, all the northeast bankrupt railroads — there were many.
Conrail eventually privatized. It didn’t have the impediments Penn-Central faced, mostly that by being east-coast megalopolis based it was tasked with costly commuter operations, plus freight-traffic that migrated to trucking.
Conrail, now private, attracted CSX Transportation (railroad) and Norfolk Southern, a 1982 merger of coal-heavy Norfolk & Western, and Southern Railway. CSX was gonna get everything, but Norfolk Southern bid the old Pennsy main across PA. That line was still extremely viable.
The old New York Central main across NY was also very busy, but so was the old Pennsy; and that was despite having a mountain to cross, which NYC didn’t have. Pennsy was extremely well-managed, so very successful.
Norfolk Southern would still have that mountain challenge, but a lotta freight was going over that mountain. CSX ended up with the old NYC main, and Norfolk Southern bought the old Pennsy.
Blog-readers also know I do an annual calendar of train-pictures my brother and I took in Altoona. This Christmas card picture is one of those pictures, although never used in a calendar.
The creator of that calendar is me; although -a) if my brother got the better picture, I use his, and -b) if I got the better picture, I use mine.
I been takin’ train-pictures all my life, but only recently have they got any good. My brother and I learned off each other. My brother is partial to in yer face, and I try to be more scenic.
I’ve learned the importance of lighting from him, and he’s probably gleaned a few things from me. I hear about it. He’s a manager, so likes to manage me.
Sorry dude, doesn’t work. I’m as Irish as him. I also am the artist. The one cranking that calendar is me.
It sounds like all we ever do is argue. Not so. We have a jolly good time.
“Hey Jack, where we goin’?” I let him drive. “Main Street bridge in Gallitzin.” “We are not! We’re headed for Jackson Street.” “Negatory, dude. Main Street bridge next to Tunnel Inn.” “Uhm, 720 Jackson Street; WRONGO manager-boy! What you been smokin’?”
That Christmas card has to be my picture, since it’s my Christmas card. Those cards are made by Shutterfly, the same people that produce my calendar.
Upload an Altoony image-file to Shutterfly to apply to one of their many Christmas card selections. 75 cards = $121.52. 75 Calendars = $3,194.11. Cost me a fortune; but I love doin’ ’em. I send ‘em all over the planet as Christmas presents, although those calendars cost more this year due to delay compliments of Shutterfly. (No pre-Christmas discount = thank you Shutterfly.)
I forked over a calendar to another aquacise coach. So far no worried hand-wringing. (I think they know I ain’t stupid, and I’ve seen stupid railfans.)

We don’t live forever

Mother Lindley (1922-2018).

One of my two favorite professors at Houghton College, Katherine Lindley, MA, PhD, died March 8th.
It’s hard to know where to start.
Dr. Lindley began teaching at Houghton during my sophomore year — she graduated Houghton in 1943. She was married to Kenneth Lindley, who began teaching physics and science at Houghton at the same time. Dr. Lindley taught European History and Political Science; I majored in History and minored in Political Science and Philosophy.
Dr. Lindley gave the History Department two fabulous professors. Most had only one, or NONE.
History had one other fabulous professor, Richard L. Troutman, MA, PhD, also a Houghton-grad. He was enough to make me switch majors. Dr. Lindley made History even more attractive.
I call her “Mother Lindley” because she was the mother I wish I had. My actual mother became less demanding when she realized my father was losing me. But she wasn’t Dr. Lindley.
My values are Dr. Lindley’s values: mainly “Get it Right.” Despite my being an utter mess, perceived by others as stupid, rebellious, and Of-the-Devil, she cared about me, probably because of how I thought. My penchant for pillorying self-declared holier-than-thou’s, and purveyors of incredible wisdom.
Others perceived me as threatening, yet Dr. Lindley found me interesting. Dr. Lindley, plus others, loved having me in class.
Once she was extolling the virtues of “the middle-of-the-road.” “But Dr. Lindley,” I said. “What if the middle-of-the-road is wrong?” She kept going, but it was clear I punched her in the gut. “He has a point. That Hughes-kid always makes me question.”
This was true of much of Houghton. I’ve never regretted attending. Houghton began reversal of my dreadful childhood. It was the first place adult authority-figures solicited and valued my opinions. Instead of automatically declaring me rebellious.
Dr. Lindley was the one who suggested I became a scholar. It was probably because of the way I thought. I deferred. Scholarly pursuit seemed driven by posturing = “I know more than you; nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyaahhh!”
I came to Houghton desiring to prove the altruism of our nation’s founders. I left frustrated. For every argument there was an equal and interesting counter — i.e. “they have a point.”
I left it all behind; I had a life to live.
Dr. Lindley was also the first authority-figure to note my wife-to-be and I were coming together. “I see two of my students are finding each other,” she observed. She was probably thrilled — well beyond the assessment of my sanctimonious judges.
And now she’s gone — the lady who set my direction. Many of my professorial contacts at Houghton were similar, but she was foremost. She’d quickly whip out her red pen to point out flaws in my thinking. She wasn’t elitist. “That Hughes-kid gets me thinking.”
The picture is from my 1966 college yearbook. She made 96; her husband died 12 years ago. I considered driving to her viewing, but that was last night before I started writing this, and 75 miles distant.
And there’s a pretty good likelihood others attending would perceive me a threat = “one of those radicals (GASP).”
Her obit tells of the many lives she effected, and I am but one. Still messy, but marked by “Mother Lindley.”

• I graduated “Houghton College” in western New York 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.

Incomplete link

“What is it with these goofballs?” I asked my good friend **** *****, referring to a computer hairball on my end. **** is retired from management at Regional Transit Service, where I once drove bus.
***** was one of the BEST management persons at RTS, where many in management were jerks.
In fairness I should also note -a) many bus-drivers were jerks, as were -b) many mechanics.
“That stupid Pineys link doesn’t like the closing-parenthesis at the end. You’ll hafta Google ‘New Jersey Pine Barrens’ yerself.”
I was responding to *******’s most recent e-mail. It forwarded a newspaper article about mysterious railroad-tracks along a south-Jersey beach. Normally the tracks are covered by beach-sand, but recent nor’-easters unearthed the tracks.
Herewith the link: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-5494583/Famous-buried-ghost-tracks-reappear-Cape-May-beach.html?ito=email_share_article-top
My response recounted discovery of abandoned and never removed railroad-tracks up in the south-Jersey Pine-Barrens. Central-of-New Jersey (CNJ), which mainly served north-Jersey, had a branch down the central spine of New Jersey to serve south-Jersey. My guess was it served sand-mining, and perhaps cranberry farming in local bogs.
The line didn’t make sense once the state started building highways that encouraged auto-use. But it still existed in the early ‘50s when I was a child — perhaps later than that.
Mined sand often traveled west, not north.

The Pine Barrens from Apple-Pie Hill fire-tower.

The Pine-Barrens are table-flat topography covered by mostly scrub-pine. The soil is very sandy, as the area was once under receding ocean. In order to get to the south-Jersey seashore, you have to cross the Pine-Barrens.
My family lived in a suburb in south-Jersey not far from Camden-Philadelphia. We went to the south-Jersey seashore often as I was growing up. That CNJ spine-line was north-south, so we crossed it driving east to get to the seashore. I don’t recall ever seeing trains on it.
That railroad was smack in the middle of the Pine Barrens. Probably the only freight there was sand from sand-mining. Farming was minimal in the Pine-Barrens, since the soil wasn’t advantageous to farming. About the only farming there was was cranberries in bogs. But for that you need a bog. Water was here-and-there in the Barrens, but not prolific. Look at that Apple-Pie Hill pic, and where’s the water?
Driving across the Barrens was always boring. Fire-towers appeared on the distant horizon looking like matches. Leaving our home, surroundings seemed pretty much the same for 15-20 miles. Then we’d merge into the Barrens = table-flat as far as the eye could see, and covered with scrub-pine.
We’d see Smokey-the-Bear warnings about fire-danger. The Barrens often had forest-fires. Back then was before Atlantic City Expressway, and I think we crossed that CNJ line at Chatsworth.
The Barrens are a completely undeveloped area surrounded by extreme development. The Barrens are attractive since land there is cheap. The residents, so-called “Pineys,” are very rural and outback, totally unlike their suburban neighbors. They are few and far-between.
The Barrens prompt various stories. Foremost is “The Jersey Devil.” People suggest Jimmy Hoffa is buried in the Barrens. New York City’s Mafia supposedly disposed its enemies in the Barrens. Dark and foreboding, you see little civilization in the Barrens. It’s right in the middle of the east-coast megalopolis.
I always say north-Jersey’s the dump for New York City, and south-Jersey’s the dump for Philadelphia. The Barrens seem separate from both.
Railroad construction across the Barrens was slam-dunk. No mountains to climb, no civilization to thread. Arrow-straight. Trains could run 100+ mph — Philadelphia to the south-Jersey seashore. (Philly-to-Camden was a ferry-crossing.)
Baltimore & Ohio in concert with CNJ ran a glitzy Jersey City to Atlantic City passenger-train called the “Blue Comet.” (Jersey City is across the Hudson from New York City.)
The Blue-Comet ran down CNJ’s spine-line to Winslow Junction in central New Jersey. At Winslow it switched to Reading’s “Atlantic-City-Railroad.” Both CNJ and Reading at that time were affiliates of B&O.
Camden & Atlantic, built in 1852, was the first railroad into Atlantic City, and was instrumental to its development. The entire south-Jersey seashore attracted Philadelphia residents. Atlantic City Railroad was built because of Camden & Atlantic’s success. Pennsy bought Camden & Atlantic to take part in the Atlantic City traffic boom.
During the late 1800s Pennsy and Reading would race to the seashore; 100+ mph with teapot locomotives having gigantic 84-inch driving wheels.
The railroads on the Monopoly game are -1) Pennsylvania, -2) Reading. -3) Baltimore & Ohio, and -4) “Short line,” which is actually “Shore Fast Line,” a trolley that ran from Atlantic City to Ocean City to the south. (Shore Fast Line abandoned in 1948, shortly after I was born. Its wooden trestle to Ocean City burned.)
That CNJ spine-line continued south of Winslow, including through Vineland to Bridgeton. Most was eventually abandoned.
In the ‘70s or early ‘80s my wife and I set out in search of old hangouts in the Pinelands. In the ‘50s our family often visited Apple Pie Hill. It had a raised wooden observation-deck. We were looking for it.
Apple Pie Hill we found, but the observation-deck was gone. Driving all over on sandy one-lanes we encountered overgrown railroad tracks out in the middle of nowhere. They were remains of that CNJ spine-line, abandoned but not removed.
Railroad track is fairly permanent. If not for scrub-pine and trees between the ties that spine-line still looked operable. Maybe 5-10 mph at most, and expect to derail. (More-than-likely the rail would turn over.)
****’s link reminded of our long-ago discovery. CNJ’s spine-line was now a ghost railroad deep in the Barrens. It prompts wondering and Google-searches. Tracks abandoned long ago on a south-Jersey beach prompt similar wondering.
So began response to *******’s e-mail link. It required a link to a Wiki article about the Barrens. I have a generic link memorized in my computer-files. I overwrite so it becomes “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pine_Barrens_(New_Jersey)">south-Jersey Pine Barrens</a>,” for example.
I did so with my response to ******’s e-mail. The Wiki-link has “(New_Jersey)” in it (as above). The end-parenthesis wouldn’t pick up as part of the link. I didn’t know this until after my e-mail was sent; links in e-mails aren’t active until sent. Not until after I send can I test that link.
The link went off to Never-Never land; it wasn’t picking up the end-paren. I tried again = just the link. It bombed again. It wasn’t picking up that end-paren, and again I couldn’t know that until I could test that sent e-mail.
I gave up; suggesting **** Google “Jersey Pine-Barrens” on his own. He could trigger that Wiki-link getting their Pine-Barrens link complete with end-paren.
Finally I copy/pasted that Wiki Pine-Barrens link and e-mailed just that to ****. That worked! Now I wonder if anyone else my age would deduce that end-paren was not being picked up as part of the link, even though it appeared as part.
Herewith my Wiki Pine-Barrens link: “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pine_Barrens_(New_Jersey).” Copy/paste that into yer browser, readers; and make sure ya get the entire link. (And don’t copy the opening and closing quotes.)
It works for me. Constructing it from my computer link-file bombs.

• 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 over 12 years ago.

All-Pennsy color-calendar for March 2018

For steam-junkies. (Photo by Bill Price.)

—The March 2018 entry in my All-Pennsy color calendar is an L1s Mikado (2-8-2) stomping through Hagerstown, PA with mixed freight.
An L1s Mikado isn’t a fantastic engine steamers later become. But it’s not a teakettle.
The L1s’s were developed in the early teens in concert with Pennsy’s famous K-4s Pacific (4-6-2) passenger locomotives. In fact, both use the same boiler/firebox; 70 square feet of firebox grate is pretty good size for a 4-6-2.
The picture is 1956. 6306 could be 40 years old. My guess is 6306 was all that was available, otherwise the train might be diesels. 6306 might be worn out and tired, but still good enough to head a train.
By 1956 many of Pennsy’s 574 Mikes were scrapped. They weren’t draggers, or boom-and-zoom. They were more “jack-of-all-trades.”
Steamers like 6306 are what I grew up with. By the ‘50s most railroads had dieselized, but Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines, near where I lived, still used steam.

This is the EXACT spot where I first watched trains. (Photo by Robert Long©.)

K4 Pacifics (pictured at left), E-6s Atlantics (4-4-2) and H8 and H9 Consolidations (2-8-0) are why I’m a railfan. I don’t think I ever saw an L1s on PRSL; freights were Consols, often as peddlers — replaced by trucking.
South Jersey railroading wasn’t very freight-oriented. Even railroad passenger service to the seashore, once a gold-mine, became moribund as auto-use grew. Railroad seashore service is now Jersey-Transit, a commuter operation.
And steam-locomotion jumped well beyond Pennsy’s L1s and K4s with Lima’s SuperPower locomotives. Nickel Plate 765, which I’ve ridden behind, a SuperPower design, makes anything like the L1s seem pedestrian.
And no way could even a SuperPower steamer pass muster with today’s environmentalists. Or mother hanging her sheets to dry. Soot city!
62 long years ago 6306 is chuffing through Hagerstown. The crew, covered with soot and coal-dust, probably wishes they had a diesel. The photographer, Bill Price, was probably thrilled.
Interesting to me is that Norfolk & Western (N&W) hopper in the right-side of the picture. It’s probably 70 tons, and Norfolk & Western no longer exists. It’s part of Norfolk Southern, the 1982 merger of N&W and Southern Railway, which now owns the old Pennsy main across PA.
And coal-cars are up to 120 tons, and often are no longer hopper-cars. They’re gondolas that get rotary dumped.

Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar

Again, looks like something my brother and I might do. (Photo by Lance Myers.)

—The March 2018 entry in my Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar looks like something my brother and I might take.
Except it’s well east of Altoona along Pennsy’s old Middle Division. It’s an eastbound Norfolk Southern stacker crossing Juniata River on another of Pennsy’s gigantic monuments, a large stone viaduct only Pennsy could afford. The viaduct is between Mt. Union and Kistler, PA, half-way to Altoona from Harrisburg.
My brother and I have never been that far east.
Norfolk Southern’s Penn-Central heritage unit, #1073, an EMD SD70ACe, leads the train. Norfolk Southern has 20 heritage units, modern locomotives painted the schemes of predecessor railroads.

Last year’s April Entry. (Photo by Lance Myers.)

This is the same viaduct Myers ran last year as the April picture in the contest calendar. Except that was a Herzog ballast train. The viaduct was built in 1906 when Pennsy was a cash-cow.
Penn-Central was a 1968 merger of the Pennsylvania Railroad with New York Central. New York, New Haven & Hartford (NY,NH&H = “New Haven”) was included by gumint fiat. It was not a marriage made-in-Heaven. Pennsy and Central were rivals. Penn-Central went bankrupt in two years, but lasted six more. The company tanked in 1976; but the actual railroad remains.
All three lines were restrained by heavy regulation and taxation, plus all had costly commuter operations. They also were hampered by what they did. Break-bulk freight operations, endemic to northeast railroading, were lost to highway competition. Western railroads shipped longer distances, plus they weren’t burdened by commuter operations.
Railroad shipping was so necessary to the northeast the gumint stepped in. Conrail was founded in 1976 with gumint funding. Amtrak took over nationwide passenger-train operation in 1971. Commuter operations were farmed out to local gumint agencies. Many branch-lines were abandoned or sold to become shortlines.
Conrail was freight railroading. Pennsy’s Middle Division became part of a main shipping corridor across PA. Its Washington DC-to-New York City electrified line became Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor. The “Corridor” even became Amtrak. Conrail used an old Reading main, etc, to access the New York City area. Not New York City in actuality, but more north Jersey across the Hudson.
Conrail became successful enough to privatize. Too bad Penn-Central couldn’t be what Conrail became later. That PC heritage unit might be just another Penn-Central locomotive.
Conrail became so successful it attracted CSX Transportation. CSX was Chesapeake & Ohio, Baltimore & Ohio, plus Seaboard and Atlantic Coast Line to the south. If CSX were to merge the old New York Central main across NY, it would promulgate the C&O/NYC merger Chesapeake & Ohio sought years ago.
Norfolk Southern, a 1982 merger of Norfolk & Western and Southern Railway, became interested in the old Pennsy main. Also the large locomotive shops in Juniata, PA.
CSX was gonna get that too, but Norfolk Southern bid the old Pennsy. It also bid the old Erie to Buffalo across lower NY. From Hornell west toward Chicago the original Erie main was sold to a shortline or partly abandoned.
Allowing Norfolk Southern to merge the old Pennsy main brought about the merger proposed earlier by Pennsy: Norfolk & Western and Pennsy.
The breakup and sale of Conrail restored rail competition in the northeast, which previously was New York Central and Pennsy.
So now Pennsy’s old Middle Division is part of Norfolk Southern’s “premier corridor” from Chicago to New York City. CSX does the same, but across NY instead of PA.
That “premier corridor” is extremely busy, both ways too. This viaduct would be just like what my brother-and-I see near Altoona: wait 15-20 minutes, and a train blasts past.
I was crossing the old Central up near Rochester the other day, and coming west was an empty CSX crude-oil unit-train of all tankcars. Just like what my brother-and-I see in Altoony.
A lot of what we see are doublestacks like pictured, 200+ individual intermodal containers loaded with consumer-goods double-stacked in well-cars. Stuff from the Pacific Rim, but also unloaded on the east coast now that the Panama-Canal was widened.
Many containers are “domestic,” 53 feet instead transoceanic at 40 feet. If the containers are “J.B. Hunt,” it’s probably product for WalMart.
I wonder what train this is? 20T or 26T perhaps. My brother-and-I usually see both.

Continuing blog-material

“This is gonna get blogged,” I said to myself.
Yrs trly online purchased a Krups electric teakettle last week. It exhorted me to register.
“Go to www.krups.ca and save yourself a stamp.”
FAT LOTTA HELP THAT WAS; so goes at least an hour. Uhm, no “registration” tab on www.krups.ca. Lots of small kitchen-appliances, packed with plump sugary edibles = muffins, scones, Texas-toast, etc. But no “registration” tab.
Scrolling down I got “frequently asked questions.” I clicked it. How to develop tempting breakfast entrés with glittering kitchen-appliances — chrome, brushed stainless, etc.
Utterly clueless as always — born in the wrong century — WHAT NEXT? How about “Contact-us?”
“E-mail address required;” answers in two days.
Uhm, HELLO. I coulda registered snail-mail in five minutes.
This is the advance of wondrous time-saving technology? A five-minute process gets expanded to over an hour?
Perish-the-thought, I don’t see it that way!
A have a triple-A renewal suggesting online. PASS! Write check, seal and stamp envelope = maybe 10-15 minutes; most of which is getting this ‘pyooter to print the check.
Do it ONLINE, and blow an hour.
No way José!
Stabbing around, and entirely on my own, I tried adding “/register/” to “www.krups.ca” to the web-address in the address-bar of my Internet-browser.
WHOA! A Krups registration-site appeared. It worked, and not by any suggestion by them = entirely on-my-own.
“Try-it-and-see-what happens;” a shot-in-the-dark on my part. I sent a second e-mail to “contact-us,” telling Krups I thought I registered my kettle, but not by their doing. I took a stab at adding “/register/” to their web-address, and that got registration.
Not the first time. For renewal or registration often a site sends you to Never-Never Land. As one born in the prior century, I don’t see Never-Never Land as Valhalla.
Triple-A will get snail-mail. Born in the wrong century = utterly clueless about Never-Never Land. Garbage-in, garbage-out! The fact I say that proves I’m a rebellious geezer. One of them ‘60s Ne’er-do-Wells. Reform-school for you, baby!

Siri® versus Alexa®

(Screenshot by BobbaLew.)

“Siri,” I said to Siri, the voice-recognition personal assistant computer-thingy on my iPhone; “play ‘Louie-Louie’ by the Kingsmen on YouTube.”
Gotta say “YouTube” or she rifles through my iPhone music files, finding nothing.
“Here are some videos of ‘Louie-Louie by the Kingsmen’ I found on the web,” Siri said.
Nine clickable YouTube videos on my tiny iPhone screen.
Yowzuh! This is Dick Tracy stuff; utterly beyond imagining back in 1962 when I graduated high-school.
I fingered one — the YouTube link above.
“Dah-Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp!”
Straight from “Mr. Holland’s Opus,” what the sousaphones played while marching.
The greatest rock-‘n’-roll song of all time!
Every time I hear it I start swaying to it.
What prompted this were two things:
-a) A lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool told me she’d try “See Ya Later Alligator’ with Alexa® on her smartspeaker, and -b) a fellow retired bus-driver said he asked Siri who was smarter, Siri® or Alexa®.
Siri’s answer was “That’s all right with me……”
??????
This began when I reported to that lifeguard one of her coworkers said “See Ya Later Alligator” to a young girl departing the exercise-gym. Her coworker got the look. The young girl was dumbfounded, and thought that exercise-coach weird.
That lifeguard is old enough to understand “See Ya Later Alligator,” so I asked if she knew what year it was a hit, and who sang it. “This is probably before yer time. It was a hit the year you were born.”
“Bill Haley and the Comets, 1955,” I said.
“I’ll hafta see if Alexa® can play it,” she said.
So after I got home I tried it with Siri® on my iPhone. Trial-and-error, as always; gotta say things just so.
But Siri® got it.
The other night I tried “Louie-Louie,” the greatest rock-‘n’-roll song of all time.
“Louie-Louie,” as covered by the Kingsmen, became a hit during 1963-‘64, my junior year of college.
I used to play Bach’s “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring” on a college piano, and segue into “Louie-Louie.”
“Dah-Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp!
Bah-Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp!
Ah-Louie-Loueye; Oh, no. We gotta go.”
And Louie-Louie had a risqué reputation. Wording was slurred, so “I’ll never leave her again” sounded like “I’ll never lay her again.” The FBI analyzed the lyrics to prove the song was dirty, but missed “I’ll never lay her again.”
Years ago at the Mighty Mezz, in its gigantic newsroom, I once declared “the greatest rock-‘n’-roll song of all time is......” Suddenly complete silence — you could hear a pin drop.
“‘Louie-Louie,’ as covered by the Kingsmen,” I said.
“NO-NO-NO!” people shouted. The newsroom erupted. Hits from the ‘80s and ‘90s were loudly declared superior. Utter cacophony!
A friend who daycared my dog, who I once worked with at the Mighty Mezz, says it’s Chuck Berry’s “Johnny-B-Goode.” Yes, but “Johnny-B-Goode” doesn’t get me rockin’ like “Louie-Louie.” Not even Jerruh-Lee with “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.”
“So Siri, ‘Louie-Louie’ by the Kingsmen on YouTube.”
“Dah-Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp!
Bah-Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp-Bomp! Bomp-Bomp!
Ah-Louie-Loueye; Oh, no. We gotta go.”
My guess is Alexa could play it too.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 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. That stroke took away nine years of classical piano training.) (“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.)

Blog-material

“Does yer Alexa® laugh at you?”
I woulda asked that to *****-the-lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool. But she wasn’t there yesterday. She’s the only one I know with Alexa®, which appears to be Siri-like programming on Amazon’s Echo® smartspeaker.
Siri is Apple’s voice-activated personal assistant on my iPhone. There are 89-bazilyun things Siri can do, but pretty much all I do is have her make phonecalls. I’ve had her play YouTube thingies.
The other day the national TV-news reported Alexa was transmitting chuckles.
“Laughing Alexa® is blog-material,” I woulda said.
A lot of what I blog is madness that comes with technological advance.
For example, ordering something online is supposed to be a slam-dunk. But it always takes way more time than buying it at a store. I order online to avoid dragging all over creation looking for purchases.
“So go to WallyWorld,” I’m told. By so doing I add at least a half-hour getting there-and-back, plus parking. That’s probably a dollar’s worth of gas. Then I hafta search the store, plus endure being snapped at by WalMart associates because I interrupted their day-long donut-break.
Plus shopping WalMart risks getting hugged and kissed by a urine-smelling geezer-greeter, although I think WalMart stopped that.

12-oz. SunDrop can, 12 per carton-case.

Yesterday morning I had 15-20 minutes before going to my YMCA aquacise class, so I decided to online order my SunDrop soda. SunDrop is southern, so is no longer available in a store up here.
A while ago I ordered from a candy outlet, but they were outta stock. I switched to WalMart, but SunDrop was no longer available online; only at stores mentioned. I didn’t fiddle; and do I wanna drive all they way to KY to get SunDrop?
10 minutes so far; my time-window was rapidly closing. I fired up a site selling SunDrop for a pittance, but they wanted $26.98 shipping-and-handling.
I try to be deft with this laptop, but “Are they nuts? NO WAY JOSÉ! They ain’t getting no $26.98 just to ship $11 worth of sody!”
Now up to 15 minutes. I fired up “Jet;” $29 total for a case of SunDrop, $10 of which is shipping-and-handling. On to EBay. $21.78 for the same case, but no shipping-and-handling.
EBay wins. $21.78 is still ridiculous for a case of SunDrop, but EBay was lowest.
Quickly approaching a half-hour. Sure, only five minutes if ya let the vipers drain yer wallet.
“So why doncha buy a carton-case of Mountain-Dew at the supermarket?” a girl in my aquacise asked. “That’s citrus-based too, just like SunDrop.”
“Mountain-Dew is toxic,” I cried.
“All sodas are toxic,” the girl wailed.
She has a point, but “What are you, my mother?”
Another lady laughed.
“Glad I made ya laugh,” I told her later.
She laughed.
“Made ya laugh again,” I said.

“There is hope!”

“If it weren’t for the fact I hafta go to the store, I’d hang around and shoot the breeze with you a while,” I said to *****-the-lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool.
“Well, next time,” ***** said. She may have said “I hope” too; I can’t remember. She seems to look forward to it; she was smiling at me.
“There,” I thought to myself: “Did my duty!” Made my effort with good old *****. Its seems she wants me to.
*****-the-lifeguard is 62 years old; although I was dumbfounded when she told me that. Okay, I see the wrinkles and crows-feet, etc. But that stuff tells me middle 40s. Look harder, and I get her up to perhaps 50 or more.
Why she’d talk to a creaky old geezer I’ll never know. I sure ain’t Adonis; I’m 12 years older than her.
Maybe it’s because I get her laughing. My wife always told me that; 44+ years because I made her laugh. I’m half insane, yet my wife stayed with me supposedly because I made her laugh.
Now she’s GONE. Comin’ up on six years next month. BEST friend I ever had — I miss her immensely.
***** and I keep plugging along. She hasn’t left yet, nor have I. It wouldn’t take much to get me walking away. If she told me she was a partier I’d stop talking to her. Same if she dyed her hair dayglo green.
I keep trying because it seems ***** may be someone I enjoy talking to. This goes back eons. As a teenager it was my cousin Judy. Judy was someone I could talk to — she pretty much knew what I was saying, and I knew what she was saying.
Relatives were angrily banging pots in the kitchen, but Judy and I were discussing philosophy in the living-room. Judy was a fabulous discussion. I wanted to marry someone like cousin Judy.
In college it was “da Wooze,” a girl I worked with in the college kitchen. “Yada-yada-yada-yada;” all we ever did was jabber with each other. But “Wooze” wanted to marry another, so I gave up.
After college was the girl I dated during college after “Wooze;” same class as me, but slightly older. And as always, being 23 I had no idea what I was doing, except getting married seemed imperative. My wife-to-be liked me before we started dating, so after she thought about it, that was what we did.
Not a fabulous discussion at first, but that was what she became. Maybe I inadvertently drew her out — I think the marbles were there beforehand, but no one was there to draw them out. Not male anyway; she had girlfriends who fascinated her.
Now she’s GONE.
Best friend I ever had. But I keep looking for someone to talk to, and ***** may be it. I probably have her misread, but it seems I should keep trying. And that’s all it would be for the moment. Just a companion, or whatever. Dunna toucha da wallet. I’m too used to living alone. But making someone laugh is fun.

Wooziness

“I already chop my 100 mg pills in half to get my Atenolol dosage,” I said to *****, my pretty pharmacist. “What do you think about quarterin’ ‘em?”
What I haven’t said is my Sunday-School Superintendent, also my neighbor when I was a child, is spinning in her grave. So too are my parents, although it’s more my Sunday-School Superintendent.
“No pretty girl is ever gonna talk to you. You like all men are SCUM!”
That was 60 years ago. And now, finally, I find I can talk to pretty *****. And she seems to like it, always smiling at me. Others staff that pharmacy, but it’s always ***** coming to process my order. She always moves first.
This began a few months ago. I got up the nerve to tell her she seemed happier in her new pharmacy. She used to work at a Rite-Aid across the street. I needed a Tetanus-shot: “Uh-oh, here comes angry *****. Gotta be on my best behavior.”
“I’m sorry!” she cried.
“Thinking later, I realized it wasn’t angry ***** I was seeing. It was up-the-wall *****. Here, in yer new digs, I get smiling *****.”
She loved it, smiling broadly. My Sunday-School Superintendent is up to 14,000 rpm, as are my parents. Harness ‘em and south Florida could go green.
“I’m hoping you can tell me about Atenolol side-effects,” I said to her yesterday. “Dizziness, drowsiness,” she said. “How about wooziness?” I asked. “I feel woozy every morning when I get up. Plus my balance is questionable. I do aquatic-therapy balance-training in the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool, and it’s better than it was. But I feel like I’m beating my head against the wall.”
A couple weeks ago a nurse from my health-insurance came for an in-home health assessment. She noted that as someone like me gets old (“older,” she insisted), the ability to flush Atenolol out of my body degrades. So the dosage of my prescription may be too high.
“Oh yeah?” I commented. “I’ll run that past my doctor.”
That pharmacy, ***** perhaps, texted me they had a renewal of my Atenolol.
So I asked pretty ***** about it when I went to pick up the prescription. We’re gonna try quartering the pills.
Plus it seems I’ve gained ***** as a friend. My Sunday-School Superintendent is spinning in her grave! (Gasp!)
Used to be I dared not talk to a pretty girl — plus I had a wife that liked me.
Now, 60 years late, wife gone, I’m finding that was bunk.

• My neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent was Hilda Q. Walton — “Q” for Quincy.
• RE: “Try it......” —Quarter pills yes, but blood-pressure continues to be monitored every day as it’s been for years.

Greenberg-2018

REAL railroad-track has only TWO rails, not three; them green gondolas are SPOTLESS; throw a real locomotive into curvature this tight at more than 5 mph, and it FLIES OFF THE TRACK. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“Ah, the pungent aroma of burning paraffin,” I said to my friend, a retired bus-driver like me.
Model-railroaders burn paraffin-wax in their model steam-locomotives to get smoke out of the stack. Of course, that smoke ain’t blasting, it’s only drifting.
We were attending the Greenberg model-train show near Rochester. My friend, like me, is a railfan, but mainly model trains. The gauge I prefer is not “O,” “S,” or “HO,” but four feet 8&1/2 inches, standard railroad track-gauge = the real thing.
“Yeah, but I can’t fit ‘the real thing’ in my basement.’”
A long model train chugged past pulled by a New York Central steam locomotive. New York Central is long-gone, but worth remembering. The train was perhaps 25-30 cars, not the 100+ I usually see with ‘the real thing.’ But at least not just five or six; about all our HO layout could pull per train years ago. That was my neighbor and I back in 1959. It was HIS layout, based on a book-based track-plan wedged into two 4-by-8 sheets of plywood laid out as an “L.”
We fiddled that layout a few years, but my neighbor graduated to go-karts.
I always wanted to do an HO layout myself, but never did. I drifted toward photographing the real thing.
The NYC steamer was making chugging sounds, but “they don’t jive with siderod motion,” my friend observed.
Looked pretty good to me: “four beats to the bar....” Nearly all steam-locomotives are only two drive-cylinders that work both ways. For every wheel rotation you get four chuffs: “strummin’ with the rhythm that the drivers made....” one of the best lines a rock-’n’-roll song ever made: Chuck Berry’s “Johnny-B-Goode.”
The NYC steamer seemed to be doing four beats to the bar. Increase train speed, and chuffing speeded up. Toy-train technology made things more realistic, but still seemed unrealistic compared to the real thing. —To properly model a real railroad ya need an airport hanger.
“A giant garage-sale,” my friend said. We wandered about trying to hit all the aisles. They were awash with HO stuff, bundles of dusty flex-trak, and mega-dollar switches. Boxes upon boxes of colorful railroad-cars, none with graffiti. Real railroading is a surfeit of graffiti. Strangely only the cars get graffitied, not locomotives.
Some of the model freightcars were “weathered,” but none had graffiti. And none were “Alaska.” My friend always looks for Alaska Railroad. “Alaska” had to be special-ordered, I guess.
An hour was all we could stand. My friend bought a small tool. “I wonder if these guys actually sell anything?” I asked. Tee-shirts, books, posters, classic Lionel stuff from the ‘50s, a booth by Genesee Valley Railroad Museum, colorful boxcars full of chocolate mints (???????).
We’re both 74, so somewhat slow. Parents ricocheted about with children enthralled by the many chuffing trains. And look-out for the motorized handicap carts! Layouts galore, all brought as pieces for assembly in the hall.
Some layouts were N-gauge, what my friend does. But most were HO. “N” is 9 mm or 0.354 inches between the rails. “HO” is 16.5 mm or 0.650 inches between the rails. So “N,” being smaller, can be more realistic. Although I’ve seen N-gauge layouts that were totally unreal.
We ambled out: “I need a bathroom,” I said. My friend sat with a complete stranger who turned out to be another retired bus-driver just like us. “Yada-yada-yada-yada.” Bus-drivers talk too much. I’m guilty myself. (Wisecracks, snide remarks: e.g. “aw man.....”)
After I returned, my friend walked off to use the bathroom himself. We later tried to get coffee. A catering-service was selling refreshments.
“What if I want coffee?” I asked. “I give you this cup,” the clerk said; “and you give me $2.”
“Too much,” my friend said. “A dollar for gas to the coffee-shop around the corner,” I said. “So $2.50 total around the corner, plus blow 15 minutes.” I bought, but he didn’t.
We then left, shaking hands with the stranger. “Only model-train show I been to all year,” my friend observed; “and I missed the two best.”
Yesterday was his birthday (74), and he had to rush home so grandchildren from Ontario could visit.

• 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 friend, who also drove bus, was slightly behind me in seniority.

Blondie

A “M-A-N” 300. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

About 10 years into my career driving bus I picked what became my all-time favorite run. We bus-drivers picked runs by seniority three times per year.
The run was a “package,” working the rush-hours. To do so my first “half” pulled out around 6 a.m. to take people from eastern suburbs into Rochester. It finished about 8:30; only one trip, inbound.
My second half was 1703, three trips to Pittsford, another suburb east of Rochester.
I started about 2:45, doing schoolwork at first. I took students from an intermediate school in Rochester to downtown, where they transferred to a public bus home. They had passes.
I then pulled off somewhere to nap over the motor. My first trip to Pittsford was about 3:25. I used an alarm-watch.
Passengers loved having me. I rode bus myself when younger, so knew all-too-well how important bus-transit could be.
I was getting those passengers to work, or home, on time no matter what. I had vise-grips and screwdrivers in my lunchbox — a union no-no. I wasn’t waiting 15-20 minutes to have loose windshield-wipers tightened.
If a bus was unsafe or inoperable I’d cripple it. But not without arranging a quick change of buses.
I also developed detours to skirt traffic-jams due to snow emergency. “Why are we getting off here?” “Because I might be able to do a quicker route.”
When I went on vacation “Be at yer stop five minutes earlier. I leave five minutes late — which gets me downtown on time. My replacement may leave per schedule. And don’t be afraid to have some ‘regular’ ride shotgun, so yer driver doesn’t miss anyone out here in the boonies.”
The first half of this run was 2105, and I had an “artic,” a “bendable.” Our 300s were our first bendable buses. Its front half, powered, pulled a trailer connected by bellows. 300s were bog-slow, but I dove right in. The bendable concept was brand-new, and supposedly allowed converting two separate bus trips to only one bus.
Previously a separate bus trip covered Fairport, and another covered East Rochester. With my 300 I covered both. Passengers didn’t like that. Schedule-times were juggled. Fairport was about 10 minutes earlier, and ER 10 minutes later. I arrived downtown 10 minutes later.
La-dee-dah! We probably lost a few with that. I think a 300 could carry maybe 60 or more. I averaged about 35, often less.
One of my regulars was a pretty lady I called “Blondie.” She looked maybe 35, had long blond hair, and got on at West Ave. in ER.
“Blondie” was a regular. If she wasn’t at her stop, I glanced down West Ave. to see if she was coming. Sometimes she was late getting out of her house. If I saw Blondie running, I stopped. I wasn’t stiffin’ no regular. Rarely did that happen, but she appreciated I looked for her. When I left 2105 she gave me a local pastry — ER was very Italian.
Regrettably she smoked, and I once saw her being picked up downtown by some greasy sleaze-ball in an older full-size Cadillac.
I wonder what happened to Blondie.

• 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 over 12 years ago.