Whistling Death

“Whistling Death.” (Photo by Ron Palermo.)

“Ron, that’s a fabulous photograph,” I said.
“I just blogged a Corsair among my April calendars, and your picture is better than the calendar-picture.”
Ron, like me, is a retired Regional Transit bus-driver. For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
Ron also belongs to the nearby National Warplane Museum at Geneseo’s Airport. They have a collection of classic propellor airplanes, including a few WWII warbirds. They also have a jet-powered T-33 trainer, based on the F-80 “Shooting Star.”
Every summer they put on an airshow of classic airplanes, many of which are WWII warbirds. They display a hosted B-17, plus their own C-47 transport, the military version of the Douglas DC-3.
The show attracts many classic airplanes, many of which are WWII warbirds. Many are P-51 Mustangs. All bow to the Mustang fighter-plane. All Americans, by law, should be required to see, and hear, a P-51 Mustang fly.
In 2014 the show attracted the Chance-Vought F4U Corsair pictured above. I also took my own photograph, but Ron’s is way better.
The Corsair was stored inside the group’s hanger. There it was, wings folded just like on a carrier-deck, “Hose-Nose,” “Whistling Death.”
Ron got it right! Prominent is that huge 14-foot propeller, and its Pratt and Whitney R-2800-8 engine. Corsairs lack the beauty and grace of a P-51, but face-on they mean business.
The Grumman F6F Hellcat uses the same engine, but it’s not as fast. The Corsair is a hotrod, minimal airplane with a monster motor. A Corsair was capable of over 400 mph; first for a single-engine fighter.
Corsairs were a terror in the skies. Japanese pilots called ‘em “Whistling-Death” because they emitted a whistle in hot pursuit. Those Japanese pilots considered the Corsair their greatest threat.
Corsairs are rife with compromise, so are easy to identify. It’s that inverted gull-wing, necessitated by that giant propellor. In order to clear that propellor the landing-gear would have had to be stilts. Instead the wing was drooped.
“Not often does a Corsair make that airshow,” Ron said.
In 2014 one did. I shot it too, but Ron got the extraordinary.

A good life

“I had a good life,” my wife said.
I missed it. It didn’t sink in.
We battled cancer almost two years, and I guess my wife had enough. She was 68, and the best friend I ever had. She actually liked me; liked the way I thought.
That turned me around. I had a dreadful childhood, and college was the beginning. Along came my wife to complete the reversal.
We weren’t supposed to last. Her mother was appalled: “What in the world does she ever see in him?” 44&1/2 years. I didn’t split during our first year, nor did my wife divorce me.
Chemo, hospitalizations, transfusions, etc. Up-and-down it went. Occasionally at death’s door, then my wife holding back our silly dog at a nearby park.
My wife was always fiddling her PC, visiting sites to deal with her cancer. Sometimes I thought she was ahead of our oncologist. They were extremely knowledgable, yet sometimes it seemed like my wife lit them up. Like “I hadn’t thought of that.”
All I could do was observe. I also did most of the driving. My wife was intimidated.
“How come you always know where the car is in this garage?”
“Third floor, up the ramp, there’s the car!”
“How come you always turn right here?”
“Because that’s where the sun is,” I’d say.
“What if it’s cloudy?”
“I know where the sun is supposed to be!”
I had a stroke in 1993, so my phonecalls are compromised.
But occasionally I covered for her.
“Don’t know if she’s gonna last the night,” once.
She couldn’t make the call herself, so I did.
Drop everything! Transfer her by ambulance from one hospital to another. After that, back to that park hanging onto our lunging dog.
But cancer kept coming back, and finally won. Six years have passed. 44&1/2 years chasing trains, and ceaseless yammering.
I think I brought her out. She wasn’t that way at first. Only with female friends.
I think I also convinced her she wasn’t the frump her mother raised. She could be pretty. “Ya gotta dump them bat-wing glasses.” She switched to contacts.
Now I find myself wishing I coulda been to her what I am now; mainly more sociable, and less a jerk.
“Ya know, I wouldn’t be talking to you had my wife not died,” I’d say to a good female friend. “Not because she wouldn’t want me to, but because I didn’t need to. She liked me; I could be anti-social.”
Someone who lost her husband told me the same thing.
If my wife hadn’t died, I’d probably still be the same jerk.

• RE: “chasing trains.....” —I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2. “How come every vacation we take involves trains?”

Corsair

Whistling death. (Photo by Philip Makanna©.)

“Won’t it catch fire?” I worriedly asked our military guide at Willow Grove Naval Air Station northwest of Philadelphia.
A fighter-jock had just climbed into the cockpit of his Chance Vought F4U Corsair fighter-plane, and was firing it up.
A giant gout of yellow flame cascaded along the plane’s fuselage, as it’s Pratt and Whitney R-2800-8 roared to life. 2,000 horsepower, 2,800 cubic-inches, 18 cylinders in a two-row air-cooled radial. Incredible racket!
It was 1951. I was seven. My cub-scout troop had gone to Willow Grove for a field-trip.
The pilot was gonna practice tailhook landings on Willow Grove’s runway. An arresting cable had been strung across the runway, just like an aircraft carrier, except it wasn’t a ship. You didn’t shoot toward the ocean if the cable didn’t catch.
Soon the Corsair was roaring over our heads. Funny how things like this are what’s remembered from my childhood.

We visit Willow Grove Naval Air Station. (We are in front of a Twin-Beech.)

The Corsair fighter-plane can possibly be traced to problems the Navy had operating the Grumman F4F Wildcat off aircraft-carriers. A plane had to be slammed onto the carrier-deck when landing. It could bounce.
The landing-gear on a Wildcat was narrow; it retracted into the plane’s belly. With narrow landing-gear a Wildcat could easily tip over. Drag a wing into the deck, and crash! Often into the sea.
To land on carrier-decks, the landing-gear had to be wide — retracting into the wings.
Grumman was dealing with this too. The F6F Hellcat followed the Wildcat. Landing-gear had been relocated into the wings, with wings rooted at the plane’s belly. On the Wildcat wings were centered.
A Hellcat wasn’t as fast as the Corsair, but it was easier to land and maneuver on a carrier-deck.
Like the Hellcat the Corsair was also response to a naval air specification. It also took advantage of huge leaps in air-cooled radial engine output. The Hellcat also uses the Pratt and Whitney R-2800-8 , as does Republic’s P-47 Thunderbolt.
The Corsair lacks the grace of the later P-51 Mustang. But the Corsair’s motor is air-cooled. The P-51 is water-cooled, as are a number of earlier Army Air Corps fighter-planes.
The Navy avoided water-cooling. All one had to do was disable the water-cooling — shoot it up — and that fabulous water-cooled motor was silenced. It took a lot to cripple an air-cooled fighter-plane.
The Corsair is rife with compromise. That’s mainly due to its giant 14-foot propeller. In order to clear that prop, it needed longer landing-gear — or the wings had to be drooped.
That’s the Corsair’s famous inverted gull-wing. Lengthening the landing-gear begged collapse. It also compromised wing-chord. Instead the wing got drooped to avoid these problems — mainly turning the landing-gear into stilts.
The Corsair was more-or-less a hotrod. Plain and unattractive, but a terror in air-to-air combat. Japanese fighter-pilots called it “Whistling-death.” A Corsair in hot pursuit emitted a whistling sound.
The Corsair pictured appears to be the three-bladed prop. Four-bladed Corsairs are even more powerful. I’ve never seen a recent four-bladed Corsair. No idea what the Willow Grove Corsair was.

“You didn’t need to do this”

Scarlett. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

A friend of mine named ****** ****** set about doing framed prints of one of my photos of my beloved Scarlett, pictured above.
Scarlett was Irish-setter #6, rescue #4. She’s the dog that helped me survive the death of my wife.
****** is the oldest daughter of my friend *** ******. I’ve been eating out with *** since our wives died, his about a year after mine.
Occasionally ****** joins us, among others similarly bereaved. ****** is not a widow, but lost her mother.
Last Thanksgiving I had to put Scarlett down. She was 13, and getting seizures. She was still spunky, but old. 13 is 91 in human years.
I thought the world of Scarlett, and so did ******. ****** worked in a nearby Runnings store back then. I visited occasionally with Scarlett. ****** gave her treats, and Scarlett dragged me around. Runnings also sold pet stuff, which Scarlett shoplifted.
Of all the dogs I (we) had, Scarlett was best. Probably my purest Irish to date, and extremely lively. Innumerable critters died in her jaws; at least 20 rabbits. Even at 13 I thought she might snag another.
Very spunky, yet a fabulous dog. Not a pain, nor hard to control. Very much a hunter, yet never destroyed anything. I encouraged her to be a dog.
****** loved Scarlett too. She knew how much Scarlett meant to me. So she was as devastated by Scarlett’s passing as I was. She wanted to do something, so asked me for a picture of Scarlett. She then set about wrastling a good print out of our wondrous technology.
That picture is iPhone, so she wouldn’t run into the “jaggies” problem. It’s too big. Resized down to 5-by-7 won’t prompt jaggies.
Then she had to fiddle her printer, which like mine can prompt problems. With mine I get occasional blobs of ink. With hers the ink flaked off. Her print might have tiny areas with no ink at all.
I also remember how hard it was to get my computer/printer to print right. Everything has to be sized correctly, otherwise a section might not be included, e.g. a print of Scarlett without paws.
With me it’s “try it and see what happens.” Reams of paper got tossed printing junk. —Yet another tree falls in the forest; all to supply my insatiable demand for paper, most of which got shredded for recycling.
I have things pretty much under control, but ****** may be where I was years ago.
She texted me about 89 bazilyun trashed prints. She also texted me to hang around after eating with ***. She wanted to deliver her results, and was working ‘til 5:30. Usually *** and I gather at 5.
She also wanted to avoid mutual crying over her Scarlett pictures.
So here I am home with a framed print of my beloved Scarlett. Best dog I ever had.
“You didn’t hafta to do this,” I’d say to ******.
“Did too,” she’d say.
So here we are both reduced to teary blubbering. Scarlett was a fabulous dog.

Ducatisti

Sigh! (Long ago photo by BobbaLew.)

During the ‘80s Yr Fthfl Srvnt went along to the Syracuse Nationals at the behest of local “Ducatisti.”
The “Ducatisti” were Rochester residents that owned Ducati motorcycles. They were elitists who felt Ducatis were superior to all others.
They all worked in a foreign-car repair shop, and one guy, Peter, was more-or-less their leader. He owned a Ducati Super-Sport much like what’s pictured, except his was silver with a blue stripe.
I don’t know that any of his fellow-workers had a Super-Sport — I remember one having a much modified springer Ducati. Most Ducatis had desmodromic valve actuation = their valves were closed mechanically by cams instead of by springs.
Mine was desmo, but had only 32 mm carbs. Ultimate was 40 mm toilet-mouths, and Peter’s Super-Sport had that. The starting circuit (additional fuel) was plugged on one of my carburetors, so that carb needed to be replaced. Each cylinder had its own carb — it was a 90° V-twin.
There was one other area motorcycle like mine, but it also had 32 mm carbs. Mine was the Strohmier bike, purchased used from Peter Strohmier. It had Campagnolo magnesium wheels. That second bike didn’t have the Campy wheels, but like mine it was black.
The 32 mm Super-Sports weren’t that serious; they just looked gorgeous. Peter suggested I switch to 40s like his SS. So I ordered 40s, not knowing you also had to swap manifolds to properly take advantage of a 40.
Beyond that, cylinder-head porting and smoothing was needed. Even then a 40-mm carb was a bit much. At lower speeds common to the street-riding I did, 40-mm was too much. They were so big they didn’t accelerate air-flow and turbulence.
The only time a 40-mm carburetor made sense was at top-end. Peter bragged about the 140+ mph his SS could do. Out where he lived, in the country where I am now, there was a road where one could safely crank 140, assuming you didn’t attract the gendarmerie.
But ya don’t do 140 in Rochester. Yer lucky if ya get over 60.
The Syracuse Nationals were one of a series of nationwide races on mile or half-mile dirt ovals. Syracuse was a mile, and also a horse-racing track. The venue was part of the State-Fair complex. But the race wasn’t part of the State Fair. Schoolbus demolition derbies were also held there.
The Nationals were more a celebration of all things motorcycling. Bikers of all stripes attended: Hells Angels, Mohawked street-racers on 200-mph crotch-rockets, and Ducatisti like us — but only a few.

Harley’s 2018 dirt-track racer.

Nearly all of the motorcycles being raced were Harley-Davidson dirt-track racers. There was one Honda, based on a heavily-modified V-twin Honda tourer sold back then. It looked like an air-compressor, but was reconfigured to mimic a Harley-Davidson dirt-track racer. It was fairly strong, a team effort, but a Harley won. Harley also had a team. Many racers were private. Harley sold its dirt-track racer to privateers.
My attendance got in the way. I was invited because of my Ducati. But I wasn’t a speed-demon. We gathered at the repair-shop, then rode as a group out to Peter’s.
From there we rode to the Thruway, Exit-45, the Victor exit. Once on the Thruway, the others opened up, 90-100 mph. I couldn’t do that; as a bus-driver I had to protect my license. Clearly I was slowing things.
Once in Syracuse, Peter paid our entry in full as a group, which we would later reimburse.
Next was parking our motorcycles, always a challenge for me, since that involved slow-speed balance of a heavy motorcycle. Ducatis are light, but still almost 400 pounds.
We found a tiny place to park, amidst the 89 bazilyun motorbikes. Next was getting my Super-Sport up on its center-stand. At least I didn’t drop it, and that included the slow-speed pre-park maneuvering.
We watched the race from the grandstand, then returned to our motorcycles to ride home.
Back on the Thruway the others put the hammer down! That second black Ducati had also come, and was riding two-up. He accelerated away from me, so I opened up my 40s.
Proof yet again my 40s were too much . Even two-up that 32-mm Ducati was leaving me behind.
Most got way ahead of me, but suddenly I was catching up. No idea they were slowing for Exit-43. I overshot as the others all got off. They waited patiently as I returned wrong-way on the Exit-43 entry-ramp. Were it not that Peter had our Thruway ticket I coulda kept going.
I also didn’t know we were headed for a dive near Peter’s house. When we pulled in I split.
No dive for this kid, and it was my first and final foray with the vaunted Ducatisti. Also my final contact. Even the racing was boring.
Since then the Japanese have marketed crotch-rockets that make my Super-Sport antiquarian. I’ve had four Japanese crotch-rockets myself, and they were much more pleasing.
That Ducati was a pain, but it sure was gorgeous. I used to park it in front of my house, and stare at it.

• 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.

Rules of photo-engagement

—1) Facebook first. Facebooked pictures can be big and large resolution; the bigger they are the better.
Sized small they display small. Upload full size — don’t downsize. Smartphone pictures are HUGE; my iPhone pictures are only 72 pixels-per-inch, but huge.
Run ‘em that way, and they display full-screen on Facebook. Downsize and they don’t fill the screen. If tiny they display tiny.
Then —2) Pictures for e-mail. Screen resolution is 72 pixels-per-inch. E-mail runs at 72 pixels-per-inch resolution. Higher rez has to scroll.
For e-mail pictures I downsize that Facebook picture to perhaps 72 ppi by 10 inches wide. Such a picture won’t hafta be scrolled. Scrolled e-mail pictures inflame my old college friend, who thereafter tells me I’m stupid, and inferior.
Finally —3) Pictures for this blog. This blog displays at 72 ppi, and the column is 5.597 inches wide: 403 pixels. Higher than 72 will step on my blurb at right. Same if the pic is more than 5.597 inches wide.
So what happens to an original photo-file, which may be at 300 ppi (the rez of my camera jpegs,) is -a) pretty much nothing for Facebook. -b) The Facebook image gets downsized for e-mail, but not blog-size. Blog-size would display small in an e-mail. -c) The e-mail image then gets downsized to blog-size. E-mail pictures would step on my blurb, and Facebook size pictures would be beyond-the-pale.
This begs the question of when screen-resolution will advance beyond what it is now, and has been since days of yore = 72 pixels-per-inch; adequate, but last century.
Giant leaps move computer technology way beyond what it was a few years ago. My first personal-computer had only a 40-meg hard-drive. This 10-year-old laptop has 500 gigs. That’s 12,500 times my original hard-drive.
Back then everything was packed in an air-cooled box: horizontal desktop or vertical tower. Hard-drives were rapidly rotating discs. Now the entire universe can be stored on a tiny chip. Hard-drives no longer need to be rotating discs.
My Apple G4 tower had a 60-GB hard-drive. I used to brag that was enough to swallow the entire Pacific fleet.
500 GB is HUGE; I’m only at 25%, and that includes hundreds of 300 ppi jpegs my brother and I photographed of trains in Altoona, PA.
A few years ago I drove my cousin’s Apple tabletop. Its hard-drive was one terabyte; that’s 1,000 gigs. I bet by now multiple terabyte hard-drives are available. Which have me asking “for what?” My cousin’s one TB hard-drive was only at 2%; all he was doing was e-mail. That’s like using a Ferrari Formula-One racer as mom’s taxi.
I can safely downrez a 300 ppi to 72 ppi, but I can’t uprez from 72 to 300 ppi. It “pixilates” (“jaggies”).
With picture-files I follow the order noted above, pertinent to what I need. Most pictures only get blog-sized. Facebook and e-mail size are only if I’m gonna do either. Blog-size pictures to Facebook always ran too small. Blog-size pictures e-mailed also ran smallish.
Facebook seems programmed to resize gigantic image-files automatically to screen-size. Upload blog-size (smaller) and Facebook can’t do that. That file had already been downsized.
The old waazoo: “try it and see what happens” —what got where I am today.
Yet screen-rez remains at 72 ppi; adequate, but ancient. So I gotta do all this resizin’ just to get pictures to display right.
Facebook is doing it for me, I guess. Along with plumbing my tastes for Pooty-Poot, and disseminating pro-Trump malarkey. (Why, pray tell, does Facebook surmise me a dirty-old-man just because I’m a 74-year-old male?)
I upload the image-file, and it displays correctly. And it better be gigantic at high resolution, i.e. something Facebook can safely downsize.
I’m not downsizing it myself like I had to do with my wallpaper picture. But Facebook is displaying on a 72 ppi screen.

Trapped

Killian #2. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“I’m talking to the phone.”
I have to say that lest anyone in earshot call 9-1-1.
Yrs Trly uses voice-recognition to do iPhone texts, lists, and e-mail. It’s fairly accurate if I speak slowly, although often I hafta edit.
“Bob, ya don’t need to do that,” says my hairdresser, the guy who got me into Smartphones. Uhm, no edit = undecipherable gibberish. I had a friend doing that. Hours got blown trying to figger what he said.
I attempted to do a text the other morning, and got stopped by wondrous technology. The “send” button is within the text window. Get near it, and yer text sends complete with errors.
I needed to fix something, but the text filled the window just shy of the “send” button.
Trapped. That text had to wait. Try to fix and yer text sends complete with errors.
I have a new dog; his name is “Killian.” Rescue Irish-setter #5. He’s nine years old, and is another divorce victim. I (we) already had one divorce victim, Irish-setter #4, rescue #2. —We also had a previous “Killian,” IS #5, rescue #3.
Killian-2’s previous owner wanted to be heavily-involved handing over his dog. We both have iPhones, so I texted him often, including iPhone pictures of my recently acquired Killian serenading critters, prewashing dishes/pans, etc.
Recently I texted questions to him directly from my vet.
The other day “I’m at my Town Clerk trying to register Killian. They need proof of neutering.”
Crash! Wondrous technology blossoms again. This time the text wouldn’t fully display in my iPhone, and wouldn’t scroll. I can’t experiment = “try this and see what happens.” My Town Clerk is waiting.
That text wasn’t sent. Another put-aside. Who programs these things? Do they have any clue at all?
Voice-recognition is a nice idea, but fat lotta help it can be when you actually use it. Why is that “send” button where ya can accidentally breathe on it?
In which case I gotta send a correcting text. That’s the five minutes voice-recognition saved.
I know, if I became a tub-thumping CONSERVATIVE everything would be hunky-dory. Merrily goosestepping to Limbaugh and Sean Hannity.
I’m also told I was born in the wrong century.
Uhm, if some teenybopper starts addressing his Smartphone, I bet the adults call Homeland Security.

• RE: “I (we).....” —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.

Six Years

Linda B. Hughes, 1944-2012. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

Six years ago, two and a half days before this date, I took my beloved wife of 44+ years to HosPeace House near Naples, NY, at the behest of a social-worker.
It ended up being our last ride together. She had to be in a wheelchair. On the way I told her she had what mattered: namely what was between the ears.
My wife and I had been wrastling with cancer one and a half years. Chemo, radiation, hospitalizations, oncologist appointments. Cancer was winning.
HosPeace is a hospice, and my wife’s brain was wasting away. My test at that time was lucidity. She remained lucid until the week before.
My wife was a fighter; always researching stuff on her computer.
We’d go to nearby Thompson Hospital, and “theatrics,” I’d say. “Ya gotta go in there in a wheelchair.” Nothing doing! She was goin’ in there on her own two feet.
I remember her fainting once after climbing stairs in a Rochester hospital. No elevator for her. She just had a treatment of some kind.

Her legs are starting to swell again; poor circulation due to cancerous lymph-node blockage. (Photo by Debbie Bell.)

She became weak and gaunt, but I wasn’t seeing it. That lede picture of her in her 20s was still in my head.
Up-and-down it went. Sometimes at death’s door, then incredible triumph = walking our lunging dog at a nearby park. Thompson was blood transfusions, and she felt guilty about it. Transfusions pumped her up, as did steroids. I brought her home so many times I figgered HosPeace was just another stop.
Her mother flew up from FL, and was devastated. I got angrily blamed for committing my wife to “a dump” (her mother’s words), even though HosPeace was that social-worker’s doing.
Her mother wouldn’t leave HosPeace; she stayed overnight, sleeping on the floor. I was afraid I might hafta do a grandstand — I had before.
Finally her mother left; her guilt-ridden entreaties to find religion having crashed mightily in flames. I was able to visit on my own, April 17th, 2012. I took along our dog.
What I found was depressing. My wife was so drugged with morphine I’m not sure she knew I was in her room. Her eyes were closed. I was told she’d soon awake.
Finally I said “So long,” but not “So long for now.” I wouldn’t be taking her home. HosPeace called about 9 p.m. My wife had “passed.” The moving finger writes; and having writ moves on.
Six years have gone by since that sorry day. I’m no longer the person I was back then. I find myself regretting I never was to my wife what I am now — more sociable and tolerant.
If I run out of carrots it’s because I forgot to buy carrots; the “keeper of the grocery-list” is me. Similarly, if the electric-blanket is still plugged in, it’s my fault, not hers.
I wonder how she put up with me 44+ years. Perhaps it was because she felt she couldn’t do any better, a legacy of her upbringing — mainly her mother.
“I look like my mother,” she’d wail. “I don’t wanna be my mother!”
“Ya haven’t growled at me yet,” I’d say.
I’m half insane, but I could make her laugh. She also liked the way I thought.
“I have wonderful news,” I once said. “Of all the places on this vast planet Santa could visit, he’s coming to tiny West Bloomfield.”
“Words like that are why I married you,” she’d tell me.
Now she’s gone, and six years have passed. I still miss her immensely.
Her death begs the question “Why am I still here?”
“Yer here to entertain us,” a lady told me.

• “The moving finger writes; and having writ moves on” is from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, quatrains attributed to Omar Khayyám, dubbed “the Astronomer-Poet of Persia” — translated by Edward FitzGerald in 1859.

Human versus non-human

“Run without it.” (Photo by BobbaLew.)

A self-driving Uber car (I think it was Uber) crashes into a bicyclist and kills her.
Self-driving technology is immediately questioned.
A human-driven passenger-train derails after attempting a 30 mph curve at 80. A northbound Amtrak passenger express derails off a 50 mph curve in north Philadelphia killing some — again too fast = 80 mph. A southbound commuter train at 80 mph hurls off a 30 mph curve just north of New York City.
All these derailments coulda been avoided with “Positive-Train-Control” to override human foulups.
Uhm, is not PTC the same wondrous technology which killed a bicyclist, which a human could have overridden?
So which is better: human or artificial intelligence?
My brother and I monitor our railroad-radio scanners when we visit Altoona, PA, to chase and photograph trains.
We were at Horseshoe Curve, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad conquered Allegheny Mountain. We were listening to train 27N, all westbound auto-racks. 27N was doing Pennsy’s old Middle Division from Harrisburg to Altoona. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern.
27N had two General-Electric diesels pulling, and the newer GEs have a computer thingy called “Trip-Optimizer.” It operates the locomotive as the engineer watches. Hills and load, etc, are all taken into account.
“Trip-Optimizer” was kicking out one of the locomotives. If the engineer disabled “Trip-Optimizer,” that locomotive would run.
Back-and-forth the crew went with various desk-driving supervisors. 27N had a good radio, so we were getting everything.
It’s the old waazoo. Train engineers are clearly inferior to all-knowing management, so hafta report everything. “Trip-Optimizer” engaged, that second unit would run a few minutes, then drop to idle.
Harrisburg to Altoona is essentially uphill. It’s following the Juniata river = a grade, but only a river-grade. Not difficult. 27N operated with intermittent cutouts of that second unit. 27N was approaching Altoona, a locus of railroad management. The vaunted Trainmaster was engaged: heavy-heavy!
At least 10-15 minutes of kowtowing by 27N’s crew, then another 10-15 minutes threading Altoona. Finally “Just run without it,” said the Trainmaster. Like HELLO; probably the same thing all trackside management was saying as 27N proceeded west from Harrisburg.
“Trip-Optimizer” is a step toward train-operation without the engineer. Self-driving trains are the same as self-driving cars.
So a 15,000-ton unit coal-train runs away down Allegheny Mountain, and takes out half of Altoona. Why wasn’t a human on-board to override “Trip-Optimizer?”
“I threw it into emergency,” a train-engineer reports. “This thing was gettin’ away.”
There gonna hafta uncurl my cold, dead fingers from the steering-wheel.

• “Emergency” is full train braking. It usually stops a train — the cars have brakes too; they also are activated.

Mano-a-mano

The Governator.

Who woulda ever thunk I’d come to support “The Governator?”
I always had a good time with “The Governator.” I’d leave my cubical at the Mighty Mezz to go upstairs for coffee. “Ah’l be bach,” I’d growl at my neighbor. Despicable ne’er-do-well that she was, she got it.
My wife and I would head for the supermarket-exit with a cart full of groceries. I’d angle toward the rest-rooms. “Gua-hd the Ka-ht!” I’d growl.
“The Governator” bad-mouths Tweet-Prez. Far-be-it I cheer “The Governator.”
Mano-a-mano! The fight of the century. “The Governator” versus “Cheese-it.”
A while ago I related my MRI joke to a gaggle of retired bus-drivers. An MRI of my brain found no brain, which qualified me to support “Cheese-it.”
“Well, he is our leader,” one complained. “And duly elected too.”
“Sure,” I said; “in cahoots with Pooty-Poot and Suckerbird.”
I should follow “Cheese-it’s” example: fire some higher-up every day, plus grab the privates of every passing female?”
The way to control the news-cycle is daily sheer insanity. Turn politics into “Wide-Wild-World of Prefessional Wrastling.”
I try to be diplomatic. I have too many friends who support what “Cheese-it” supposedly stands for = getting our nation back on track.
But it’s gotten outta hand. I hate to be a pest, but it looks like “Cheese-it” is only in it for himself.
Even Alfred E. Dubya was better.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper. 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.)
• 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 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered well enough to return to work at the “Mighty Mezz.” I retired from that over 12 years ago.

Voicemail

“Will you please stop!” I shouted.
I was at my weekly eat-out with my fellow widower friend, and saw I had a voicemail in my iPhone.
I triggered it. One minute 27 seconds = a record.
My iPhone occasionally gets voicemails, since I don’t answer if that caller ain’t in my phone. Often a business has multiple landlines, and I may only have one number in my iPhone. Calls from such numbers don’t get answered — voicemail for them! If it’s that important, they’ll voicemail.
The unknowns are always after my wallet: charity solicitations, reduced interest on my credit-card balance — I don’t even owe anything. Neither a borrower nor lender be. “Please press one to speak to an actual viper.”
I just got a new dog, a rescue Irish-setter. My vet noticed a fair amount of tarter on my dog’s teeth, and recommended dental-cleaning.
I did so a while ago to a previous rescue Irish. I’m leery. Doggy dental-cleanings require anesthesia. The results are frightening.
This dog is nine, fairly old, but very lively.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada!” One minute and 27 seconds. Most voicemails are only a couple seconds. One minute 27 seconds requires sit-down with intense concentration.
I shut it off. No way can I cogitate all that while consuming broccoli and a cheeseburger.
An entire night passed, including bedtime. I also walked that silly dog this morning at the park — probably almost three miles, if not more.
Now to siddown and glom my cereal. Unholster iPhone, then trigger that message. My cereal had to wait until I listened through. One minute 27 seconds of ceaseless yammering. I felt like I was listening to “War and Peace.”
Yesterday at the Canandaigua YMCA, oldsters in the locker-room complained. “I couldn’t get away from that guy,” one said. “What that guy likes most is the sound of his voice,” another said.
I hope that vet contact doesn’t read this blog — I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.
But SHEESH!

• My new dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s nine, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, a very lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. — Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.

Hup-hup!

“You just gave me a blog-topic!” I screamed.
“YOUR IMMEDIATE ACTION IS REQUIRED!” (Their caps.)
...versus.....
“Your new password will be mailed to you in a couple days. Please check your mail.” (My underlining.)
“Yo Andy,” I yelled. “You want ‘IMMEDIATE ACTION,’ yet I gotta wait ‘a couple days’ for a mailed password.”
“Andy” is Andrew Cuomo, governor of the State of New York.
I have an E-ZPass in my car. It pays my toll on area toll-roads via radio at toll-booths.
Not long ago I changed credit-cards due to fraudulent charges. E-ZPass charges my credit-card to replenish my E-ZPass account. They can’t do so if I changed credit-cards.
I just made a long trip on the NY Thruway to get my new dog. My E-ZPass account needed to be replenished in order to pay that.
NAUGHTY-NAUGHTY! Flat-topped thugs appear in nearby pastures in antenna-festooned vans to warily eye my house through binoculars.
Hup-hup! www.e-zpass.com
    • click “my account”
    • login with your account-number and password
    • click “payment information”
    • enter new information
(Here goes.)
I fire up this computer, aimed at e-zpass.com.
E-ZPass wants a login with password: End-of-Story; like I remember an ozone password.
Supposedly my Firefox Internet-browser has it memorized. The End again: “password invalid!”
Have I gotta do what my wife did? Crank all my passwords into a tiny notebook, since Firefox doesn’t tell me what they are.
Uhm, that’s the same as Firefox memorizing my passwords, which it then enters, and they bomb.
Okay, the old waazoo; done it innumerable times = “change password.” I get that started, then “a new password will be mailed to you in a couple days. (My underlining.)
So much for “IMMEDIATE ACTION!” During those “couple days,” while I anxiously empty my mailbox looking for my new password, the flat-tops destroy my door: “You in deep trouble, boy!”
Fortunately, despite advancing age, I noted their machines presented me with the option of replenishing my E-ZPass account separate from auto-replenish.
I can think of others my age who would have walked away in despair. So far I’ve already blown a half-hour when I coulda been doing something enjoyable.
I successfully replenished my E-ZPass account from my new credit-card. What about “auto-replenish?” “Normal business hours: Monday through Friday, 8 a.m. through 5 p.m.” It’s Saturday of course.
Their machines indicated auto-replenish would be charged to my new credit-card. Really? More dickerin’ with their silly machine. I forget what actually happened, but it sounded like auto-replenish would be from my new credit-card.
I’m not braggin’. I have a hunch anyone else my age would have waited until the following week. “Just call ‘em.” Yeah, sure; machine-city.
Meanwhile the flat-tops disappeared. At least an hour parrying “wondrous time-saving technology.” And an entry-door in smithereens.

Killian Continued

Killian the second. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“Does Killian sleep with you?” a friend asked.
“Of course,” I answered. “In fact, I had to rearrange my bed since Killian was sleeping on the side I previously used.”
“You didn’t make Killian move?” the lady asked.
“Absolutely not!” I said.
“Committed to your dog, aren’t you. Just like I was to mine. Which means we should be committed,” she commented.
“The dog and its housekeeping staff reside here,” says a doormat into my house.
I managed to slam-dunk another Scarlett, another rescue Irish-setter, and probably what Scarlett was when we got her.
Killian hasn’t discovered his harness yet. Scarlett used to show it to me: “Let’s boogie, Boss!” Killian exhibits the pre-park frenzy. “Oh boy!” Spazzing around like a loose cannon, completely wired.
I didn’t expect another monster. Scarlett was nuts, a crazed hunter; extremely high-energy.
I was told rescue Irish are rare. All over the country I looked. North Texas Irish-Setter Rescue, Kentucky, etc.
I switched to looking for English-Setter Rescue, but I tilt toward Irish. So far I(we)’ve had six. My first Irish was late ‘70s. I took that dog for an unleashed walk in a park in Rochester (NY) and suddenly ZAMM! Squirrel number-one.
What was I supposed to do? Discourage the dog? No way José. Irish are hunters. “Hot-tee-tott; hot-tee-tott. I got it, and you do not!”
Almost 30 squirrels died in her jaws, and that included after she was hit by a car. She no longer could chase, so she’d sneak up on ‘em. She’d give us a dirty look: “Yer making too much noise!”
She died of bone-cancer at age-12, so we quickly got another. Not as much a hunter, but she ate an entire rabbit she caught.
#3 was supposed to be company for that second dog, but #2 was devastated. #3 was the Houdini-dog. She ran away during a thunderstorm, climbing our five-foot chainlink fence. We never saw her again.
#4 was our first rescue; that is, from a rescue organization. #3 could also be called a rescue. That dog’s original owner sold us that dog because she was an escape-artist.
#4 was a divorce victim, also very laid back. Not much a hunter, but she did hunt frogs.
Killian #1, dog #5, was very much a hunter. But he’d been severely abused, so even though he was small, a field-setter, he needed a loving home = us.
He was scared of men, including me. He’d start whimpering when I got exasperated by this computer — like he was afraid he’d get kicked.
But he loved taking me for a walk. Sniffity-snort!
Killian #1 died of lymphoma at age-10. My wife found Ohio Irish-Setter Rescue would bring four Irish to Buffalo for a couple from nearby Penfield to consider “Scarlett” as a therapy-dog. We were to consider one of Scarlett’s puppies.
Scarlett immediately hurled the Penfield guy to the ground. “Here, let me try her,” I interjected. “I just put down a high-energy dog.”
The Penfield couple took home Scarlett’s puppy, and we took home Scarlett. I was 64 at that time. “What in the world am I doing at my age bringing home a dog like this?”
At age-13 Scarlett began getting seizures. I had to give up. Neatest dog I ever had, and she hung with me even after my wife died.
So now what? Without a dog to motivate I’m not inclined to hike a nearby park. I’m 74, but not dead yet. I needed a dog to keep me active.
I happen to be on the Yahoo e-mail group of a lady in north Jersey heavily into Irish-setter rescue. She may have informed us about Scarlett, but my wife was the one who always arranged dogs.
Suddenly she announced my(our) second Killian, a nine-year-old male Irish in PA, another divorce victim. “Anyone interested?” her e-mail asked. BAM! I immediately fired back.
She e-mailed Killian’s owner, and told him I(we) got many rescue Irish from her. Which may be, except I never was involved.
Killian’s owner wanted to be involved. Not just hand over Killian to someone not the dog-person I happen to be.
He e-mailed and then called me. The old waazoo: 3.5+ acres fully fenced, two walks per day, the kind of life Killian no longer got with that guy still working. Killian was in-house all day = unfair to a sporting dog.
He decided to give me Killian. We’d meet in NorthEast PA at the NY/PA border. That was last Saturday.
What a shame that poor guy has to give up his beloved Killian, and I get what appears to be another Scarlett. I didn’t expect as much. I keep telling that north Jersey rescue lady I didn’t expect a slam-dunk Irish.
So now to that park again: fourth time in five days.


“Sniffity-snort!” (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

(Not easy to iPhone a photograph behind a lunging maniac.)

The Killian-2 Adventure Begins

Killian #2. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Yrs Trly is now harboring Irish-Setter #7, Rescue Irish #5, dog #8, and my first dog since my wife died.
My wife and I had a Killian #1, a smallish field-setter (60 pounds), another rescue, except he was severely abused.

Killian #1 instructs birds to come outta that tree. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

He lasted only 10 years, dying of lymphoma. At least he ended his days in a loving home. He’d been through two previous homes, both of which didn’t understand Irish-Setters.
He feared men, including me. But he loved walking with me. He’d start whimpering when I got upset with this computer. Probably afraid some man was gonna kick him. (I wouldn’t dare!)

My (our) second Killian. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Killian-2 is a divorce victim. Our Irish #3 was also a divorce victim. Killian’s owner was depressed he had to leave Killian at home all day while he worked. Setters, especially Irish-Setters, are sporting dogs. What fun is it being cooped up in a house all day?
So Killian’s owner contacted ****** ******** of north Jersey, heavily involved in Irish-Setter rescue. He asked if I always dealt with ******. Perhaps, but I had no idea, since it was always my wife who arranged our dogs.
I’m on ******’s Yahoo e-mail group, so I always get notified. “There’s another, and I can’t do anything.” (I still had my previous Irish then.)
She posted Killian — “interested,” I immediately slammed on my iPhone.
I put down my previous Irish after Thanksgiving, my beloved Scarlett, Irish #6, Irish-rescue #4, a fabulous dog. She made 13.
I felt I was aging quickly. Without a dog I had no incentive to walk a nearby park. Killian’s owner e-mailed me, and a torrent of texts began (thank you Apple). He also called me.
It’s depressing he has to let go of a dog he had nine years, but 3.5+ acres fully fenced, partly wooded; best $16,000 we ever spent. Keeps a dog out of the highway. Loud Harleys at 80 mph, crotch-rockets at 100+. Hemis and Big-Block Chevelles at full roar gulping giant gouts of air. (Speed-limit is 40.)
Plus at least one long walk per day, often two. One is at that nearby park, also partly wooded. Hiking that park again is also a challenge for me, 74 years old with questionable balance — 3-4 miles per walk.
But the dog loves it. Running hither-and-yon like a loose cannon, nose to the ground, SNIFFITY-SNORT!
Killian-2 was in PA north of Pittsburgh. I would GPS to NorthEast, PA, just west of the NY border, to Lake Shore Railway Historical Society and Museum. I figgered it would have parking, and I’m a railfan.
The vaunted GPS lady seemed a mite confused. “Head north” quickly followed by “head south” when I headed north. I killed that GPS lady!
GoogleMaps had NorthEast 2&1/2 hours from my house. DREAMIN’! I should have allowed 3&1/2 hours, at least three.
In NorthEast “In 1,000 feet turn left on South Pearl St.” I’m fast approaching a traffic-light that might be 1,000 feet away. I’m supposed to get out and measure?
Quick decision time: I turned left at the light, no street signs. I quickly discovered it was South Lake St., not Pearl. CSX, on the old New York Central, runs through NorthEast, and crosses Lake St., also State Highway 89, on an overpass.
Don’t go under the overpass = zag right, then quick left on Pearl St. “I see a retired railroad locomotive; that must be the museum.” And there’s Killian walking his previous master.
We exchanged pleasantries, and I greeted Killian. I got throughly sniffed. I opened the side-door of my SUV and pulled up the seat-cushion; first time in months. Killian jumped in.
Dog-food, papers for my vet; then so be it. Previous master leaves his beloved Killian, and I make out like a bandit. I end up with a fabulous dog.
Most vocal dog I ever had: “Hey, what are you doin’ gettin’ that mail? GET BACK HERE — WOOF-WOOF-WOOF!” I took Killian to my groomer. “Is that my dog doing all that barking back there?” I asked the groomer-lady when I returned to pick up Killian.
“Yes,” she nodded.
“How does that silly dog know I’m here to pick him up? He’s in the other room behind closed doors.”
A collar is near-impossible; only the Easy-Walk© harness, which attaches in front of his chest. He hasn’t thrown me down yet. LUNGE-YANK! I texted my aquacise-coach: “I don’t think I coulda handled this monster without what we been doing in that pool.” (Swimming-pool balance-training.)
BOINK-BOINK-BOINK! “I wanna go out! I wanna come in!” “Never before have I had a dog bounce at the door.” I took Killian to my nearby doggy-day-care to socialize. He wanted out: Enough already!
Same thing at my back door.

(iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Right now Killian is asleep on my Castro-Convertible; I took him to that park this morning, second foray. He’s utterly bushed, but had a wonderful time: “Who’s that, who’s this? SNIFF-SNORT! SNOFFLE!”
All I hafta do is give the signal. “Let’s boogie!” Like a light-switch. Perhaps more than my crazy Scarlett. May very well be the most Irish-Setter I’ve had.

Voice from the past

“I remember you well! Pots and pan cleaner? Sister *****?”
So says ***** ********, alias “Da Wooze,” on Facebook, a fellow student long ago at my college.
“Pots and pans” is WRONG. Those guys were “pot-room.” I was “dish-room” in my college dining-hall. I helped operate the dishwasher. There were three guys in the dish-room: -1) “board,” -2) “spray-bar,” and -3) “hot-end.”
We also had two-or-three girls on the dish-room staff. They racked dishes for the dishwasher.
Two girls worked on one side of the board, beside a guy who emptied garbage off plates through a hole into a garbage-can below. I preferred “the board,” and the girls wanted me there. This was because some of the guys loved slamming the hands of the racker-girls when emptying garbage. I tried to not slam the girls. That garbage-hole was surrounded by a large rubber “donut.” (Slamming plates on that “donut” more readily emptied garbage.)
“Spray-bar” was a small sink for spraying off dishes before angling them into the dishwasher. I liked “spray-bar” too, because I could spray through ventilation fans to people walking by outside.
“Hot-end” I didn’t like, since you were pretty much off by yourself. “Hot-end” was the emptying end of the dishwasher, and had a long stainless-steel channel to another part of the kitchen, where others put away dishes. (Washed dish-racks got zoomed down that channel — hopefully onto the floor. The people there had to catch the caroming dish-racks.)
I came to know my wife-to-be in that dish-room — although she planned it that way. Shy as she was, she wanted on that dish-room staff because that’s where I was. I didn’t know that. —She also tried to be in my classes.
“Wooze,” otherwise known as *** ********, was one who put away dishes. I think she was “Serve-Up,” but after meals “Serve-Up” put away dishes.
During breaks I jawed with “Wooze.” What a fabulous discussion she was: philosophy, metaphysics, meaning-of-life, etc. We jabbered about everything. I really liked “Wooze,” and considered her a possible. But she had plans for some other guy, plus I also discovered my wife-to-be was after me.
“Wooze” is one of three great female discussions — there also is at least one male great discussion, even two or more. Great discussions are people who can follow what I say, and respond accordingly. Most I hafta explain — which is okay, but doing so often falls flat. They’re interesting and pleasant, but not extraordinary.
First was my cousin ****, then “Da Wooze,” then finally my wife. My wife wasn’t like the other two at first, but she could understand me, so she became an extraordinary discussion.
74 years on this planet, but only a tiny few of the hundreds I’ve met were extraordinary. I tell jokes and most can’t follow. I quickly bore people.
The guy who day-cared(es) my dog is one of the extraordinaries. We notice how often our comments bomb. “I think she got it,” I often say. If not: “I’m not pulling rank. Now you get it. Next time you hear that, you’ll get it.  —Welcome to useless facts!”
“Doozy” is the Duesenberg, a gigantic, megabuck luxury-car from the Depression era. “Whole nine yards” is nine cubic yards of concrete, what concrete-trucks used to carry.
I looked at “Wooze’s” Facebook. Was it actually Wooze?
I’m leery of Facebook. One of my “friends” resulted from them secretly trolling my iPhone contacts. I’m glad I have her, but them secretly trolling my contacts, without my permission, turns me off.
That “friend” also noted a comment attributed to her is fake. At least two of my Facebook “friends” have been hacked. And now charges fly that Trump’s election may be a result of Facebook manipulatin’.
I don’t think so. So Cambridge Analytica secretly harvests a treasure-trove of Facebook user-data. I get “targeted ads,” but they miss the mark. Just because I’m 74, I’m not a “dirty old man.” And because I’m a railfan doesn’t mean I desire 89 bazilyun train-books and videos. I also like cars and WWII-warbird propeller airplanes. Nothing yet!
The other day I made the mistake of downloading a Stormy Daniels pic. She’d be cute without those gigantic watermelons. Suckerbird and his lackeys were quickly onto it. “Dirty old man” ads reappeared on the right side of my Facebook. (I shoulda just screenshot it.)
Was it really “Da Wooze?” If I’m 74, she’s 72 or so. We both have aged. I guess it’s her. ID is debatable, but the height looks right. Wooze was short, and the person on her Facebook is short.
Numerous photos of a bicycle adventure are featured, Along with a workout picture. Sure, remain young; I tried. I used to run, but can’t any more. My wife is gone, and she used to take our dog.
I also had a knee replaced, which makes running impossible. I also had a stroke 25 years ago, but got back to running. My stroke was caused by an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired.
What I do now, lacking a wife, is walk my silly dog. I can still do that, and the dog loves it. We’re hunting; no guns, but sniff-snort!
One other Facebook “friend,” almost as questioning as me (GASP), celebrates the fact Facebook rekindled an actual friendship with a long-lost relative, high-school chum, whatever.
Not long after I instigated my own Facebook, which to me resulted from a Facebook fast-one, a girl I dated in high-school asked if I was who she thought I might be. She promptly hit me with a Facebook “friend” request. I only have 59 “friends,” but she is one of them.
I look at “Wooze’s” cover-photo at one end of a long footbridge in the Appalachians, and beside her bicycle and under her helmet, I see “Da Wooze.”

My calendar for April 2018

Got it. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—“Y90 on One, 257; CLEAR!”
Out of the car in drenching rain, the shot I’ve wanted for years.
“Y90” is an additional section of Extra 590, coal for export from Baltimore.
“One” is Track One, eastbound only. Train-numbers that are even are generally eastbound. Signals on the Jamestown Road highway bridge are at milepost 257. They signal eastbounds on Tracks One or Two.

The old Pennsy signals on Jamestown Road bridge. (Photo by Tom Hughes.)

Jamestown Road bridges the bypass built by Pennsy in 1898. It’s about two miles railroad-west of Cassandra Railroad Overlook where I am. (That’s a YouTube link, readers.)
On the west slope of Allegheny Mountain Track One is uphill, so Y90 is hammering.
I leaned against a tree in the rain, protecting my camera with my jacket. My feet are soaked. Make sure camera is on.
This is what it’s about, readers. I imagined this shot long ago. Perfect lighting, a cloudy day. The tracks thread a rock cut to the right. If the sun is out it can shadow the train.
Louder-and-louder. Run-eight: pedal-to-the-metal!
Finally, there it is. Click-click-click-click-click; I’m on motor-drive (multiple shots).
The April 2018 entry in my calendar is Y90 under Cassandra Railroad Overlook.
Cassandra Railroad Overlook is an old bridge over Pennsy’s 1898 bypass. I’ve heard various inputs; footbridge versus an old highway bridge. It’s substantial enough to be an old highway bridge: concrete deck with iron trusses. But narrow. It’s only one lane, wide enough to clear a Model-A, but not a Wide-Track Pontiac.
Whatever; it’s along the abandoned right-of-way of the original highway into Cassandra. That highway was later rerouted, bypassing Cassandra. But the overpass remained, or was replaced, so miners from Cassandra could safely cross the tracks to work coal-mines the other side of the railroad.
Railfans began congregating on the old bridge to watch Pennsy trains grinding up the grade. A Cassandra resident noticed, so started mowing the area, which is park-like.
Ergo, Cassandra Railroad Overlook, perhaps better than The Mighty Curve (Horseshoe Curve), since it’s shady. Old restaurant tables were installed along with park-benches.
I had to pull teeth to get my brother to go there, but not long after, he took my railfan nephew there. That was years ago. Now my brother-and-I chase trains together near Altoona (PA), and usually include Cassandra.
The Overlook is between two defect-detectors, one at 253.1, railroad-east, at Carney’s Crossing, the other at 258.8, Portage, railroad-west. We take along our railroad-radio scanners, and the detectors broadcast over railroad-radio. If we hear 258.8 on One, we can already see that train’s headlight as it starts the 1898 bypass.
We were at the Overlook once with a bunch of other train-watchers. “Norfolk Southern milepost 253.1, Track Two: no defects.” The watchers began leaving.
“Don’t leave yet,” my brother shouted. “07T is Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian; we’ll see it in maybe 20 seconds.”
Suddenly there it came. Headed west at Cassandra is downgrade. 50-60 mph.


07T at Cassandra. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

“We gotta get one of them scanners,” the watchers said.

• “Tom Hughes” is my railfan nephew.
• From 1959 through the early ‘60s Pontiac marketed full-size cars with a wider footprint. They were known as “Wide-Track Pontiacs.” Such a car would be too wide to clear that bridge.