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.”