Humble request

“BobbaLew.” (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“Hello Bob,” said ***** a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA’s gigantic swimming-pool where I do aquatic therapy for questionable balance.
“I have a humble request,” I said to her; at which point my brother from Boston retorts “You never been humble yer entire life.”
“Brothers say that,” ***** commented.
“I never liked the name ‘Bob.’ My siblings call me ‘Bobby;‘ you can call me that if you want. But if yer really hip you’ll call me ‘BobbaLew.’”
WHOA! A slam-dunk; she loved it, or so it seemed.
*****-the-lifeguard is not easy to talk to. She carries immense responsibility. What if someone drowns, or has a heart-attack?
I used to feel that way driving bus, but I think lifeguarding is more intense. Little kids charge about, and there’s poor ***** trying to maintain order.
“Nothing better happen during my watch,” she once told me. Trying to keep passengers in their seats when Granny cuts me off, is comparable, I guess. Although keeping kids from running poolside is even more challenging. To my mind anyway.
So she’s rather reserved, and has every right to be. Were it not for the fact she says “hello” to me, I probably would leave her alone.
I didn’t expect a slam-dunk.
Two days later I hear “BobbaLew” behind me. It’s *****.
“Uh-oh,” I say; “someone’s calling me the name I always wanted.
For 40-50 years I been trying to get people to call me that. Little success.”
“Sometimes ya gotta hit the right person,” she said.
“I got a story if ya wanna hear it.”
“Is it short?” she asked.
“Yep,” I said. “In 1961 when I was 17, I was on the staff of a boys camp in northeastern MD on Chesapeake Bay. I was a counselor-in-training, also a stablehand. I taught campers how to ride horse.
There was another counselor-in-training a year younger than me, and he started calling me ‘BobbaLouie.’ There was a TV cartoon-character named ‘Babbalouie’ at that time.
‘Bob’ is so conventional. I like ‘BobbaLew,’ that’s who I am. Head full of whacko ideas; a disgusting ne’er-do-well.”
I didn’t expect the reaction I got from *****. I wasn’t planning on saying anything. It was so successful I made the mistake of asking others, and crashed mightily.
“I also write a blog, and it’s titled ‘BobbaLew,’” I added.
“Things are coming together,” ***** said.
“LA-DEE-DAH!” I cried.
***** laughed; I love to see her laugh. Lifeguarding that pool is intimidating.
“So far yer number-two,” I commented. “I tried awful hard at the Mighty Mezz, but only got one out of hundreds. ‘BobbaLew’ is who I am.”
An Ed Roth plastic statue is on my bedroom dresser. I did it long ago in college. People ask about it.
“That’s ‘BobbaLew’” I say. “Take care of ‘BobbaLew.’”

• 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 heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at the “Mighty Mezz;” I retired from that over 12 years ago.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. 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.
• Back during the ‘60s a guy from southern Californy named Ed Roth began doing whacko art regarding cars. He was otherwise known as “Rat Fink.” My statue is the driver of a Model-T hotrod, Rat-Fink style. The steering-wheel is in the left hand, and the transmission shift-knob, high atop a long missing floor-shift lever, is in the right hand, fingers curled around the shift-knob, except for that raised pinky.

The disappearing iPhone grocery-list

“Milk, grape-juice, bread, potato, bananas, pear, peach, juice, butter, Pedigree, hotdogs, strawberries, Jet Dry, flaxseed meal, yogurt, corn.”
Yrs Trly keeps his grocery-lists in iPhone “notes.” A capital idea, since I always have my iPhone in my pocket. I can update as I run out.
Gotta be careful. My grocery-list can be totally deleted by breathing on the screen.
I keep five lists. Most groceries are Mighty Weggers, my Wegmans in Canandaigua. I also have a list for “Mighty Tops,” another Canandaigua supermarket, plus “Funky Food Market”= Lori’s Natural Foods in Henrietta.
I also have a list for Canandaigua’s Petco, since I often need dog supplies. My fifth list is a supermarket in nearby Honeoye Falls, which I typically avoid since it has “consistent high prices.” $3.49 for a Ghirardelli baking-bar? $1.79 at Weggers. Lori’s is “Whole Paycheck Foods.”
The other night I set about adding to my Weggers list. What happened? No Weggers list. Another errant screen brush; at least 25 items were on that list.
No way am I gonna remember all the items on that list, and some were important.
Wondrous technology = Apple triumphs again!
I went to my “Notes” screen; it had a “Notes on my iPhone,” and “Notes in iCloud.” iCloud had “recently deleted,” so I tried that. Viola! There was my Weggers list. I erroneously delete a list, and it gets clouded?
Maybe I gotta shop from my iCloud list and start anew on my iPhone.
Okay, how do I copy/paste my iCloud list back into “Notes on my iPhone?” Engage “try it and see what happens.” I tried various icons. One fired up a colored pencil I’ll never use. But one apparently moved my iCloud Weggers list back into “Notes on my iPhone;” this wasn’t the computer copy/paste I’m used to.
I’m supposed to be thrilled? My 25-item list is back in my iPhone, but I have no idea how it got there.
I used to get this from ‘Pyooter-Guru at the Mighty Mezz. “Got it back, didn-cha.” Hooray-hooray! I doubt I could repeat.

• “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.
• 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 heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well. That defect was repaired.)

Happiness is a ’55 Chevy

‘55 Bel Air convertible. (Photo by Dan Lyons.)

—BEHOLD, the car I lusted after all through high-school and college, then well into the ‘70s.
The June 2018 entry in my Tide-mark “Cars of the Fab ‘50s” calendar is a 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible.
People often think I’m a Mustanger. In 1964, when Ford’s Mustang was introduced, I was in my sophomore year of college.
No, I worship Chevrolet’s SmallBlock, the V8 that put Old Henry’s FlatHead, the foundation of hot-rodding, out to pasture.
I remember thinking it was too bad the introductory Mustangs weren’t the SmallBlock. Ford’s new small-block was pretty good, but they weren’t Chevrolet’s SmallBlock.
The SmallBlock turned Chevrolet around. Prior Chevys were bloated turkeys with only the hoary old six-cylinder Cast-Iron Wonder of 1937. I know; I learned to drive in one, a navy-blue 1953 Two-Ten two-door with PowerGlide six.
I nicknamed it “The Blue Bomb.”


The Blue Bomb. (1962 photo by BobbaLew at my high-school.)

All through seventh-grade a friend and I warred. “Ford,” “Chevrolet,” “Ford,” “Chevrolet” at our schoolbus stop. My friend’s parents had a ’53 Ford with FlatHead V8. My parents had that turkey Two-Ten. Seventh grade is 1957.
Thank Ed Cole and the postwar drive for V8 motors. A postwar hotrod generation was coming, and Chevrolet had to meet it. Chevy had to do a V8, and its first proposal was a downsized copy of Oldsmobile’s V8 of 1949. Independent, but pretty much the Olds V8.
Cole proposed differently. Minimize casting expense, and make it light, with high-revving lightweight valvegear.
Instead of putting the rocker-arms on a heavy shaft, Cole went with Pontiac’s new ball-stud rockers. And to get oil up to the heads, valve pushrods were made tubular. That avoided drilling separate oil galleries.
Chevy’s SmallBlock revolutionized Detroit motors. Soon all manufacturers were copying Cole’s V8.
I was smitten myself. A SmallBlock could rev to-the-moon, almost Ferrari like. SmallBlocks responded well to hot-rodding, so became the norm.
Even racecars used the SmallBlock; they could be made incredibly powerful. Give it the means to stay together, and hold on tight! Even Detroit was doing that: forged cranks in four-bolt bearings.
Two cheerleader sisters a class above mine in high-school had a ’55 convertible the same colors as the car pictured. They often drove it top-down.


(Photo by BobbaLew.)

But most attractive was that SmallBlock motor, which meant a ’55 Chevy didn’t hafta be a convertible.
Pictured is the fabulous Two-Ten hardtop owned by young Mitchell of Mitchell’s Department Store near my home in northern DE.
It was probably a six at first, but Mitchell swapped in a 283 four-on-the-floor.


Mitchell’s Two-Ten. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

I’ve flown that picture hundreds of times — the car I desired all through high-school.
By now Mitchell’s car is probably rebar in concrete. He traded for a ’58 ‘Vette — a mistake I say. Right motor; wrong car.
I gravitated toward stationwagons in college, mainly because you could sleep in ‘em. My parents also bought a used ’57 wagon.
But any such car had to be SmallBlock four-on-the-floor.
My parents’ wagon was 283 PowerPak with PowerGlide. It would do 80 in the quarter. I drove it with the air-cleaner off revved to the Moon. It was strong enough to be scary.
SmallBlock displacement increased to 327 cubic inches while I was in college. What ’55 Chevys I drew, and I was drawing ‘em continuously, were 327 four-on-the-floor.
Corvette became more a sportscar for the 1963 model-year, my freshman year in college. But they were still SmallBlock.
Later SmallBlocks went up to 350 cubic inches, even 400 for the late-‘70s Monte Carlo. 400 cubes was a mistake. The cylinders had to siamesed, which compromises cooling.
The SmallBlock was introduced in 1955, 63 long years ago. It’s still being made, although so different from the original it’s barely recognizable. About all that remains are the bore-center measurements, still 4.4 inches apart.
My taste in cars changed over those 63 years. My lust for fast cars waned. I became my paternal grandmother: reliability is what counts. Easy starting and minimal repairs are more important than speed.
The fact I chase trains — I’m a railfan — became paramount. I need All-Wheel-Drive and lotsa ground-clearance. I might hafta chase trains on icy farm-tracks.
Years ago a ’55 Bel Air hardtop appeared in the Swap-Sheet — this is before Craig’s List. I told my wife I had to at least go look at it. 400 SmallBlock, four-on-the-floor. Its owner died; it was the car I always dreamed of.
Daughter and mother took me for a ride. Incredible racket and flopsy handling. It was a piece-of-junk, needing total frame-off restoration. So I throw $40,000 at it. I still end up with an antique on a frame as flexible as an aluminum ladder.
Soon afterward I saw a ’55 convertible swapped to a 454 Big-Block. The guy couldn’t floor it because that bent the frame.
I drove there in my wife’s Honda, slow but a better car.
And convertibles are no longer as attractive as they were. My wife’s Honda was air-conditioned. Roll up the windows, and AC wins.
And sadly, Cole’s SmallBlock was GM’s shining moment. They rested on their laurels while Ford improved their small-block V8. Double overhead camshafts even. Chevy shoulda done that.
Also sadly, I never owned a SmallBlock. Ferrin cars, especially sportscars, replaced the ’55 Chevy. Chevy’s SmallBlock remains desirable. But Ford’s 32-valve DOHC small-block is even more desirable. (My grandmother would be appalled. “Is it a Chevrolet?” she wailed regarding my Vega.)
For chasing trains rocket-speed and mega horsepower are a waste. No way can I chase trains in a ‘Vette or Porsche.

• The “SmallBlock” and “Big-Block” nicknames came later, after Chevrolet introduced a “Big-Block” truck motor in 1958. “Big-Block” motors were also used in cars, often hot-rodded. In 1964 Chevrolet revised its “Big-Block” to generate more horsepower. The ball-stud rockers permitted valve-offset that reshaped the combustion-chamber for better breathing — an almost Hemi. Yet the smaller V8 continued to be manufactured.
• RE: “Siamesed cylinders.....” —The cylinders were so large space could not be designed between the cylinder castings at 4.4-inch bore-centers. This allowed hot-spots where the cylinders were siamesed.
• RE: “Happiness is a ’55 Chevy.....” —Somewhere in this house I have a pencil-drawing of Snoopy (Peanuts) sleeping on the hood of a ’55 Chevy, as he used to do on his doghouse. “Happiness is a ’55 Chevy” is in the word-blurb.

Kershaw Park

Come down outta that tree and fight! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“I’d like to meet Killian.”
So said my aquacise-therapist at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool where I do balance training.
Killian is my new dog; Irish setter #7, rescue #5.
That therapist is probably in her 50s, although who knows? A lifeguard at the same pool told me she’s 62, although you’d never know it looking at her.
That therapist also has a dog, “Maya,” and suggested we walk our dogs at Kershaw Park north of Canandaigua lake. Kershaw is 25 minutes from my house, versus five minutes to Boughton Park, where I usually walk my dog.
But why not? It’s the only chance she’ll get to meet Killian.
I suggested she not bring Maya, since I had no idea how Killian would react walking with another dog.
One end of Kershaw to the other end, and then back. Perhaps two miles. I let her walk Killian — he’s on a retractable leash.
That therapist is in excellent shape, how I used to be when I ran. I also rode distance on bicycle. Now I’m down to walking my silly dog. My left knee was replaced, and I’m overweight.
I still have my bicycle, but it’s retired preferring to walk my dog. My beloved wife of 44+ years, who was similarly athletic, is gone. Taken by cancer.
So now it’s just me and my dog, who loves hunting.
A week later that therapist and I tried again. This time she brought Maya. Same distance, although maybe slightly less. I felt I had to allow for an 11-year-old dog. Killian would romp all day — nine years old, but still very spunky.
I’ve been to Kershaw three more times since, although alone with Killian. That therapist has other commitments. She just became a grandmother. Plus she’s not retired like me.
I have others who wanna meet Killian, but I’m not sure they could do the distance she and I do. I’m sure that therapist could do way more than me.
I decided Kershaw is worth doing. Many more distractions than my nearby park. Runners, other dogs, walkers, bicyclists; and many wanna greet Killian, who loves it: “Pet me!”
And of course Kershaw also has squirrels living in trees: “Meat for the table. We’ll take it home and roast it over an open fire.”

• 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.

“Ledges”

DREAD! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Altoony again to chase trains.
Alone this time. My brother was doing a motorcycle gig, and a retired fellow Transit bus-driver, also a railfan I’ve badgered for years, was too busy.
Train-chases in Altoona are a vacation of sorts, even though only three days. Altoona is five hours driving from home, so two of those days are partly making the drive. I’m chasing trains only one full day.
Train-chasing in Altoona has become fruitless. My brother and I take train photographs, and have already hit just about every favorable location around Altoona.
Many of these locations were shown to me years ago by my Altoona railfan friend Phil Faudi, who had a business at that time leading railfans like me around.
My brother and I found other locations. Phil probably knows ‘em; we just never got to ‘em.
One of Phil’s locations was “Ledges,” a high rock outcropping above the tracks climbing toward Horseshoe Curve.
The first time Phil and I went there he was leery I might not make it. I’m a railfan; we made it. We park in woods 20-25 feet below track level. In fact, we tunnel under the tracks to get to our parking. It’s a dirt-track to Altoona Volunteer Sportsmen's Association. They shoot guns; we hear ‘em: blam-blam-blam-blam!
A side Jeep-trail ascends to the rock-face about 30-35 feet above the tracks. The climb is arduous, the footing terrible. The path is strewn with rocks, and the grade is 20-30%. You probably could get a Jeep up it, but it’s more for four-wheel ATVs.
“Ledges” is not that photogenic. It needs two trains at the same time: one up on Three, the other down on One. And the best view, looking railroad-east, will be backlit if it’s sunny. Looking railroad-west, up The Hill, has to be morning light.
I had only two locations in mind, one of which was “Ledges.” Only because I’ve never run “Ledges” in my train-calendar.
I do balance training in the local YMCA’s swimming-pool. I bet my aquacise coach would suggest I avoid “Ledges.” I also think my brother might defer, as might my retired bus-driver friend.
But I’m alone, and I need that shot. The light was fantastic, not a cloud in the sky, strident morning sunlight. If it had been raining, I probably would have skipped.
I’m not stupid. You won’t find me walking a four-foot lake-dock without handrails. And no footstools for this kid! Stepladders only; I need to be able to grab something.
“Ledges” awaits = dread! If I’m hyper careful I think I can do it. I’m also in fairly good shape, so I don’t think the climb will cause a heart-attack. I’m out in the middle of nowhere, far from civilization. My cellphone is in my pocket; I hope 9-1-1 can ping it.
I made it. Some sit-down in a wash to “Ledges” itself; it’s off the Jeep-track. I set up and waited at least two hours, during which six to eight trains passed. And I got my double.


Extra-591 (empty unit coal) returns to the mines. (Photo by BobbaLew.)


The foul-smelling “trash-train” goes up The Hill behind one helper-set. (Photo by BobbaLew.)


A “slabber” gets pushed up The Hill by two helper-sets (four additional locomotives). (Photo by BobbaLew.)


40-foot shipping-containers get dragged up the mountain. (Photo by BobbaLew.)


Here it is, readers! The whole reason I fought my way up here. A “mixed” descends on One, while double-stacked domestic containers (53 feet) get pushed up Three. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Next was getting back down. I had to crawl some of the wash-path. The last couple feet of it are probably 50-60% back up to the jeep-trail and loaded with rocks.
Again, made it. Toy not with the master! I needed that shot. I thought I could do it. A struggle, but I did it. Up and down added probably at least an hour. But no falls = pay rapt attention to my footing, and I do it.
It’s probably the last time I visit “Ledges;” it’s not that photogenic. Enough for my train-calendar if I get a double — which I did.
After “Ledges” I went to Cassandra Railroad Overlook, an old bridge over the railroad up the west-slope of Allegheny Mountain. Railfans hang out on the bridge. I’ve described Cassandra before.


9805 (GE Dash 9-44CW) hammers probably a stacker up the west slope; assaulting the heavens, under Cassandra Railroad Overlook. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“How come your scanner gets that, but mine doesn’t?” I asked a railfan.
“Depends on where you are, I guess.”
Usually my scanner gets both defect-detectors near Cassandra, but this time nuttin’. All of a sudden here came that picture above.
My other must-do was trackside down in Altoona. 10th Avenue parallels the railroad. It’s another “on-my-own” find. I also went the previous day after arriving (see below). In June, light is still excellent until 5 p.m. when shadows start ruining things.
10th Ave. is not as good as I hoped. Everything has to be just-so. Lighting is afternoon; morning would be backlit. Westbounds are often on the track right next to the street. I prefer ‘em on the middle track — one track over. Plus there is shrubbery to work around.
My railroad-radio scanner tells me something is coming, so set-up is easy. I also hear anything approaching, especially westbounds accelerating for the climb ahead.
Again I made the mistake of arriving late enough for Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian. Same as the day before.
“I think we’ll be waiting for Amtrak to clear,” said the engineer of 23Z to his pusher-crew. They were waiting for railroad over the mountain.
Finally Amtrak came by, and on the middle track, a slam-dunk, but too in-yer-face.


Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian passes 10th Ave. on the middle track; 237 miles from Pennsy’s old Broad Street Terminal (gone) in Philadelphia. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Even more in-yer-face.


Amtrak gone, 23Z passes right next to my vantage point; also 237 miles from Pennsy’s old Broad Street Terminal. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

---

From the day before:

Instead of going directly to my motel, I pulled off in Tyrone. I took pictures, but my camera wasn’t auto-focusing, probably because I hadn’t charged it before leaving home.
I focused manually, and my viewfinder image was wonky.
After Tyrone I went to Riggles Gap Road, which has a highway overpass over the railroad. Again, my pictures were poorly focused, plus Riggles Gap isn’t very photogenic. Both directions look down long tangents.
A 71-year-old on an old Yamaha motorcycle stopped to chew the fat. “Yrs Trly was lucky enough to witness steam locomotives in actual revenue service,” I commented.
He was a railfan. An ice-cream truck stopped atop the bridge, but we didn’t buy. Expect anything on lonely Riggles Gap Road. Cars were occasional, trains frequent.
Next I went to the crew-change point in Rose Yard in Juniata north of Altoona. It’s right underneath an overpass.
An eastbound stacker stopped to change crews. The new crew came off a helper-set they had to tie down, so the crew-change wasn’t immediate. A westbound stacker passed.


The eastbound stacker awaits its new crew. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The dispatcher has to also make sure nothing slams the back of the train stopped for crew-change. Crew-change is taking place on the express through-tracks.
Finally, 10th Avenue in Altoona.
“You want me outta here?” I asked a resident after I parked.
“Be careful,” he advised. “People roar through here well over the speed-limit.”
I set up behind a Jersey barrier. 592 appeared and stopped right in front of me. 592 is an eastbound loaded coal extra.


1126, leading 592, is an EMD SD70ACe, six axles, AC motors, 4,500 horsepower. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“592 in emergency,” its engineer told Altoona-East. (“Altoona-East” is the dispatcher for railroad in and east of Altoona. He’s based in Pittsburgh.)
Racha-racha-racha-racha! A brakie, or the conductor, set the handbrakes on 21 cars — it was probably a 100-car train.


Eastbound stacker passes stopped 592. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

What to do. 592 blocked eastbounds on One. The crew suspected a goofy brake-valve on one of the cars. They’d try pumping up the air again; it held. But 592 needed inspection.
The westbound Pennsylvanian pulled into Altoona’s Amtrak station, and Altoona-East asked its engineer if he could do a roll-by inspection as he passed 592 — that is, make sure everything was still on the rail.
“That you up ahead, 592?” asked the Amtrak engineer. The westbound Pennsylvanian would provide the roll-by.
Here it came: Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian. “Everything looks fine to me,” said the Amtrak engineer.
Cleared, 592 continued east. 23Z was then clear to go up the mountain.


23Z (westbound). Seems 23Z often follows Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian. 592 (eastbound) is back on-the-move. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

• RE: “Trash-train......” —The “trash-train” is an extra train of containers-on-flatcar holding trash and garbage being transshipped to a distant landfill. (“Extra” meaning not regularly scheduled.)
• RE: “Slabber........” —A “slabber” is all gondola-cars. The cars contain thick steel slabs being transshipped to a distant rolling-mill, where they will be rolled into thin sheet-metal. It’s also “extra.”
• Containers for ocean shipping have to be 40 feet. “Domestic” containers can be up to 53 feet = maximum legal highway length.
• A “tangent” is a long straightaway. Railroaders call ‘em “tangents.”

“You got another dog!”

So shouted the Honeoye Falls Goodwill lady. “I’m so glad you got another dog! I knew you would.”
I started tearing up. It’s lability, a stroke-effect = poor emotional control. (“Lability” is a web-link, readers.)
She gave me a gigantic hug, me standing like a lifeless pillar of stone.
“I’m no good at huggy-poo,” I said.
“But I am; good enough for both of us.” She hugged me again.
The Honeoye Falls Goodwill lady, who I hardly know, is a dog-person. I hooked visits to Honeoye Falls Goodwill with taking Scarlett to Boughton Park. She’d make a big fuss over Scarlett.
A while ago I came without Scarlett; I had to put her down (age-13). The lady was devastated, as was I.
So the other day I would visit the first time with Killian. I kept Killian in the car; I’d never get him back if he got loose. But I rolled down the windows half-way so the lady could commune with Killian.
“You got a new master,” she loudly exclaimed, fussing Killian, who of course loves it. Her giant contribution-bin rolled unattended in front of another contributor driving in.
Some back away from a dog, but not this Goodwill lady.

• 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.

Bristol Fun Days Car Show 2018

(iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“You brought yer dog?” exclaimed my good friend *** ******. He was showing his ‘62 Impala hardtop at 2018’s Bristol Fun Days Car Show.
Car-guys are invited to show their cars. Anything and everything. All can attend.


This thing started as a 1988 Celebrity stationwagon. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

My dog is extremely social. I keep him on-leash, so I can pull back if needed. I can tell when to avoid, or let people greet the dog.
As I’ve aged my interest in cars waned. My goal now is to let the dog socialize.
Some chain-smoker fired up his mega-motor Chevette dragster. Rumpita-rumpita-rumpita-rumpita! Giant drag-slicks filled the car’s entire back end. Put yer foot in it, and hang on for dear life!
He shut off and silence returned. Just idling probably consumed five gallons of racing-gas.
“That ‘Vette is a ‘62,” I said to ***. “No food,” I immediately said to my dog, who was after ***‘s chicken-barbecue. So much for talking to ***; I figgered I better skedaddle.
We wandered around, my dog enthusiastically greeting people after fervent barking.
“Oh what a pretty dog! What’s her name?”
“Actually it’s a he.”
“What breed?”
“Irish-Setter,” I’d say. “Rescue too. Craziest monster I ever owned.”
“He sure is friendly.”
“Yeah, ‘I’ll take whatever I can get; PET ME!’”
But not everyone wants to be lavishly kissed.
The British sportscar contingent was there. A couple dolled-up Triumphs, plus two MGs. I had two Triumphs myself: first a TR-3, then a TR-250, which was a 4A with a six-cylinder motor.


A TR-4A, a TR-6, and a TR-3. (The 4A is British-Racing-Green.) (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

TR-4As were independent rear suspension. TR-4s weren’t.
My 250 was one of the worst cars I ever owned, and I flipped the 3 in college with my wife-to-be. The 3s were known as coffins, but I’m still here.
Notable was a rusty old sedan from around 1930.


Moons? (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

No idea what it was, but it wasn’t Ford. It had spun-aluminum full Moon hubcaps on its spoked wheels. —As if they might improve the aerodynamics of a box.
Some of the usual attendees were there, a bone-stock ‘49 or early ‘50s Pontiac sedan-delivery, maroon-and-ivory two-tone; a silver ‘37 Chevy sedan-delivery with SmallBlock power; and a dark blue ‘32 Ford Vicky — all-metal too, the real thing.
“What do I see here?” I asked a guy in a ‘30 Ford Model-A roadster. The hood was off. “Looks like an actual Ford four-banger flat-head.
I also noticed disc-brakes at the ends of yer front beam-axle.”
“Those are Ford too. 1995 F150.”
“So it will actually stop,” I said.
“Yep. The cable-brakes were awful.”
“So yer probably hydraulic,” I said.
As I entered a T-bone hotrod drove in, it’s Chevy SmallBlock crate-motor rumbling at idle.


“T-bone.” (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

A lady held my dog so I could photograph the car. What do you say when the Sheriff pulls you over? Maybe they wanna check out yer car.
What if it rains?

• Once at the Messenger newspaper the girl in the cubicle next to mine sneezed. She happened to do so the exact moment I was Googling an image of a Ford Model-T hotrod. Model-T hotrods were known as “T-bones.” I said “T-bone” as she sneezed, and utterly whacked that she and I were, every time someone sneezed we’d say “T-bone.”

Huh?

Overheard on the local TV news:
“.....wanting to do this project without tax-dollars, by using a state grant.”
(Go figure.)

“I have a college degree”

“College-grads break ‘em; high-school grads fix ‘em.”
So said a clerk at the shoe-store where I was buying water-shoes = sneakers for my aquacise class.
“How do I get these things loose?” I asked, planning to try ‘em on. “I have college degree!”
“Here, lemme show ya,” the clerk said. Which is when he said “college-grads break ‘em; high-school grads fix ‘em.”
He was referring to his time as a jet-mechanic in the Air Force. The F-16 fighter-jocks were all college-grads, but the jet-mechanics got only as far as high-school.
There it is, readers: a line worth stealing.
The other day, eating out with a fellow widower in a supermarket café, I purchased “sauced spaghetti” to eat for dinner. After a long detailed conversation with the deli-clerk, I was handed a microwave container of sauced spaghetti.
“Make sure ya take the lid off before you microwave it; it’s not wave-able.”
“To avoid spaghetti slathered in melted plastic,” I remarked.
I began looking for a microwave. “I know it’s in here somewhere, but I don’t see it.”
“Down in that corner,” another clerk pointed.
Insert topless spaghetti container into microwave. “What’s the trick?” I asked another clerk. “You can tell I graduated college, can’t you? One of them hoity-toity ‘liberials’ who refuse to goosestep to Limberger.”
Somehow I set it for four minutes at 100 percent, enough to convert my spaghetti to ash. I opened the door at two minutes, took my spaghetti out, reclosed the door, and the microwave continued the remaining two minutes.
My head left college filled with Canterbury Tales, Shakespeare, Bach, etc. Also the history of western civilization, plus how to appear you did a huge amount of work with little actual effort.
But can I dicker shoestrings or microwaves? I recruit supposedly clueless uneducated.

• RE: “liberials......” —I’ve been told by various tub-thumping CONSERVATIVES, mostly among my siblings, that’s how “Liberal” is spelled.
• “Limberger” is Rush Limbaugh. I call him that because I think he stinks.

“Find a penny......”

“Any chance I can redeem this bottle-return?” I asked the checkout at a local supermarket. “It’s all I have, and it’s only a dime.”
The lady scanned my ticket and handed me a dime. “You’ll be glad to know I’m one of the few who still pick up pennies on the sidewalk,” I added.
“Find a penny. Pick it up. All the day you'll have good luck,” she said.
I looked at her a few seconds as I walked away, then said “I’m gonna steal that!”
So there it is, dear readers. When I hear a good line, I steal it. Although apparently it’s from a song. So says Google.
“Gotta be heads,” she added. “Tails won’t work.”
Proof yet again: “just say it!”
If there’s anything I’ve learned since my wife died, it’s just say it!
Doing so for this kid seems incredibly risky. I have this habit of getting people mad.
There’s also a chance I’ll hafta repeat. My first utterance usually goes unheard. Or it’s so obscure I hafta explain.
I’m down in FL in 2016 for my wife’s mother’s birthday; she made 100. My brother-in-law and I patronized a Mickey-D’s for lunch. An oldster walked in; he’s wearing a WWII veteran’s hat. “Holy mackerel,” I exclaimed; ”I thought you guys were gone.”
So began our three-hour encounter with “Harmon.” 90-some years old, life story, abandoned as a child, cross-country in a ’32 Ford complete with hitchhiker left roadside in Californy. “Yada-yada-yada-yada;” Harmon needed an audience and we were it.
Then there’s pretty *****, my pharmacist.
“Wanna hear a story?” I asked her.
What in the world am I, a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, doing talking to pretty *****? Years ago we’d call ***** “a looker.” Not exactly cute — she’s often frowning — but not ugly or frumpy.
What I always say about Stormy Daniels is she’d be cute without them watermelons.
***** wanted to hear my story, which was about chasing an Amtrak passenger-train near Altoona in bitter cold. She probably didn’t understand a word I said, but she was smiling broadly. I was telling her a story, and she loved it.
Mrs. Walton is spinning in her grave. Mrs. Walton was my childhood Sunday-school superintendent and neighbor. She convinced me all men, including me, were scum. She also told me Elvis Presley was “the bane of western civilization.” (Her exact words.)
You wonder how I remember this stuff; my response is how could I forget?
On-and-on it goes. Lifeguards at my local YMCA swimming-pool, complete strangers in the supermarket. And much to the chagrin of Mrs. Walton, many are female. I do this with men and they often take offense, despite my not having a fence to offer.
I’m driving back from chasing trains in Altoona, PA. I stop for gas in Blossburg. The pump is dispensing madness: “Beep-Boop! Enter ZIP; unable to read card; try-again!” Wondrous time-saving technology.
“Ever notice how these machines want you to punch in yer account-number, and the first thing the service-rep asks for is yer account-number?”
I said this to a lady I’ll never see again in my entire life. She was probably in her 60s. She laughed; I made her smile.
“I see you were named after the transmissions our buses used.”
“You got it backwards. Them bus-trannies were named after ME.”
ZOWEE-WOWEE! Just say it! Every once-in-a-while I get a slam-dunk.
“Find a penny. Pick it up. All the day you'll have good luck.”

• RE: “Chasing trains......” —I’m a railfan, and have been all my life. When chasing trains I monitor a railroad-radio scanner, and train-engineers call out the signal aspect as they pass a signal. Hearing that, I know where to be to see — and photograph — that train.
• 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.
• My wife died over six years ago.
• “Q” stands for “Quincy.”

Old guys rule

Toy not with the master. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

As you all know, my beloved wife died six years ago.
I still miss her immensely.
She was the best friend I ever had. She actually liked me. After my childhood I needed that.
We were both Houghton College Class of 1966. Together with Houghton, my turnaround began.
That funky little podunk college, out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere, was the first religious institution that solicited and valued my opinions. Instead of automatically declaring me rebellious and of-the-Devil.
Then there was my wife-to-be, Linda, who chased me all through college. I wasn’t aware until my senior year, when two fellow-students told me.
Linda was appalled. She was very shy.
We ended up marrying, despite fervent badmouthing. “What does she ever see in him? He’s not blond.” (Gasp!)
44&1/2 years, proving the badmouthers wrong.
Now I’m alone again. My wife is gone.
One of my college classmates also lost his wife, and almost immediately remarried. I’m not interested. I suppose if someone as interesting as my wife came along, I might reconsider. I don’t expect that.
I’m more interested in what a widow friend is doing: hang with someone to shoot the breeze. Marriage is for youngsters. I’m way beyond that. That widow lives by herself.
I been alone over six years. It’s irksome at times, but I’m not lonely. Much to the disbelief of many, I’m not bored. I’ve always been able to entertain myself: railfaning, photography, cars, computing, and especially writing. I drove friends nuts in college: “How can he be happy by himself?”
My counselor tells me I’m lucky to have so many interests. Many retirees had only their job. To me a job only supported my interests.
The Mighty Mezz was great because it melded computering and writing. The Messenger made recovery from a stroke possible.
There were bumps, but I decided to stick with my wife — my so-called “old sock.”
My wife worried about me; she covered for my stroke defects, especially difficulty making phonecalls. She felt she needed to find a replacement. We lined up friends to parry the hairballs; e.g. our financial advisor, who became my financial advisor.
Shortly after my wife died the IRS dunned me $27,000. I mentioned it in passing, and that financial advisor sprang into action. He suggested a friend refile my income-tax.
End of $27,000.
I also corralled others to solve problems.
The other day my sneakers got soaked walking my dog in wet grass. I put on spare sneakers, but wanted to dry the wet ones. Our (my) dryer had a means of drying sneakers without tumbling, but I didn’t know how.
Clueless-as-always (I graduated college), no longer having a wife to cheer me on. I texted my cleaning-lady to stand in for my wife. I guessed there was a way to operate my dryer without rotating its drum.
She had no idea, so engage guile-and-cunning. I dragged out our sneaker thingy, and noticed it hung from the door-opening — that is, the drum-tub rotated, but the thingy didn’t.
I used to need my wife around to suggest this stuff, or hold my hand so I could see things myself = “ah-hah” moments I was unworthy of because I was rebellious and of-the-Devil.
I have to get used to “ah-hah” deduced on-my-own. 74 years on this planet, so late.

• 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.
• Re: “He’s not blond......” —My wife’s mother, a real pill, lined up my wife with a blond weirdo my wife hated. My wife was supposed to marry a blond to offset mousy hair. (I’m not kidding, readers.)
• 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.
• 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. (“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.)

Prancin’ and dancin’

Killian dances while Maya stalks the photographer. (Getting a good photograph of -a) an antsy hunter hot to put meat on the table, and -b) a dog in pursuit of her master, is near impossible.) (iPhone photo by ******-**** ******.)

Yr Fthfl Srvnt, despite advancing age, has taken on a dog perhaps more than an oldster like me can handle.
The dog is Killian, a rescue Irish-Setter, nine years old — a so-called “senior dog.” But the most extreme and strung-out Irish-Setter I’ve ever owned. Killian is Irish-Setter number-seven.
Scarlett was nut-so, but Killian is even nuttier.
So far so good! He hasn’t pulled me down yet; although I had plenty of practice with Scarlett.
Killian is an avid hunter. “I’ll get it, Boss. We’ll take it home and cook it over an open fire.”
He knows when we’re going hunting; i.e. to a nearby park. He knows the roads, and barks excitedly the whole way there. And you can be sure I walk Killian on a leash; if I didn’t I’d lose him.
Advancing age is why I got Killian, although I was expecting a more laid-back dog. I was falling apart due to no longer having a dog to walk, a result of having to give up on Scarlett — she made 13.
I walk Killian as much as I can, and that’s more than Scarlett. I’m losing weight.
I also do aquatic therapy — balance training — in the Canandaigua YMCA swimming pool. My balance went south. It may be due to neuropathy in my legs = deteriorated nerves.
I also learned to pick up my feet; perhaps independent of my aquatic therapy. That park, full of roots and rocks, prompted many earlier falls. Hardly ever any more, perhaps because I pay attention to my footing.
When I do stumble I can usually catch it. Aquatic therapy gets credit for that. Tipsiness is still present, but I can offset it.
A good friend, in my aquatic therapy class, suggested I get a cane.
“Be a good boy; don’t say anything that would hurt her feelings. But no canes for this kid! I should be able to walk without a cane.”
Killian can be a lunging monster, but he hasn’t dragged me down yet. I use an “Easy-Walk®” harness. It leashes in front of his chest — which reduces pulling — although I let him lead.
Often he goes off-trail to address critters.
Like me my aquacise coach is a dog-person. In fact, my participation in her class is because she and I use the same groomer. The wife is president, and her husband her assistant. Years ago we all worked at the Messenger newspaper.
My aquacise coach wanted to meet Killian. She suggested walking our dogs at a public park at the north end of Canandaigua lake. That’s 25 minutes from me — my other park is five minutes — but why not?
So far we’ve done it twice. The picture is from the second time. The first time my aquacise coach didn’t bring her dog. I had no idea how Killian would react.
Her dog Maya, a Samoyed, is totally blind. Maya contracted glaucoma at age-2; she’s 11. Her eyes were removed and replaced.
Both dogs this time. Killian is not questionable like Scarlett was.
Part of why I’d like to keep coming lakeside is so many more distractions are present. Runners, dogs, bicyclists, other walkers. And of course Killian wants to greet everyone after preliminary barking.
I need to be more aware of reining him in. Not everyone wants to be liberally kissed.

• 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.

My calendar for June 2018

Before the SD40Es were the SD40-2s. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—The June 2018 entry in my calendar, taken a few years ago, is two Norfolk Southern SD40-2s, probably in helper service, rounding Horseshoe Curve.
Allegheny Mountain has always required helper locomotives. From Altoona railroad-west to the summit in Gallitzin is a 12-mile climb of 1,016 feet.
Getting efficiently over Allegheny Mountain was the major challenge when the Pennsylvania Railroad was laid out in the late 1840s. The goal was to build railroad that could crest that mountain without breaking up a train.
The grade had to be slight — it averages 1.75-1.8 %. That’s 1.75-1.8 feet up for every 100 feet forward. To maintain that John Edgar Thomson, original chief-engineer of Pennsy, used trickery. Horseshoe Curve was his master-stroke. The railroad looped a valley to keep the grade manageable.
Recently a tourist at the Mighty Curve asked why the railroad didn’t just trestle the valley.
“Because it woulda been too steep,” I exclaimed. Still, 1.75-1.8% required helper locomotives. But they didn’t hafta break the train. Exceed 2% and yer shortening train-length. Exceed 4% and the train had to be doubled (two sections), or even tripled.
You might get 10-15 cars up 4%. Exceed 5% and locomotives no longer hold the rail — you have to rack.
Now 15,000-ton 120-car unit coal-trains are using that same route Thomson laid out. Helpers are needed. 15,000 tons might require two 2-unit helper-sets at each end. That’s eight additional locomotives, four pulling and four pushing. That’s in addition to the two or three 4,000 horsepower road locomotives that were pulling on the flat.
But that 120-car train is not being sectioned. Thank you Thomson. It’s still the same railroad he laid out.
And part of his challenge was grading technology available then.
“How come the railroad doesn’t just tunnel this mountain?” 50 years later they might have. But in the 1840s a 10-mile tunnel was impossible. The summit tunnel is 3,605 feet. It cost less to continue using the original railroad than dig a long tunnel.
Even with helper-service — a time-consumer = stop the train, add helpers, then later stop and cut ‘em away — that railroad over Allegheny Mountain was incredibly successful.
The locomotives are EMD’s SD40-2s, six axles under a shorter hood. SD40-2s are on the longer frame of EMD’s SD45-2 (20 cylinders), which is why the locomotives have ”porches” in front of the cab, and behind the hood.
The SD40-2s did Allegheny helper-service a long time. Go back far enough and helpers were steam. When I first visited the Curve in 1968, six-axle Alco and GE diesels were being used, often with an SD-45.


A six-axle Alco pushes up The Hill back in Penn-Central days. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

Eventually the SD40-2s wore out. Norfolk Southern decided to downrate some of its SD-50s. At 3,500 horsepower an SD-50 was overstressed and unreliable. Taking them down to 3,000 horsepower, what the original SD-40s were, made an SD-50 reliable.
(SD40-2s are SD-40s with modular electronics., Anything “Dash-2” is modular electronics.)
So SD-50s were rebuilt into the 3600s, the SD40Es. Each helper-set has two 3,000 horsepower SD40Es, 6,000 horsepower per set.
That 15,000-ton coal train gets as much as 24,000 additional horsepower to conquer that mountain. But it’s not being sectioned.
When I took this calendar picture I wasn’t as savvy as I am now. But I did know Norfolk Southern was using SD40-2s as helpers.

• “Cut-away” of helpers has become quite a bit less time-consuming. Many of the 3600s have “Helper-Link,” an application that uncouples helpers on-the-fly.