Facebook to K-Man

(This originally was to be a Facebook post to “K-Man,” a Facebook “friend.” K-Man was an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I began after my stroke as an unpaid intern = post-stroke rehab. They eventually hired me. Instead of discouraging my writing, K-Man encouraged me. 254 words is 253 words more than the usual Facebook post: one-word grunts or “congrats.”)

“Little by little writing becomes less what it was. Figures-of-speech are suddenly out. They hafta be explained (drone.....).
A week ago I was “chatting” with an Apple techie, a millennial (poor baby), and “cranking” lost her. “Cranking” is typing.
Say “we never went to no Moon,” and I’ll hafta explain. “Hollywood and Crankcase,” I’d say; “Crankcase” being “Cronkite.”
No matter how delicious a figure of speech might be to the writer, DUMP IT!
Same with big words. Joe SixPak is not gonna drag out his Funk & Wagnalls. —“Joe SixPak” is Boss-man (our Executive Editor).
I look at that Messenger column I did years ago about “The sun always shines at 35,000 feet” — I blogged it not long ago — and it’s badly in need of editing.
All that’s worth noting is color. What’s viable is my eye. “Grady, where do you get all this madness to blog?” “Marcy, it’s everywhere!”
I could claim my chat-girl couldn’t ”crunch” what I said. “Crunch” would hafta be explained.
Similarly “word-slingin’.” To me that’s writing. Same with “Mexican stand-off.” That’s a dog-fight.
This is ****** (an Editor) with her “keep it short.” If we can get readers past the first sentence, we’re doin’ good.
And don’t forget a little alliteration never hurt anyone.
Can they teach this in writing class? Avoiding passive voice isn’t the jaundiced eye.
Refer to myself as a “paragon of virtue” and ****** (another Editor) gets it. Try that on my lifeguard friend at the YMCA swimming-pool, and I bet I hafta explain.”

• “Marcy” is the young Messenger employee I worked next to before I retired. She is my first “Ne’er-do-Well;” she loved what I was writing. This blog is largely due to her.

Here comes *****

Yr Fthfl Srvnt is at the YMCA swimming-pool for balance-training.
*****-the-lifeguard is across the pool, and I can’t make eye-contact.
“Yo!” I shout, and wave.
“BobbaLew,” ***** says.
WHOA! *****-the-lifeguard, who I consider attractive for being 62 years old, plus a good friend, is walking toward me. Perhaps they were “rotating.”
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, whereby all pants-wearers, including me, are disgusting. Hilda was my Sunday-School Superintendent and next-door neighbor. My parents, hyper-religious zealots like Hilda, heartily agreed. Imagine what this does to a callow six-year-old. No female is ever gonna talk to me.
But here comes *****. Years ago that woulda scared me off, but no longer having my wife, the first female who actually liked me, I’ve learned Hilda and my parents were full-of-it.
Faire Hilda is spinning-in-her-grave. Never in a million years did I think this would happen. Here comes *****.”

• RE: “rotate......” —Two lifeguards are on duty at the YMCA swimming-pool, one on a poolside lifeguard stand, and one on the other side guarding the kiddie-pool. Every 10 minutes or so they “rotate” = swap positions. One also checks the poolside sauna, to make sure anyone in there is okay.
• “Q” stands for “Quincy,” although I’ve also been told it stands for “qulip;” something to do with The Three Stooges.

Walkin’ in the rain

Yesterday (Wednesday July 25th) I decided to walk my dog in Kershaw Park at the north end of Canandaigua lake.
I usually do that on weekends so my aquacise instructor can join me with her dog. But this weekend an arts festival will be at Kershaw, which could severely limit parking.
My aquacise instructor is not retired, so unlike me she can’t do weekdays.
It was a rainy day, but my weather-radar said a break was coming.
My dog was groomed that morning, so we could not go to our usual park. Kershaw is 14 miles away, as opposed to four. But there are many more distractions. Grooming was in Canandaigua.
It was drizzling as we began; we start from a midpoint. We headed toward the eastern end. Lunge-YANK! Fervent barking, followed by “PET ME!”
Not everyone wants to be licked by a overly friendly dog. A pretty young girl was tossing things into the lake for her dog to retrieve — she kept looking at my dog.
We had to give up after a dog-fight.
“Oh, what a pretty dog,” strangers say. “What kind of dog is it?”
“Irish Setter,” I say. “Irish number seven, rescue number five. Extremely hard to find. I was lucky. This dog is a divorce victim. He’s nine.”
“He doesn’t act that old.” LURCH, bark-bark-bark, nuzzle-nuzzle!
“Look at his nose,” I say. “It’s starting to go white.”
Back toward the center-point. A deluge was coming.
“Here it comes,” I said.
We almost made it to the center-point, but it started pouring. We ducked inside an open picnic shelter, and I sat at a table.
It rained buckets. Drainage began washing into our shelter, which had a concrete floor.
Fifteen minutes, but then it stopped. Back onto the path. It looked like we could continue, so we walked westward. All the way to the western extremity, then back toward the center-point.
Not many distractions if it’s rainy. Few joggers or bicyclists, and few aging couples walking hand-in-hand.
It looked like we could continue east; no showers were coming.
I got dragged onto a pier where the Canandaigua Lady docks. A young couple was lovey-dovey, and we were interrupting.
“What’s that unfinished building?” the guy asked.
“That’s the skeleton,” I said. Four stories of open steel structure, roofed but incomplete.
“What happened?”
“The contractor split, I guess. Promises-promises; and it may get torn down,” I said.
“So much potential,” the guy commented.
“Well maybe,” I said; “but it remains unfinished. The north end of this lake may already be overdeveloped.”
It was clearing, so we walked to the eastern extremity, and then back. By then the couple was out at the end of a long open pier kissing. “Give ‘em a year,” I thought to myself; “and they’ll divorce.”
Well, I hope not. 44&1/2 years married to the best friend I ever had. How she put up with me that long I don’t know. She told me it was because I could make her laugh.
“How come every vacation involves trains?” she’d ask.
I’m a railfan. “Better he chase trains than other women.”

• 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 an abusive home, a puppy-mill, or perhaps its owner died. (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.
• The “Canandaigua Lady” is a diesel-powered replica of steamboats that once plied Canandaigua lake. It uses a large rear paddle-wheel to propel itself, and has long smokestacks atop just like old steamboats. It makes charter lake cruises.
• I’m more inclined to think the contractor split because he wasn’t getting paid. The developer may have been stretched too thin.

The beep goes on

When I awoke yesterday morning I heard an ominous beeping in my house; each beep about 30 seconds after the previous beep.
Now what?!
When I finally got up, I checked my cellphone. Perhaps an Amber-Alert.
Nope; “beep” from elsewhere.
I checked all the upstairs smoke-alarms; they like to beep if wonky.
Nope; somewhere else.
I waddled carefully down to my basement — I hafta be careful on steps.
“Beep;” louder. “It’s down here.
It’s that basement smoke-alarm:” “beep!”
That smoke-alarm is hard-wired to a ceiling electrical-box. I need my stepladder: no footstools for this kid!
Before I got the stepladder I had to go to the bathroom, and the toilet plugged.
Next item of business: plunge toilet before getting stepladder. Need to fill a water-bucket; can’t risk an overflow.
Toilet had to be plunged; sometimes a single water-bucket will flush the toilet.
Second water-bucket; I guess it’s flushing. Now the stepladder.
Gingerly take stepladder downstairs to basement. Locate stepladder amidst boxes under smoke-alarm. Stepladder has to be fully expanded, lest I tumble. Relocate some boxes.
Finally able to dicker basement smoke-alarm. Take it down, but can’t unplug it. Need screwdriver to free the plug.
Carefully down stepladder, then back upstairs into garage. Get screwdriver and return to basement. Smoke-alarm unplugged, and taken upstairs. But still “Beep. Beep. Beep.”
Everything on hold. Next is aquacise and Weggers. To do that I hafta daycare my dog, which I do at ********-***** Pet Grooming, operated by **** and **** ********, who I used to work with at the Canandaigua Daily Messenger newspaper.
Meanwhile a web-hosting site I’m beginning wants to know if I got their answer to my question.
“Has to wait,” I responded. “Leave house in five minutes, and two emergencies have arisen.”
My time-window after aquacise/Weggers will hopefully be two hours. At 4:20 p.m. I depart for my weekly eat-out with my fellow widower friend. During that time I hafta glom my breakfast cereal.
I can’t eat before aquacise; to do so means interrupting to go to the bathroom. So here I am glomming my breakfast cereal. “Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.”
Aquacise requires a nap; I ain’t young! But I probably won’t get it.
Some suggested the beeping was probably my basement carbon-monoxide detector, which I forgot. I hope that’s what it is. I can’t sleep with that thing beeping.
At least my garage-door worked, as did my car. And no accidents.
(It was the carbon-monoxide detector.)

• “Aquacise” is aquatic balance-training in a local YMCA swimming-pool. My balance is dreadful.
• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua. Both that YMCA and Wegmans are in Canandaigua, so I hit Weggers after aquacise.

Touch-screen

“What genius thought of that one?”
My friend and I are both retired Regional Transit bus-drivers.
Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, is the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. I drove bus for them 16&1/2 years.
My heart-defect stroke October 26th, 1993 ended my bus-driving. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that over 12 years ago.
My friend was noting the insanity of the touch-screen in his new 2018 Subaru Outback.
Imagine trying to fiddle a touch-screen compared to knobs: Take eyes off road long enough to ascertain where to touch the screen. That’s at least a second, probably more.
Utterly impossible to a bus-driver. “I can’t answer your question now. I’m drivin’ the bus. Lemme pull over first.”
No way in a million years could we take our eyes off the road. We were watching for people who might wander into our lane because they were fiddling their touch-screen.
We had to be able to stop nine tons of hurtling steel without tossing passengers out of their seats. That required intense concentration, plus five-six times more braking distance than suggested.
No way in a million years am I gonna take my eyes off the road to figger where to finesse a touch-screen. I can’t even play the radio while driving. If I could, that radio better have knobs.
“I need a FOUR YEAR COLLEGE COURSE just to change a station?”
“Oh Dora, look: a bus. Pull-out, pull-out!”
Were it not for my added braking distance, I woulda tee-boned that Buick. And Dora wasn’t fiddling a touch-screen.
Years ago a car pulled in front of my car at an intersection. It’s driver was yammering on her cellphone — totally oblivious to my approach. Had not I been a bus-driver I probably woulda creamed her.
Lob a touch-screen at the average driver and yer asking for trouble.
Guilty-as-charged. I can’t multitask.
I don’t think anyone can. Yer doing multiple things in nano-second intervals.
If I try it, I’m into the curb. That happened in Altoona once — into a snowbank. Just brushed; I didn’t get stuck.
My car has Bluetooth. “Ring-ring,” I answer the phone. “I’m drivin’, but go ahead. I may have to butt in to make a turn.”
Sure, fiddle a touch-screen while driving? “What genius thought of that one?”

“Stop!”

“Stop!” screamed a supposedly hand-written letter.
“You don’t need to make another car-payment,” it continued.
“I don’t need to make any payments,” I shouted. “I own my car, not the bank.”
“Looks like another one of them car-sales solicitations,” I said to myself as I opened my mail.
“2591 Rochester Road, Canandaigua.” Probably a car-dealer, the return address carefully hand-written on the envelope corner.
Um, normal people use the preprinted return labels from charities.
It’s amazing what computers can crank out nowadays. Red chicken-scratch on tattered paper. But that “stop, etc.” gave it away.
“Please deposit your wallet, checkbook, and all credit-cards on this table, and we’ll be happy to serve you.”
My 2012 Escape is developing rust. I should be looking, but that Escape is the most dog-friendly car I ever owned.
The bottom-rear seat-cushions flop forward to fill the “dog-swallowing gap” between the front seat-backs, and the rear seat-backs folded down into a floor.
Slam on the brakes, or even slow down, and a dog tumbles into that gap. But not on my Escape. That gap is already filled with the bottom seat-cushions.
I look and look, but so far no one else is doing this. I bought that Escape used; usually I buy new. Our Honda CR-V was new, and filled the dog-swallowing gap.
But the entire rear seats folded forward blocking the rear-door entry. A dog had to angle around those seats.
I haven’t looked at everything. I also need All-Wheel-Drive and high ground clearance to chase trains. I’m often on icy farm-tracks.
Beyond that, I’d rather buy domestic if I can. “I can still see that oily, black pillar of smoke TOWERING above the Arizona.”
And “I don’t know how you can buy a Volkswagen after the London Blitz!”
Three Volkswagens, two Hondas and one Toyota, and four Japanese motorcycles.
And I can’t get interested in Korean cars. That Fucillo guy turns me off.
I also would rather buy a Chevrolet. I’m a Chevy-man. The fact my Escape is “Fix-Or-Repair-Daily” has relatives spinning in their graves.
I should let go of the most dog-friendly car I ever owned to line the pockets of that salesman? I bet he’s not driving that chintzy Jeep Compass he’s offering.

• RE: “Chase trains....” —I’m a railfan. I chase and photograph trains.
• “Fucillo” is Billy Fucillo, a gigantic blowhard with auto-dealerships all over western New York. Local is Fucillo Hyundai and Fucillo Kia. He blankets the local airwaves with “HUGE-AH!”

Huggy-poo

“You know I’m no good at this huggy-poo stuff.”
I said that to ******, a friend at Honeoye Falls Goodwill. ****** is always thrilled when I show up with Killian, my new rescue Irish Setter.
I took Killian to a nearby park, and had an errand in Honeoye Falls.
“Nothing to give you this time, unfortunately. All I have is my dog.” I let Killian out of my car after a torrent of noisy barking.
Here goes. “I promised myself I would at least try.”
Only one arm so far — next time we try both.
Fear of sexual harassment charges, perception of being deduced a creepy old geezer.
It’s my history: graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. No female would ever wanna be hugged by me.
Hilda was my Sunday-School Superintendent, and my neighbor during childhood. My parents, heavily into Bible-beating like Hilda, agreed I was disgusting. My father was mad I couldn’t worship him as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
“Oh Hughes, will you get over it!” shouts **** ********, who I years ago worked with at the Mighty Mezz. “Hilda is dead-and-gone.”
14,000 rpm in her grave. Harness her and my parents and they could power the entirety of south FL.
Ya don’t just “get over it.” Marked for life from an early age.
What would my deceased wife think? A little jealous probably, but also relieved I was learning Faire Hilda was full-of-it.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 12 years ago.

New Keyboard

Yr Fthl Srvnt is finally back to the 20th century. I’m one of them drudges that prefers a full computer keyboard, instead of my laptop’s cramped apparition.
My laptop’s keyboard was driving me crazy. Mistypes galore!
Same with its track-pad. Every time I visit my ‘pyooter-guru I suggest he take over. “Here, you drive. I’m too spastic with that swipe-pad.”
I had a previous peripheral keyboard. It was left over from my ancient G4 tower. I spilled chocolate on it, gumming it up — and lunching it.
My mouse is 10-15 years old. A replacement of my original G4 mouse, which tanked.
“Track-pads,” I guess that’s what ya call ‘em, are supposedly the new paradigm. But they slow things down, as does that laptop keyboard. I’m faster with the old way of doing things.
So I go somewhere with my laptop. Do I take my peripherals or don’t I? Depends. If I’m flying I leave ‘em behind. Doomed to mistypes and slowness, but I get by.
I took my laptop to Fort Lauderdale a few months ago. Last time. I can use my iPhone to fiddle most computer functions: e-mail, etc.
But not the heavy stuff. I’m sure I could Photoshop with an iPhone. But my laptop would leave that iPhone behind.
Do them engineers at Apple have any clue? Compress everything into a tiny iPhone. Their virtual keyboard is insane. Thank goodness for voice-recognition, but I hafta edit out nasty language.
The new keyboard is from Walmart*, ordered online. I hafta get used to it, since I got used to my laptop. The new keyboard is not my ancient keyboard, which had more resistance under its keys. It drives like my laptop, i.e. breathe on it, and text enters.
It’s Macally, el-cheapo at $29.95. Supposedly identical to a Windows keyboard. Apple’s splat-key (“⌘”), is also the Windows key.
Funny, how Windoze became identical to Mac OS-X. My wife, gone six years, had a Windoze PC. Perhaps I coulda used her old keyboard, except it was identified as a Windows keyboard — it had a few different keys.
Mac-Shack, my computer place, had a Macally, but it lacked the two USB ports my new keyboard has. One of the USB ports on my laptop is inoperable, so I need a port for my mouse.
I coulda gone wireless, but a friend advised I’d need spare batteries.
So here I am banging away on this new Macally. I keep my distance, since breathing might enter erroneous text. Mistypes galore, which seem more frequent as I get older.

• Apple’s splat-key (“⌘”) is apparently a “Command” key. The Windows dubya key (“W”) is apparently identical. They probably do different things per Windoze versus MAC. (Blood has spilled over which is superior.)

Ape-hangers became non-ethanol

BLAPPA-BLAPPA-BLAPPA-BLAPPA!
A loud Harley idled into the gas-station I was using. Its rider was wearing a face-mask. His arms reached sky-high to reach the long ape-hangers he had on his Harley.
I was tempted to ask how he steered, but didn’t for fear he might shoot me for not wearing an American-flag tee-shirt — or for desecrating said flag if I’d worn such a shirt. Trump is prez; blowhards ascendent.
Macho-man pulled up to the other side of the pump I was using. Fortunately I drive a Ford-product, not Japanese or German as in the past. “I can still see that pillar of oily black smoke TOWERING above the Arizony” — or “I don’t know how you can drive a Volkswagen after what they did to London!”
Macho dude removed his mask, and asked if I knew any stations that sold non-ethanol gas. He sounded as placid as the rabbits my dog chases.
“Go down 5&20 to where Route 64 turns south toward Bristol, and look for Toomey’s Express on yer left before the turnoff at the light. They sell non-ethanol, one of three or four grades, and I forget which brand — it used to be Sunoco,” I said.
“I’ll just buy this ethanol-premium; I’d rather buy non-ethanol.“
“How much ya got in yer tank?” I asked.
“About half a tank,” the guy added.
“Oh you’ll make it; it’s only 6-8 miles,” I said.
Macho-man thereupon idled toward the convenience-store: BLAPPA-BLAPPA-BLAPPA-BLAPPA! He seemed awful friendly for all that racket.
“Just because ya pulled in here, doesn’t mean ya gotta buy something,” I thought to myself.
Ape-hangers and racket seemed to be all image. Mask off he was hardly a grizzled Harley dude.

• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) through my area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where I live. It used to be the main road across Western New York before the Thruway.
• I’ve since been told the Harley-dude was probably an evil one per-center. The fact his Harley was black, and the fact he was wearing a face-mask, both indicate he was Hell’s Angels, face covered to avoid being identified in photographs. Far be it I understand the Harley schtick, with its many symbols and arcana. He was an awfully nice guy; the opposite of most hyper-macho Harley dudes I’ve met.

RE: “Full Throttle”

My aquacise-instructor has other duties at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool. She also leads pool exercises that include extreme physical exertion: so-called “full-throttle.”
The balance-training I do doesn’t.
That lady is in Hampton Roads, VA, showing her new grandson to her parents and others. The baby’s parents are also along.
She Facebook-posted a photo of herself and her grandson in a swimming-pool. Some wiseacre commented about teaching him “full-throttle” exercises.
Thoughts occurred I didn’t comment.
Railroad steam-locomotives were “throttled.” The amount of steam admitted to the cylinders was controlled by a throttle. Valve-events were also varied. Opening and closing could be limited. Only recently have automotive gasoline-engines started doing that.
Allow a steamer to use too much steam, and it will puke out.
A long linkage connected the steam-locomotive throttle to a large lever in the cab. That lever usually hinged from the cab-ceiling. Pulling the lever back opened the throttle. Wide-open the lever hit the ceiling, which is how we got “throttle-to-the-roof!”
Gasoline engines are also throttled. The mixture of air and vaporized gasoline is throttled. Wide-open throttle permits maximum air/gasoline. To me that’s “pedal-to-the-metal,” the gas-pedal floored. Slang, but the same as “full-throttle.”
Diesel-engines aren’t throttled. The amount of air supplied to cylinders is determined by a supercharger (or “turbocharger”) which pumps and compresses air into the cylinders. The air isn’t throttled.
Diesel power output is a function of how much fuel is injected into those supercharged cylinders. This is true of diesel trucks, railroad locomotives, and also the gigantic diesel engines in ships.
Diesel locomotives have eight fuel-delivery settings. Maximum is “run-eight,” the equivalent of “full-throttle” — except diesel engines aren’t throttled.
Locomotives climbing Allegheny Mountain west of Altoona are in “run-eight” = “assaulting the heavens!”

Facebook to *****

“Yer PRIVACY is the price of admission to the 21st century.”
I said that correcting a dreadfully long post to the Facebook of a girl with whom I attended college. I was changing “security” to “privacy.”
That girl was in the running. She was such fun to talk to I was interested.
Thankfully nothing came of it. We would have been at each other’s throats in no time. I married another college cohort who became the BEST friend I ever had. Cancer took her six years ago.
Yrs Trly has a Facebook. I do little with it. The fact I have one is due to a fast-one by Suckerbird and his cronies.
How this girl discovered me I have no idea. Perhaps I was suggested having graduated the same college. Facebook does that to maximize “friend” suggestions.
This wasn’t the first time. My first high-school “girlfriend” (?????) also contacted me via Facebook.
LA-DEE-DAH! We’re Facebook “friends,” as are me and my college friend.
My high-school friend lives on the other side of the continent.
“Are you who I think you are?” my college friend asked. “Pot-room at Houghton?”
“Nope,” I said. “Dish-Room.” She was “Serve-up,” then she put dishes away after washing.
So began our exchange of fond memories = our long ago yammering in the college dining hall.
Kierkegaard, metaphysics, meaning of life, etc. A fabulous discussion. 74 years on this planet, and I count people who follow my philosophizing on one hand.
That’s not elitism. I have too many friends not into philosophy. I often have to explain what I said. I avoid philosophy — people are interesting without it.
But I didn’t avoid philosophy with this girl; my wife neither.
52 years have passed since I graduated college, and I left that girl behind.
No matter! I consider myself lucky to have ended up with the best friend I ever had. She actually liked me, and after my childhood I needed that.
But it’s pleasant to strike sparks again with my old college friend. Perhaps we can meet sometime.
What follows is some of my Facebook post:
“I never regretted Houghton. It was the first religious institution that valued and solicited my opinions, instead of automatically adjudging me a threat to thems in command — i.e. rebellious and ‘of-the-Devil.’ That was ******** and ****** at first, then ******* and also ******.
I barely graduated, but can still recite Shakespeare’s 116th sonnet from memory. Also ‘WHAN that Aprille with his shoures soote, The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour.’ That’s the opening lines of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Middle English. *** **’s fault.
And every quagmire is a ‘slough of despond’ = Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan.
I woulda been attracted to Bach anyway, but Houghton sealed it. ‘Brandenburg Concertos,’ ‘Air on a G String,’ ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring’ segued into Louie-Louie on the Gao upright. (Click the link, *****; it’s the greatest rock-’n’-roll song OF ALL TIME).
Green Onions on the Steinway Model-D concert-grand in the Chapel-Auditorium. (“Once you’ve played a Model-D everything else is junk.”) —I lost piano with my stroke.
All that stuff still rings in my head — thanks to that funky little Podunk college out in the middle of nowhere. I’ve yet to figger out the microwave at my local grocery, which has a “Market-Café.”
I too attended my 50-year college reunion. The place no longer is what it was when we were there, but that bell-tower still rings every hour.
My turnaround from a dreadful childhood began at Houghton, plus it bequeathed me THE BEST FRIEND I EVER HAD.”

• “Houghton” (“HO-tin;” as in “oh,” not “how” or “who”) is Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated 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.
• 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.
• “Gao” is Gaoyadeo Hall at Houghton. It was a dorm, but also had a dining-hall. That dining-hall had an upright piano I often played, usually boogie-woogie, much to the dismay of most Houghtonians. Gao was torn down years ago. “Gaoyadeo“ is an indian term.

Again Goodwill

“Now why did I come here?” I said to the Goodwill-lady in Honeoye Falls.
She was ecstatic I came with Killian, my rescue Irish Setter, after walking him at a park.
The Honeoye Falls Goodwill-lady is clearly a dog-person. Killian is gorgeous and nutso = BOINK! SLAM! “Bark-bark-bark” followed by “PET ME!”
“Here, lemme see if I can get him outta my car,” I said.
I opened the door and collared him; I use an Easy-Walk® harness. It attaches to his chest.
The lady noticed. “There is no way I could walk this dog without that harness,” I said.
I handed her Killian. She was obviously thrilled.
“You made my day!” she shouted.
“So why did I come here?” I asked.
“All I have is this tattered old shirt,” I said.
“You told me yer no good at huggy-poo,” she said; “but I am.” She gave me a gigantic hug. Next time I will try.
“I was in the habit of feeling like I was falling apart,” I commented.
“Yer a spring-chicken!” she shouted. “Killian is gonna keep you young.”
“The other day a pretty young girl at Kershaw Park told me I didn’t look 74.”
Silver hair and beard, outta shape, knee replacement, lousy balance. “If you say so; I ain’t done yet.”
I returned Killian to my car, and the Goodwill-lady skipped back into her contribution-center, bouncing at her computer-screen.
If me and Killian can thrill her that much, “We’ll be Bach,” as the Terminator used to snarl.
Me and Killian seem to get that a lot.

• “Kershaw Park” is at the north end of Canandaigua lake. I try to take Killian there once per week, since it has so many more distractions.

“Why is it.....

....ladies are so much more fun to talk to?”
I said that to the girl returning my dog from doggy daycare.
“I’m down at the gas-station, and RUMPITA-RUMPITA-RUMPITA-RUMPITA! An orange Plymouth RoadRunner drives in.” Plymouths are no longer made.
I had just got out of my car, so I walked toward the RoadRunner.
“I heard ya comin’ in. I thought it might be a Hemi.”
“440” it said on the hood-bulge. Not a Hemi. “But a 440 is impressive,” I said.
“575 horsepower,” the owner bragged.
With that I walked away.
Ladies are more interesting. No posturing or gamesmanship.
I say something, and the dude wants to score points. Ladies don’t seem to do that, or so I’m finding out now that my wife died. Ladies smile and laugh at my jokes.
I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my neighbor during childhood, and also my Sunday-School Superintendent.
To pass muster with Hilda girls had to be prim and proper, knees covered. In other words boring.
All men, including me, were “despicable scum” (her words). My parents, Bible-beating zealots just like Hilda, heartily agreed. Imagine what that does to a callow six-year-old.
My whole time growing up I got this. Happily married 44+ years I could avoid it. My wife actually liked me.
How Hilda bore two sons with a smoker of Lucky-Strike cigarettes I’ll never know.
And some of the girls I jaw with are “lookers.” I never expected such. That’s Hilda’s legacy.
So 60 years late I’m finding ladies are interesting. And they seem to find me interesting.
Faire Hilda is spinning in her grave. My parents probably are too.

• A “Hemi” has hemispherical combustion-chambers, which make it breathe extremely well. “Hemis” could be very powerful. There have been three Hemis. First was 1951 through ’58; second was hemispherical heads on the large Chrysler V8 during the ‘60s. At 426 cubic inches they were extremely powerful; eventually outlawed by NASCAR. The third Hemi is recent, and I don’t know if it’s actually hemispherical combustion-chambers. I may just be Chrysler cashing in on the Hemi reputation.
• The “Q” stands for “Quincy.”

I woulda walked away

I’m sorry I keep harping on this. I can talk to pretty girls. It’s AMAZING!
I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, whereby as a callow youth I was convinced I was “despicable scum.” Hilda was my next-door neighbor during childhood, and my Sunday-School Superintendent.
To her all pants-wearers, including me, were disgusting. I was told no female would ever wanna talk to me. My parents, Bible-beating zealots like Hilda, heartily agreed.
I was walking my dog this morning at Kershaw Park north of Canandaigua Lake. He dragged me onto a pier, and it has handrails, which I want having questionable balance.
“Oh, I didn’t see you here,” I said to a pretty young girl on the pier. Not long ago I would have walked away. She had been running, and was taking a breather.
“Oh, what a pretty dog,” she said. Killian, my rescue Irish Setter, was copping a nuzzle.
Discussion ensued. Faire Hilda is spinning in her grave. My parents too, probably; although my mother became depressed I was estranged.
44&1/2 years I was married to the best friend I ever had. The fact she actually liked me meant I could avoid attractive ladies. Now that she’s gone I find pretty ladies attracted to me.
“I am 74, ya know,” I said.
“Ya don’t look it,” she said.
“Oh stop!” I said.
“Do you walk every day?”
“As much as I can. That’s why I got this dog. He’s a divorce-victim. Poor guy had to give up his dog, and I got him.”
Again, Faire Hilda is spinning in her grave. 14,000 rpm! Harness her and my parents and they could power all of south Floridy.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years 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.

Audio-text

“Wait one cotton-pickin’ minute,” I said. “That snap-icon was red, which tells me this iPhone might be recording.”
Fiddle-faddle = “Toy not with the master.” I’m falling apart physically, but the old brain still works fine.
I had mistakenly caressed the text voice-recognition button. It gave me a red record icon.
When I record video with my iPhone, the snap-icon is also red.
I was doing a voice-recognition text to my aquacise therapist, who also has an iPhone.
Play-time! I should be walking my dog up-the-street, but it’s thundering. My weather-radar says a downpour is coming.
Something was on the keypad about holding down the microphone icon to record. Try it and see what happens, the way I figgered out most techno devices.
No classes, no manual: “Put that thing away. Real men don’t use manuals.”
If I touch and retract, it stops recording. Gotta hold down that red button.
When I graduated high-school in 1962, stuff like this was beyond imagining. My wife died six years ago. Back then this was probably nascent. My wife is missing out.
I sent the voice-text to my aquacise therapist after playing it back.
No response. I recorded another and sent that. I attempted a multiple voice-text, but one was to my hairdresser, a Google-guy. Has to be iPhone I guess.
Aquacise therapist responded, thinking I made a mistake. No one ever sent her a voice-text.
Yes, I had made a mistake, but I ran with it.
I then tried a multiple iPhone voice-text, and that sent. I also voice-texted a lady who I know has an iPhone. But she was in a public place. They woulda called security.
I have to tell others I’m talking to my phone, lest they call 9-1-1.
Land-o’-goshen! What will they dream up next? Them Apple programmers make life interesting.

I’m losing weight

Bunny rabbits beware! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

The Keed (me) is losing weight.
It’s Killian’s fault, my silly dog. I walk him twice every day if it’s not pouring. That is, if it’s raining gently we go for a walk.
I’m 74. Losing weight was not intended. I got Killian to remain active. Losing weight is an unexpected side-effect.
I’m no longer the skinny athlete I was when I ran. I’m at least 50-60 pounds overweight. That’s 190 versus 130-140 pounds when I ran years ago. It got over 200, even 225.
Killian loves hunting. He’s an Irish-Setter. Walking is hunting: Sniffity-snort! Nose to the ground.
Walking is always on-leash, except in my backyard, which is fenced. If he wasn’t on-leash I’d lose him. Zoom! “Meat for the table. I’ll get it Boss! We’ll roast it over an open fire.”
We hit a nearby park every morning except Tuesday and Thursday when I do aquatic therapy at a local YMCA. Every evening is up-the-street and around a small town park, which is just athletic fields. “Let’s boogie!”
Altogether 4-5 miles per day, at least 2-3 or which are in that wooded park; and it feels like I should consider going further.
So the other night we walked up-the-street. It rained off-and-on all day. I checked my iPhone’s weather-radar, and it looked like the rain had passed.
It was pushing 7:30 p.m., but “Let’s boogie!” I should be doing supper, and the next day was trash-day.” Assemble all trash and put it out the previous night, lest it not be collected at 5:30 a.m., for Heaven sake, the next day.
Up-the-street we started; lurch, BAM, sniffity-snort! Around the park as always. Often there are child soccer or lacrosse games, so Killian snags a feel from mothers. “Pet me!”
Halfway around I use a Johnnie-on-the-spot. Ablutions finished, I cinched my belt. WHOA! One hole tighter than before. I been inching toward that hole, and now my usual belt-hole feels loose.
Before Killian I was two holes farther out. Walking Killian reduced me one hole, and now it’s two.
That wasn’t the plan, but it’s happening. “Take me Master! We got work to do! Bite-size bundles of protein.”
No changes in diet, but I’m losing weight.

“Chatting” with Christa

“Hello Robert. Thanks for chatting with me this afternoon. I hope you're doing well and I am happy to assist you.”
(Oh STOP! Just answer my question!)
“There should be an orange link at the top right hand side of the web page that says “checkout” or “basket”.
(Yer double-quotes should be after the period, honey! Tub-thumping CONSERVATIVES LOUDLY excoriated our Mighty Mezz head-honcho for faux pas like that.)
“You can access the basket here: https://www.orvis.com/store/basket.aspx
Are you still with me?
I’m sorry, but I believe that we may have been disconnected as I have not heard from you in some time. If you have any other questions, please feel free to come back into chat or you may e-mail me at cs@orvis.com and I'll be glad to assist you further.”
(Yep. I split. —Meanwhile, can you say “comma?” Yer blathering is desperately in need of commas. You can also trash “that.” [The proofer speaks! Mouthing the advice of my good friend ****** ******, ex of the Mighty Mezz = “Keep it short.”])
Two months ago, Yr Fthfl Srvnt got a new rescue Irish Setter to replace Scarlett, who I put down last Thanksgiving. She made 13.
My new dog’s name is “Killian;” he’s nine, a divorce victim. Like Scarlett I always walk him on-leash. If I didn’t I’d lose him. Sense a deer and zoom!
I also had him chipped. A microchip was inserted in the flesh atop his neck. A chipped dog’s owner can be identified.
I also ordered a personalized collar with my name and cellphone number embroidered on it. That saved Scarlett twice.
Unfortunately that new collar is too big. I ordered “large” when I shoulda ordered “medium.”
Almost two months have passed with Killian wearing Scarlett’s old collar, only because that has my phone-number. I been getting flak from people to get Killian his own collar.
It was so hot I couldn’t mow, so I had time to drill a new hole which would tighten the oversized collar. Still too big; part of the lettering was obscured.
I figgered I’d order a “medium” — I could afford 26 buckaroos. I fired up “Froogle,” in search of personalized dog-collars.
Begin online ordering; what I did months ago to misorder. Where I found Scarlett’s collar, also online, I have no idea. That was 10 years ago.
I measured Scarlett’s collar to get the correct size. The misorder was 4-5 inches too long.
At this point friends tell me to quit being rebellious and stupid. I should drive all over creation, perhaps 100 miles, to accept something I don’t want.
Well, online leads to what I do want, and I’m not leaving my house. And Heaven-forbid I prefer dickering wondrous technology.
Color-choice = blue.
Embroidery-choice = white. I had to peruse three or four sites to get that. Many don’t allow lettering color-choice.
I set up to order. “Place in basket.”
At this point stroke-effects horn in. “Scroll the site dude; there’s a lot more than what’s on yer screen.”
Okay, where’s “view-cart”or “place order?” I don’t even see “continue.” I looked around, stroke compromised as usual. I noticed “chat.” I clicked that.
So began my “chat” with Christa. Yeah I know: born in the wrong century, and we never went to no Moon. And now quotes come before end punctuation, unless yer Limberger railing against the media.
In her favor Christa prompted my ordering a collar for Killian. Which I hope gets critics off my back.

• 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.)
• “Limberger” is Rush Limbaugh. I call him that because I think he stinks.

My calendar for July 2018

20T charges toward MO. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—“Let’s go to ‘MO,’” my brother said. “MO” are the old telegraph call-letters of a trackside tower once at that location. Now it’s just crossovers, plus where I think Track Four ends. The railroad also has a service facility nearby for helper locomotives — helpers for Allegheny Mountain. Branches, once Pennsy but now Corman, connect there.
Eastbound toward MO passes Cresson on a long tangent. It’s also uphill, but not dreadful. Some eastbounds get helpers. The track is Allegheny Mountain’s west slope.
The July 2018 entry in my calendar is Norfolk Southern doublestack 20T past Cresson approaching MO. Signals are at MO, and 20T’s engineer called ‘em. We got that on our railroad-radio scanners, which is how we got the train-number.
I set up my tripod looking railroad-west down Track One, which is only eastbound approaching. “How come I never saw this before?” Usually I avoid long straightaways, but this looked fabulous.
Here it comes: snap-snap-snap-snap! The picture is my second-to-last.
“In-yer-face” is what my brother shoots. But my last is too “in-yer-face.” The fact I can do multiple shots offsets shooting too early. Multiple shots are great, but my iPhone can do “bursts;” perhaps 10-20 exposures out of which I get get one useable. The others I delete.
I was at a location not long ago, wide-angle with trains doing 60+. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam, and hope I can use one. My Nikon is fairly fast, but not “bursts.”


Got it! (Photo by BobbaLew.)

It’s digital photography dudes. When are Nikon and Canon gonna catch up?
It helps 20T is solid doublestacks. Often the well-cars have only one single container. If the train is “mixed” it wouldn’t be artistic.
My brother always shoots the other direction: westbounds approaching past MO. That gets MO’s signals. Lighting always favors westbounds through MO, which illuminates locomotive fronts.
My direction could be backlit, especially if the sun were strong.
But as my railfan friend from Altoona says “If it’s cloudy you can successfully shoot anything.”