My calendar for November 2018

Juniata Shops. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—The November 2018 entry of MY calendar is Norfolk Southern’s Juniata Shops (part of Pennsy’s Altoona Works).
My brother poo-poos this picture, which I think is fabulous. It’s not one of his perfectly-lit, in-yer-face photos of a hard-charging Norfolk Southern freight locomotive.
It’s a view Wikipedia uses in its Juniata Shops entry. Juniata Shops, an addition to Pennsylvania Railroad’s Altoona Works, was built 1920-’25. It’s a gigantic facility in Juniata, PA, just north of Altoona.
Pennsy happened to put together the makings of a fabulous photograph. Sixth St. in Juniata goes right next to the shop turntable. An old iron-rod fence keeps pedestrians away from the turntable. It’s not chainlink so I can shoot between the rods.
I went through the Shops after Norfolk Southern took over in 1999. All I remember is a giant V16 locomotive motor suspended from an overhead crane.
The Shops erected steam-locomotives, and also serviced ‘em. With dieselization the Shops converted to service and build diesels. The Shops even built diesels as a subcontractor. Parts were supplied, then assembled and painted. Some of Conrail’s EMD road-units were built by Juniata Shops.
The Shops continued into Penn-Central, then Conrail. In my humble opinion a primary reason Norfolk Southern wanted the ex-Pennsy lines of Conrail was to get Juniata Shops.
Long lines of locomotives wait outside for reconditioning, including recent castoffs from other railroads. Many are Union Pacific. Yer liable to see an operating Union Pacific castoff in a train. It hasn’t been repainted yet.
Were it not for Juniata Shops, Norfolk Southern wouldn’t be rebuilding castoffs.
Pennsylvania Railroad K-4s Pacific 1361 (4-6-2), at one time operable, but now apart to be restored for display, was built in 1918 at Juniata Shops.
1361 was the K-4 PRR displayed at Horseshoe Curve. It was later removed for restoration and operation. It quickly broke something — a drive-axle I think, or ruined a bearing.
Long ago seeing 1361 at the Mighty Curve, my mother liked that it was built in “Juanita.”

“Lock her up!”

I walk my dog at a nearby wooded park four days per week, unless it’s pouring. (The fifth day is elsewhere.) Such walks are about an hour and 45 minutes, probably three miles, maybe four.
My dog is an Irish Setter, so is hunting the entire way. Lunging and pulling: sniffity-snort; barking furiously. “Come down outta that tree and fight! Meat for the table!”
Seasons are changing; fall-foliage triumphs, along with cooler temperatures. The geese are flying south, supposedly; although I’ve seen ‘em head north. “Hey man, who named you leader? South is the opposite direction — HONKA-HONKA!”
So here I was quietly padding behind my monster, and suddenly I heard an almighty racket. A huge gaggle of geese was on short final for a water-stop in one of the park’s two ponds.
“Sounds like a Trump rally,” I observed.
“Lock her up! Lock her up!” I imagine the geese chanting, while Orange-Man basks.
The park used to be a town water-supply. The geese use it as a water-stop flying south. Spring and Summer I see a few geese, but during Fall I see thousands and thousands, all honking loudly.
I used to imagine them goose-stepping to Limbaugh. That was before my wife died. Now the only one to cherish my comments is my dog, who is otherwise occupied.
Fortunately my dog isn’t attracted to geese — my previous dog was. Who knows how many times I was downed by my previous dog pursuing geese?
Them geese don’t seem to be advocating tolerance.

Twenty-five years ago......

.....October 26th, 1993, I got out of bed about 1 a.m. to go to the bathroom. My alarm would go off at 3 a.m. so I could put on my uniform, eat breakfast, then drive 35-40 minutes to Regional Transit Service in Rochester, to pull out a bus at 5:05 a.m.
All of a sudden, POW! It felt like my entire being dipped. My wife and I weren’t stroke-savvy back then, but that’s what it was.
Facial droop, double vision, wonky balance = the usual symptoms. I thought I’d get better if I went back to bed.
I tried, but soon called Transit to report sick, so ending 16&1/2 years of driving bus. Also beginning my long recovery, at least two years.
The weekend previous I’d been in WV chasing a restored railroad steam-locomotive, Nickel Plate 765, with my kid brother. “Jack, you gotta see this thing — it will blow your mind! 70 mph!”
To get there was at least eight hours of non-stop driving. Plus another non-stop eight hours returning. No longer possible, but possible at age 49; my brother was 36.
I was in pretty good shape back then; I’d been running since age 34 or 35. But unknown to me I had a patent foramen ovale, an Atrial septal defect. Prior to birth a passage between the upper two chambers of your heart allows you to use your mother’s oxygen. After birth this passage is supposed to grow over and close. Mine didn’t, a defect common in my mother’s family. Her father had a stroke, and my mother had a “heart-murmur.”
Many have the Atrial septal defect, yet nothing happens.
“Why in the world would a runner have a stroke?” my hospital doctors asked. Tests were done, including a Transesophageal Echocardiography (TEE) (esophagus ultrasound), whereby an ultrasound probe is rammed down your esophagus so your heart can be better looked at.
They found my patent foramen ovale. It passed a clot that probably formed in my legs driving back from WV. My stroke was a thrombosis, a clot-caused stroke.
My hospital wanted to operate right away, open-heart surgery. I apparently was aware enough to tell my wife to “not let them tear me apart. Some day, but not until I’m not so messed up.”
I think I was hospitalized two weeks. All they could do was observe; I arrived too late for clot-busters.
My speech was a disaster, and I was still ultra-excited from chasing that steam-locomotive. A hospital speech-therapist showed how to measure my speech per self-made arm-beats.
Doctors felt my stroke was serious due to my overly-excited speech. I also remember my wife getting mad because some hoity-toity young resident used me to display stroke symptoms.
She also helped me walk.
My general-practitioner came and told my wife I’d be a vegetable. That made me mad. “I’m gonna prove you wrong, Doc!”
“He’ll be all right,” said a dying roommate. “Ornery as Hell!”
After hospitalization I became an inpatient at a rehab hospital. “You gotta set goals,” a therapist told me.
“I’d like to be able to ride my motorcycle again.”
“Are you kidding?” she laughed. “Your motorcycle days are over!”
That made me mad. No one tells that to a Hughes.
Years later I was told my return to motorcycling was miraculous.
Discharged from that rehab hospital I was sent home — with a wheelchair.
“Put that thing in the closet,” I told my wife. “I’ll get around, holding the wall if need be. No wheelchairs for this kid!”
I was allowed home as long as someone was with me. My wife’s mother came up from FL to stay with me. No way is someone who growled at me first visit gonna take care of The Keed. “I’ll take care of myself.” Finally she returned to FL after a month or two of nothing to do.
I began outpatient stroke rehabilitation at Rochester Rehab. An assistant noted she was from Webster, NY. “Where life is worth living?” I snapped. “He can talk!” she cheered.
Within a week they had me cross-country skiing again — on borrowed equipment.
They also had me do carpentry. “Next time you hit Chase-Pitkin for shelving lumber, you take me along. Them boards were so warped I couldn’t nail ‘em together well enough to look decent.”
Rochester Rehab ended after I was cleared to drive. “Don’t clear me if you don’t think I should ride motorcycle,” I told them. But I was still visiting Al Sigl Center for post-stroke psychiatry. (Rochester Rehab is part of Al Sigl Center.) —I rode there on my motorcycle.
“You look fine,” said a cabbie who earlier drove me to Rochester Rehab. He’d had a stroke. “What’s your secret?” he asked. “O-R-N-E-R-Y,” I said. “If you think you can do it, you probably can. You may have to engineer to offset disabilities, but you usually can.”
So now 25 years have passed. I returned to work, but not as a bus-driver. I went with the Daily-Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua after starting as a post-stroke unpaid intern.
It became the BEST job I ever had. What I was looking for before Transit = a word-geek.
My pay was peanuts, but I was having fun. A Rochester Rehab job-counselor wanted to try getting my job back driving bus. I refused. “You’d make a lot more money,” he said. “Yeah, but it wouldn’t be fun,” I said.
Years ago my P.F.O. was closed with open-heart surgery. No more Coumadin.
My beloved wife who stood by me 20-25 years ago died of cancer six years ago. She missed her 50-year high-school reunion, and also our 50-year college reunion — we were the same class.
She also missed The Donald being elected prez — to her that woulda been sickening.
I retired from the Messenger 13 years ago. And just in time, since it quickly changed owners. Newspapers were dying already.
Long story here: they woulda laid me off. My computer-tricks retired with me.

• “Transit” is Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. I drove bus for them 16&1/2 years.
• Back then “Chase-Pitkin,” a one-time Rochester lumber-yard, was a locally-based seller of home-improvement stuff. It was allied with Wegmans supermarkets, and has gone out of business.

Guilty-as-Charged

Anyone reading this blog knows Yrs Trly is doing aquatic balance-training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool. You also know my beloved wife of 44&1/2 years died over six years ago.
I am a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my Sunday-School superintendent and next-door neighbor growing up. Together with my Bible-thumping parents she convinced me at an early age all pants-wearers, including me, were despicable scum.
I was maybe five or six. My parents also convinced me I was rebellious and stupid. I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
Various encounters occurred since my wife died, all of which would have Faire Hilda and my parents spinning in their graves. 14,000 rpm; enough to power the entirety of south FL.
Such encounters could be avoided while my wife was alive. She liked me, so I could avoid females.
Now that my wife is gone I find females are attracted to me — some anyway. “What, pray tell, does she ever see in him? All men are disgusting.”
My biggest balance problem seems to be standing on one foot. I have trouble standing on both feet. My quad strength seems to have disappeared — quads being the muscles in front of your thighs. I’m almost 75.
They pull your leg forward walking, stepping down or climbing, and lifting out of or descending into a chair. Although in the YMCA’s swimming-pool we are walking against water resistance.
Developing quad strength seems to only offset part of my problem, although it may help.
The YMCA’s pool has two lifeguards on duty. One is sometimes *****; I don’t know her last name. She’s attractive for age 62. Up-close-and-personal I see the crow’s-feet, but on her lifeguard-stand she looks 40-ish.
Months ago she said hello to me in passing, so I decided I should have enough nerve to say hello back. There were others before her, but I’m Faire Hilda’s legacy.
Ten years ago I would have walked away scared — my wife liked me. I turned instead toward *****’s lifeguard-stand.
“Did you say hello to me a while ago?”
“Yes I did.”
“I’m late, but hello back.”
Boy am I glad I did that, an act of incredible derring-do for a Hilda Walton graduate. I’ve mucked up plenty since, but she seems to wanna keep talking. She lives with her mother, or both parents perhaps. She’s also happily married as far as I know.
But yada-yada-yada anyway, despite my being no good at it. My wife liked me, so I could avoid talking to females the whole time we were married.
***** convinced her mother to try our aquatic balance training. ***** would help her mother by participating in our class.
A while ago ***** told me she was from Wellsville (NY), 20-30 miles south of my college.
“Okay, correctly pronounce ‘S-c-i-o,’” I said.
“Sy-oh,” she said. (It’s not “Ski-oh.”)
“Now, ‘C-a-n-e-a-d-e-a.’” She got it. ***** was clearly Wellsville.
When I found it was *****’s mother, I asked her mother the same questions.
“I heard the news mispronounce it as ‘Ski-oh,’” she declared.
“And I once heard them say ‘Nun-duh,’” I said. (“Nunda” is correctly pronounced “None-DAY.”)
“Know where Short Tract is?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “That pancake house is in Short Tract.”
(Neither of us knew the name of that pancake house.)
“Anyone who knows where Short Tract is, is worth talking to,” I said. “I bet Gov. Cuomo never heard of Short Tract.”
***** joined our class to help her mother, but seemed to be laughing more at my bumbling ineptitude — which I liked. “You’re totally out-of-character,” I said to ***** as we passed. To me she’s a lifeguard.
We formed a large circle with participants numbered “one” and “two;” I was a “one” and ***** a “two.” We “ones” marched clockwise dosey-doeing the counter-clockwise marching “twos,” shaking hands while passing.
Here comes *****! She grabbed my hand, and gave me a gigantic yank.
“WOW,” I thought. She’s playing with me.
Beyond that staying on my feet during a big yank in that pool is only something I wish I could do.
Guilty-as-Charged! She was playing with me, and I liked it.
By now Faire Hilda and my parents were up to 25,000 rpm, enough to power FL south of Orlando.
Another big yank.
I cornered ***** after class. “You can do that all you want! I really like it. Let’s do it again!” Another big yank.
We did it at least three more times.
“I wish we could do this a lot,” I said. “This is better than my dog pulling me through the park. If I got so I could keep my feet during a big yank in this pool, I might eventually be able to do that big step no hands into that kiddie-pool, or sit down onto a bench no hands without dropping into the seat.
More importantly I’m awful glad I got up the nerve to return *****’s hello. All the nattering-nabobs-of-negativism are weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth.

• “My college” 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.
• A single ***** yank would not be as beneficial as someone towing me around that pool = continuous yanking.

“We never went to no Moon!”

“Why is it,” I asked myself; “whenever I take on ‘time-saving technology’ it turns into another late night? So far well over an hour has been wasted.”
Not long ago I mistakenly triggered e-mail billing from my electricity supplier. I did that years ago, but gave up after madness from their end. I switched back to paper.
But now by mistake I was back to e-mail.
I can’t view the actual bill. It’s a .pdf, and my pdf-reader won’t display it without a secret password. (I don’t remember setting up a pdf password.)
But last month’s e-mail showed what I owed. I paid that. This month they billed me $105.55, which was what I set up in my bank’s electronic bill-pay. But the bank deducted $105.24. Go figure!
The e-mail gave me a “view-bill,” so I clicked that. They wanted a login and password.
So began time-gobbling madness. I decided to try setting up.
They wanted my name. I did that. It bombed claiming my name wasn’t “a valid e-mail address.”
HUH?
I cranked my e-mail address into the “name” boxes, after which it bombed as not a valid name. Back to cranking my name into the “name” boxes. Like before it wanted “a valid e-mail address.”
Yeah, I know: I was born in the wrong century = “we never went to no Moon.” I was being driven in circles, but a millennial would understand.
It also claimed my e-mail address was invalid. I looked it over. It was the same e-mail I always use. They wanted me to set up a new e-mail.
I ain’t settin’ up no separate e-mail just so they can warn me to pull my toaster-plug.
Only one e-mail for this kid; just like only one credit-card.
I also get the gloom-and-doom weather warnings on my radio. “The end of the world is nigh!” Eventually it showers and thunders.
The other day my smartphone screamed loudly. A presidential alert, I’m told. A chance for The Donald to tweet from his Great White Throne.
“Everything is hunky-dory despite them evil Democrats.”
Finally after frenzied searching I found “Contact-us.” Exceed five words and you’re beyond comprehension for most. I screenshot some of the madness, but there was no place to attach.
“Your question will be answered in two business-days.” “WE-SHALL-SEE!” Probably from Indonesia. “We value your business” in broken English.
It was almost midnight when I got to bed having gotten nowhere. Well over three hours “saving time.”
And now Edward Jones, my financial service, sent me a letter claiming my e-mail address is invalid. Again, looked okay to me.

“Déjà vu all over again”

(Top photo by Bert Pennypacker©, bottom by Jack Hughes.)

—Above are two photographs I can’t help comparing.
One is the cover and December entry of my 2019 Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar.
The second my brother took back in 2016 at Tyrone’s tiny Amtrak station. I used it as a cover for my 2017 train-calendar.
The railroad is Pennsy’s old mainline across PA. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern. Tyrone, north of Altoona, is where the railroad turned east toward Harrisburg.
6439, a Pennsy J-1 (2-10-4), is rounding Horseshoe Curve, west of Altoona. The J was Pennsy’s war-baby — it’s not a Pennsy design = Baker valve-gear instead of Walschaerts, and no slab-sided Belpaire firebox.
When WWII broke out Pennsy was stuck with tired old steam-locomotives. Pre-war investment had gone into electrification. Pennsy needed new locomotives, but the war didn’t allow it develop its own steamers. Diesels were also out.
They had to shop around. Various steam-locomotives were tried, including Chesapeake & Ohio’s SuperPower T-1 Texas. The J is C&O’s T-1 slightly restyled.
Pennsy had been conservative, so the T-1 was revolutionary. Pennsy previously abhorred “appliances.” Yet SuperPower was rife with “appliances.” Booster-engines on the trailing-truck, feedwater heat, etc. Stuff that might need repair. Better to just stay away from “appliances.”
Chesapeake & Ohio’s T-1 was Lima Locomotive’s SuperPower 2-8-4 Berkshire stretched. “SuperPower” was meant to maximize side-rod steam locomotives. Primary was a gigantic fire-grate and combustion-chamber, linked to a huge boiler. Such an arrangement was less likely to run out of steam at high usage (high speed). It could keep up with high steam demand.
While powerful, SuperPower was somewhat a mismatch for Pennsy. SuperPower is high-speed, and Pennsy was too mountainous, especially in PA with its Appalachians.
In fact after the war Js gravitated toward the midwest, where gradients were easier. Js could boom-and-zoom heavy coal tonnage to Lake Erie.
Later PRR locomotive development reflected the Js. Suddenly Pennsy was no longer conservative. This is evident in the Q-1 (4-6-4-4) and Q-2 (4-4-6-4) duplexes = four drive-pistons on a common frame. The idea was to reduce side-rod weight by avoiding a 2-10-4’s long heavy side-rods.
The rods of a locomotive pound the rail as they rotate. They can be counter-balanced, but not entirely. Duplexes were a Baldwin Locomotive angle to reduce side-rod weight.
Only one Q-1 was built — it suffered from a dirty rear-engine location, which also constricted firebox size. The Q-2s were more successful— one experimental and 25 others were built.
But they were quickly retired in favor of diesels. None were saved, and they weren’t much better than Pennsy’s J = slightly more powerful, but much more costly to maintain.
No Js were saved either. Pennsy didn’t actually own the Js. Prior steamers were PRR owned. Later were outside investors.
Dieselization was rampant, although Pennsy wanted to remain coal-fired. But the hand-writing was on-the-wall.
Diesels didn’t need water- and coaling-towers, plus the many mechanics needed to keep ‘em running. Availability was higher with diesels, and they were less expensive to run.
Plus diesels didn’t pound the rail.
So during WWII steam-locomotion was essentially finished. Pennsy woulda bought more diesels, except -a) they wanted to remain coal-fired and -b) availability was limited by the war.
“BAMPP-BAMPP-BAMP-BAMPPPP!” (two longs, a short, then a long), a westbound is blowing for Plummers Crossing east of Tyrone. Then it blows again for another grade-crossing just past Tyrone’s Amtrak station.
Here it comes; around the bend!
Photograph from Tyrone’s Amtrak station and the locomotive is in-yer-face. Just like Pennypacker’s photo of 6439 rounding Horseshoe Curve.

• “Déjà vu all over again” is Yogi Berra.

Syracuse 73 miles

73 miles to Syracuse. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—Pictured above is a milepost on New York Central’s old Auburn line.
I made another foray to Ontario Pathways’ trail on Pennsy’s long-abandoned Canandaigua branch. I got on at the fairgrounds and headed toward Canandaigua. Did the same last weekend. Maybe three+ miles walking a lunging hunter.
It’s “a peaceful walk with nature,” a line stolen from my aquacise instructor. Pennsy came north from PA. Toward Canandaigua it turned west, coming adjacent to the old Auburn Road.
Through the woods, rustling the fallen leaves with my feet. Then up alongside the Auburn, which was the first cross-state railroad into Rochester. It’s not New York Central’s main (now CSX), which took a more direct route east toward Syracuse. That came later, and crossed Irondequoit defile.
The Auburn went around the defile; less challenging to 1830s grading. That defile woulda meant down-and-up, or a gigantic fill. Plus it’s wet and flood-prone.
The newer route has the fill, but it’s only about 75 feet high at most, across Irondequoit Creek. The Auburn became New York Central’s bypass. Like the main, it connected Rochester to Syracuse. If the main was blocked, mainline trains detoured over the Auburn.
Quite a bit of the Auburn was abandoned and torn up. Some remains, operated by shortline Finger-Lakes Railway. That Canandaigua branch isn’t used much, so I wasn’t worried about my silly dog standing on its tracks.
Not many railroad shippers are in Canandaigua; it might see one train per day, or every other day. It can be dispatched by train-order via cellphone. Meets never occur.
My wife and I rode that line to Canandaigua once; a Santa Christmas special. We got on in Shortsville east of Canandaigua, then rode west to Canandaigua. Approaching Canandaigua we were down to 10 mph on jointed stick-rail. I think that would be enough time to pull my dog off the tracks.
Hiking that path is slower, except I’m yanked along by a crazy dog. “Who’s walking who?” people ask, although I only encountered three.
One was another guy with a leashed afghan. “I recognize yer dog,” I said. “I had a hunch you were looking for this path, and almost stopped. You almost got hit by an enraged pickup!”
Communing with nature — “a peaceful walk” — accompanied by “sniffity-snort!”

• 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.
• “Jointed stick-rail“ is how railroading used to be until about 30-40 years ago. Rail usually was 33-foot lengths (sticks) spliced together into continuous lengths to make the railroad. Now it’s welded at rail-joints into continuous lengths usually a quarter-mile or more long called “ribbon-rail.” The rail on the Auburn may be older than 40 years, or never converted to “ribbon-rail.” “Ribbon-rail” can safely support more car-weight. “Jointed” rail loosens the splice-bars, which are through-bolted. Welds are stronger than the rail itself. “Stick-rail” was 33 feet to fit the common flatcar at that time.

Who woulda thunk.......

.....the day would come when The Keed no longer watched the local TV-news.
I am a news-junkie. I remember years ago my wife and I were in Sea Isle City on the south Jersey seashore during the Watergate hearings.
We couldn’t leave our motel. The beach was out.
“Be ye not deceived! God is not mocked,” shouted Senator Sam (Ervin), wagging his craggy index-finger at John Dean. “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap!”
Senator Sam and I shouted that together.
I still watch the national TV-news. It’s the only TV I ever watch.
How can I resist? Our prez tweets at 3 a.m. from his Great White Throne. Political machinations from our nation’s capital became a joke. We are so divided it’s depressing — honkies versus everyone else. And The Donald is stoking it. Pop another oxycontin, Rush! —Except Limbaugh has been Trumped.
“Women are doing fine — grab ‘em by the (privates).” (Decorum and taste here, readers. Children may be reading this.)
This is our prez?
Does this matter in Montana or Wyoming? Scientific findings are bunk = drill-baby-drill.
Gigantic tariffs are levied, despite the lessons of Smoot–Hawley. An accused rapist is named to the Supreme Court.
I could go on-and-on. Reaction to the way things became in D.C. was justified, but Orange-Man?
This was supposed to be about no longer watching the local TV-news. Which became boring. Daily shootings and car-crashes in Rochester, or buildings burned. Flames, tears; if it bleeds it leads!
I’d rather watch my train videos. It’s like my occasional jaunts to Altoona, PA, where I watch trains for real. Hammering up Allegheny Mountain wide-open = assaulting the heavens!
It’s escaping reality, of course. But I’d rather watch trains than what’s reported on the local TV-news.

• I’ve been a railfan since age-2.

“News-feed preferences”

“I wanna know why I get e-mail notifications for everything my aquacise instructor puts on her Facebook, yet nothing from my kid brother?”
I was asking ****, the lady who grooms my dog.**** is the wife of **** ********, who I worked with at the Mighty Mezz. **** worked there too.
Both since established a dog-grooming business. Husband **** quickly moved to help after my wife died.
**** has a Facebook, as do I; we are “friends.” But I don’t much look at it. I lob Facebook questions at ****.
My Facebook “friendship” with my aquacise instructor is thanks to SuckerBird and his cronies secretly trolling my iPhone contacts without my permission after I got “Facebook-for-iPhone.”
I sure don’t mind being “Facebook-friends” with my aquacise instructor, but why do I get Facebook e-mails for her posts, yet none for my kid-brother, who probably posts more?
“You gotta check yer ‘news-feed preferences,’” **** said.
“Huh?” I asked. I also have better things to do: like mow lawn, do laundry, walk my dog, and primarily sling-words (write these blogs).
“Why did Facebook become so complicated?” I asked.
Returned from aquacise, I was presented with a prompt-sheet. **** was showing me how to dicker “news-feed preferences.”
I haven’t looked at it yet, but will eventually. My dog awaits, and here I am slinging words — which is great fun.
Is this the new millennium paradigm? Figger out Facebook so you can fiddle it?
My friend ***** (the widow) and I both have iPhones. My aquacise instructor has one too.
A question arises. I text both occasionally, and with ***** I get notification she “read” it. I don’t with my aquacise instructor. I don’t mind, but I’d like to know why.
At first I thought my aquacise instructor might not be updating her iOS, her iPhone’s operating-system. I do, and I think ***** does too — it’s that “read” notification.
But then I realized it might also be an iPhone setting. Like maybe my aquacise instructor stopped her “read” notifications.
I’m not savvy, born as I was during a century fabricated by Hollywood and Walter Cronkite.
So I fired up “news-feed preferences,” after -a) walking my dog, -b) a medical appointment, and -c) mowing. —I also glommed my breakfast cereal after walking my dog.
Uhm, LA-DEE-DAH! (Not you, ****.)
That led to a menu with live buttons. I clicked “Prioritize who to see first.” Again LA-DEE-DAH! Only one “friend” was first, but now many are — including ****.
If all these “friends” are now “first,” who’s actually “first?” (No, “who’s on second, what’s on first.”)
I don’t see this as turning e-mail off or on. It’s fiddling my “news-feed,” which I never look at. I suppose now I will, to see if I fiddled my “news-feed.” Some day, but not right away.
I got things I’d rather do.
Something tells me my “friends” determine e-mail notifications. And they may have done so inadvertently.
(The usual Facebook madness = cloaked in mystery.)

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost 13 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.)
• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

My calendar for October 2018

65V at “the sewer-plant.” (Photo by Jack Hughes.)


—The October 2018 entry of MY calendar is at a location my brother-and-I call “the sewer-plant.” It’s off a highway-bridge to Ehrenfeld just north of South Fork.
At top-right is “the sewer-plant.” Visible is the tower for lime to treat sewage.
I shoot here off my tripod, and use that tower to level my camera. My brother shot hand-held, so what leveling I did, if needed, was by Photoshop on my computer.
The train is 65V, unit ethanol, westbound on Track Three. The ethanol gets blended with gasoline for automobiles, currently to 10%.
My brother has a printout with all the train-numbers. A train’s engineer radios the aspect as his train passes a signal: e.g. “65V on Three, 261, CLEAR!” That’s how we get the train-number. “261” is the milepost signal location from Philadelphia; “CLEAR” is the signal aspect, similar to a green light = the block of track ahead is unoccupied.
My brother’s printout had the contents of 65V. I guess it’s a regular train, but it runs “extra” = not scheduled. Coal and crude-oil also run extra, but also have regular train-numbers. 590 is loaded coal eastbound. Trash and slabbers also run extra. Last month was slab-train #61N. Double-stacks and mixed are regularly scheduled, not extra.
An “idler,” the covered hopper, is between the locomotives and tankcars. The locomotive crew is thereby protected if the train crashes. My brother and I have yet to see a crash, and hope we never do. Track can wash out, or rails break. The train can also derail, or break an axle.
We did view the results of a crash. Loaded auto-racks derailed destroying all the new Hondas inside. Helpers derailed the train through a yard-entrance switch.
Tankcars have immense momentum, so those remaining on track continue into the crash. Those off the track continue into the weeds. Cars pile up, and tankcars rupture and spill their contents. You hope they don’t ignite.
And freight-trains often carry toxins.
65V is downhill off Allegheny mountain. The West Slope isn’t that steep, but dynamic braking is probably engaged.
My first guess was 65V was an empty crude-oil train back to the Bakken oil-fields in ND. Crude-oil unit trains look similar: solid tankcars with an idler at each end.
65V may have needed a pusher-set, two SD40Es, 3,000 horsepower each. Pushers help a train up the mountain, then help hold it back going down with dynamic-braking.
No helpers are up front; no 6300s. Anything 6300 is an SD40E. 6300s are also used as other than helpers. They’re a Norfolk Southern rebuild of an EMD SD-50.
If 65V is empty it probably didn’t need helpers.
Allegheny Mountain was the Pennsylvania Railroad’s greatest challenge. For the 1840s the grading was revolutionary, and even then helpers were needed.
But a complete train could go over the mountain — it didn’t hafta be sectioned. Plus operation was continuous — no switchbacks.
An earlier state-sponsored combined canal and railroad used railroad to portage the mountain. It had steep inclined planes. Flatcars loaded with canal-packets were winched up the planes, usually singly.
Trees are turning. Soon 65V will be plowing snow. Usually not much, but sometimes a thrower has to be brought in. I’ve seen one in Cresson. Switches freeze, and damaging icicles form in tunnels.
Pennsy’s original tunnel atop Allegheny Mountain had to be enlarged to clear double-stacks. I was also widened to clear two tracks: Two and Three. For years it was only Track Two.
New Portage tunnel, Track One across town, was also enlarged. Pennsy got New Portage Railroad, including its tunnel, when New Portage was abandoned by the state. New Portage gave Pennsy a second tunnel atop the mountain. But it was higher; Pennsy had to ramp up to it.
A third tunnel was bored next to Pennsy’s original tunnel. It opened in 1904, and was abandoned in 1995 after the original tunnel was enlarged.

“Some railfan you are!”

The modified PRR bridge over Canandaigua Lake outlet. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)


—Yesterday (Sunday, October 7th) I took my dog Killian to a new walking location, Ontario Pathways’ old Pennsy Canandaigua branch.
The branch was abandoned, and rail pulled. The grading remains — even some of the old railroad bridges.
In the 19th century railroad was built north out of Baltimore (MD) toward the Susquehanna River. It was Northern Central, went through York (PA), and even crossed the Susquehanna over a long single-track covered bridge.
Its original destination was Sunbury (PA) on the river. But eventually, through merger perhaps, it went up into NY state to Elmira. It continued north through Watkins Glen, then climbed to Penn Yan.
Canandaigua became its destination, since Canandaigua & Niagara Falls, what later became the “Peanut Line,” began there. Coal from PA connected to C&NF.
Canandaigua wasn’t far enough, plus most of the “Peanut” was abandoned about 1939. It never became serious competition to New York Central’s mainline across NY state.
Canandaigua & Niagara Falls was merged into New York Central in 1855 or 1857  — historical accounts differ.
Sodus Bay on Lake Ontario could harbor coal-boats, so a large wooden loading trestle was built. I have a long-ago photograph I took of a Sodus Bay trestle, but it was wharf number-two. That second wharf was much larger, and burned November 11, 1971.
Railroad was built from Sodus Bay. It was eventually merged into Northern Central, or maybe Pennsy. I’m not clear on who, what or when. Pennsy took over Northern Central in 1861.
The line to Sodus Bay became primary, and the line to Canandaigua became a branch. Trainloads of coal shipped from Sodus Bay, and Pennsy ran passenger trains from Canandaigua south.
Other railroads, mainly New York Central’s “Auburn Road,” also went through Canandaigua. The “Auburn” was the first cross-state railroad into Rochester, a connection of the Auburn & Syracuse and Auburn & Rochester in 1841.
So now Pennsy’s old Canandaigua branch is just a walking-trail, one of many nearby abandoned railroad grades. Since it was a railroad, it’s flat. The only slope I encountered was where an old railroad overpass over a highway was removed, including the abutments.
It became “a peaceful walk with nature,” a line I stole from my aquacise instructor. She’s the one who clued me in. It’s depressing to think I forgot that old railroad-grade, despite it also being in Canandaigua like Kershaw Park, where I also walk my dog.
A “peaceful walk with nature,” yes. But the old railfan hears ghosts of clattering hopper-cars. Or a Pennsy K-4 chuffing out of Canandaigua.

• Shortly after Canandaigua & Niagara Falls merged with New York Central, Dean Richmond, a NYC vice-president, referred to the line as “only a peanut of a line” compared to Central’s mainline across NY state.
• “Aquacise instructor....” —I do aquatic balance-training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool.

“Women.....”

Yrs Trly and a guy I worked with at the Mighty Mezz — he was an editor — are having an e-mail discussion about women.
“Women, can't live with ‘em ... pass the beer nuts,” he says, quoting a line from a TV sitcom.
I, on the other hand, am surprised I seem to have women eating out of my hand. I’m probably dreamin’, but it’s like they’re fighting over me.
I’m beginning to think it’s because I’m not in pursuit. I’m also old enough to be harmless.
I live alone since my wife died. It’s irksome at times: laundry, cooking, dust, etc. But I’m fairly happy; I don’t need a woman.
I.e. I entertain myself. My counselor tells me I’m lucky to have so many interests, and enjoy writing as much as I do. Most retirees are bored silly.
I certainly enjoy the company and approval of women. But I don’t need it. I’m self-fulfilled. This frees women from having to fend off some drooling lecher. Ladies can talk to me about anything.
And in my humble opinion (“IMHO”), that’s all they ever want mostly. I’m an easy talker, funny, plus no good at macho posturing. The other day 15+ LOUD Harleys assaulted a gas-station I use. Macho swagger! “Uh-oh,” I said to the clerk, a pretty young teenybopper.
I eat out once a week with a widow who like me lost her beloved marriage mate. She told me about a Jane Fonda/Robert Redford flick: “Our Souls at Night.” Fonda and Redford play aging neighbors bereaved of their long-time marriage-mates.
Fonda calls Redford. “I miss someone to sleep with.” Get past all the sexual connotations, and it makes sense. I sleep with my dog, and slept alone before him.
But I understand Fonda’s character missing a bedmate. Fonda appears in her nightgown, Redford in his pajamas, and together they climb into bed.
Forget sex; they’re too old for that.
But nighttime company I understand. I wouldn’t mind having it myself. Fortunately I have a dog who follows me room-to-room.
I have female friends, but a nighttime companion is not needed. Furthermore, I entertain myself. Every morning as I sit down to eat breakfast my pencil comes out, my legal-pad goes down, and I start slingin’ words (write).
Later I hafta key into this laptop. A woman could be a distraction.
Shooting-the-breeze with a lady is pleasant, but could get in the way. Far-be-it I hafta shut the poor girl out.
I find myself having amazing success. Women love shooting-the-breeze, it seems, without having to parry some dirty-old-man.
It’s a shame I had to lose my soulmate to see this.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost 13 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.) (“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.)

Derring-do

In an act of incredible derring-do, Yrs Trly tried his new debit-card for the first time in his entire life.
“I may need help,” I said to the clerk at Canandaigua’s Petco; “born as I was in the prior century, which as we all know was fabrication by Hollywood and Walter Cronkite — we never went to no Moon!”
She didn’t call Security. Say that to the average checkout and they switch on their alert-light.
“Is your card activated?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Shove it into the chip-reader, then follow the prompts.”
”Yer system will probably want a PIN-number.”
“Didja do that?”
“Yep; here goes!”
Actually this new card replaces my ancient ATM-card, which became unreliable due to cracking. Replacement had to be debit-card.
All I had earlier was a single credit-card — not the usual 89 bazilyun with thousands in unpaid debt. Credit-cards delay funds outlay until the monthly credit-card payment is due, which I pay in-full.
Recently my credit-card account-number was stolen. The fourth time, and my most recent credit-card was only a month old.
Suddenly I was between credit-cards. I rejoined the cash society. I eagerly await credit-card number-five.
I visited Petco yesterday, but forgot to purchase dog-kibble. It wasn’t on my iPhone list. Meanwhile there was my new debit-card in my unopened mail. I decided to try it.
“As I understand it, this card charges my checking-account. So I need a receipt so I can enter it.
I also hope you can carry that heavy dog-food bag out to my car. I’m hanging on to a lunging shoplifter.” (I had my dog with me; Petco allows ‘em.)
Next is online ordering with my debit-card. The clerk and I discussed that. But I await my new credit-card. I’d rather put off funds outlay, plus not fork over an inflated price to the merchant.
Actually I pay full-price, but my card-issuer gets 5% (or whatever).
“You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.” No matter which card I use I pay the inflated price. That merchant inflated the price to offset losing that 5%. With my debit-card the merchant collects that 5%, instead of my credit-card issuer, who would use that 5% to pay off his Porsche.
So who’s making out like bandits? I get fleeced no matter which card I use.
“Make America honky again!”