“Sweetie”

“Got any sweeties?” a cousin asked prior to our annual south Jersey Thanksgiving gig.
That cousin knows I’m a widower.
“Nope!” I exclaimed. “I did so extremely well I ain’t lookin’. Someone might drift into my life that changes my mind, but I don’t expect that.”
My wife was one of the extraordinaries. During the near 75 years I been on this planet I’ve met thousands. Only five were extraordinary. Three were female, and one I happened to marry.
Of the women one was a cousin, one a girl I met in college, and one was the one I married, also met in that college.
There probably were others, but I been shut out since childhood.
My wife wasn’t extraordinary at first, except perhaps to her female friends. And what does a 23-year-old male know when so driven to procreate? (Taste and decorum here.)
Apparently enough to send one girl packing. She had big plans for me, but I knew I couldn’t be the person she wanted me to be, so I gave her the “Dear John.”
“We think alike,” my wife used to say. “I was thinking the same thing you were.”
I also could say anything, and didn’t hafta explain. Kierkegaard, sick puns, meaning-of-life, obtuse words: extraordinaries, both male and female, get ‘em.
I have befriended a few ladies since my wife died, and they would be sorely missed. But they’re not my wife. Most are entirely different; I wonder why they let me be friends.
I remember a guy across the street badmouthing his wife: “I hafta get away!” he said.
“I really like my wife,” I said, ruining macho posturing. Deafening silence = Party-Pooper!
I been on-my-own over six years, and would miss the women I’ve befriended. How I managed to do as well as I did is beyond comprehension. Easy-to-talk-to, harmless, a bleeding-heart liberal?
The one half insane was me, but my wife was extraordinary.
“So maybe you’ll be back next year with someone.”
“I doubt it,” I said.

“Share,” not Cher

A girl with whom I attended college “liked” two pictures my brother Facebook “shared” (I guess).
She was one of three female “extraordinaries.” One was a cousin, and the other I was lucky enough to marry.
There are two male “extraordinaries.” One, from long ago, tried to make me a “DeadHead” (Grateful Dead). A user of marijuana, mescaline, LSD, etc. I refused.
The other is current. I worked with him at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, and he became religious. He moved quickly after my wife died.
“It’s gonna take a full frontal lobotomy to reverse what’s in my head,” I told him.
“A bottle in front of me is better than a frontal lobotomy,” he quipped.
That girl probably found me in Facebook’s Houghton College group. An old girlfriend living in Washington state found me in our high-school group.
I also happen to be “friends” with my aquacise instructor, after SuckerBird and his lackeys secretly trolled my iPhone contacts.
An actual friend badmouths Facebook as a waste of time. My aquacise instructor countered Facebook was excellent for keeping track of family.
A girl in my high-school class suggests the same. Her Facebook is only to keep track of family. My aquacise instructor is more involved. She uses her Facebook to spread love and joy.
I fire it up fairly often, since love and joy are better than the posturing I usually see.
I have little time for Facebook. Writing is more fun. A guy I drove bus with says Facebook is for people lacking a life. Furthermore, Facebook is too complicated. I have no time or inclination to figger it out.
My college friend “liked” two photographs my brother “shared.” I guess that’s what he did. The photographs were a family Thanksgiving breakfast, and I’m in ‘em.
I wondered how she knew about those photographs. I don’t know what “share” means. I tried it recently with a video, and it appeared in my “timeline.” Does that mean all 58 of my FB “friends” can see it? —I was born in the prior century.

• Houghton College in western New York, is from where I graduated with a BA in 1966.
• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and CEO of Facebook.
• 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 a newspaper (the Daily Messenger). I retired from that almost 13 years ago.

There it is

625 Jefferson Ave. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—In cahoots with an annual Thanksgiving gig with south Jersey relatives, I returned to my childhood, also in south Jersey. It will probably be my last time; I’m almost 75.
My first 13 years were in this house in Erlton (as in “Earl”), a small sleepy suburb in NJ east of Philadelphia. 625 Jefferson was built new in 1943 (I think — records are imprecise); I was born in 1944. It was my father’s move out of urban life, Camden, NJ, across from Philadelphia. His parents lived in Camden. My father was first-born; as am I. I think it cost him $5,000 — he sold for $18,500 when our family moved to Wilmington DE; he got a better-paying job.
Five years ago our house sold for $235,000. WOW! Of course, a dollar ain’t worth much any more.
So here I was driving east toward Erlton on NJ Route 70 — we called it “Marlton Pike,” and it was U.S. Route 40 back then. Marlton Pike was a main route to the Jersey seashore in the ‘40s and ‘50s. I consider myself a “child of the ‘50s.”
Garden State Park horse-racing track was gone, replaced by various commercial outlets, including a glitzy Wegmans supermarket with a huge parking-lot. —Wegmans is based in Rochester, but is expanding all over the northeast.
The gigantic wooden grandstand at Garden State Park burned often. About the only thing that gave away the location was the large girder railroad-bridge over Marlton Pike erected years ago to get the Pennsylvania Railroad’s seashore service into Philadelphia without ferries. It may have been a grade-crossing at first.
I remember my mother slamming on the brakes of our ’41 Chevy, and throwing out her arm to hold back my sister and I standing in the front seat.
I passed the Grove Street intersection toward Haddonfield — it was no longer a traffic-circle (they call ‘em “roundabouts” now). Marlton Pike narrowed to the same four lanes through Erlton as years ago separated by a wide grassy median.
There was the Edison Ave. traffic-light that caused so much consternation when installed. And I also saw Dr. Gleason’s office building, with its once-frigid exam rooms, still at Grant Ave. But Dr. Gleason is long-gone. (“Drop your trousers, please” = penicillin-shot coming.)
My mother refused to use Dr. Gleason because he was Catholic (we were Baptists), until I got hit on my bicycle by a maroon ’47 Ford, and Dr. Gleason was the only one to assist.
I turned down Madison Ave. —The streets were much narrower than I remember. Then I turned left on Jefferson, and suddenly there it was! The house where my life began.
Across the street was “The Triangle,” an open field where my parents tried to get me to play baseball with the neighbor-kids. I always was the last one picked, assigned to right-field. I thought “sink-out” meant leave the game.
“The Triangle” seemed much smaller than I remember, and the entire area more grown in. The old sycamore tree my mother and a neighbor saved by not allowing town-workers to treat it for “cancer-stain,” which killed all the sycamores, was gone. When I visited 20-25 years ago it was still alive — one of the few sycamores not killed. But now a large oak lives nearby.
Plus the old sidewalk I used to play on has been replaced, including the crack where I used to operate my toy dump-trucks. That sycamore was between the sidewalk and the curb, and also caused the crack.
The house appeared tiny, much smaller than originally perceived. I had the front bedroom before we moved, and my parents the bedroom over the garage. I think the car pictured might fit in that garage, but cars are bigger now. I remember giant late-’50s tailfins sticking out partially-closed garage doors.
Our ’41 Chevy fit, as did the first car I remember, a ’39 Chevy my father tore into one afternoon in a rage. Valve-gear, carburetor, distributer, etc. all over the street — he had no idea what he was doing.
He also painted that car with a paint-brush, after a neighbor painted his ’49 Pontiac, also with a paint-brush. My father also hand-painted a long yellow pin-stripe, and did an impressive job. We Hugheses are artists.
My father’s concrete front patio remains, along with its wrought-iron fence cemented in tiny orange-juice cans. That red-tinted concrete has fill-bricks from the 1953 Erlton-School addition.
Prior to the patio we had a yew-tree. I remember my father, raging as always, pulling it out with a rope tied to the ’39 Chevy’s rear-axle. He almost blew the clutch!
We never had shutters, and the garage-door is not original. I bet the front door was replaced too — we had to slam it with full body-weight into a hip. I bet the windows were replaced also.
I didn’t go around back, but realtor Internet photos show the same addition my father designed, built by a friend in 1954 or ’55. Our backyard also seemed large back then, but I’m sure would seem tiny now. Back then people burned their trash, and my father built a stone fire pit. What a joy it was to incinerate exploding aerosol cans.
My next stop was Haddonfield to the south, where my mother did grocery shopping, banking, etc. Haddonfield is an old Revolutionary-War town. I drove along Cooper Crick (not “Creek”) toward Kings Highway, then up the hill (Kings Highway) into Haddonfield.
Haddonfield High-School was enlarged, an addition built out front on Kings Highway. My father walked me to a Haddonfield High Thanksgiving-Day football game when I was about 8. That game was a tradition against arch-rival Haddon Heights high-school — I forget who won.
During the ‘40s Erlton residents were still attending Haddonfield High-School. But not me; I was the cusp of the post-war baby-boom. But I’m not a boomer; I’m a war-baby. Fifth Grade for me was double-sessions. Delaware Township High-School opened as I began seventh-grade.
Deeper I motored into Haddonfield, past Grove St. and the majestic Haddon Fortnightly. Plus the Victorian abode of blowzy Mrs. Dager (“Day-grrr,” not dagger), our church organist (Hammond B-3).
Mrs. Dager was my second piano teacher, who terrorized my sister and I with Clementi arpeggios. Her goal was to get my sister and I crying, after which she blew her nose in triumph, then stuffed her soggy handkerchief into the front bodice of her dress.
Next was Indian-King Tavern on Kings Highway. Reportedly George Washington stayed there once. I spoke “Indian King” as I passed.
I crossed Haddon Ave. into Haddonfield’s business-district. The Acme and A&P supermarkets were gone. A&P was where my mother’s father stole plums from the produce bins, despite my mother slapping him. Acme was evil; not where Jesus shopped.
Up Haddon Ave. was the Haddonfield Fire Department that terrorized me with its noon fire-horn test. I was probably more afraid of my mother — if I cried, I got spanked.
Finally I drove up to where the old railroad-crossing was. The railroad is now PATCo rapid-transit on the old railroad grade, but below grade in a trench. Kings Highway bridges it.
I turned east in hopes of finding where my father and I first watched trains. I was age-2 at the time, and have been a railfan ever since.
I passed S. Atlantic, which runs parallel to the railroad. But it was one-way the wrong way. S. Atlantic used to be dead-end, but now it’s through. My first train-watching was on S. Atlantic.
Over the railroad I went on a bridge, then onto N. Atlantic, also parallel to the tracks. I could drive down it, and eventually it turned north into woods. “Mountwell Ave.” —Memories of Mountwell Pool, long closed, a public swimming-pool, but not filtered. My sister and cousin and I swam in that pool — free in mornings.
I crossed “Centre St.,” location of infamous “Centre St. Hill;” three blocks, and near-impossible on my ungeared balloon-tire bicycle. Centre St. was also excellent sledding, but only one block.
Centre St. extends out-of-town to where the railroad once had a wye. Steam-locomotives brought Camden commuter accommodations out to Haddonfield, which returned to Camden with passengers from seashore trains bound for Philadelphia. Passengers bound for Camden changed trains at Haddonfield’s station.
Evidence of the wye is completely obliterated; the area is suburban development. (The locomotives were “wyed,” = turned.)
My father took me to S. Atlantic because that’s where the action was. That location also had a water-tower. Steam-locomotives stopped to take on water. Haddonfield’s grade-crossings were ahead, so engineers whistled for those crossings. My father claimed they were whistling at me.
I was terrified of thunderstorms and camera-flash, but could stand right next to a panting steamer. By 1946 many railroads were dieselizing, but PRSL (Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines) still used steam locomotives. I always tell other railfans I was lucky enough to witness steamers in actual revenue service.
I then drove back up Centre St. into Haddonfield’s business-district — the backdoors of funky shops.
Back toward Erlton, but first the park north of Haddonfield, where my parents took me for walks. The road-bridge we used to drive across was closed, even to pedestrians. A small dam was still adjacent, and we long-go skipped stones on its pond.
I drove back toward Erlton, but past the site of my elementary school, long ago torn down. It was built in 1926 with a coal-chute, “boys” and “girls” on the door lintels. An addition built in 1953 was also torn down.
I still know nine-times-nine equals eighty-one, thanks to Mrs. Marlon in fourth-grade, who excoriated me for daydreaming about Pennsy steam-locomotives out the windows. Mrs. Marlon was the old biddy who badmouthed my friend and I for dive-bombing Japanese ships on the school’s swings.
Most depressing was back in Erlton. I drove up to see Erlton Community Baptist Church, and it was no longer a church. My Bible-beating parents and my next-door neighbor were instrumental in founding that church.
But now it’s a school — which makes sense, since my neighbor’s Sunday-School annex was more like a school = two brick stories attached to an ancient chapel-sanctuary.
What do they do with that, pray tell? It even had a baptismal-font. It’s shorn of its steeple, and a handicap-ramp goes up one side.
Sadly the newer Catholic church so abhorred by my parents still exists up-the-street. Dr. Gleason attended that church.
I left eastward on Marlton Pike. “Ellisburg-Circle” no longer exists. It’s the intersection of Marlton Pike and Kings Highway, also Brace Road. That traffic-circle was replaced by through traffic-lights. Traffic-circles were like bumper-cars: “pedal-to-the-metal, Granny!”
Revisiting my childhood was so depressing I think it degraded my balance, which is wonky already. I was shuffling and stumbling this entire trip.
I had to GPS my cousin’s Thanksgiving gig, about 25-30 miles south. Three wrong turns = three GPS resets. Mostly it was the driver, but there were construction detours. It also helps to live in south Jersey.
Now I’m home with my silly dog. Not as depressed as revisiting my childhood.
Most depressing was discovering Erlton Community Baptist Church had tanked. Must be its cache of Bible-beaters disappeared.
“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on...” —That’s the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.

• “Erlton” may also be gone. Area traffic-signs still say “Erlton,” but the “Erlton” Fire Department became the “Cherry Hill” Fire Department. The realtor sites say 625 Jefferson is in “Cherry Hill.” In 1956 President Eisenhower visited Cherry Hill Inn north of Erlton, so the area switched to “Cherry Hill.” The Wegmans, hard by Erlton, is the “Cherry Hill Wegmans.” Years ago it was “Delaware Township;” now it’s “Cherry Hill Township.” Delaware Township High-School became Cherry Hill High-School.
• “Pennsylvania-Reading (‘REDD-ing,’ not ‘REED-ing’) Seashore Lines” (PRSL) is an amalgamation of Pennsylvania and Reading railroad-lines in south Jersey to counter the fact the two railroads had too much parallel track. It was promulgated in 1933. It serviced mainly the south Jersey seashore from Philadelphia, by ferry across the Delaware River at first.
• If readers think I made up things like Mrs. Dager “blowing her nose in triumph,” “Jesus never shopped Acme,” etc, this was NOT made up. I was kind enough to not mention my maternal grandfather was often arrested for begging — retrieved by my mother many times. Jesus not shopping Acme is an exaggeration, but it’s the impression I was left with. When our family moved to northern DE an Acme was right up-the-street. But my mother preferred to drive 5-6 miles to an A&P. Acme was of-the-Devil.

What happened?

“I think I hear music,” I said to myself at 6:40 a.m., the time to which I set my clock-radio.
It’s Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi, the classical-music radio-station out of Rochester I listen to. It’s Brenda Tremblay, a graduate of Houghton College like me. She’s 1990, I’m ’66. Her father graduated a music-major two classes before me. Her mother did too, but I don’t remember her.
Bach, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Hilda of Binghamton. Much more bearable than what passes for music nowadays. “RACHA-RACHA-RACHA-RACHA! BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA! YADA-YADA-YADA-YADA!” Shouting and yelling, liberally sprinkled with F-bombs. Can they even hold a tune?
Every Monday night, as I begin collecting trash for the next day’s trash-collection: “Take out the papers and the trash, or you don’t get no spendin’ cash. Just tell yer hoodlum friends outside, you ain’t got time to take no ride! Yakkity-yak! Don’t talk back!”
Summer of ’63, driving home from my summer job in my parents’ ’57 Bel Air stationwagon, Baynard Boulevard in Wilmington (DE), pounding the dash to “Duke-Duke-Duke-Duke of Earl.” All the windows are down, the rear tailgate is open. Womp-womp-womp-womp! “Nobody can stop the Duke of Earl!”
The other day I went to pick up my dog at doggy daycare. He’s daycared at a grooming emporium next to a Dominos Pizza. As I got out of my car the pizza delivery kid parked his Volkswagen GTI next to me. “RACHA-RACHA-RACHA-RACHA! BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA! YADA-YADA-YADA-YADA!” I had to walk away.
Recently I noted to a friend the last rock-n-roll album I bought was Def Leppard. That’s almost 30 years ago. Nothing since.
What happened? Whither Hendrix and Disraeli Gears, or Little Richard or Jerry Lee Lewis? “RACHA-RACHA-RACHA-RACHA!” is noise compared to “Goodness gracious, Great Balls of Fire!”

YOWZUH!

“Are you still making those train-calendars?”
A pretty clerk at the Victor Post-Office asked me that.
YOWZUH! She recognizes me from long ago, and even remembers I did train-calendars.
Flowing red hair — dyed, but not bad — and smashing to look at; probably in her 40s.
I went to the Victor Post-Office to pick up a large carton that couldn’t be delivered because I hadn’t plowed my driveway after a gigundo snowstorm.
I went there after a doctor physical.
Years ago that clerk worked at the West Bloomfield Post-Office. They have a copy of my annual train-calendar, and it’s their office calendar. Every time I visited I told this pretty clerk all about that month’s picture. She always was interested. —I was flirting, I suppose. She loved it.
For example:
“That train looks like it’s coming toward you. Actually it’s going away. The two locomotives are pushers; they are on the rear of the train pushing it uphill. My brother and I call that a ‘cheat-shot.’ The train looks like it’s coming, but actually it’s going away.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well now ya do.”
Many are bored when I explain train-photography, but not this girl. I think her name is “Janeen,” but that’s too far back. There she was, smiling broadly. I was dumbfounded.
Mrs. Walton, who I’ve blogged many times, is spinning in her grave. 14,000 rpm; harnessed she could power south FL.
As I’ve said before Mrs. Walton was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. Together with my Bible-beating parents she convinced me all men, including me, were SCUM!
“No pretty girl will ever wanna talk to you,” she’d declare.
My beloved wife died over six years ago. Since then I’m discovering Mrs. Walton and my parents were full of it.
Many girls love talking to me; contrary to what I expected. 70 years late I’m discovering this. Herewith the Post-Office clerk; it wasn’t me that started the conversation; it was her.
I planned to note she looked familiar, but she beat me.
Mrs. Walton is spinning in her grave. And I’m smitten. That pretty lady remembered me, and even my train-calendars. “This guy does train-calendars,” she told a coworker. “And they’re fabulous.”
Any pretty lady that recognizes me and my calendars gets a calendar of her own. She’s reversing Mrs. Walton.

http:ultimaterewards.com

“Why is it,” I shouted; “every time I start ‘time-saving technology’ for a five-minute procedure it turns into a hairball that exceeds an hour?”
My credit-card has a points program. Every dollar purchased over time equals a point — or something like that; I may have that wrong.
I had 19,613 points, which equals $196.13 cash, or BJ memberships, vacation-trips to exotica, whatever — who knows? I always do cash-back: $196.13 to my credit-card, which already delays actual payment until credit-card billing.
So set up a $196.13 payback. I crank http:ultimaterewards.com into my browser: easier-said-than-done for a stroke-survivor with spastic keyboarding.
After perhaps five tries, I finally got it right. I shoulda bookmarked it. Bookmarking skonks spastic keyboarding.
BAM! Log-in required (“Welcome back, Robert”). I have the log-in on a sticky, but it faded, so I typed incomplete.
Other possible flubs await: caps or no-caps — often that matters. Secondly what if my sticky isn’t up-to-date? Log-ins seem required, even to non-bank sites.
Waah-foh I have no idea, although for a bank it’s good. 15 additional minutes of horsing. It’s also possible I’ll mistype, the bane of a stroke-survivor.
My browser memorizes log-ins. “Wanna update?” Not if it didn’t work when it hurled that message at me. If my log-in bombed, I ain’t memorizin’.
And why, pray tell, does my printer-ink site need an account? Suckerbird and his cronies pay for account-info. “A geezer, eh? Buxom hotties for ads on his Facebook!”
And just because I bought a belt at Zappos, why does my printer-ink site suggest I buy another? Why, pray tell, do I need an identical second belt, when only one works fine?
All so them Zappos dudes can pay installments on their Porsches?
My log-in attempts kept bombing, and so was my attempt to “change password.” I was set to call the bank. “Please hold during the silence. An Indonesian associate will speak to you in fractured English in three hours. BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA!”
Then they gave me a user-name for my Social Security number, plus I noticed I was incompletely entering my password.
BOINK! 30 minutes so far, but I’m logged in and can set up my payback. http:ultimaterewards.com didn’t get me the actual payback site. It got the bank’s “home” website. Glitzy offerings galore, but I did notice an “Ultimate Rewards” icon. I clicked it and set up my payback.
Balloons erupted all over my screen, rife with exploding fireworks. Do those techies have any idea? Or is this the 21st century paradigm? If I type “congrats” in a Facebook comment, it changes the font-color to red. Balloons cascade my screen. I’m supposed to think this is “neat?”
Uhm, “time-saving technology” consumed 10-12 times what was predicted. Those balloons didn’t make me happy.

• 25 years ago I had a stroke caused by an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• “Suckerbird” is Mark Zuckerberg, head-honcho of Facebook.

Snowed in

A foot on average. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)


—“I guess we’re not doing the park today,” I said to my silly dog. That’s Killian, my rescue Irish Setter, who goes bonkers in the park telling off squirrels: “Come down outta that tree and fight! I’ll tear ya limb-from-limb! Meat for the table!”
He didn’t wanna go out. Snow was up to his belly. I measured a foot on my yardstick. I gotta shovel him a path to his bathroom-fence. My first priority is to shovel out the step-landings. Next will be Killian’s bathroom.
Then I’ll attack my driveway. My car is All-Wheel-Drive — required. I probably could drive out, but a foot on average would be challenging.
I use a walk-behind 28-inch Honda snowblower my brother badmouths as “a tinker-toy.” “Not a Harley!” he bellows.
I also used to run. People tell me I don’t look my age (74+), but I think it’s more I don’t ACT my age. Yer young only once, but can be immature all yer life.
I don’t look forward to that driveway. I usually do it in two sections with a break in my house to get warm.
I get the look. “Why aren’t we going to the park? I want squirrel-land!”
“No goin’ out for this dog. I’ll hold it,” Killian says.

• My brother (in Boston) uses an ancient Ariens snowblower festooned with paperclips and bobby-pins. He claims my Tinker-Toy is inferior.

A sucker for smilers

“Is your name ********?” I asked a lady in the YMCA’s swimming-pool.
“Yes,” she smiled, beaming broadly.
“I’ve become a sucker for smilers,” I thought to myself.
“And your name is.......”
“You can call me BobbaLew. I told that to *****-the-lifeguard, and she liked that.”
I happen to be Facebook “friends” with the YMCA’s aquacise-instructor. I fired up one of her photographs a while ago, and was smitten. She was smiling. It prompted my first Facebook “like” in 10 years of Facebooking. I have little time for Facebook.
Last Saturday I struck up a conversation with another lady in the YMCA pool. She smiled broadly. “Yer lighting up this pool,” I thought.
I wish I could smile like that. I’m sure I do occasionally, but not on request. “Robert-John, will you please smile?” Guilty-as-always!
It’s my dreadful childhood of course. Convinced at an early age I was “rebellious” and “of-the-Devil.” I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
“You’re always blogging that,” a friend notes. “Ya gotta not let that rule yer life.”
Easier-said-than-done. After 74 years ya don’t flip a childhood like that. Another lady agreed, saying what a shame it was religion could cause that.
“I’m glad I said hello,” I said to ********. “Ten years ago I wouldn’t have.”
I had to lose the best friend I ever had (my wife) to learn it’s often better to start a conversation.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hours per week — plus a third hour on my own.

Today’s fabrication

“How do I ask this without hurting yer feelings?” I said that to a lady in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool last Saturday.
She was probably in her 80s. Tuesdays and Thursdays I join an in-pool balance-training class. I go there Saturday myself.
“Are you by any chance a widow?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Then you should eat out with us,” I said. “I’m a widower, a friend is a widow, and we have been joined by others. We were eating out with another widower, but he fell and was hospitalized.
You flash that smile, and you’ll light up the room,” I said.
“Twinkling eyes; I wish I could do that. I had a dreadful childhood, which makes smiling hard. I can’t do it by request.
You don’t hafta eat alone, or with other geezers. You could eat with us geezers. I’m almost 75, and the others are 64 and 63. We all pay for our meals; once a week at a local restaurant. That saves me cooking a meal.”
“I can’t afford a restaurant,” the lady said.
“Well I can! I can pay for yer meal as long as you don’t consider it a date. I got money coming out my ears.”
“I can’t get out easily.”
“I’ll pick you up,” I said. “You smile like that and you’ll light up the restaurant!
You also can pay me back, if you wish. But you shouldn’t hafta eat by yerself.”

• RE: “Today’s fabrication.....” —You could say I ran out of material. This event didn’t actually happen. But I did strike up a conversation with an older lady in the YMCA pool whose smile would light up a room.

Hilda Q. Walton

Erlton Community Baptist Church. (The Sunday-School addition is on the other side.) (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)


—Now that 14 blogs have been categorized “Hilda Q. Walton” it’s time to explain Faire Hilda.
As I’ve said many times, Hilda was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent during my early childhood.
Hilda and my hyper-religious father were instrumental bringing Erlton Community Baptist Church into being. Erlton in south Jersey was a suburb of Philadelphia where I lived as a child.
I’m sure others were involved. A dilapidated old chapel was rehabbed in the late ‘40s. In 1948 or ’49 that building was moved to a new location in Erlton. A major highway was temporarily closed, then the chapel raised on blocking so a basement could be built. The sanctuary was extended. Three side-windows became five.
When finished a cornerstone was laid by the church’s young pastor my father heartily approved. For a couple years my father was a deacon. But that pastor moved on in 1956 or ’57. He was replaced by a pastor my father didn’t like.
My father left in a rage. No one was listening to him.
The sticking-point was that new pastor wanted to end Sunday evening services, which few attended. We started attending evening services at a far-away church. My sister and I felt out-of-it — me scared.
That only lasted a few months. My father found a new job near Wilmington DE. We moved, my father researching a church holy enough for him.
That was Immanuel Baptist Church in downtown Wilmington. That was while I was still around. After I graduated college, they moved to a new church when Immanuel’s pastor began speaking-in-tongues. (By then I was out on my own.)
Erlton Community Baptist Church survives. Before we moved Mrs. Walton convinced church-members a Sunday-School addition was needed: a gigantic two-story brick edifice that could pass as a school.
It opened in 1955 or ’56, early enough for Mrs. Walton to serenade we youngsters about the evils of demon alcohol. —That it would rot our brains, which I guess it does if you guzzle enough.
Hilda was married to Stephen Walton, Sr., a hot-shot engineer with RCA (Radio Corporation of America). He smoked Lucky-Strike cigarettes. Perhaps he was playing around, which might explain why Hilda so hated men. How she managed two legitimate sons I’ll never know.
My parents made me easy pickings for Hilda. They continually badmouthed me as rebellious because I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
So Faire Hilda convinced me that like all men I was disgusting.
I remember dressing up as Elvis Presley for Halloween. Hilda angrily told me Elvis was “the bane of western civilization.” (How can I forget that, readers?)
In 1992 I rode motorcycle to south Jersey to reconnect my childhood. I was living in Rochester (NY) by then. Hilda, age 80, was still at 627 Jefferson in Erlton, next to our old house at 625. Her husband was long-gone.
Mrs. Walton drove me to Erlton Community Baptist Church, where she was still a member, but mad at the youngsters who no longer let her run things.
She still had a key to her beloved Sunday-School addition, but she poo-pooed everything we saw. We accessed a dusty alcove where my Down syndrome brother’s dedication was still on the wall. I doubt anyone knows who “Timmy” is.
Hilda marked me for life. Constant-readers know that. Every time I befriend a female, which is fairly often, Hilda spins in her grave. 14,000 rpm. Harness her and my parents and they could power south FL.

• “Q” stands for “Quincy,” although I’m told it also stands for “Q-lip” — something to do with The Three Stooges.

“Friends, no bennies”

“What, pray tell, are ‘bennies?’” I asked ******, my widow-friend with whom I eat out often.
She, like me, lost her beloved marriage-mate; she five years ago, me six.
We were discussing my adventures with women.
“Yer problem is you overthink everything,” she said.
“Not exactly,” I thought. “It’s the fact I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of ‘Gender’ Relations.” No longer is it “Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations.” “Gender” is my doggy-daycare guy, who I once worked with at the Canandaigua Messenger newspaper. “Gender” is more precise, “Sexual” misses the mark.
“Sex,” ****** declared. “‘Bennies’ are sex. We’re too old for sex.” ****** is 64, I’m 10 years ahead of her.
“I hafta talk to you,” I said recently to *****-the-lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool where I do balance-training.
One could say ***** is one of my female adventures. A few months ago she said hello to me by name. Contrary to my upbringing I decided I should be able to say hello back, which I did later.
I’m awfully glad I did, an act of incredible derring-do for a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. There were others earlier, but 10 years ago I would have avoided *****.
Another female adventure is my aquacise instructor. “Hot!” my widow friend said.
“Nope!” I shouted. My widow-friend dialed back to “cute.”
“I’ll tell you why,” I said. “It’s that smile in her Facebook profile-picture. And that’s coming from one who badmouths yer online suitors telling you they like yer smile.
I wish I could smile like that. That aquacise instructor probably had a pleasant childhood. I didn’t.”
I’ve only done one Facebook “like” over 10 years. And it’s probably the only “like” I’ll ever do. I have little time for Facebook. I “liked” that picture.
Fortunately I don’t have *****-the-lifeguard’s phone-number. I do have my aquacise instructor’s phone-number; she gave me her business-card. That phone-number is her personal iPhone.
Not having *****’s phone-number saved me from deluging her with the torrent of texts I hurled at my aquacise instructor.
Texts can’t be retracted. I wish I could have retracted many. They were prompted by not knowing what was going on after walking my dog with that aquacise instructor three times in quick succession.
This is the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, combined with being happily-married 44&1/2 years. I have no experience dealing with females.
“Friends,” my widow-friend observed. “That’s all it was. She enjoyed yer company.”
That’s not how it is with Faire Hilda. All males are disgusting, prone to EVIL = attracted to women not approved by Hilda.
As I’ve said before, Hilda was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent. Together with my Bible-beating parents she convinced me I too was disgusting. (I was about five.)
I carried that albatross 70+ years. Combine that with being married 44&1/2 years to a female who actually liked me, and I usually goof up with women.
Despite that women keep talking to me. I’m easy to talk to, and harmless.
My widow-friend and I are miles apart, yet she keeps eating out with me.
And *****-the-lifeguard keeps talking to me, and now I’m getting eye-contact. I wasn’t at first, and I flubbed innumerable times.
My aquacise instructor and I are also far apart, yet she keeps smiling at me despite my deluge of texts, plus a Facebook message I call “the proposition.”
“Oh Hughes, will you get over it?” says my doggy daycare friend. “Hilda and yer parents are all dead.”
I can’t just flip-flop my past. My counselor agrees. She’s supposed to be my bereavement counselor, but all we talk about is my childhood.

Frenzied pursuit of fall-foliage

23Z approaches old "Slope" interlocking

25V almost to the top

21V just past "Benny"

04T, Amtrak's eastbound "Pennsylvanian," descends the Mighty Curve

61I ascends the Curve

Two eastbounds down the east leg of the Curve — 20Q passing 590

25Z assaults The Hill

21V passes Brickyard

39Q, a non-helping SD40E leading, exits Altoona's yard

Manifest 17G exits the yard

65Z, westbound ethanol, threads the notch toward Plummers Crossing

07T, Amtrak's westbound "Pennsylvanian," pulls into Tyrone's tiny station

—My brother was unable to join me chasing trains in Altoona all year.
I do an annual calendar of our train pictures. I give ‘em as Christmas presents.
I needed an October fall-foliage picture; I had everything else. I already was to Altoona three times alone. My brother and I have a good time: snide remarks, putdowns, wisecracks.
We take along our railroad-radio scanners. Every time a train passes a signal, its engineer calls out the signal aspect on railroad-radio — and we hear that.
“20Q, east on Two, 242; CLEAR!” “20Q” is the train-number, “Two” is Track Two, “242” is the milepost signal location, 242 miles from Philadelphia, and “CLEAR!” is the signal aspect, often a green light. The track-block ahead is unoccupied.
We know where 242 is. If we are east of 242, we’ll see the train. Better yet, can we drive to a location farther east to set up and photograph the train?
That’s “chasing trains.”
I was monitoring fall-foliage on two trackside webcams, one at Cresson, and best at Horseshoe Curve.
Weeks ago I scheduled October 24-26, but it still looked pretty green. I rescheduled my motel to November 1-3. My brother could now join me: hooray!
His knowledge of train-operations in Altoona has leaped ahead of me. I also let him drive; he’s only 61, I’m 74. I let him take over, although that might screen out locations I need.
I can do them myself, and he’s become tolerant. We work together; over 200 photographs by me, and slightly more by my brother. He’s prone to shoot stuff I can’t use — too early, for example. My camera has motor-drive (his doesn’t), so I might get one usable out of 15 frames.
I’m sorry I hafta stack the pictures atop this blog. It’s the regime I use since PhotoBucket wanted to rip me off. And since I haven’t been able to set up my own domain yet.
I use BlogSpot’s picture-app. It doesn’t let me insert pictures throughout a blog.
“You mean to tell me as loaded as you are you can’t let PhotoBucket rip you off?” my brother asked.
“Maybe that’s why I’m loaded,” I said.
Fall-foliage was done, except for a few locations. We drove all over late Thursday afternoon searching for color.
The west side of Allegheny Mountain was gone, as were many eastside locations. Only a couple locations still had color, like Horseshoe Curve itself. Horseshoe Curve is the main eastside attraction. It’s uphill from Altoona, and higher eastside elevations often still had color.
The webcams were telling me I might hafta delay another week, which would cut off my brother. Plus that weekend was a Penn State football game. The motel might already be booked solid.
But I wouldn’t hafta do that. One more week and everything would be gone.
Fall-foliage is fleeting. It might be excellent a day or two. To properly shoot it I hafta live in Altoona. It’s five hours away for me, nine for my brother.
“How about farther south?” the motel receptionist asked. (She knows us.)
“We’re here to photograph trains!” I asserted. “Fall-foliage is secondary.”
I have my October calendar-picture; the first one.