My calendar for February 2019

“To the sand-plant.”(Photo by BobbaLew.)

—The February 2019 entry of MY calendar is Norfolk Southern train C42 eastbound past the small yard in Tyrone PA.
It was bitter cold, about five degrees, and I had just snagged Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian east of Tyrone station after an incredible chase. It was my January 2019 entry.
After photographing the Pennsylvanian I motored to Tyrone station, then up a road alongside Tyrone’s tiny yard. C42 was on my scanner. They were dropping off cars for Nittany & Bald Eagle, Pennsy’s old Bald Eagle branch. N&BE is a shortline, but it’s built-to-the-hilt since NS has trackage-rights for heavy coal-trains.
C42 is a Norfolk Southern local-freight out of Altoona yard. It heads east on the old Pennsy main, now also Norfolk Southern.
I thought I could camp out in my car, but it also quickly got cold.
Slowly C42 set out cars for N&BE. Freightcars have much more capacity than a highway trailer, but limited destination. Switching freightcars is also ponderous, and you can’t go off the track. If you’re on the track another train can’t pass.
Trucking also has almost unlimited right-of-way (roads) usually maintained by gumint entities. Railroading is still 19th century. Its right-of-way is maintained by the railroad itself, and they own it.
Included was a single tankcar. A brakie or the conductor had to ride it outside in the bitter cold. I cropped out the tankcar.
Finally the tankcar was dropped, and C42 accelerated toward a switch in Tyrone that would take it back to the main. C42 was also moving a long string of covered hoppers.
And that switch put it on the westbound main. It needed to continue eastbound, and to do so it had to back all the way to Gray Interlocking, about 2-3 miles west.
Time was passing, well over an hour to drop its interchange, then get back eastbound. I was frigid, but I heard C42 on my scanner get an eastbound signal at Gray.
All the way back it came, and finally there it was. “To the sand-plant,” I heard on my scanner. The covered hoppers were for “the sand-plant.”
I shot this picture on a Thursday, and N&BE won’t get to its interchange until the next day. Trucking could move a lot faster, but wouldn’t have the capacity of those covered hoppers.
5631 is a GP38-2, non-turbocharged, only 2,000 horsepower. GP-38s aren’t road-engines, although sometimes they’re added to road-trains. The railroads needed something like a GP-38, only four axles, for locals like C42. This train has two units.

“Don’t scare the four-wheelers”

The speed-limit on most of 5&20, my route between home and Canandaigua, is 55 mph, the state speed-limit. Exceptions are towns: 35-45 mph.
I was cruising along at 60 mph, the speed one sees on average. It’s also the speed officialdom allows. I had just picked up my dog from doggy-daycare.
Suddenly a black Chevrolet mini-pickup roared by, its angry driver giving me the finger.
The pickup was doing 80 or so, so caught up with me quickly as I left doggy daycare. He was a half-mile away as I pulled out. Like, I shoulda waited. (Driving bus I woulda.)
A common occurrence. No one in sight, so I pull out, but quickly some glowering intimidator appears on my rear bumper.
“You shoulda waited, y’old geezer! I’ll miss my free donut!”
Fists raised, epithets shouted, pounding the dashboard, middle fingers displayed, often both hands.
Fond memories of long ago returning from the south Jersey seashore in my parents’ ’41 Chevy.
To get to the seashore we crossed the south Jersey Pine-Barrens, a landscape not ordinarily seen. Nothing but scrub-pine as far as they eye could see. The land was flat, little change in elevation. Railroad trains, before highways, could top 100 mph.
Our road was arrow-straight, and it was late afternoon. We were heading west into the sun.
Suddenly a top-down ’49 Cadillac passed, its youthful occupants gesticulating and guzzling beer. Disregard of anyone coming the other way.
South Jersey was the den of iniquity for sin-starved Pennsylvanians restricted by Quaker values. Liquor stores everywhere, bars, dance halls, and houses of ill repute.
That passing Caddy prompted an angry “tsk-tsk” from my hyper-religious parents.
Perhaps 20 years ago I was headed alone toward Altoona PA, location of Horseshoe Curve. I still consider The Mighty Curve our nation’s premier railfan pilgrimage-stop — I’m a railfan.
This was before a trip to Altoona was all four-lane expressway. I was on old U.S. Route 220, what is now Business-220; a two-lane good for 55-65 mph tops.
Bombing south at 60 or so, suddenly a silver Pontiac passed, its youthful driver flipping me the bird. He quickly disappeared, doin’ 80 or so.
But far ahead I noticed a white Crown-Vic. Soon I passed the Pontiac stopped by the Crown-Vic. (Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!)
That punk got his just reward. But I bet that black mini pickup continued speeding with gay abandon. Not long after he passed me, he passed my leader, who was also doing 60. More angry fist-shaking, flipping the bird, etc.
What did that dude gain? Often I catch up at traffic-lights, although I’ve seen speeders run traffic-lights. He might get to his destination a minute or two before me. Is that worth possible delay by the constabulary, or putting other drivers in fear?
I had a rule driving bus: “Don’t scare the four-wheelers.”

• 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; I retired from that over 13 years ago.
• “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.
• A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame. He used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.

Things have changed

—“Did I not see ‘Victor Hiking Trails’ on the license-plate frame of yer car pulling in? You had to stop because my dog ran in front of yer car.”
I asked that to a lady walking her dog on the road into nearby Boughton Park (“BOW-tin,”[as in “wow”] not “BOAT-tin”). I was being walked by my silly dog on the same road.
“Yes you did,” she exclaimed. “I’m the Treasurer.”
“Okay,” I said. “Years ago I was on the board for this park. That map on the bulletin-board was by me and another guy. We did it in a computer. In fact the entire first park-brochure was done by me. They’ve since done another, but they’re still using my history. Same map too.”
“I have that original brochure,” she smiled.
“I’ve done parts of Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail,” I said; “but never the Auburn.
You go on ahead,” I added. “I’m kinda slow.”
We met again later. She was walking her dog back from where I was headed.
“I’m a railfan,” I said. “That’s why I call all the rail-trails by their original railroad names. ‘Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail’ is Lehigh Valley Railroad’s Buffalo Extension, and ‘Auburn’ is New York Central’s ‘Auburn Road.’ It was the first cross-state railroad into Rochester, built in the 1830s. Although originally it wasn’t New York Central.
Another is Pennsylvania Railroad’s old Canandaigua branch, now part of Ontario Pathways. (Ontario Pathways also includes a section of the old Pennsy line to Sodus Point.) We walked that Canandaigua line first.
Lehigh Valley is the one I prefer. I get on at Mendon and hike west toward Pittsford/West Bloomfield Road, where I turn back. It’s nothing but woods; I call it ‘the wooded cathedral.’ No civilization whatsoever! East of Mendon a power-line joins.”
“We always get on the Auburn at 444, then hike west to Phillips Road. That goes under Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail. But we can’t do it now. Both trails are snowed in,” she added; “and aren’t plowed.”
Later I realized 10 years ago I woulda never said anything to that lady. Socialization with ladies is since my wife died. If my wife hadn’t died I’d probably still be the same uncommunicative dork I was while married.
I didn’t hafta socialize with women while married. I had a wife who already liked me. My childhood also made me frightened of women: “No female will ever wanna talk to you!”
Mind-blowing successes pile up. “Hi, how ya doin’?” by name if possible. They smile and eat it up. My Bible-thumping parents, and my Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, spin in their graves!
I’m tryin’ again. 70 years late I find women love talking to me. “Yer funny; and not boring as Hell,” one tells me. I’m also not a drooling lecher: what I call a Trump wannabee, i.e. someone who thinks women are mere toys (“grab ‘em by the [‘privates;’ taste and decorum here]).
Not this kid! Women are very likely to say something worth hearing. Men do the macho-gig — which I’m never good at.
Strike up the conversation yerself. You may be glad you did. If that bombs, it’s no longer my fault. Contrary to my hyper-religious parents and Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, women wanna talk to me. I find that hard to believe; a legacy of my childhood. My parents and neighbor were full-of-it.
So, “Did I not see ‘Victor Hiking Trails’ on the license-plate frame of yer car?” That lady smiled right away. She also slowed down to talk to me at least 10-15 minutes.
How can I resist?
I feel like I had to lose “the BEST friend I ever had” (my wife) to get here. She died almost seven years ago, and I feel like I’ve moved beyond my wife — which ain’t fair.
I take risks I never took while married.
She doesn’t get to experience who I became.

• “Victor” is a rural town southeast of Rochester that became a suburb. It had two active railroads, plus an electrified interurban trolley-line. All are gone.

Shaddup-and-shoot!

(Photo by my aquacise-instructor.)

—“I’m probably mistaken,” I thought to myself. “But what I see here are my first attempts at photography eons ago.”
My aquacise-instructor had been to a park in bitter cold at the north end of Canandaigua lake.
The light was fantastic. I did the same thing with my silly dog perhaps the same day. The lake was frozen as far as my eye could see.
The sun was out to the south. It reflected off the lake ice, a thin horizon.
She unholstered her iPhone and started photographing. I almost did that myself, but didn’t. 89 bazilyun geese were huddled on the lake ice trying to keep warm. With the sun behind they woulda silhouetted. I also abstained because I felt this lady would be my only audience, and I already caused enough trouble.
But the light was fantastic. She flew her photographs on Facebook.
I’ve come a long way over 40-50 years. No longer is photography a feeble attempt to make myself feel talented. Back then it offset my tortured childhood, and I’ve gotten good at it over the years.
My artistic bent is always at play. My brother and I take train photographs near Altoona PA. (We’re both railfans.) From him I learned the importance of lighting.
Years ago an Altoona railfan showed me many good train-photo locations. But I look at some of my early photographs with him, and “the lighting is awful!”
Photographing into the sun tends to silhouette content, which is often okay, except you hafta know content will silhouette.
As always, what yer camera sees is not what yer eye sees. But it’s gotten better over 40-50 years. Shadows used to overload: they printed black. Your eye would compensate to fill in detail. Photography has improved, and beyond that Photoshop® — good old Photoshop — can bring out detail in shadows.
But 40-50 years ago I wasn’t so cognizant of lighting. I still wasn’t until recently, when my brother made me more aware.
Plus the lighting-jones can lead me astray. The lady made a point: “shooting into the sun can be fun!” she commented.
Witness her photo above. I have many of my own photographs that were immensely successful despite “the lighting is wrong!”
Her photos remind of my first attempts at photography, more demonstrating my mastery of technology than art.
A Smartphone masters technology for you. (And her.)
At least she’s putting a foreground into her photographs, perhaps not intentionally, but maybe so. (I doubt I was.)
That’s applying a rule I learned from experience: “Every photograph needs a foreground to be successful.” That lake was dramatic, but needed a tree and benches for comparison.

• “Shaddup-and-shoot” is a rule my brother and I have about train-photos. Just take the picture; it may look pretty good. Digital images — in digital photography — are dirt-cheap. Many of our exceptional photos are pot-shots = “shaddup-and-shoot.”

Run-Eight please

Assaulting the heavens! (Photo© by Robert Forsstrom.)

—Constant-readers of this blog, and apparently there are a few, know I stopped recording the local TV-news; i.e. I no longer watch the local TV-news.
I still record and watch the national TV-news, NBC’s Lester Holt. Heaven forbid I miss the latest 3 a.m. Tweet by The Donald from his Great White Throne.
The news is the only TV I ever watch. My brother-from-Boston calls my puny el-cheapo TV a disgrace, but ‘pyootering is more fun. (My money is in my computer equipment.)
And TV is no longer what it was while I grew up, only three channels out of Philadelphia, the three networks. That advanced to four by when I graduated high-school. But the fourth was educational TV = weird. It came from Wilmington, DE, not Philadelphia, and wasn’t a network.
TV was also over-the-air. Now it’s direct by wire — cable into my house. (There also is satellite-TV, received via Dish®.) Video is also much better. And of course it’s without error. If the talking-heads muff there’s re-tape.
My cable-TV guide lists hundreds of channels: wrastling theatrics through junkyard dogs. Flat-top greasers fully restore classic cars over a weekend.
I remember video where some dude shattered the gigantic wraparound rear window of an early Barracuda. Participants shamed him. Uhm, that shattering seemed staged.
Now I’ve stopped viewing the final few minutes of the national TV news. It’s always touchy-feely. Wars, fires, rape-and-pillage, murders, blizzards/tornados, the current gumint clown-show; but everything’s hunky-dory if we end smiling.
PASS; I switch to my train DVDs. I’m a railfan.
A locker-room in my YMCA has a wall-mounted TV. It’s tuned to sports-blustering. Participants bellow at the speed of light about LeBron James, who will win the Super Bowl, etc.
Or buxom hussies yammer, also at the speed of light, as if their viability is a function if how much they hog a conversation. Chicken-scratch. I can’t stand it!
Gimme Burlington-Northern Santa Fe climbing the original 3% out of Los Angeles basin. I make it through 20-25 minutes of Lester Holt, then fire up a train-video.
“BAAMP-BAAMP-BAMP-BAAAAAMP!” Three or four high-horsepower diesels claw toward a dusty road-crossing.
I’m always drawn to that: Pedal-to-the metal. Assaulting the heavens in run-eight!
Much more inspiring than “Inspiring America.”

• “‘Pyootering” = computering.
• A 3% railroad-grade is steep; up three feet per hundred feet forward. Santa Fe built a less steep assault on Cajon Pass — 2.2%. The east slope up Allegheny Mountain, which includes Horseshoe Curve, averages 1.75-1.8 percent.
• “Run-eight” is maximum fuel-delivery to a diesel locomotive. They have eight fuel-delivery options, and “run-eight” is last. It’s the equivalent of “full-throttle” in a gasoline engine, except diesels aren’t throttled.

Brave New World

Much to the angry chagrin of my hyper-religious parents and Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, Yr Fthfl Srvnt has befriended three females at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool where I do balance-training.
“No female will ever talk to you!” I was told. I was about five = easily convinced. That was my neighbor, whose husband was probably fooling around. My parents heartily agreed, since I was already rebellious and of-the-Devil because I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
They marked me for life, and now 70 years late I’m finding they were full-of-it.
My mother mellowed as I got older, but she still hit me with “Don’t get smart!” while I was in college.

—Now to take my silly dog, a rescue Irish Setter, on Lehigh Valley rail-trail. The remainder of this blog will come to mind as I walk in solitude through “the wooded cathedral.” No power-lines, no buildings, no civilization whatsoever. Just me and my lunging hunter, smelling all-and-sundry, and barking at phantoms — or perhaps invisible squirrels.
The Hughes muse never shuts up, and solitude is where I conjure these blogs. Driving, walking my dog, just before getting out of bed. Now it’s while eating breakfast.

—My first female contact at that pool was my aquacise-therapist, although it was just professional at first. She’s cute, in fabulous shape, and has a wonderful smile. I wish I could smile like her. A forced smile is not the same as a real smile.
She’s probably in her late 50s; if not early 60s. First it was one-on-one, but then I graduated (?) to her beginning balance-training class.
Then a while ago she wanted to meet my new dog — the dog who replaced my (our) previous Irish Setter who I sadly put down at age-13.
That aquacise-therapist is also a dog-person — she has a Samoyed. We walked our dogs three weekends in quick succession at a lakeside Canandaigua park.
This prompted “Oooo-la-la” from my hairdresser. “She’s lonely, Bob.”
“She is not!” I snapped. “She’s happily married as far as I know, and I ain’t lookin’.”
Another friend I often eat out with, a widow I met because we both lost our beloveds, also weighed in. “Bob, if you like walking your dog so much with ****** ****, you should tell her.”
Around-and-around we went, at least a half-hour. Finally “Okay, ******, if you say so.”
This prompted the stupidest mistake I ever made. “Forthcoming” is not me. Too many texts; that aquacise-therapist and I both have iPhones, plus I have her phone-number from her business-card.
Often I regret having that phone-number.
-My second and third contacts both lifeguard that pool. A few months ago one said hello to me by name in passing, and although I hardly heard her, I managed the nerve to say hello back. “Did you not say hello to me earlier?” “Yes.” “I’m late, but hello back.” This was instead of running scared into the locker-room as I woulda done 10 years ago — cue Sunday-School Superintendent.
There were predecessors, but I’m awfully glad I did that. This lady is 63 years old, but statuesque = in stellar shape. “No pretty girl will talk to you,” but that lifeguard is pretty.
She looks 40-ish on her lifeguard stand, and I’m sure other geezers have tried to “hit-on-her.” I’m careful what I say; yet despite my many flubs she keeps talking to me.
-My third contact I met on a Saturday afternoon a few months ago. No class on Saturday = I’m on-my-own. I struck up a conversation out of the clear blue sky: “I see you were named after the transmissions our buses used.”
“You got that backwards,” she said. “Them transmissions were named after me.”
Those lifeguards write their names on a poolside bulletin-board. “I see yer name has only one ‘L’,” I said. “Our bus-trannies had two.”
“Yeah; they spelled it wrong!”
WOW! Quick! She’s not as physically attractive as the other two, but she’s great fun to talk to. Those lifeguards are often not on duty, but I hope they’re there when I show. (I also don’t bother them if they’re busy — swimmers could drown in that pool.)
Both are fun to talk to, especially that second lifeguard. She’s not defensive, and I ain’t some drooling lothario. I’m sure that first lifeguard had to fend off weirdos, so she has every right to be leery.
So here I am; no longer as frightened of women as I was while married. I was extremely lucky to marry a girl who liked me, reversing my Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, plus my badmouthing parents, who I eventually left.
So now, 70+ years late I’m befriending ladies like crazy. If I bomb, it’s no longer my fault. If I be myself I got ladies  eating out of my hand.
I always tell that first lifeguard she started it. But having enough nerve to respond is what really started it.

• “Lehigh Valley rail-trail” was a link, dear readers. So was that! Click it and yer browser will take you to my Lehigh Valley rail-trail blog.
• 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; I retired from that over 13 years ago.

“I detect bad vibes.....”

.....I thought to myself.
I went to the kennel where I board my dog for long trips. A co-owner was on her smartphone, and was distraught.
She was hiding, barely talking into her phone. “I’m alone,” I heard her say.
After 15-20 minutes of holding off tears, she hung up, wiped her eyes, and smiled at me.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I detect bad vibes,” I said. “You were clearly hurting. You usually laugh at me.”
It was just the two of us. No one else was in the store.
“I lost my wife. I have no idea what’s hurting you, but it hurts me too.”
I extended my hand toward her. “I’m no good at this,” I said; “but you take my hand and hold on as hard as you must — AND DON’T LET GO!
I heard you say yer alone. Yer not! I’m here too!”
We held hands at least 10-15 minutes.
“If you want I can tell you the story behind that January picture.”
That was my annual train-calendar. I’ve given one to that kennel for years. They board my dog when I go to Altoona (PA) to take train pictures.
“04T east on Two, 242, CLEAR!”
She brightened a little.
“04T” is Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian, “Two” is Track Two, the track he’s on, “242” is the milepost signal location, 242 miles from Philadelphia, and “CLEAR!” is the signal aspect, sometimes a green light.
Every time he passes a signal he has to call out the signal aspect on railroad radio, which I monitor with my scanner.
“He’s not even to Altoona yet. He’s still gotta stop there, and again farther up the railroad in Tyrone (PA). I might be able to beat ‘im.
Everything in the car: camera, tripod, the whole shebang. Hammer down! Up Interstate-99 which parallels the railroad in the same valley.
“04T east on Two, 227, CLEAR!” That’s Fostoria; I’m even with him. He’s on 60-70 mph railroad.
“04T east on Two, 225, CLEAR!” That’s McFarlands Curve; I’m still even.
I rocket off I-99 at the Tyrone exit, and head toward where I wanna take the picture.
“04T east on Two, pulling into Tyrone for the station-stop.“ “Toot;” a single horn-blast means he’s stopped.
I’m still driving to my picture location.
Perhaps 2-3 minutes in Tyrone, then “04T east on Two, leaving the Tyrone station-stop.” “Toot-toot;” he’s starting.
By now I’m parked and outta my car, running around back. Camera-on: check.
I hear him throttling up. There he is! I’m gonna get that sucker!
By now my friend was smiling.
I often comment to others about why I’m still here. It’s not a religious question. Every female in my wife’s family lasted a long time. Her aunt made 98, her grandmother 96, and her mother made 100, outliving her daughter.
My wife only made 68, and we thought she’d make 100. I might. My paternal grandfather made 93.
“It wasn’t yer time yet,” people tell me.
“We’re all here for a reason,” my friend said. “And your reason was to make me feel better: perfect timing. And thanks for telling me yer train story.”

“Talk to me. Make me smile”

“I hope it was pure,” said a female lifeguard who works the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool where I do aquatic balance-training. It was Saturday afternoon, and I was on-my-own = not my aquacise class.
This wasn’t *****-the-lifeguard, who also enjoys our talking.
“Of course it was pure,” I retorted. “What am I, some Trump wannabee who thinks women are trophies? Yer likely to say something I wanna hear.”
This other lifeguard came to mind as I drove toward the pool. That drive is 20-25 minutes on rural roads. I hadn’t seen her for a while.
She’s married, but very quick-witted. She’s probably my best friend at that swimming-pool.
“Hi ******; how ya doin’? I hereby practice my newly-discovered social skills, nonexistent for 70+ years.”
When she responded asking how I was doing, I crashed. For 70+ years I been saying “Okay, I guess.”
“Keep trying,” I told her. “Don’t give up on me. I’ll get the hang of it some day. I did with *****; now it’s yer turn.
Some day I’ll be more sociable with everybody. I been hiding all my life. I was convinced as a child no one would ever wanna talk to me.”
I try “how ya doin’” on other ladies. They smile, and I can’t resist. It makes me wanna try again. This negates my upbringing. “No pretty girl will talk to you.”
The other day ***** (not ******) came over and smiled at me. I could hear it: “Talk to me. Make me smile.” This is so contrary to my upbringing. ***** is 63, but statuesque and in stellar shape, in other words “pretty.”
“No pretty girl will talk to you;” but here I am talking to *****. She wants me to. I’m dumbfounded.
Months ago ***** said hello to me by name in passing. I hardly heard her, but managed the nerve to say hello back — late of course. Ten years ago I woulda walked away.
Now she smiles at me. She doesn’t know my difficult childhood, that we’re countering my Bible-beating parents and neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent, all too eager to convince me I was scum. (That neighbor’s husband was probably fooling around, and I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.)
There were others before *****, but not as successful. How I succeeded with ***** I have no idea. I certainly bombed enough.
And now I try others. I get smiles I never expected. That neighbor and my parents are spinning-in-their-graves. 14,000 rpm; enough to power FL south of Orlando.

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

Incredible journey

I feel like I’m moving beyond my beloved wife of 44&1/2 years.
She was the BEST friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed that.
I call her the first female to like me. She wasn’t, but was the first liker I liked myself.
She died almost seven years ago, so now I’m on-my-own. Previously I could return to a female who liked me. Throw in the fact my parents and Sunday-School superintendent neighbor convinced me no girl would ever like me, and I avoided females over 70 years.
My bereavement counselor suggests my wife filled a gigantic void. Unlike my parents, both at first, but mainly my father later, my wife actually liked me. I grieve the loss of that as much as my wife’s death.
For whatever reason I began socializing with various females after my wife died. A few months ago a lady said hello to me by name in passing, and although I hardly heard it, I got up the nerve to say hello back — late of course. Ten years ago I woulda gone the other way.
There were others before, but boy am I glad I did that. It blossomed into a fabulous friendship, despite my falling flat many times.
I also noticed it’s good to start a conversation myself. I did that with another lady, and that too blossomed. “I’m no good at socializing, but keep trying. Don’t give up on me; I’ll get the hang of it sooner-or-later.” I gained an enthusiastic partner, female too.
More “break the ice.....” I tried with a widow in her eighties. When she smiles she lights up the room. I gained another female friend. “See you next week,” she said to me smiling.
All I hafta do is be myself. Otherwise I crash in flames. If I try to be forthcoming, I crash. I never did that with most lady-friends I garnered, and we’re still friends.
A retiree I long ago worked with uses his local YMCA. He mentions 70-year-old ladies “hot-to-trot.”
“No,” I counter; “hot-to-talk.”
Another friend notes most ladies want companionship more than anything. Some hunk I am at almost 75, but companionship I offer. “Tell me about it,” and off-we-go!
RE: “Start the conversation myself:” if that bombs, it’s no longer my fault. Most often it doesn’t bomb. I’m so glad I got up the nerve to say hello back to that lady.
I’ve snowballed since, despite my previous lack of female contact. An incredible and mind-blowing surprise.
And thanks to that neighbor and my parents, I discover this 70+ years late.
I also had to lose the best friend I ever had, and she’s no longer around.

07T

07T approaches Cassandra Railroad Overlook on a Summer day. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—“Rumba-rumba-rumba-rumba.”
“Sounds like 07T,” I shouted as I ran from my kitchen to the room adjacent. It was about 5:35 p.m.
07T is Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian, and my computer was tuned to Railstream’s Cresson webcam.
That webcam looks out on the old Pennsylvania Railroad mainline past Cresson. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern, and Amtrak runs on it.
Amtrak’s Pennsylvanian is the only passenger-train left on this storied cross-state railroad. It’s state sponsored, and there used to be hundreds.
The Pennsylvanian runs Pittsburgh to New York City, two trains per day, eastbound then westbound. They pass each other east of Harrisburg.
It was dark in Cresson, but there it goes. I could see the coach-windows.
“Rumba-rumba-rumba.” I know a P-42 when I hear one. With only six coaches the Pennsylvanian isn’t the long clatter of a passing freight-train.
“07T” is the train-number. “04T” is eastbound, which passes Cresson in the morning.
I often have the web-stream on all day. To me it’s background, although it often takes me away from whatever I’m doing.
Cresson is on the west slope of Allegheny Mountain. Eastbound past Cresson is uphill, but not too challenging. Uphill trains are assaulting the heavens.
The west slope is not as steep as the east slope. But still an eastbound past Cresson may need additional locomotives, especially if it’s heavy: loaded unit coal, or loaded crude-oil.
Those additional locomotives also help hold back a train going downhill. Dynamic braking gets engaged. Additional braking is needed descending to prevent runaways, especially on the east slope.
Dynamic braking came with dieselization. The traction-motors are converted to generators. Before dynamic braking a train had to stop before descending to “set up retainers” on the cars.
At only six coaches Amtrak’s Pennsylvanian doesn’t need help or additional braking.
I used to always tune my radio to WXXI-FM, the public-radio classical-music station out of Rochester. I still do, but that webcam is gaining.
I’d play WXXI as background, but they often air yammering or beg-a-thons. Worse yet they air opera on Saturday afternoons, which I can’t stand. 350-pound stringy-haired blonds screaming “Ride of the Valkyries” at the top of their lungs. Audible in 50 states!
Stabbings, shootings, star-crossed lovers jumping hand-in-hand off castle parapets into roiling ocean 200 feet below.
And since when do normal people sing dialog? If I did that at my grocery, my checkout would switch on her security-light.
When that happens I turn off WXXI, and fire up that webcam. I’m a railfan, and Cresson is a location where my brother-and-I photograph trains.

I found it!

“I’ll be a son-of-a-gun!” I exclaimed.
My iPhone-6 spent the entire night in woods next to Lehigh Valley Rail-trail.
But there it was. I started in from Chamberlain Road where I turned around yesterday with my crazy dog.
I almost immediately needed a widdle-stop after turning around. I get this lacking a prostate.
Off into the woods I walked with my lunging hunter, who eventually threw me down with a sudden direction-change. That apparently was enough to dislodge my iPhone from my rear pants pocket — unbeknownst to me, of course.
“It’s depressing how much these things became part of our lives.” I texted that to my aquacise therapist with my suddenly retrieved iPhone. (She also has an iPhone.)
My grocery-lists are in it, I calculate with it, I GPS with it, I take pictures with it, it gets my e-mail, I Siri with it (“Siri, I need a Taco-Bell in Altoona, PA” —where I chase and photograph trains; I’m a railfan). I could go on-and-on, and I’m only using a small part of what it can do.
I thought it was gone forever, off in woods next to that long rail-trail. I ain’t gonna find that thing in a million years.
Do yer math manually, GPS with my head, mow lawn in a rain-shower, grocery-lists cursive on scratch-paper. In other words, get another iPhone.
Back to our world before Smartphones. I’m told life was simpler back then, but I found that sucker!

• Would that I could picture my iPhone laying on the leaves. But that iPhone would be my camera.
• My prostate-gland was removed a few years ago as cancerous.
• “Siri” (“Sear-eee”) is Apple’s iPhone assistant. She takes commands via voice-recognition. E.g. “Siri, I need a Taco-Bell in Altoona, PA.” (She even gives GPS directions.)

No more wuss

Darth Vader parked his car in my garage. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“I could say a MESS I deserve has occurred to a rebellious and of-the-Devil sinner, plus I’m disgusting and reprehensible.” I said that to my doggy daycare guy, a religious person. It was 4:30 p.m. and already getting dark.
He knows my history, but almost seven years after my wife died, I’m coming to realize that’s baloney.
“Rebellious and of-the-Devil” are my hyper-religious and judgmental parents, and “disgusting and reprehensible” are Hilda Walton, founder of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations.
Hilda was my neighbor during childhood, and also my Sunday-School Superintendent. She convinced me all men, including me, were evil and disgusting. Her husband was probably playing around. (He did smoke Luckys.)
I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus. My mother mellowed as I grew up, but early-on was just like my father.
“Don’t get smart!” she’d bellow.
My parents and Hilda marked me for life. Seventy years late I’m leaving it behind, but it’s always there.
My parents and Hilda founded the church I attended as a child. That church has since become a school. That’s Hilda’s Sunday-School annex, very school-like.
My car needed interior doll-up = vacuum all the dog-hair and food-crumbs. Plus dirt and salt on the floor-mats.
I was suggested Vision Hyundai north of Canandaigua. They did it 3-4 years ago, and it hasn’t been done since. I needed a way to get to my YMCA aquacise class. That’s also in Canandaigua, but Vision doesn’t supply customer-shuttle.
I’d need a “loaner,” and none were available during two earlier tries. That’s over two prior weeks, but now one was available. Vision told me my doll-up might be completed in a few hours. That’s hand over my car about 9 a.m., pick up loaner, do my aquacise class (10-11 a.m.), hit the grocery, then possibly pick up my car about noon or 1 p.m.
Things change. When I turned over my car I was told another interior doll-up would occur, and they might not get to my car until afternoon.
After aquacise I drove the loaner home — my dog was still in doggy daycare. And of course every trip to Canandaigua is 20-25 minutes. I ate my cereal, took a short nap, then called Vision. (I used Siri to do it; they weren’t in my iPhone contacts yet.)
They were deep into my car, and might not be done until 5:30 p.m. My doggy daycare guy texted me about when I might pick up my dog. A mess was beginning, and to my mind it wasn’t because I’m a sinner. That’s Hilda and my parents.
Like maybe Vision coulda been more savvy. If I’d known, I coulda overnighted my dog at a nearby kennel; my doggy daycare guy is just a grooming business, and he’s doing me a favor. We used to work together at the Mighty Mezz, and he took action immediately after my wife died.
I told Vision to hold my car overnight, but I might hafta pick up my dog with their loaner. Chancy; what if my dog has to widdle? What if his paws are filthy? It’s their car — I don’t like picking up my dog in a car I don’t own.
Off to that groomer I drove in the loaner; I’d have to pick up my dog. There is a soiled spot on the rear seat, plus small drool blobs on the front passenger seat. I figgered the drool would dry.
A sea change has occurred. No longer are such messes the result of my being a sinner. Like HELLO Vision. You coulda been more savvy. I’ll try to dab out that muddy footprint, but by leading me astray that footprint becomes no longer my fault.
Sorry dudes, the downtrodden wuss is gone. But only somewhat. You don’t just flip-flop the childhood I had.
“Keep trying.” I told a friend the other day. “Don’t give up on me. I’ll get the hang of it sooner-or-later. I did with ****; now it’s yer turn.”
I doubt she will.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hours per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• “Siri” (“Sear-eee”) is Apple’s iPhone assistant. She takes commands via voice-recognition. E.g. “Call Vision Hyundai,” which she located on the Internet.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired 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.)

Lehigh Valley rail-trail

Mile-Marker 11.5 on Lehigh Valley rail-trail. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“Kershaw or Lehigh Valley?” I asked my silly dog.
Dogs don’t care of course. Even the most boring destination for humans is thrilling for a dog. Smells to check out, critters to chase.
Kershaw is a city park at the north end of Canandaigua Lake. The Lehigh Valley rail-trail is Lehigh Valley Railroad’s Buffalo Extension. That Extension opened in 1892 to counter the fact demand for northeastern PA anthracite heating-coal, LV’s original traffic base, was dwindling. (Rock-hard anthracite burns cleaner.)
LV’s Buffalo Extension was extremely well engineered. But all it did was bridge railroad-traffic from Buffalo toward New York City. There wasn’t much lineside industry — it’s in the sticks.
Taxpayers eagerly subsidized highway transport; it’s more flexible. By mid twentieth century there were too many railroads across N.Y. state.
Good as it was Lehigh Valley’s Buffalo Extension was excess. Lehigh Valley went bankrupt, and was folded into gumint organized Conrail after many northeast railroads tanked, mainly Penn-Central.
Conrail eventually privatized, and Lehigh Valley abandoned. Its fabulous Buffalo Extension was pulled up, and all that remains is its wide right-of-way. That right-of-way in Monroe County (Rochester and environs) is now the Lehigh Valley rail-trail.
Previously I walked my dog at a park perhaps four miles from my home. It’s largely wooded, and used to be the water-supply for an eastern Rochester suburb. It has two large ponds behind dams. It’s a town park — no swimming. All I encounter are hikers and other dog-walkers.
I always avoided Lehigh Valley rail-trail, thinking it too far. That town park is close.
A couple months ago my aquacise instructor at the Canandaigua YMCA, where I do aquatic balance-training, wanted to meet my new dog. That’s Killian, Irish Setter #7; the craziest and most energetic Irish Setter I ever had.
That lady is also a dog-person, and has a totally blind Samoyed. She suggested we walk our dogs at Kershaw Park, which for me is 20-25 minutes away — 14 miles.
We walked our dogs there three weekends in quick succession; prompting my hairdresser to say “OOO-LA-LA! She’s after you, Bob.”
“She is not!” I snapped. “We’re just enjoying each other’s company, and I ain’t lookin’.”
I’ve since walked Kershaw myself perhaps eight more times; summer into winter. Kershaw makes my dog socialize, that town park didn’t.
I did Kershaw at least once per week — out of five park dog-walks per week. Killian gets a second dog-walk each afternoon, loose on my huge fenced property.
Later my aquacise instructor Facebooked her dog with others on what appeared to be a Canandaigua rail-to-trail. It was Ontario Pathways, the old Pennsylvania Railroad branch into Canandaigua.
I tried it myself with Killian; a “peaceful walk with nature,” she called it. I stole her line for a blog: “Some railfan you are!” I’ve walked that trail at least three more times, but it presents a bathroom problem. My prostate was removed a few years ago, so I hafta plan accordingly.
A three-mile “peaceful walk with nature” prompts the widdle-urge. On Ontario Pathways I hafta head into the woods; lunging dog in tow.
“Into the woods” is often on “private property — no trespassing.” Kershaw didn’t cause the widdle-urge. Its bathhouse was at the center, and now that it’s closed for winter, a PortaJohn was installed.
The widdle-problem determines where I walk the dog. Will Lehigh Valley rail-trail hit me with the widdle-problem? Yes and no. There is a fairly private place next to ballfields I can use. I was tiring of Kershaw, but if either rail-trail is snowed in, Kershaw will be it.
When I got up yesterday morning, New Year’s Day, all the snow was gone. Lehigh Valley rail-trail it would be.
So 4-5 miles on Lehigh Valley rail-trail with Killian. We hardly encounter anyone, but did meet one hiker. The path is incredibly wide. LV’s Buffalo Extension was two tracks, and Pennsy’s branch to Canandaigua was only one track — and not 60 mph railroad.
“We made 2019,” the guy shouted. “Slap me five!”
“I turn 75 this year,” I noted.
“Good for you,” he said.
“Keep moving,” I said. “Get a dog.”