My calendar for March 2019

“25V, west on One, 227; CLEAR!” (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—The March 2019 entry of MY calendar is a westbound Norfolk Southern stacker charging through tiny Fostoria PA.
It’s the photograph I’m happiest with. A lot of planning and forethought went into this picture.
What do I do with Fostoria? Mainly that cross-track signal-bridge.
-I decided I had to put that signal-bridge up against the sky. For that I hafta shoot wide-angle = trackside almost at the signal-bridge. That close with a normal lens cuts out part of the signal-bridge.
Stand back far enough to not cut out part of that signal-bridge, and it’s no longer up against the sky.
-Second is lighting. The sun is your light-source. The railroad is northeast to southwest. In morning the sun is east of the tracks. During the day it comes around in the southern sky, and eventually lights west of the tracks.
The front of a westbound is always lit, but which side of the train is lit depends on what time it was.
East of the tracks doesn’t work in the afternoon; the train is in shadow. But west of the tracks I’ve yet to find a location — I’m still lookin’.
So I hafta shoot morning.
-That gets into another problem. Westbounds are usually on Track Two, the farthest track. Westbounds on One look much better; that’s the middle track.
Disregard the track-signs on the signal-bridge. Two and Three per the signs are now One and Two. One per the sign is actually a signaled siding. It’s now Track Three. (Westbound on that siding is too close.)
The signs are old Pennsy; it used to be their four-track main.
In morning westbounds move over to Track One, which is normally eastbound. This is so Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian can be on Track Two, which unloads directly onto a station platform. (Many station platforms west of Harrisburg [including Altoona] are next to Track Two.) The eastbound Pennsylvanian on One means passengers would have to cross Two to get to the station platform, which would be unsafe.
Things were falling into place. In morning light, westbounds would be on One = most desirable. Wide-angle would get that signal-bridge up against the sky. The picture becomes what was in my head. Plus it would be lit right.
-The next problem was that a train through Fostoria would probably be doing 60 mph. How do I stop anything at that speed?
Multiple shots, what used to be called “motor-drive,” what are now called “bursts” on my iPhone. And I shoot at 1/1,000th of a second, more likely to stop a speeding train.
My D7000 is not as fast doing multiple shots as my iPhone, but fast enough.
Instead of driving directly home after Altoona, I drove to tiny Fostoria. I plopped under a crossing-guard stanchion. I had to sit to get that signal-bridge up into the sky.
Scanner on, wait for westbound. Finally I heard a far-away horn, then “25V, west on One, 225; CLEAR!” That’s McFarlands; he’s coming.
There he is, 60 mph. “25V, west on One, 227; CLEAR!” BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! 10 or 12 multiple shots at the highest speed, and the sun was out.
Finally I got Fostoria to work; mainly that signal-bridge. I almost fell getting up.

Old and decrepit

“The best antidote to feeling old and decrepit is to walk that silly dog.”
I texted that to my aquacise instructor after walking my dog along Lehigh Valley Rail-trail, yesterday morning (Wednesday, February 27th), 3-4 miles.
I do aquatic balance-training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool. Two hour-long classes per week, plus a third hour on-my-own. My “aquacise instructor” is the lady who leads the class.
What I didn’t text her is I feel more stable — normal — walking my dog.
My balance has gone away over the past couple years. I suppose it’s partly because of my age (75), but I’ve also been diagnosed with neuropathy in my legs. That’s poor nerve-communication to my legs. Not due to diabetes — I still feel pain, but the result is poor balance.
It was worse a few ago years, but mainly I’ve learned how to counter poor balance. I hardly fall any more; but I pay much more attention. I feel like I’ve gotten less stable, but I counter that.
Recently, in our on-going effort to explain my increasing clumsiness, that aquacise instructor suggested I was walking in “dog-mode” = that I’m anticipating my “pup” (her word) running.
Except he doesn’t just take off. I learned with a previous dog to let the dog pull with my leash at full extension. This negates the dog all-of-sudden running out to the end of his leash, slamming me to the ground.
The average person would say I should teach my dog to heel. Not interested. My dog is an Irish-Setter. “Heeling” would be punishment. Maybe for a more placid dog, but not an Irish-Setter. Irish-Setters love to hunt = lurch-pull-lunge-yank! Back-and-forth like a loose cannon.
Except I do it at full leash-extension so he doesn’t throw me down.
Whatever, walking my dog feels stable; everywhere else I feel less stable.
My aquacise instructor’s comment about “dog-mode” is worth considering, especially since I feel “normal” walking my lunging maniac.
But I unfortunately have the habit of thinking about it; that is, the one who determines the value of a comment is unfortunately ME. —That’s probably a result of my tortured childhood.
I’ve stolen many ideas from that aquacise instructor, but only after “thinking about it.”
Just recently my sister-in-law commented she can’t balance on one foot. I can’t either, although I keep trying. When I try I start falling over. —Which is okay in a swimming-pool, where the water cushions yer fall, or buoyancy may negate it.
In my house, or anywhere on dry land, for that matter, I hafta catch my fall. Which I’ve gotten so I do quite well.
But inability to balance on one foot seems about the same as it’s been for years.

Not a loose cannon

A friend with whom I long ago worked at the Mighty Mezz — he was an editor — disputes people at my YMCA calling me a “loose cannon.”
“Always a gentleman. A person who knew when to shut up — ‘cease-fire’,” he said.
“Loose cannon” was terminology those YMCA people used. “Crackpot” might be more precise, but I quoted the word they used.
A few weeks ago that YMCA’s head-honcho “chatted” with me. I reminded her I had a stroke; she knew that.
“You recovered very well,” she said.
“Ornery as Hell!” I shouted.
“Heck!” she corrected. Little children were nearby doing swimming-pool introduction. Her fear was those tykes might pick up my language.
So “that Hughes guy might say anything.”
WOOPS! She had a point. I felt badly. I do it all-the-time. Always inserting foot in mouth — somewhat a stroke effect. Also not realizing how loud I am.
“Crackpot” is more like it. I’m always regaling people at that YMCA with putrid jokes. I love to make people laugh. An uncle was like that.
If people wanna talk, let ‘em talk. Then hit ‘em with a snide remark or comment. That gets ‘em laughing.
My dog walked me yesterday morning at nearby Boughton Park. It was extremely icy — I couldna done it without my Yaktrax.
A “Student-Driver” car pulled in as I returned to my car. The high-schoolers inside wanted to pet my dog.
“Any way to safely get down to the point?” their teacher asked. “I don’t have ice-cleats.” He was the adult authority figure.
“I don’t think there’s an easy way to get down there,” I said.
That made him angry, so it seemed. That I had the awful temerity, unmitigated gall, and horrific audacity to not give him the answer he wanted.
The high-schoolers, on the other hand, were thrilled. “What a pretty dog.”
One was an extremely cute young girl.
I gave ‘em an out. “This way Big Meat-head.” I saw I was in deepest do-do with that adult.
Ever the gentleman, I guess. A “loose cannon” might have challenged that adult.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 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 stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hours per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• RE: “Big Meat-head.....” —Every dog we (I) ever owned I’ve nicknamed “Meat-head.” With me my dog knows of himself as “Meat-head.” (A previous dog, who was rather small, I called “Little Meat-head.”) —“Meat-head” because like a pot-head likes marijuana, my dog likes meat.

Loose cannon

“Hi Bob,” said a guy I don’t know.
I think he’s the Canandaigua YMCA’s new Aquatic Director.
I do aquatic balance-training in that YMCA’s swimming-pool.
He’s only been there a week or two, or maybe three.
I passed him later. “Hi Bob.”
“How come everybody here knows my name?” I asked.
“Your reputation,” he said.
“And what’s my reputation?” I asked.
“Staunch supporter of everything the YMCA stands for; valued member who always attends, yada-yada.”
“Oh stop!” I said. “The reputation I got third-hand was ‘watch out for that Hughes guy. He’s a loose cannon.’”
“Yer young only once, but can be immature all yer life,” I said.
“That Hughes guy might say anything.”
I think not. Taste and decorum, but make ‘em laugh. Gotta be careful with off-color jokes. I ain’t some Trump wannabee.
Some day I’ll find out his name. Pity that poor dude having to stroke some complete whacko.
Then I’ll hafta construct something to remember his name. I don’t call her “Hannah-banana,” but that’s how I remember her name.

“Get-it-right!”

“The English language is impossible!”
So said a friend in a burst of wisdom.
A couple days ago I ate out with another friend. We began discussing “Hump Day.” It was Wednesday, February 13th, the day before Valentine’s Day.
A radio-host said Wednesday was “Hump Day.”
“Not this month,” said another host.
“Tomorrow, Thursday, February 14th, Valentine’s Day, is ‘Hump Day.’ Flowers for yer honey; then get humped.”
“Words have so many meanings,” my friend observed.
“Another,” she added; is ‘package’.”
Some girl picked up a “package” from a washboard abs.
Hmmmnnn.....
I have a friend who worked at a newspaper in Corning, NY. I myself worked at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper after my stroke.
A torrential exchange began: “‘E-mail:’ hyphenated or not?”
“Yes.”
“How about ‘website’?”
“No.”
“Okay, where do you put the end-quote? In front of or behind the period?”
“Ahead.”
“Maybe in Corning ya did, but not at the Messenger,” I shouted.
It’s the old waazoo: “my blog, my rules: I’ll punctuate as I please.”
“You probably also know what ‘smart-quotes’ are and ‘dumb-quotes’.” “Dumb are vertical (") both beginning and ending. ‘Smart’ slants down-right beginning (“), and down-left (”) ending.
Microsoft Word® is dumb-quotes I think, although you can probably set it for smart-quotes.
Apple’s ‘Pages’ word-processor is smart-quotes. I do all my wording in ‘Pages’ so I get smart-quotes. A copy/paste from ‘Pages’ into my e-mail program (and Facebook) transfers smart-quotes. But e-mail on its own is dumb-quotes. (As is Facebook.)”
“Who cares about this stuff?” an editor at the newspaper asked.
“The Grammar-Police,” I’d note. “The CONSERVATIVES who cleaned out the ears of our head-honcho claiming we were too “liberial.” (The kerreck Conservative spelling.)
The same blowhards who copy/pasted a direct steal from the Limbaugh website, then signed it themselves as a locally-written Letter-to-the-Editor.
“This letter is too well-written,” I told my boss. I looked it up and there it was word-for-word on the Limbaugh website. (We didn’t run it.)
“What rule-book did you use at that Corning newspaper?”
“The AP Stylebook,” she answered. (Associated Press.)
“We used that too, and I still have mine, although it’s 2000 or so, so probably outta-date.” Ten years after usage becomes common they might update.
“I wonder if they still hyphenate ‘teenager’ (‘teen-ager’)? That was our single exception, promulgated by the Messenger Publisher (the head-honcho).”
In financial circles one invests “capitAl,” and our nation’s “capitAl” is Washington DC.
But Congress sits in the “capitOl building.”
“Probably the first thing I asked our aquacise-instructor was if her name was hyphenated or two words?” (It’s two words.) I also wanted to know if it was “Ann” or “Anne? (It’s “Anne.”)
This is the Messenger jones. The main reason that newspaper never cut me loose, despite how messed up I was after my stroke, was I cared about this stuff.
I am a graduate of Houghton College (1966). As was our Executive-Editor (1980). That was Houghton’s legacy: GET-IT-RIGHT!
Any text by me is gonna be properly spelled and fully punctuated.
“You don’t need to do that,” says my hairdresser, who got me into Smartphones.
“I do too; I use voice-recognition, then fix the flubs. VR is pretty good, but may slip in an F-bomb.”
The other morning I had my classical-music radio-station on, and it said it was sponsored by a financial-service that offered “holistic financial planning.”
“What in Hell’s name is ‘holistic financial planning’?” I shouted.
Buzzwords are taking over.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• Over 13 years ago I retired from the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper. Best job I ever had —I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern).
• “Houghton College” (“HO-tin;” as in “oh,” not “how” or “who”) in western New York, is where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I never regretted it, although I graduated a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college, and was the first religious institution to not consider me rebellious and of-the-Devil = a threat.

Never-again

“Bob, that was the opportunity of a lifetime; you shoulda asked her to dinner!”
That was my good friend ******, who I eat out with most every week. ****** is a widow who like me lost her beloved, she six years ago, me approaching seven.
A third person had been joining us, but he fell or had a stroke, whatever, and had to be hospitalized. This most recent eat-out was the first time he rejoined us; his wife died too.
“Not this kid!” I shouted. “I’ve mucked up enough already. I ain’t pressurin’ that lady — she’s got enough worries as it is.
I already took yer advice once and crashed mightily in flames — NEVER AGAIN!” I said.
“Yer being ridiculous!” ****** said.
I was detailing my delivery of gift-seeds from the Red Cross to a lady-friend at the Canandaigua YMCA. It went over way better than expected. Which is interesting, since that morning I was scared to death to say anything to her or anyone else.
Some days my parents and Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor are ascendent; like how will I have enough nerve to say anything as promised?
That Sunday-School Superintendent is the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, who I’ve blogged many times. My parents were Bible-beating Baptists who agreed I was despicable.
“What yer seeing here is a compulsion left behind by my wife = ‘Don’t throw away seeds.’ So what do I do with these seeds? I can’t throw ‘em out. Maybe I’ll give ‘em to ****** ****; she’s not writing a blog every 10 seconds.”
And so I gave her the seeds.
She loved it, or so it seemed. She offered her hand, and we held hands at least 10-15 seconds.
“Yer just friends, right?” ****** said.
“Correct,” I said; “but doing so is always freighted with all that silly boy-girl stuff I’m never any good at.”
“It is not,” ****** shouted.
“I’m not you, and neither is that lady,” I said. “Never-again do I take yer advice for this boy-girl stuff.
Being myself doesn’t crash in flames. If she wants me to pay more attention, she’ll let me know. I ain’t pursuin’ that lady.”

Sushi Chronicles

My dog walked me Sunday morning at Kershaw Park at the north end of Canandaigua lake.
I went onto the adjacent “City Pier” out into the lake. It’s concrete and paved = drivable. It passes the “historic boathouses” I recently pictured.
A gentleman approached as I walked back toward my car. “See any bait-shops open down there?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” I said; “and I don’t think there are any bait-shops.”
“I need bait to feed my pet snakes,” he said.
“Well, that Wegmans does sell sushi,” I said.
He laughed.
Once they were handing out free sushi samples. “No thank you,” I said. “Where I come from they call that stuff bait,” and “ya forgot to cook this.”
He got it all; many don’t. — Just say it, I’ve learned. Repeat if necessary. If they still don’t get it, it’s not my fault!

• “Where I come from they call that stuff bait” is stolen from Terry Bradshaw in a skit with Doug Flutie. They order sushi, and Bradshaw, reflecting his proletarian roots, says “where I come from they call that stuff bait.” Ditto “ya forgot to cook this.” (The link is to the YouTube skit.)
• “Wegmans” is a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester, now expanding all over the northeast. There’s a Wegmans near Kershaw Park. Most of my grocery shopping is from that Wegmans, since I know the store.

Mano-a-mano with Mighty Walmart*

Constant-readers of this blog already know I hate shopping Walmart*.
My siblings know. They loudly excoriate me as rebellious and sinful because I don’t shop Walmart*.
Online I do. If Walmart* is suggested as a “purchase” hit, I open it first. My breakfast cereals are online Walmart*, and soon my “Vitamin-Water” will be, since I’m running my local supermarkets out of “Vitamin-Water.”
But I don’t shop brick-and-mortar Walmart*. Years ago Canandaigua’s Walmart* was depressing, plus you were hugged by a urine-smelling geezer on entering.
Finding anything at Walmart* is always a staff-question, and I had the awful temerity, unmitigated gall and horrific audacity (cue Sharpton) to interrupt the day-long donut-break of two store associates.
Online Walmart* doesn’t bless me with urine-smelling geezers, or nasty store associates.
Amazon I avoid; it always lobs insanity at me.
The Otter-case for my iPhone-6 was disintegrating. I online ordered a replacement from Walmart*, but it was for i6-Plus. When it came I didn’t open it because I could see it was too big.
My cleaning-lady noted anything online Walmart* could be returned to a brick-and-mortar Walmart*.
So off I drove to Canandaigua’s Walmart*. That Walmart* is new, but no less intimidating. At least the geezer-greeters were gone. But they were replaced by “Beep-Boop-Beep” of 89 bazilyun checkouts, plus a gigantic “self checkout.”
I was greeted by a heavy-set woman, shabbily-dressed except for her uniform-vest with Walmart*’s asterisk printed gigantic yellow on her back.
All Walmart* “store associates” have that vest, plus a large “May I help you” name-badge pinned in front.
“‘Customer-Service,’ right down there to the left,” she pointed.
I got in line at “Customer-Service;” at least 10-15 minutes standing with nothing to hang on to. I am 75; standing is not easy with wonky balance.
Finally I was hailed by an angry store associate wearing a “Nurse Ratched” name-tag. She was festooned with “breast-cancer sucks” and “fight like a girl” buttons, among others. Those are the only two I remember — she had at least 15, plus facial steel.
“This is a ‘marketplace’ purchase; I can’t give you money.”
“So what’s ‘marketplace’?” I asked.
Awful temerity, unmitigated gall and horrific audacity = Nurse Ratched became enraged.
“Stupid me!” I said. “I need to know what ‘marketplace’ is. To me, that’s a large shopping-mall outside Rochester. Are you saying ‘marketplace’ means ordered online?”
How come every visit to a brick-and-mortar Walmart* is fraught with insanity?
Nurse Ratched thereafter boxed my errant Otter case to return for credit. Who knows what gets credited; I paid PayPal, but wouldn’t be surprised by a Walmart* store-credit.
“All I wanted was to swap this i6-Plus case for an i6 case.”
“Can’t do it!” Nurse Ratched snapped. “Has to be returned for credit.”
She printed a mailing-label, then put my i6-Plus case in the box.
“Now I need to know where I can buy an i6 case.”
“Over in Electronics,” she snapped. No sign of “Electronics,” but “Entertainment” had gigantic wall-mount TVs.
I ambled across the huge store; at least 100 yards. I encountered another overweight helper-lady. “I need a case for this iPhone-6,” I said.
She pointed me toward a counter manned by a shabbily-dressed, stringy-haired hippie, except for his asterisk emblazoned vest.
“I hate to be a pest, but I can’t walk out of here with a case I find doesn’t fit.”
“The cases are sealed,” he said. “But can be returned if opened.”
I forked over 22 buckaroos, then headed for the restroom to see if the case fit. “Shoplifters will be prosecuted,” a sign blared.
If it didn’t fit, “Customer-Service” again, where Nurse Ratched awaits.
Back to “Entertainment.” “What’s the trick?” I asked. “I can’t even get this thing apart. It shoulda been labeled ‘not for senior-citizens’.”
“I’m a senior-citizen,” a clerk bragged, but he couldn’t get it apart either. Finally a pimply teenager pried the case open.
Amazingly it fit. I was able to leave Mighty Walmart* with a useable Smartphone case.
At least an hour was blown.
Online is okay, but brick-and-mortar isn’t. Next time I’m more online precise. I shoulda returned it myself. No brick-and-mortar Walmart* for this kid!

• The Customer-Service Associate was not actually named “Nurse Ratched.” “Nurse Ratched” is the overly authoritarian and nasty “Big Nurse” (“Nurse Ratched”) from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, who ruled her psychiatric-ward with an iron fist. That Customer-Service lady was a dead ringer. “One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” is my favorite movie.
• South of Rochester is “Marketplace Mall.”

Make ‘em laugh!

“The reason your (‘you’re?’) still here is for the rest of us that are in your life. That also puts you in our life as well.”
That was my friend **** ******, like me a retired Regional Transit bus-driver. He was responding to my “Older than dirt” blog, wherein my last line was “What am I doing here?
That was after an earlier phonecall, when **** told me he enjoyed my company.
“Yeah,” I said; “and I suppose that’s why I attract all these ladies at that YMCA swimming-pool. They enjoy my company.”
A few years ago I went on an Erie Canal cruise sponsored by my Transit retirees club. To do so I daycared my previous dog at a nearby kennel. That kennel is co-owned by two ladies, one of whom is fairly attractive.
Returned from the cruise I walked into the store and said “As you can see, the boat didn’t sink.”
That had that lady rolling on the floor.
I’ve considered eating out with both those co-owners, but if I did the restaurant crew would wonder how an old geezer got two — count ‘em two — ladies to eat out with him.
If they asked I’d tell them the secret, which is make ‘em laugh.
My uncle, deceased, sold cars for a large Ford dealership in south Jersey. He was probably the most successful salesman that dealer had at that time (‘50s-‘60s). People wanted to buy a car from him. He made them laugh. He wasn’t trying; he just did.
I do pretty much the same thing. I make comments and snide remarks that make people laugh.
“I have wonderful news,” I told my wife one day. “Of all the places on this vast planet Santa Claus could visit, he’s coming to tiny West Bloomfield.”
She looked at me and said “This is why I married you.”
Years ago, at the Mighty Mezz, I told a young girl “Yer gonna get married some day. Whatever ya do, marry someone that makes ya laugh. Do that, and yer in it for the long haul. Yer gonna be frustrated sometimes, angry, jealous, whatever. But if he can make ya laugh, ya’ll get over it.
I often wonder how my wife put up with me 44&1/2 years. I’m half insane, and driven by all-too-many compulsions and interests. If she had any interest in me at all, it was seeing me happy, which we got chasing trains. She wasn’t the least bit interested in trains.
She told me the main reason she stayed with me was because I made her laugh. I wasn’t trying; I just did. I’d make some comment or snide remark which got her laughing.
I eat out usually once per week with a widow who like me lost her beloved. She tried online dating, but became tired of the creeps and weirdos.
We discuss our attempts to find companionship. “What I’d like most is to find somebody normal.”
“Then why in Hell’s name are you hanging around with me?”
“Because yer funny,” she exclaimed; “and not boring as Hell.”
That widow and I are worlds apart, but she seems to keep wanting to eat out with me.
She showed me a “flirt” from a Senior Singles site.
“Looks like a Republican,” I snapped, upsetting other restaurant patrons.
She laughed; not everyone does. Some take offense when none was offered.
My wife would laugh. Another Ford sold — maybe a T-bird.

• 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 do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hours per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 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’m a railfan.
• My wife 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.

“Just take the picture!”

The boathouses on Canandaigua lake. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“Just take the picture,” I kept saying to myself. “Then send her the picture. You might get a response.”
I was walking my silly dog at Kershaw Park north of Canandaigua lake. I decided to try the historic boathouses west of the park. First time for everything.
Before going I decided to not text my aquacise instructor. Too many texts already, partially due to my good friend ******.
But there I was next to the historic boathouses on Canandaigua’s City-Pier, and the light was pretty good.
Oh well, maybe she’ll like the picture. It’s evidence of my first visit.
I unholstered my iPhone to take the picture. Not easy with a lunging Irish Setter. Plus my iPhone was asleep — waking it is always multiple tries with freezing fingers.
Later, back in my car, I texted the picture to my aquacise instructor. All I said was “first time;” avoiding my usual torrent.
BAM; almost immediately. “Wow Bob. That’s great!!! Is this with your phone camera?”
“This picture is not exactly what I wanted,” I said.
“But I like it. You can edit it.”
Later, from home: “RE: ‘editing.’ Done it, but the camera has to be aimed right.”
Again, almost immediately: “Just be happy. Perfection is highly overrated.”
That aquacise instructor is the classiest woman I ever met, even more than my wife, although she isn’t my wife — who was very well-suited for who I was back then. She died almost seven years ago, and I feel like I no longer am the person I was while married.
I also feel it’s a shame she can’t experience who I became — which was because of her.
“Just take the picture,” I kept saying; hurled this-way-and-that by my lunging monster. “Yer likely to get a response.”
And to me the picture isn’t extraordinary.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hours per week — plus a third hour on my own. The class leader is my “aquacise instructor.”
• I didn’t get the picture as far left as I wanted. It’s nearly impossible to properly aim a hand-held camera while being thrown by a leashed dog. It’s amazing I got it level.

Incredible daring

“I have a modest proposal,” I said Saturday, February 9th, to an aging widow in the YMCA swimming-pool.
Just after Christmas I struck up a conversation with this lady; her husband died 26 years ago.
“Uh-ohhh,” she said, smiling.
“You are a widow, and I’m a widower. I eat out most every week with another widow named ***** (‘Flowers by *****’). You may wish to join us. We all pay separately for our meals; there used to be three of us, but now it’s just me and *****. The other guy fell and was hospitalized. He also may have had a stroke, and can’t drive.
And if it’s hard for you to get around, I’ll pick you up.”
WOW! Did you read that? An act of incredible daring from a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, whereby any contact by a male toward a female is automatically EVIL.
“No women will ever wanna talk to you!” Hilda told me. My Bible-beating parents heartily agreed. I was already rebellious and of-the-Devil because I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
I was about 4 or 5 at the time.
“No,” she said. “I have a car. What day do you eat out?”
“Usually Tuesday,” I said; “but sometimes Wednesday. ***** sets the date.”
“Sometimes I have grandchildren to baby-sit,” she said. But she seemed interested.
I texted *****. But the main thing is my doing this took nerve. Faire Hilda and my parents marked me for life. I also had a wife who actually liked me, making it possible for me to avoid women 44&1/2 years.
Since she died I find to my surprise that women beside my wife like me too = that Hilda and my parents were full-of-it.
Doing this wasn’t that hard. I did it before, so had practice. It’s a shame my wife can’t experience the person I became. Had she not died, I probably would still be as antisocial as I was while married.

Snowbound

(Associated Press.)

—“It’s amazing how much this thing can throw at me!”
I said that the other night as I began shutting down this laptop.
Prior to shutdown I checked my e-mail. I’m on a Yahoo mailing-list of the Rochester & Genesee Valley Railroad Museum. (I’m a railfan.) Posted was a YouTube video of a snowed-in and abandoned steam-locomotive being rescued.
I clicked it. Workers thawed frozen wheel-bearings with torches. Men with snowblowers cleared around the snow-plastered locomotive. The engine was of course dead.
Finally another steamer chuffed up to couple. Coupler-workings had to be thawed. The snow-encrusted locomotive was dragged away.
There was question regarding details. Clearly the locomotive was European. It was a tank-engine, but not “Thomas.” It was large; a 2-10-2 I think.
The fact it was dragged away by another steamer makes me wonder myself. But the video looked recent.
A second RGVRM member posted a link to a “Daily Mail” article about a gigantic snowstorm burying Germany and Austria. Somewhere in the article was mention of a railfan excursion with a steam-locomotive — that locomotive was abandoned after getting stuck in a HUGE snowdrift.
I didn’t have time to read the article, but it had at least 40-50 photographs, plus quite a few videos. It was past bedtime, but here I was scrolling through those many pictures.
The article was about the snowstorm, but many pictures were of trains snowed in. Also cars, trucks, and buses. One video was a goat being shoveled out by railroad workers.
Picture after picture after picture. The scroll-bar was tiny; would I ever get to the end?
My computer is antediluvian. Yet it can hurl 89 bazilyun pictures at me. Utterly beyond imagining back in 1962 when I graduated high-school.
The locomotive was meter-gauge on the Harz Narrow Gauge Railways (Harzer Schmalspurbahnen) in what used to be East Germany. It goes to a ski resort in the Harz mountains, and it still uses steam.

Older than dirt

As of yesterday, Tuesday February 5th, 2019, Yrs Trly became age-75 =- older than dirt.
A couple years ago I was found to have prostate cancer, the beginning thereof, I guess.
Heavy-heavy! Bring on the urology doctors: the ones who run the practice.
I was advised of various treatment options. My brother suggested I do nothing, since prostate-cancer is slow-growing.
My urologists were more concerned. Treatment is also moolah for their practice. I also had a friend whose father died of what started as prostate-cancer.
One option was to insert radioactive beads, which they said might be good for 10 years.
“I wanna be around longer than that,” I stated. Long enough for Steve Bannon’s “Survivalist” politics to ascend. Long enough for massive coal-burning to begin flooding south Floridy.
My final treatment option was complete removal of my prostate.
My friend did similar to avoid the fate of his father.
So, prostate removed via da Vinci® robot surgery.
One of the urologists did this. He claimed he drove a Buick instead of a Ferrari. That was my long ago open-heart surgeon.
The lady who runs my YMCA talked to me yesterday — I give them money.
“You don’t look 75,” she said.
“Paragon of virtue,” I suggested. “Never smoked, hardly drink at all, no gambling. The last alcoholic beverage I had was maybe five years ago.”
“With me it was last night,” she noted. She’s slightly younger than me.
My aquacise instructor at that YMCA recently became a grandmother. She’s thrilled, of course; but I worry about that grandson.
Survival-of-the-fittest, ya know. All those south Floridians move to upstate New York to escape the flooding, and exterminate we residents. She and I will be gone in not too long, but probably not her grandson. Unless some Bannon-wannabee exercises survival-of-the-fittest.
“Three quarters of a century,” she noted. Then she led others singing “Happy Birthday.”
I’m no good at playing along. After 75 years I know it’s better to keep my mouth shut. That’s sad for the others, but less painful than my saying something dumb.
My speech is also hesitant. That’s aphasia, a stroke-effect. Slight in my case; I had a stroke over 25 years ago.
75 years on this planet, and a lot has happened. I could tell stories.
My wife is gone. She died of cancer almost seven years ago. She was the one supposed to make 100 —her mother did.
What am I doing here?

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. It slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)
• That heart-defect was repaired with open-heart surgery.

The Algorithm

My cousin in NC, with whom I happen to be Facebook “Friends,” posted something about Facebook’s algorithm that limits posts to yer “home-page” to about 25 “friends.”
I guess it’s keeps yer home-page from having a deluge of posts from every one of yer “friends.” I only have 58; some have thousands.
Supposedly this algorithm is secret. Although I first heard about it some time ago from another “friend” with whom I attended high-school.
LA-DEE-DAH! I never look at my home-page, and only occasionally at my Facebook. I have better things to do than view dancing-cat videos or red-colored “congrats.”
Facebook is boring as Hell. I regularly fire up only one “friend,” because what she posts is often worth viewing. I also fire up FB “notifications.”
The fact I even have a Facebook is due to a fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies. I’m occasionally tempted to kill it, but don’t, because so many of my real friends have Facebooks.
Facebook seems to have become what e-mail coulda been. E-mail can’t crunch long videos. I hafta downsize photos for e-mail. If too large they won’t send.
A while ago I discovered my nephew and his wife had a baby three years earlier. It was noted via Facebook. Far-be-it a first-born who diapered my younger siblings expect a non-Facebook announcement. The fact I don’t Facebook means I’m rebellious and stupid. Better to line SuckerBird’s pockets!
My Facebook is probably 10 years old. But I’ve only done one “share,” and two Facebook “likes.” What little I post goes directly to a “friend’s” “timeline;” which I think is what Facebook was originally. The “timeline” is what used to be a “friend’s” “wall” — or so it seems.
Now it’s so complicated I pay little attention.
My NC “friend” suggested “copy/paste” instead of “share,” since “share” can be algorithmed (she says), and “copy/paste” can’t. I’m lost, but don’t care since I hardly do anything with Facebook.
“Wondrous technology,” an actual friend comments. “And what do we get? Videos of dancing cats.”

• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

“You think too much”

“It’s all in your head!” said my good friend ******. We were eating out, as we often do.
“I’ve thought that myself,” I said.
****** is a widow. Like me she lost her beloved, six years ago for her; almost seven for me.
“Yer problem is you think too much,” she added.
Agreed, but I’ve heard it before.
Sadly I think there’s a reason. Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. (No need to explain that to constant readers.)
Early in my childhood Hilda convinced me all men, including me, were scum. My Bible-beating parents heartily agreed. (No need to explain that either.)
“No woman will ever wanna talk to you!”
When that happens, as it has with increasing frequency, I wonder why.
“Are they lonely?” “Do they need companionship?”
WHOA, dude! What about friendship?
Since my wife died I discovered I enjoy conversation with women, and they seem to enjoy conversation with me. While married I avoided contact with other females, who I was scared of anyway. I already had a female who liked me.
Marked for life by Hilda, et al, I wondered why any lady would enjoy my company. Hilda led to many muck-ups. There also is my lack of female contact over 70 years. Anything that happens with females I over-analyze, which leads to wonky conclusions.
“Is she lonely?”
Get real dude! “It’s all in your head! Yer blowing ordinary behavior way outta proportion. Especially with ladies —that’s Hilda.”
The other day I experienced the REAL ****** ****, as opposed to “the ****** **** in my head,” who never gets mad at me, and is predictable.
Made-up conversation pales versus real conversation.
She started mocking the fact I walk my silly dog in the Polar Vortex — only short; I worry about frozen tootsies.
Then she began parrying my snide remarks. If I wonder why this is happening that’s Hilda.
I prefer the REAL ****** ****, et al. And that’s all I’m doing = mere friendship.
Only per Hilda does friendship with ladies become suspect. (And evil.)
Hilda’s legacy is hard to reverse — my lady-friends are flip-flopping it.
Hilda and my parents spin in their graves; 14,000 rpm. Enough to power FL south of Orlando.

• My wife of over 44&1/2 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.