My OWN calendar

SD60E west of Lilly, PA. (Years-ago photo by Jack Hughes.)

—The June 2019 entry of MY calendar is a photo taken long ago by my brother.
It’s an EMD SD60 rebuilt by Juniata shops (June-eee-AT-uh) with the Crescent cab, etc that make it an SD60E.
The Crescent cab isn’t stock. This locomotive was probably originally the Spartan cab, which isn’t a wide safety cab.
It was made by Curry Supply of Curryville, PA, south of Altoona. The Crescent cab was designed by Norfolk Southern to meet recent FRA crashworthiness standards.
Lots of other modifications and improvements were made to bring EMD’s SD60 up to SD60E standards.
The prime-mover was replaced with a Tier-0 compliant 710 V16 rated at 4,000 horsepower instead of the 3,800 of an SD60. (That’s 710 cubic-inches per cylinder.) — The prime-mover is also turbocharged, as most railroad road-diesel engines are nowadays.
The locomotive also has other improvements, one of which is a split cooling-system designed in-house by Juniata shops personnel. It increases engine efficiency 7%.
Juniata shops is extraordinary. My guess is a primary reason Norfolk Southern wanted the old Pennsy line across PA was to get Juniata shops. Hundreds of cast-off locomotives wait outside to be rebuilt. If it’s a Union Pacific loco, it’s might be an un-repainted Juniata shops rebuild.
My brother likes the Crescent cab, primarily because its brow reminds him of a visored “Advance-Design” Chevy pickup (’47-’53). I hate it; mainly that brow. Every time a train approaches, I hope an SD60E isn’t leading.
The EMD SD60s were due for retirement or rebuild. Converting them to SD60Es makes them comparable to recent road-power.
My brother and I had a wonderful time figuring where he took this picture. South (railroad-west) of Lilly is signal-bridge 254. My brother snapped multiple shots. This photo doesn’t have signal-bridge 254 in it, but his previous shot did.
We surmised many locations for this photo going by lighting. “Can’t be that; the light ain’t right!”
But railroad-east of 254 the light would be as recorded: about noon 1 p.m.

Gotta blog this

Every railfan should be required by law to visit “The Mighty Curve.” (Photo by Travis VonGrey.)

—The May 2019 entry in my Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar is two trains rounding “The Mighty Curve” (Horseshoe Curve) west of Altoona, PA.
The stacker is westbound up The Hill on Three. And barely visible is unit coal eastbound down on One.
Horseshoe Curve is by far the BEST railfan pilgrimage-spot I’ve ever been to. It’s part of the original Pennsylvania Railroad line that opened up Philadelphia to trade with the midwest.
The line is now Norfolk Southern, and is a main railroad artery to and from this nation’s east coast. As such it sees lots of trains. Wait 25 minutes and you’ll see a train, often more frequently than that.
And Horseshoe Curve is part of the railroad’s assault on Allegheny Mountain. It made Philadelphia trade with the midwest possible. Allegheny Mountain was previously a barrier. NY state didn’t have that barrier; ergo the Erie Canal.
Getting up and down Allegheny Mountain taxed railroading to the limit. Engines are wide-open climbing, and downhill trains have to not run away.
“The Mighty Curve” has a viewing-area in its apex. Trains are in your face and assault-the-heavens climbing.
I’ve been to other railfan pilgrimage-spots, but Horseshoe Curve is best. Train after train after train.
Horseshoe Curve is now a tourist destination. Pennsy was very proud of it. They used to stop trains mid-Curve so passengers could look. It made breaching the Allegheny Mountains possible in the middle 1800s.
My first visit to “The Mighty Curve” was 1968. It was still four tracks back then (now it’s three), but it no longer was Pennsy. Plus it wasn’t a historical site at that time. It had the same viewing-area as now, but you had to climb a long stairway to get to it. —Now there’s a funicular up to the viewing-area. There was only a small shop at the base run by railfans.
We had a hard time finding it. I followed signs west out of Altoona, and suddenly “We’re smack in the middle of it!” The railroad was way above us pinned to the mountainsides on each side of a valley.
Lead locomotive #6318 is an SD40E, one of the Allegheny Mountain helper-pool. It and 6313, also an SD40E, are a two-unit helper-set added to trains that might have difficulty over Allegheny Mountain.
The east slope of Allegheny Mountain is 1.75-1.8 feet up for every 100 feet forward. Not bad, but difficult enough to frequently require helper locomotives.
That stacker came to Altoona behind two or three road-units. Leading is 7541, a General-Electric ES44DC, 4,400 horsepower. But to get up and down Allegheny Mountain a helper-set was added. The train looks fairly heavy, but probably not heavy enough to need a second helper-set pushing on the rear.
Helpers have always been needed. Lighter trailer-on-flatcar (TOFC), auto-racks, and empty trains can do Allegheny Mountain without helpers. Loaded coal trains or slabbers might need two or three helper-sets, four to six additional locomotives.
Pennsy merged with New York Central in 1968, but Penn-Central quickly went bankrupt. Conrail took over in 1976, a gumint attempt to save northeast railroading.
Conrail eventually privatized, but broke up and sold in 1999. Norfolk Southern got the old Pennsy line across PA, and CSX the old New York Central line across NY state.
Horseshoe Curve was the trick that got railroad over Allegheny Mountain without steep grades. The railroad was looped around a valley to ease the grade.
A helper-set can add additional braking = dynamic braking. The locomotive traction-motors get converted to generators. They help slow the train, which could run away downgrade.
Prior to dynamic braking a train had to depend on car-brakes alone. A train would descend Allegheny Mountain wreathed in brake-shoe smoke.
The SD40E is an EMD (ElectroMotive Division) SD50 rebuilt and downgraded by Juniata shops (June-eee-AT-uh) north of Altoona. The SD50 was 3,500 unreliable horsepower. An SD40E is only 3,000 horsepower.
The SD40E’s replaced SD40-2 helper-sets used by the railroad for years. They also converted the SD50 into a reliable locomotive.
My brother and I always wanted to photograph this location for my annual train-calendar. But to do so we’d have to -a) trespass on private property using an ATV-track up and down the mountain, or -b) climb a 100-200 foot embankment through scrub.
It used to be you could get to this location from the Curve viewing-area, but now it’s fenced. My brother considered vaulting the fence, but that would require an athlete, and my brother is 62 — I’m 75. The fence also is spiked.
The railroad itself is also private property, and railroad-police patrol it. Travis VonGrey is a Norfolk Southern Conductor, and may have used a Norfolk Southern road-railer pickup to get here.
He also may have hiked in from Glenwhite road, something I’d consider, since it looks like the distance I walk my dog. Even then the photograph isn’t that photogenic, and requires perfect conditions. The sun has to be out, and has to be afternoon light.
This photograph woulda been better under such conditions, and also coulda been more open. 6318 dominates.

• Railroaders refer to Allegheny Mountain as “The Hill.”
• Horseshoe Curve currently has three tracks — years ago it had four. Track One (inside) is eastbound, Three (outside) is westbound, and Two can be either way.
• A “funicular” is a cable-car that runs on rails. There are two cars on only one track, but it widens to two tracks in the middle so the cars can pass. There’s still a stairway, but you can ride the “funicular.”
• A “slabber” is a Norfolk Southern slab-train. Numerous open gondola cars are loaded with two steel slabs per car. The slabs were made at a steel-mill, then get transferred to a distant rolling mill to be rolled into thin sheetmetal for cars or appliances. “Slabbers” are very heavy, and the term may be original to my brother and I.

What matters is what’s between the ears

Statuesque in street-clothes, *****, a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming pool, despite being age-63, is what we men call a “looker.”
Up-close-and-personal I see the crows-feet and wrinkles, but on her lifeguard stand she’s in her 40s.
As a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, I wonder why ***** talks to me. “No pretty girl will talk to you!” Yet ***** seems to wanna.
Some time ago I suggested ***** might wanna board her dog at Howlywood Kennels near where she and her husband live, along with her parents, etc.
“Howlywood are dog-people,” I told her. “When it was Locust-Grove Kennels before Howlywood, I avoided ‘em because it was the ‘Gulag Archipelago’.”
“Gulag Archipelago” sailed right over her pretty head. Eyes down, she checked the floor. After 75 years on this planet I know the drill.
At least she understood my telling her Locust-Grove was run by Adolf Hitler.
Lifeguarding is a retirement gig for *****; she retired from consulting in Californy. “They pay me to wear shorts and a teeshirt,” she tells me.
My wife could look pretty, but wasn’t stunning.
I remember her bewailing she began to look like her mother as she aged. Her mother was a pill; but my wife wasn’t. “Ya haven’t growled at me yet,” I’d say. (See footnote below.)
But she’d know what the “Gulag Archipelago” was. Which proves yet again what matters, to me at least, is what’s between the ears.
I tried “Gulag Archipelago” on others, and they all knew what it is, including one of my retired bus-driver friends.
But ***** didn’t; or so it seemed. (This isn’t fair to *****. Comparing Locust-Grove Kennels to the Gulag Archipelago is a figure-of-speech. I’ve learned figures-of-speech never work in conversation. My wife was used to ‘em, but I bet *****’s not.)
“Not everyone is smart,” a fellow Gulag knower complained. (“Knowledgable” is better.) ***** has a BA, and so do I. The fact I’m friends with *****, among other lookers, has me buffaloed.
They aren’t my wife, although I enjoy their company. I hope some of my other “looker” friends know what the Gulag Archipelago is. —I bet some do.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hours per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• The “Gulag Archipelago” was a number of Soviet forced-labor camps, used to imprison political opponents. Quite a few of these camps were in Siberia.
• 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.
• RE: “Ya haven’t growled at me yet.” —The first time my wife’s mother met me she growled at me; and I ain’t kidding.
• 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.

Wings folded

“Have you developed any new allergies since your last visit?”
That was my Nurse-Practitioner the other day prior to my semiannual physical at Victor Family Practice.
“Do I say this, or don’t I?” I thought to myself.
“Women,” I said.
“You better be glad I’m not giving you a shot,” the N.P. said: a lady I’m good friends with.
I felt bad.
Yrs Trly has decided to fold his wings; to no longer be so forthcoming with women.
The fact I was having so much success was surprising. You all know I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. “No pretty girl will talk to you,” yet they were talking to me.
I had various coaches. “Bob, if you like walking your dog so much with ****** ****, you should tell her that!”
After perhaps an hour of arguing, “Okay ******, if you say so.” It fell flat, as well it should. Every time a male suggests a lady hang out with him, the boy/girl schtick rears its ugly head.
“Uh-ohhhh. He’s after me!”
My biggest mistake was taking that advice.
“She’s lonely, Bob,” said another.
“I don’t think so,” but after three dog-walks in quick succession, and the third time it seemed she was waiting for me.....
“Maybe she is lonely,” I said to myself. “Maybe I should be more forthcoming.”
BIG MISTAKE; as if I had any idea what I was doing. Clearly clueless after 44 & 1/2 years of happy marriage to one who liked me from the get-go.
Three times I suggested to an older widow she join us bereaved for our weekly eat-out.
That crashed each time. “Three strikes and yer out,” I could say, but to me it’s the boy/girl schtick.
I been on-my-own the seven years since my wife died. I do my own laundry, I fill and empty the dishwasher, and I’m the grocery-getter. I also cook quite a few of my meals.
I’m not lonely or bored. I enjoy female companionship, but I don’t need it. If anything I would probably bore a lady.
So no more forthcoming toward women by this dude. That widow can ask when and where we next eat out, and I’ll smile and tell her. I’ll strike up conversations.
But I ain’t askin’ her to join us.

The Hughes muse never shuts up!

(See below.) (Long ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—Constant-readers of this blog probably noticed Yr Fthfl Srvnt hasn’t published anything for a week.
Blogging is my retirement gig. My bereavement counselor tells me I’m lucky to have a muse that won’t shaddup. I’m never bored or lonely, despite being jobless and wifeless — my wife died seven years ago.
This 10-year-old computer tanked. It’s hard-drive gave up. It was taking hours to reboot.
“Your hard-drive is failing,” my ‘pyooter-guru at Mac-Shack told me.
“So replace it,” I said, despite my inclination to get a new laptop. My rig is antique, only a dual-core. Newer MacBook Pro’s are quad-core = much faster.
“I don’t need rocket-speed, and I like that gigantic screen” (17-inch), I said. “It’s great for DVD’s, and displaying photos. I can afford to fix it.”
Apple no longer makes laptops with 17-inch screens.
So we did. Hard-drive replaced, and OS-X installed, “El Cappy” (El Capitan) per what was recently installed — an upgrade from its original Snow-Leopard.
But back to square-one = devoid of my 89-bazilyun files, apps, bookmarks, e-mail contacts, etc. All of which were “Time-Machined” (backed up) to an external hard-drive, which I hadn’t supplied.
I needed to “migrate” my old hard-drive to my new hard-drive, which I call “Beeg Mutha.”
So back to Mac-Shack and ‘pyooter-guru. I took along my external, which had been backing up the entire kibosh.
“Migrating” would take hours, I was told. That’s 89-bazilyun items. When complete my new hard-drive would display good old 4896 (above), the Pennsy GG1 I originally had as wallpaper on this laptop.
Finally a timer told me we had 53 minutes to go. My dog was waiting in the car. I decided to let ‘er migrate, while my dog walked me at a park near my home = 20 miles south. I would return later to pick up 4896.
When I returned I tested (rebooted), and there was 4896. I also tested various apps. Back in business! The Hughes muse never shuts up.
The other day I asked ‘pyooter-guru if he could set up this antique’s replacement when I get it. He said he could. Years ago he set up this computer — an online Apple-Store rehab — from my old G4 tower.
But it looks like doing so is dead simple. (Thank you Apple!) All I gotta do is “migrate” my old computer to my new computer, or in my case backup to new computer.
Returned home I found my text-files were in some foreign gibberish, Chinese or something. Another fevered phonecall to ‘pyooter-guru. We reset to English in my “system preferences” and restarted. Back in business!

• I took this photograph probably in 1968. I saw GG1 #4896 many times, but only got this one photograph. Pennsy’s GG1 electric was probably the greatest railroad locomotive ever made. It could put 9,000 horsepower to railhead — current diesel locomotives are 4,400 horsepower. 4896 is the only GG1 I ever went through; Washington Union Station in 1966. It was scrapped, of course.
• Since my wife died I now see a bereavement counselor.
• I much prefer Mac-Shack to a brick-and-mortar Apple-Store, where you take a number and wait in line for a pimply techno-geek who barely understands you, yet gladly charges you 89 bazilyun buckaroos for a repair that won’t fix, or sell you a new iPhone. At Mac-Shack I also get ‘pyooter-guru.
• As I understand it a “dual-core” has two central processors, whereas a “quad-core” has four.

“Sexy beast”

Yesterday a lady who co-owns the kennel where I board my dog, trying to be funny, called me a “sexy beast.”
“Oh stop!” I said. “I’m 75 years old; them days are long gone.”
The girl is 46, and I bet some husband or boyfriend dumped on her. And she’s smitten with me because -a) I make her laugh, and -b) I held her hand (that’s a link, readers) and told her a story a few months ago when she was very depressed.
The fact I did that was pure luck. No one was in her kennel.
“Why can’t all men be like him?” she probably asks.
Years ago I told a young co-worker at the Mighty Mezz “Yer gonna get married some day. Whatever ya do, marry someone who makes ya laugh. Do that and yer in it for the long haul. Yer gonna be frustrated sometimes, jealous, angry, exasperated, etc. But if he can make ya laugh, ya’ll get over it.”
My wife told me the reason we lasted 44&1/2 years, despite my half insanity, was because I made her laugh.
“I have wonderful news,” I told my wife one day. “Of all the places on this vast planet Santa could visit, he’s coming to tiny West Bloomfield.”
“This is why I married you,” my wife said.
I guess my kennel friend lacks class dealing with men. That’s okay with me, since I have no idea how to deal with women. But I can make ‘em laugh, and I make her laugh. And I love seeing her laugh.

• 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 heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well. That defect was repaired.)
• I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.

120 mph on the clock

This may be *****’s car! (Photo by Dan Lyons.)

—The May 2019 entry in my Tide-mark Muscle-Car calendar is a 1963 Plymouth Savoy two-door owned by Chuck Bubie.
HO-HUM! Not much to look at, but I bet it’s a sleeper. Four-barrel 383, four-on-the-floor.
It’s a dead ringer for the car my friend **** ***** purchased to replace his 1959 Chrysler 300e. 413 Cross-Ram; probably good for an honest 130 mph.
***** and I were students at Houghton College. He was Class of 1968, I was ’66.
***** drove like a wildman. He always had that 300 topped out on the long straightaways into and out of the college.
He’d attempt turns I’d never try. One night I heard knocking on my door.”Hughsey,” ***** said. “My car is in the ‘dyeetch’.” (Tennessee accent.) He wanted me to help pull him out with my Triumph sportscar.
He wasn’t just in the “dyeetch.” He was in the remnants of the Genesee Valley Canal. Part of the reason evangelical Houghton was founded was because hyper-religious Willard J. Houghton loathed the depravity of “Jockey Street.” (Houghton was originally called “Jockey Street,” where horses raced down the main drag.)
Genesee Valley Canal went through Jockey Street, and there were brothels, taverns, and houses of ill repute to serve the “canalers.”
The actual canal was long-gone. Most of its towpath was converted to a railroad-grade, also abandoned. The canal had been drained, but there was still a little water in it here and there. The part *****’s 300 was in was fairly dry, but the “dyeetch” was 10-15 feet deep with sloped sidewalls.
Pull a 4,500 pound Detroit sedan out of the “dyeetch” with a tiny sportscar? No way José! We didn’t even try. We all piled into the straight-eight Buick Sedanette of a friend and managed 100 wheezing mph back to *****’s car.
***** returned to trying to back out his car. He tore off the entire exhaust-system trying. —He’d almost make it, but never did. Extraction would require a tow-truck.
The next morning I heard raucous racket as ***** roared back to campus. He got it out! 130 mph unmuffled.
That was before Christmas vacation my senior year, and Christmas vacation was when ***** gave up on his 300e. He traded for a red Plymouth two-door much like the car pictured. An elemental muscle-car; precursor to the Plymouth Road Runner, introduced in the 1968 model-year, four-barrel 383, four-on-the-floor.
Attractive as it was the Road Runner is not the sleeper this car is. Line yer souped-up ’56 Chevy against this thing, and yer gonna get spanked.
I drove a Triumph sportscar during my senior year at Houghton. It was an old drag-racer, extremely strong. ***** was always impressed, despite his preference for Detroit-iron.
So during my final semester at Houghton ***** let me drive his new Plymouth. Hammer down, up through the gears, on the southward straight out of Houghton. 120 mph when I glanced at the speedo — and it felt like 60.

• “Sleeper” is a term common among hot-rodders. A “sleeper” is a car that doesn’t exude performance.
• Late ‘40s and early ‘50s GM fastbacks were called “Sedanettes.”

Jawing with my aquacise instructor

Following is an imaginary discussion between my aquacise instructor and myself.
The first part will probably happen, but the remainder probably won’t.
“Was your daughter here Tuesday?” I’d ask.
“She was here Monday, but not Tuesday,” my aquacise instructor said.
“I ran into a lady that looked like your daughter in yer Facebook tire-changing post. I said nothing to her.
She seemed short, and there was no grandson,” I added.
“My daughter is taller than me,” my friend said.
“Now,” she said; “how come you were upset the other day? You seemed upset.”
“I decided to retract my landing-gear,” I said. “To no longer be forthcoming with you and *****, and all the other ladies I befriended.
You know my history, and others don’t. Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, whereby all men, including me at age-5, are scum.” Faire Hilda was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. My hyper-religious parents heartily agreed, since I was already rebellious and disgusting, unable to worship my father.
70 years late I find they were full-of-it. “‘No pretty girl will talk to you,’ yet here you are talking to me.”
Many ladies love talking to me: “Talk to me, make me laugh!” “I was so surprised it went to my head.
Plus every male/female relationship involves the boy/girl schtick, which I’m no good at; especially after marrying a girl who liked me from the get-go.
I should return to being myself. I justifiably make you ladies suspicious; I become just another loathsome lothario.
Friends are nice, but my best friend is always me.
Sorry for that last text,” I said. “I wasn’t gonna do it, but it’s so easy. That may be the last text I send.”
“I hope not,” my friend stated. “And don’t try too hard retracting yer landing-gear.”
The likelihood of my friend saying that is dreamin’. “Yer problem is you think too much,” says my good friend ******.
“I been hearing that all my life.” My problem is I think for myself.

Hooker tee-shirt chronicles

Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.(Screenshot by BobbaLew.)

—I’m told my Hooker Headers tee-shirt has caused some of the ladies at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool to take offense. Though no fence was offered.
I do aquatic balance-training in that swimming-pool, an hour-long class two days per week, then a third day on-my-own.
On-my-own is Saturday, and I did so two Saturdays ago, wearing my Hooker Headers tee-shirt. I have a large collection of tee-shirts, and “Hooker Headers” is one. My tee-shirts are common daywear, and I use one in that swimming-pool.
“It’s not what you think it is,” I said. “Hooker is the manufacturer. Exhaust manifolds (headers) on cars are usually cast-iron, which is heavy. Cast-iron exhaust manifolds are usually more restrictive. You can’t cast good exhaust flow.
Hooker makes exhaust headers out of steel tubing, which is much lighter, and less restrictive. —But they also rust quickly,” I said.
“Tubing headers are common to drag-racing,” I added.
“Don’t tell me about manifolds,” a lady said.
“I guess I better not wear this tee-shirt,” I commented.

• Drag-racing is standing-start to finish over a paved, flat two-lane quarter-mile drag-strip. Two cars race side-by-side, and the car that finishes first wins.

Ford-man versus Chevy-man

FINISHED. (Foreground has reforested.) (Long ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—About this time 30 years ago my wife and I were readying to have our new house built. It’s the house I’m still in, but my wife died seven years ago.
I’m a Chevy-man, but our building-contractor was a Ford-man.
My family has always driven Chevrolets, at least while I was growing up. After I left they began driving Oldsmobiles, but that was because our dealer in DE was Chevy/Olds.
When it came time to decide a builder, we went with the one driving a Ford pickup. The other guy drove a Chevy pickup.
Ford-men seem more willing to take risks. Our new house was to be super-insulated; that required special building procedures. Unlike most housing construction we used a treated-wood foundation (TWF) instead of block.
The exterior shell was a foot thick, and employed double-wall construction. Special procedures were needed to properly insulate, allowing moisture to escape. If done incorrectly moisture could accumulate in the insulation.
My hunch was a Chevy-man would be less inclined to build exotic. The Ford-man was also known; he had done stuff for us before.
Both were interested. Chevy-man had built energy-efficient housing before. We earlier considered two others. One was rather whacko, sort of a wheeler-dealer. Another guy showed us energy-efficient housing he had built, but one with a treated-wood foundation turned me off.
Treated-wood came in two grades. We specified “ground-contact” per our architect, but the sample was built with the cheaper grade. I bet that foundation had to be replaced by now.
Our architect also specced an extensive drainage-system both inside and outside the foundation. He also specced a protective Bituthene barrier outside.
That other guy bailed when he saw all that. No way could he underbid the others. Plus I’d be hard to deal with.
So it came down to Ford-man versus Chevy-man. Fix-Or-Repair-Daily (F-O-R-D), although in my humble opinion that no longer is true. In 1955 Chevrolet came out with its vaunted SmallBlock V-8; the motor that retired the FlatHead Ford V8, the foundation of hot-rodding. That SmallBlock is still being made, although fiddled quite a bit. Still the same bore-centers. Hot-rodders still prefer the SmallBlock. Often a hotrod will have a SmallBlock in it.
I’ve always been smitten with the SmallBlock. It’s very much a Detroit motor, but european in character. It can rev to the Moon.
All through high-school and college I dreamed of owning a SmallBlock. Fond Memories. A few years ago my hairdresser had his ’67 ‘Vette for sale. 327 four-on-the-floor, and not fuel-injected (which was trouble-prone); not what Corvettes are now, but what I wanted for years.
I shoulda bought it. My wife was still alive then, so we already had two cars in our garage. Where would I put that ‘Vette?
Be that as it may, I currently drive a Ford. My brother, also a Chevy-man, is appalled. “There’s only one thing wrong: it ain’t a Chevrolet.”
Years ago I had a Chevrolet Vega. My grandmother was still alive then, living with my parents. I drove to visit, and “is it a Chevrolet?”
Our new house wasn’t a “dream-home.” It was escape from our tiny abode in Rochester. That house was probably an ancient farmhouse Rochester grew around. It was originally in the Town of Brighton, but Rochester annexed that area.
Our old house was built in 1865. The first part was two stories, but the second floor was more an attic. It was finished, but unheated.
My wife disliked the layout since it was difficult to keep clean. We always had to come in through the front-door, tracking mud and snow through the living-room.
The two-story part was added onto, but only one floor. This made for poor space-utilization, since the kitchen was far in the back. A passageway cut what coulda been a dining-area in half. It also woulda been tiny as a dining area.
The kitchen was in an attached shed, and its floor wasn’t level.
That house had essentially two living-rooms: a new living-room in the addition, and living space in the original living-room in the original two-story.
Part of that area had been walled into our bedroom, which faced the street. Bellowing unmuffled musclecars at 3 a.m.
Many of the windows were original. The glass had bubbles. They were double-hung, and extremely drafty. We were heating the outdoors.
And of course there was no insulation. 900 square feet versus 1,900 in our new house, but the same heat-load.
Our new house would be built differently. Most new homes are owned by the contractor while being built. The homeowner then buys the completed home from the contractor. Chevy-man probably woulda done that.
We would own our new house while being built, and pay the contractor as he built along. We already had quite a bit saved up, so we could pay about two-thirds as our house was being built, then mortgage the remainder.
This was the way we did it for improvements to our old home in Rochester, and I think the contractor trusted we’d finish the job. To some extent I think our contractor wasn’t that financially savvy; or he might have done things the other way.
Our house was his third or fourth build. His first build was for himself, second for his parents, then on speculation. He was ex-Kodak, and got into improving his first home, a development house. He bought wetlands near his first home, then built a new home for himself on that land.
I liked working with him, and he with me. Double-wall construction was learning for both of us. Peel everything back and you can still find the magic-marker markings I put in for double-wall construction.
I also proved difficult to work with. A supplier brought double-hung windows, when I specced casement. “Take ‘em back,” I said; and he did.
We also specified 10-mil vapor-barrier per super-insulated building procedure. “The best I can do locally is 4-mil.”
“Nope,” I said. “I specified 10-mil.” My wife got on the Internet and found a supplier of 10-mil in Michigan. Zoom-boom; 10-mil UPS-ed overnight.
That contractor wanted very much to please me. Anyone else mighta walked away; he certainly coulda. But my wife and I designed this house ourselves, plus we wrote a gigantic spec-book that was intimidating.
I doubt he actually read that spec-book, but it was always in the back of my head. We always were consulting.
“You might wanna consider an alarm-system.” “Nope,” I said. “Best alarm-system I ever had has four legs and barks!”
A hairball developed as our new house was almost finished. We ran out of money until our old house was sold, plus the bank wouldn’t approve our mortgage for some unremembered reason.
His crew, which was rather lazy unless we or he showed up, had to go without pay until the money flowed. He lined up a loan to pay his crew, but the bank bailed.
We needed a “Certificate-of-Occupancy” to move in, which we didn’t have before moving out of our Rochester house. We had to move in with plumbing incomplete. Our shower was all that worked. My wife had to do dishes in that shower, and we used a camping commode for a toilet.
Our house was finished about a week later, complete with Certificate-of-Occupancy.
I now have been here almost 30 years. My wife made at least 22. My roof is a 30-year roof, so I hafta think about replacing it. We also had to replace all the windows.
Everything is on one floor; laundry, freezer, etc. We planned it that way; our retirement home. I hardly ever go down to the basement.
The garage also has a pit, but I haven’t used it in years.
Over 30 years the old cornfield I’m in (4.7 acres) completely reforested. We also fenced a large part of it, so our dog wouldn’t get into the highway. Best $16,000 we ever spent.
Contact with the builder went away. I think our house was the last one he built. I saw him driving a new Ford pickup after our house was finished.
I think he no longer owns the home he built for himself, plus he was always mad at his wife and son.
I’m 75 years old, and maintaining this house is becoming a challenge. Maintenance isn’t too bad, since all it does is sit. We coulda done exotic, but I didn’t wanna fix anything — like solar panels on the roof.
I hate to leave; my wife and I designed it. And I sure am glad we used a Ford-man. He did a fantastic job.

Just say it - 2

(“Just say it - 2” because I may have titled previous blogs “Just say it.”)
—This past Wednesday morning I walked my dog at nearby Boughton Park. Shortly after I started, a lady appeared walking toward me with three tiny mutts.
One, a miniature dust-mop, came running far ahead to check out my dog. That dog’s name was “Layla.”
Thus ensued a Mexican sniffing standoff, where my dog, at least two feet taller, and 50 pounds heavier, backed away.
The lady called her dogs as she passed. Layla started barking.
“Layla,” the lady snarled. “Don’t do that! It’s not nice!”
They all walked away, and as they headed for the parking-lot, I turned and said “Layla is an Eric Clapton song.”
She smiled: “It sure is!”
“Just say it,” I kept saying to myself. A few won’t love it, but most will; especially the ladies. If they don’t love it: not my fault!
The previous day I had an appointment at a Canandaigua neurology practice. The appointment was with a guy who moved to another office, so I would see a “Nurse-Practitioner” instead. This regards my questionable balance.
We hit it off right away, to my mind because she was a girl.
We discussed the fact I do aquatic balance-training, and feel like my balance has worsened. What’s vastly improved is my countering bad balance. I hardly fall any more; I catch tipsiness, and pay attention to where I put my feet.
“I wanna help,” she said, suggesting dry-land Physical-Therapy at nearby Thompson Hospital.
“****** again,” I said; “Cutie-Pie?”
She laughed. “Don’t scare off the patients,” she’d been told. What a joy to deal with an aging crackpot. “This appointment is fun,” she commented.
“What day was yer knee replaced?” (I have a metal knee; when I walk into an airport they call security.)
“A day that will live in infamy,” I said. “December 7th probably three years ago. Get it?”
“December 7th, 1941, is the date the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor,” she said.
Older people get it, but most youngsters don’t. “A smarty-pants,” she commented.
“A date which will live in infamy” is President Franklin D. Roosevelt asking Congress for a Declaration of War against Japan.
Months ago a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool, where I do my aquatic balance-training, came over and gave me what most red-blooded American men call the “Come-Hither” look. She smiled and gave me the eye.
“Come-Hither” my foot! She’s married, for crying out loud! This was “Talk to me; make me laugh!”
My uncle sold cars at a south Jersey Ford dealer, and was sensational at it. People wanted to buy a car from him. He made ‘em laugh. He wasn’t trying; he just did.
Most every week I eat out with a widow who like me lost her beloved. She tried online “Seniors-Singles” dating, but gave up after too many drones.
“What I’d like to find more than anything is a male who is normal,” she told me.
“Then why in Hell’s name are you hangin’ out with me?” I asked.
“Because yer funny, and not boring as Hell!” she snapped.
Previously at that neurology practice I was seeing a male. He prescribed an MRI of my brain.
I imagined the following phonecall: “Bad news Dr. ********. We MRI-ed Mr. Hughes’ head, and couldn’t find a brain.”
I related that to my Doctor, and he laughed tentatively. My lady Nurse-Practitioner woulda rolled on the floor.
A while ago I awaited my Bereavement Counselor in an office reception area. To no one in particular I said: “How come ladies are so much more fun to talk to? Men always hit you with the macho bit.”
That reception area was awash with ladies. They ate it up, and weren’t trying to put me down.
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. Hilda was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. She convinced me all men, including me at age-5, were despicable scum. Her husband was probably playing around.
My hyper-religions parents eagerly agreed, since they already decided I was disgusting and stupid for not worshiping my father.
75 years I been on this planet. My wife was married to me 44&1/2 of those years. She always told me the reason we lasted so long was because I made her laugh.
Her mother, a pill, insisted we’d never make a year.
Last summer I was buying gas for my lawnmower, and I heard RUMPITA-RUMPITA-RUMPITA! A ’69 or ’70 Plymouth RoadRunner pulled in, hammering the pavement even at idle.
“I thought it might be a Hemi,” I said after walking over. “But I see it’s a 440 Six-Pak.”
“575 horsepower,” the owner bragged.
MACHO POSTURING ALERT! I walked away.
“Oh what a pretty dog,” said a gorgeous blond at a nearby park. She and her friends were drinking beer after yoga at an outside restaurant.
“I might hafta come over there,” I shouted. They were about 75 yards away.
Not long ago, compliments of Hilda, I woulda turned away scared. “No pretty girl will talk to you!”
Now I find Hilda and my parents were full-of-it. And now that I strike up conversations so much more, I find ladies more fun to talk to.
“Layla is an Eric Clapton song.” She loved it; a complete stranger I may never see again in my entire life.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hours per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012.
• A “Hemi” is special high-output Chrysler motor available in the early ‘70s. It has “hemispherical” combustion-chambers, so breathes extremely well. It was so powerful NASCAR outlawed it. A “440 Six-Pak” is not a Hemi, but at 440 cubic-inches displacement is huge. Both motors were available in the RoadRunner. Standard displacement was 383 cubic-inches; also not a Hemi.