“I just can’t get enough of you!”

That was *****, a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool, where I do aquatic balance-training.
“Oh brother!” I exclaimed; followed by “no comment.”
It was yesterday (Saturday) afternoon, when I do aquatic balance-training on-my-own.
Later another lady lifeguard came over to talk to *****.
“You came here just to see *****, didn’t you,” that lady said to me.
“I did not!” I shouted. “In fact, I’m amazed she’s here. I been doin’ these on-my-own Saturdays for months, and this is only the second time I’ve seen her.”
“I just told Bob I couldn’t get enough of him,” ***** told the other lifeguard.
“Don’t listen to her!” I yelled.
A few minutes later ***** prepared to leave. Another lifeguard came to relieve her.
“I come here every Saturday,” I said; “if you’re desperate.”
“Next Saturday I’m scheduled for 11 a.m. to 1 p.m.,” ***** noted.
“1 p.m. is about when I get here,” I said. “I’ll hafta get here early so we can say hello.”
I could go into the Hilda Walton bit, like HOW IN THE WORLD DID I BECOME FRIENDS WITH *****.
For age-63, ***** is a “looker;” statuesque and striking. Up-close-and-personal I see the crows-feet and wrinkles, but on her lifeguard stand she’s in her 40s.
“***** is 63?” someone remarked. “She looks 40-ish.”
“‘No pretty girl will talk to you,’” I tell *****; “yet here you are talking to me.” (“No pretty girl will talk to you” is Hilda Q. Walton, my neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent, who convinced me all men, including me at age-5, were scum.)
I think it’s because I get ***** laughing. Years ago my wife told me the reason we lasted 44&1/2 years was because I made her laugh.
My wife died over seven years ago, and now I’m making *****, among others, laugh. I ain’t tryin’; I just do.

My OWN calendar

Norfolk Southern #1070, the Wabash heritage-unit. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—The July 2019 entry of MY calendar is Norfolk Southern #1070, the Wabash heritage-unit, an EMD SD70ACe.
It’s leading westbound stacker 23M at signal 263 in Summerhill, PA, on the old Pennsy main. The eastbound signals are raised to be visible over a nearby highway bridge. Unlike most they are always on.
Norfolk Southern has 20 heritage-units. They’re used in regular road service.
The heritage-units were painted the schemes of the many predecessors to Norfolk Southern. Probably most famous are #8102, the Pennsylvania Railroad heritage-unit, and #8100, the Nickel Plate heritage-unit.
Both are General Electric ES44ACs.
Other heritage-units are Virginian, Southern Railway, Reading, plus many others.
There’s even a Conrail heritage-unit, and Penn-Central.
Wabash was merged into Norfolk & Western in 1964 along with Nickel Plate. Norfolk Southern is the 1982 merger of Norfolk & Western and Southern Railway.
NS gained control of the old Pennsy line across PA when Conrail broke up and sold in 1999. Pennsy merged with arch-rival New York Central in 1968 to form Penn-Central, but that quickly went bankrupt.
That merger included New York, New Haven & Hartford (New Haven) which had costly commuter operations.
Conrail was a gumint solution to save northeast railroading. One, Lehigh Valley, was one of those northeast railroads. I walk LV’s abandoned Buffalo Extension with my dog. The county made it a rail-trail.
When I first came to Rochester in late 1966, that Buffalo Extension was still extant. Now it’s gone. All that’s left is the old grade and a few bridges here and there. 60+ mph, double-track; a fabulous railroad, but little sideline traffic. It was too rural; only a bridge-line.
There’s even a Lehigh Valley heritage-unit, General-Electric ES44AC #8104, painted Cornell red, as were many Valley diesels.
Portions of those predecessors exist, but now are Norfolk Southern. Wabash covered a lot of ground, but mainly had routes beginning in Ohio westward to the Mississippi river. Chicago, Detroit, and Kansas City were among its destinations. Wabash's major freight advantage was its direct line from Kansas City to Detroit, without going through St. Louis or Chicago.
Railfans keep track of the heritage-units. There even are websites. I’ve seen quite a few myself.
My brother in northern DE tells me about railfans congregating when a heritage-unit brings Bakken crude to his oil-refinery.
“Who are all these people with their cameras? Call Security!”
My brother tells his bosses they’re railfans, not terrorists.

“Stop with the melodrama!”

Yr Fthfl Srvnt decided to no longer attend his aquatic balance-training class at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool.
Not the pool itself, just my class.
I’d like to think my decision dismays my instructors, especially my beloved aquacise instructor.
I recently began dry land physical-therapy in a nearby hospital’s physical-therapy department. I have been doing aquatic balance-training in that pool for two or three years, or maybe even more. I was constant.
I also did balance-training on-my-own in that pool, and will continue to do so.
But I felt like I was beating my head against the wall. Many of the exercises involve standing on one leg, which for me is near impossible.
Over that time my balance got worse. It’s like poor balance is my new normal. (I’m 75 years old.)
But those instructors should not feel they failed me. What’s vastly improved is my ability to counter bad balance. I hardly fall any more, largely due to -a) extreme concentration about where I put my feet, and -b) increased ability to catch tipsiness.
One of the first persons I notified was *****-the-lifeguard, a “looker” for age-63. (She looks 40-ish on her lifeguard-stand.)
I always tell ***** she was “Step-3” away from my dreadful childhood. “Step-1” was my college, Houghton College, the first religious institution that didn’t immediately label me evil and rebellious.
“Step-2” was my wife, the first female who liked who I already was.
“Step-3” was *****. Months ago she said hello to me in passing, and I got up the nerve to later say hello back.
“No pretty girl will talk to you!” That was the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, my Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor when I was a child. Hilda, with my hyper-religious parents’ hearty approval, convinced me all men, including me at age-5, were disgusting.
Boy am I glad I said hello back. Ten years ago I woulda never said anything.
I flubbed many times since, but ***** kept talking to me. I even fell for her, for lack of a better term. But we seem to have got past that.
We now are great friends, and Hilda spins in her grave.
Before leaving I walked over to *****’s lifeguard-stand to say goodbye. “I may never see you again my entire life,” I said.
“Oh don’t say that,” ***** said. “You will too, and you know it.”
“I probably will, but after 75 years on this planet I hafta allow for that. Forty years ago a fabulous friend left for Californy. I haven’t seen him since. I looked for him on Facebook, but how am I supposed to find him among 300-400 ****** ******? Plus he wouldn’t look the same as 40 years ago.
Anyway, thank you for saying hello to me. You were Step-3 away from my horrible childhood.”
“Yeah, you told me that.”
“But I bet you don’t know who Hilda Walton is,” I said. “****** **** does, but I never told you. (****** **** led my aquatic balance-training class, and we were one-on-one before the class.)
‘No pretty girl will talk to you,’ yet here you are talking to me. And I got up enough nerve to say hello back. Ten years ago I woulda gone straight to the locker-room, avoiding you altogether.”
“So it was you as much as me,” ***** observed.
As I left, ***** came around the pool away from her lifeguard-stand. They “rotate” between two lifeguard stations.
“I may never see you again my entire life,” she wailed.
“Oh stop with the melodrama!” I shouted.
She bopped me with her red styrofoam rescue tube.

Born in the wrong century

“This is blog-material,” I told ****, my contact at my financial-advisor.
I gave her a letter from my financial-service. It said something about never logging into their site, which made no sense, since as far as I knew I had “gone-green.”
“We’ve heard it before,” **** said. “Your Time-Warner e-mail probably rejects anything we send. We get that with all our Time-Warner clients.
We need to verify your e-mail address.”
“We did that six months ago,” I said.
“We need to log you in: the last four letters of your user-name are ‘ALEW’.”
On my iPhone: “Bobbalew.”
“Now your password.”
“Are you kidding? Never in a million years would I remember that.”
I tried a password I use on various sites.
“Naughty-naughty!”
“We need to change your password.”
“Not the first time,” I countered; “every six months: ‘change password’.”
Changing one’s password involves a plethora of techno-leaps. Codes galore via e-mail and text, and finally a temporary password.
And my iPhone must not be using the e-mail Time-Warner uses.
So now set up new password.
“What if I can’t see what I just typed? I had a stroke, ya know. My keyboarding is sloppy, especially on a virtual keyboard.”
I typed again.
“Damn thing worked!” I exclaimed. “I musta typed correctly.”
We could now view activity to my account online.
“LA-DEE-DAH” I said. “I never do that. I still get paper statements — why I’ll never know. If my account-balance tanked, you’d hear about it.
Born in the wrong century,” I exclaimed.
“But you’re more tech-savvy than most your age,” **** said.
“Yeah, I am; but I have a challenge for you,” I said: “the self-checkouts at my local Wegmans.
Over 20 tries so far, but never able to escape without help.
See ya in six months, and we can do all this again.”

• My e-mail is local to my computer, but comes from Time-Warner’s RoadRunner — except now it’s Spectrum’s RoadRunner.
• “Verify one’s e-mail address” apparently makes it valid to my financial-service.
• 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.
• “Wegmans” is a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua, which recently installed a self-checkout.

God rolling barrels

“Do you remember how terrified you were of Haddonfield’s fire-horn?”
That was my south Jersey aunt, soon to be 89, a teenager when I was about 4.
I hated being in Haddonfield at noon when the fire-department tested its fire-horn.
I now call it “auditory hallucinatin’,” sheer terror at loud noises.
I also hoped my elementary-school didn’t hold fire-drills, because the hallway fire-gong terrified me.
I remember once running into my fourth-grade cloak-room because I was crying due to that fire-gong.
“Auditory hallucinatin’” perhaps, but it was probably more my mother. “Bobby, STOP!” — Smack!
(Spare the child and spoil the rod!)
I also was terrified of thunder-and-lighting, and also camera-flash.
My hyper-religious parents clobbered me, and told me thunder was God rolling barrels.
Fear of loud noises wore off by age-10. But fear of thunder-and-lighting lasted until age-20.
Fear of camera-flash lasted a while too. Once a professional photographer photographed our family inside using camera-flash.
I was about age-8, and my parents were angry I couldn’t smile — I was crying.
Interestingly I could stand right next to a gigantic panting steam-locomotive.
Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines ran right through Haddonfield, and they were still using steam-engines in the late ‘40s.
That was different, I guess. My father was happy I liked “those dirty old steam-engines” (my mother).
Plus It was free entertainment.
One night in northern DE, after my family moved, a gigantic thunderstorm rolled through. I could hear my younger brothers crying.
I leaped upstairs, and threw open their bedroom door. I then threw open all the shades.
“Now watch!” I yelled. “Yer gonna see lurid flashes of lightning, and hear horrendous claps of thunder.”
My brother Jack started smiling through tears.
“I survived many thunderstorms, and you will too!”
This wasn’t my parents clobbering my brothers. It was me, the oldest, caring about them.
If I too had an older brother, I might not have been so terrified of Haddonfield’s fire-horn.

• “Haddonfield” was an old Revolutionary-War town in south Jersey near where I first lived.
• It’s normally “spare the rod and spoil the child.”
• “Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines” (PRSL) is an amalgamation of Pennsylvania and Reading railroad-lines in south Jersey to counter the fact the two railroads had too much parallel track. It was promulgated in 1933. It serviced mainly the south Jersey seashore from Philadelphia, by ferry across the Delaware River at first. The fact I’m a railfan is largely due to PRSL’s use of steam-engines until I was 12.

“You need a walking-mate”

Killian marches Lehigh Valley rail-trail. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“You two sure have gone a long way!”
That was a lady walking toward Killian and me on Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail.
“3.5 miles,” I said. I met her earlier going the other way. She was jogging then.
“That’s the secret,” she said. “Stay active.”
“I’m 75 years old,” I bragged.
“This one’s fake,” I said, pointing to my left knee, replaced almost four years ago. “‘Call Security’ in the airport.
This is still the one I was born with,” I said, pointing to my right knee.
“At least this trail isn’t too bad,” I said. “It’s not a road. Keep running and racing on pavement like I did years ago, and you replace a knee.”
“At least you’re out here walking,” the lady said. “And you have incentive; he has four legs and barks.”
“That’s mainly why I got another dog,”I said. “Without a dog I was falling apart.
And this is Irish Setter #7. He’s a rescue, and I’ve only had him a year. He’s 10.
Despite that he’s the wildest, craziest Irish Setter I ever had. I wonder how I manage a dog like this at my age.
My previous Irish Setter had me saying that, but this dog is even wilder.”
“You need a walk-mate,” the lady said.
“This dog IS my walk-mate,” I said. “My other walk-mate died seven years ago.
Every morning I get bonked,” I added. “‘Let’s go Boss; we got hunting to do.’”

The lack of a Facebook paragraph-return

I look at my Facebook fairly often; usually every day.
But not as often as some. I’m not enslaved by it.
A friend suggests Facebook is for those lacking a life.
I only have 59 “friends,” not thousands.
And I rarely look at my “feed.”
I drive from Facebook’s “notifications,” which are apparently limited by whatever — the secret algorithm for example.
I noticed “friend” posts or messages often have paragraphs of inordinate length. E.g. a single paragraph for an entire 300-word post (or message).
I come from a newspaper background, where paragraphs are short: two or three sentences.
Most Facebook posts (or messages) are only one sentence, or only one word: “congrats” in bold-red, for example.
There’s a reason for those long paragraphs. The computer’s Q-W-E-R-T-Y keyboard lacks a “return” key. There is a “return” key, but it’s also the Facebook “enter” key.
Hit that key by mistake and all-of-a-sudden you posted what you just did.
My iPhone’s virtual keyboard has a “return” key, but it’s not Facebook’s “enter” key. If a Facebook post (or message) has paragraph-returns it was done from a Smartphone.
I circumvent Facebook’s “enter” function by doing my laptop posts in a word-processor. I can hit the paragraph-return without publishing what I just wrote.
Of course, none of this matters any more. Paragraph length, correct spelling and grammar, punctuation: all are toast
We writers are doomed. Except if I make a mistake, the CONSERVATIVE grammar-police take me to task for being too “liberial” (the kerreck CONSERVATIVE spelling).

“Lead, follow, or get outta my way!”

Yr Fthfl Srvnt was calmly motoring north on a rural two-lane. I was headed for Mendon (NY) to walk my dog on Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail.
That rail-trail is all that’s left of Lehigh Valley Railroad’s fabulous Buffalo Extension, a high-speed double-track railroad built in 1892. It ran from Geneva (NY) to Buffalo, but was rather rural. It had few lineside traffic generators, and was mainly a bridge-line from Buffalo to New York City.
It was built to keep Lehigh Valley viable as its earlier traffic-base, anthracite coal, wained.
The track was removed when the railroad was abandoned, so all that remains is the grade. The county turned that into a rail-trail. The portion I walk is through woods; I call it “The Wooded Cathedral.”
My silly dog loves it. Squirrels in the woods to bark at. (I keep him leashed.)
It was a railroad, so it’s flat. I often pass runners; and since it not pavement, it’s easier on knees.
After cresting a hill I started downgrade into open farmland. My speedometer crept up to 65 mph; that’s 10 mph over the posted speed-limit.
Suddenly a silver Prius pulled out and passed. Apparently 65 mph wasn’t fast enough. The Prius quickly disappeared — I estimate 75-80 mph.
Next a black Mazda SUV also passed. By now I was down the hill, but approaching a side-road. The Mazda had to disregard a double-yellow centerline.
Not totally unsafe; the road is straight through open farmland. One can see for miles. But the centerline is double-yellow because we’re approaching a side-road.
No one was on it, so pedal-to-the-metal for the Mazda.
In a few weeks I’ll motor to Altoona, PA, to photograph trains with my brother. It’s mostly four-lane expressway, 65 mph or so. I set my cruise to maybe 71 mph, and I get passed a lot. Part of my route is Interstate-80: 70 mph speed-limit. I get passed by cars appearing to do 100.
Granted cars and tires are much better than even 15-20 years ago. No way could I cruise 60 mph in my parents’ ’53 Chevy — the car in which I learned to drive.
A long-ago editor at the Mighty Mezz decried the fact he couldn’t cruise his rusty Dakota pickup at 40 mph on twisting rural two-lanes near his home. Some glowering-intimidator would appear on his rear bumper, then blow the horn and shake his fist. Intimidator would also display his middle-finger while passing.
My sister, since deceased, told about wicking up to 80 mph on I-95 in south Floridy. My limit is about 75, although my sister never had a stroke. I’m not sure that limits me, and sometimes I can’t exceed 50.
I live on a state highway posted at 40 mph out front, although most do 50-60. Blatting Harleys might get 80 blasting out of the corner down the street, and a crotch-rocket might get 100.
I can’t get into my driveway at 50 mph; I hafta slow to maybe 20. In which case a glowering-intimidator behind me would blow his horn, pound his fists on the steering-wheel, and flip me the bird passing.
Outta my way, Grandpa!
I bet Cuomo doesn’t do the speed-limit. And the state police dare not stop the Gov.
Someone told me the police allow 10 mph over. I don’t know if that’s true, but if it is, 55 mph plus 10, is a 65 mph actual speed-limit.
I had a state policeman glare at me because I dared not exceed 30 mph in front of him.

• Anthracite coal, rock-hard and common to northeastern PA, was used as home heating coal, since it burned clean. The market for anthracite wained as fuel-oil began to be used for home heating. Now it’s natural gas.
• I’m a railfan. Every year I do a Shutterfly calendar of train-photos taken by my brother and I near Altoona.
• 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.
• 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.
• 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.
• The governor of NY state is Andrew Cuomo, son of Mario Cuomo, an earlier NY state governor.

“Yer not letting me do this.....”

I allow Killian on the furniture. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—I took an iPhone picture (above) yesterday morning of my dog on my Castro Convertible, which I just made so he could use it. I use a dog-sham.
I’d text that picture to Killian’s previous owner, plus my aquatic balance-training instructor at the Canandaigua YMCA, also a dog-person.
I found my photo in my iPhone pictures, and selected it. I then hit the “share” icon, and selected “text.”
I then voiced *** *****, which gives me *** plus ****** **** ******, as well as just ***. (Two “send” options.)
“What?” I say. “‘Cancel’ my foot! Where’s the ‘send?”
Apparently everything has to be just so; rules of ‘pyooter-engagement understood only by millennials.
Into the ozone!
“Yer not letting me do this.....”
Engage guile-and-cunning = a workaround to defeat the iPhone techies.
Fire up “text;” voice *** *****, to get the *** and ****** **** option again. I now can text both. Hit the “add picture” icon, and I select the picture I just took.
Off it goes! Mind over iPhone.
Why do I hafta do everything just so? This took at least 15 minutes of figgerin’.
I know, I was born in the wrong century, when things were freer than they are now.

• My current dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s ten, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. I’ve had him over a year. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. Or perhaps its owner died. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.
• Both *** and ****** **** have iPhones.

She would have pushed you off by now

The other day my bereavement-counselor, who spends more time dealing with my tortured childhood than the death of my wife, made an interesting comment:
“If you’ve been friends with ****** **** more than two years” — “Nine-ten months since our dog-walks,” I corrected — “she would have cut you off by now.
But she hasn’t, which tells me she doesn’t think you’re as bad as you think you are.
I detect the ‘Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations,’ which I thought we got past.”
“Uhm,” I said; “despite all the dumb, stupid things I did trying to be forthcoming? The Facebook messages, the blizzard of texts, etc?”
“She backed away,” my counselor added; “but she hasn’t pushed you away.”
“She never set boundaries,” I said. “Most others have.
And I kept it up, as if I had any idea what I was doing, after 44&1/2 years married to one who liked me from the get-go.
****** ****, et al, counter Hilda. ‘No pretty girl will talk to you,’ yet many do.
Here I am 70 years late finding Faire Hilda and my parents were WRONG.”
“And you get to live with how they left you,” my counselor added.
“Who I think of is *****, a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool, where ****** **** is my aquatic balance-training instructor.
At age-63, ***** is what we dudes call “a looker.” Up-close-and-personal I see the crows-feet and wrinkles, but on her lifeguard-stand she’s in her 40s.
Months ago she said hello to me by name in passing, and despite my upbringing I got up the nerve to say hello back later.
Why in Hell’s name would she ever be interested in me? At age-75 I’m hardly Adonis. Apparently I’m interesting to talk to: “funny, and not boring as Hell,” I’m told.
And despite my many foulups ***** kept talking to me.
***** set boundaries, but she wasn’t blunt about it. She mentioned her husband in passing, but we kept on being friends. I walk into that pool, and here comes *****!
Others set boundaries too. With pretty *****, who heads my pharmacy, I actually met her husband. ******’s husband was walking behind her in my supermarket. (****** is another lifeguard.) She also mentioned him in passing.
I e-mailed another lady, and she responded mentioning her husband. That gets the onus off me; we can be friends unencumbered by all that silly boy/girl stuff.
But ****** **** never set boundaries. I wondered if her husband existed. I also wondered why I was getting away with what I was doing.
I inundated her with all-too-many texts, yet she responded to quite a few. I since cut way back, but she still often responds. I feel like I exploded in her face, yet she still hasn’t pushed me off.
We’re worlds apart. She’s absolute class, yet I’m the antithesis of class.”
“That’s what you think,” said my counselor. “If you were as awful as you think, she would have pushed you off by now.”

“It’s a miracle, Bobby”

I don’t know this guy from the Moon! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“What I’d like to do now is take your picture,” I said to the gentleman pictured above.
I was at my hairdresser for a trim. I had taken along my dog Killian per usual request. Killian repaired into a side-room to hide and nap.
Suddenly the stranger appeared. He walked in to be my hairdresser’s next appointment. He was completely unknown to me or Killian.
As soon as he sat Killian got up, came out of the side-room, jumped on the sofa, and plopped next to the stranger.
I’m supposed to keep Killian from doing this? As if I had any choice!
I wouldn’t know this stranger in a million years, nor would Killian. Yet PLOP!
Stranger was not the least put off. He started petting Killian.
Trim finished I unholstered my iPhone to take the picture,”
“This isn’t the first time,” I said.
“What I’ll do,” I said; “is post this picture on Facebook.”
“In which case the guy pictured will also get the photo,” my hairdresser interjected. “He has a Facebook, and Facebook does facial recognition. It will appear in his ‘feed’.”
“I didn’t know Facebook was doing facial recognition,” I said.
“You mean the reason all those GIs gave their lives on Normandy’s beaches was so we could do such wonders of technology?”

• “It’s a miracle, Bobby” is something my God-fearing mother used to exclaim regarding anything not having simple explanation. (Bobby is of course me.)

Two successful female brain-picks in one day

That’s AMAZING for a graduate of the “Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations.”
I imagine my constant-readers know all about the “Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations;” so I’ll just footnote it.
My first brain-pick was ****** ******, once an editor at the Mighty Mezz. She now directs Public Relations at Finger Lakes Community College, hired away from the Messenger by my old Messenger Executive Editor, who went to FLCC after the newspaper changed owners. That guy died of a heart-attack, so ****** replaced him.
I e-mailed ****** about passive-voice, which she abhors, as do I.
We’d met at Mighty Weggers, and discussed passive-voice.
I thought it was use of “has been” instead of “was.” But she said something about removal of the subject, and how Academia, overly guilty of that, drives her up-the-wall.
I never heard of that, so requested explanation.
“If my husband tells me the dishes weren’t done, I wonder if the dishes were supposed to do themselves. I asked him to do the dishes, but he’s not telling me he didn’t do them.”
“That’s passive-voice,” she said; subject deleted. “The one who didn’t do the dishes was my husband, but that wasn’t what he told me.”
Finally, passive-voice explained, or so it seemed.
And by a female of all things. Yrs Trly is used to getting shot down. If I make any contact with the opposite sex, I’m automatically on-the-make.
My other brain-pick was ****** **** ******, my aquatic balance-training instructor at the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool.
I tried non swimming-pool therapy at a nearby hospital, and they suggested a few things I wanted to discuss with ****** ****.
****** **** is a water-therapy instructor, and usually has clients.
“I’m available if you are,” I said to her after our class. (She leads the class.)
Yada-yada-yada. “What about this?” then “What about this?”
The way that non-pool therapy told me to get out of a chair, for example, didn’t contradict, but I was doing it wrong on both counts.
That I was able to pick her brain 5-10 minutes is amazing. —A) She usually can’t spare the time, and —B) I made too many mistakes with her, many at the behest of a boy/girl coach I don’t listen to any more.
Not too long ago a nurse for my semiannual physical asked if I developed any new allergies since my last physical.
“Yeah,” I said. “Ladies.”
“You better be glad I’m not giving you a shot!” she shouted.
I felt bad.
Like it or not I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, and much as I came to enjoy female companionship, it’s apparent any contact by me, a male (gasp!), makes them justifiably wary. “He’s on-the-make!”
Perhaps it’s because I’m a widower, presumably looking for someone to do my laundry, dishwasher, cook, etc, all of which I do myself. As I’ve done since my wife died seven years ago.
“Just be yourself,” my counselor advises. I guess “being myself” is to not suggest to a lady-friend. So far I’ve suggested four different widows join our weekly bereavement eat-out. Only one didn’t crash. One crashed three times.
Now word is getting around among those ladies I suggested. If I suggest, I’m on-the-make! If they suggest it’s okay.

---

The whole point of this blog is my surprise that a lady would respond to me. That’s Hilda: “No pretty girl will talk to you!”
The other day a lady-friend walked up behind me and called my name. I was speechless. I have to tell her to please bear with me; I’m a Hilda Walton grad.
Another lady-friend tells me I should get used to such contacts — that women love talking so me. “You’re funny, and not boring as Hell.”
“Or so it seemed” reflects my continuing confusion regarding passive-voice. I can’t get *******’s definition to jive with the “has-been” versus “was” of another editor friend.
So what does one do? Can you say “Google?”
“Passive voice produces a sentence in which the subject receives an action. In contrast, active voice produces a sentence in which the subject performs an action.” (That’s at https://www.hamilton.edu/academics/centers/writing/seven-sins-of-writing/1 .
*******’s explanation is the dishes did not receive washing; namely her husband didn’t perform the dishwashing, and he avoided saying so by using passive-voice.

• Hilda Q. Walton was my immediate neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. Like my parents she was hyper-religious. She convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were despicable; “No pretty girl will talk to you!” Her husband was probably playing around. My parents heartily agreed, since I was already rebellious for not worshiping my holier-than-thou father.
• 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.)
• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.

Thoughts on aging

“Here we are again,” I say to my silly dog every morning as I get up.
“Why am I still here?” I ask.
“I ask myself that too,” said a similarly bereaved friend I ate out with the other night. I and others bereaved do one restaurant eat-out per week. My friend is also in my aquatic balance-training class.
“My wife was the one supposed to make 100,” I say.
“Oh you might make it,” a friend told me. He just turned 94. “You keep doing what you do, and you’ll probably make it.”
I never smoked, no alcohol the past five years, and hardly ever before that. I used to run, and I walk my Irish Setter most every day, usually three honest miles or more.
My wife’s mother made 100; she outlived her daughter who died of cancer seven years ago. My wife’s aunt made 98, and her grandmother made 96.
My paternal grandfather made 93, but my mother’s side wasn’t so long-lived.
More importantly I’m not bored, and I’m not lonely. I live by myself with my dog, and here I am writing. I always could entertain myself, a legacy of my difficult childhood I suppose.
Now it’s writing, and processing train photographs. I used to draw, but my stroke ended that.
My brother and I chase and photograph trains around Altoona, PA, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain.
The railroad is now Norfolk Southern, and I learned a lot from my brother, mainly lighting. My brother also learned a few things from me. We have a wonderful time, especially the snide remarks.
Dogs don’t last forever. I already lost one since my wife died. My newest dog, Killian, was because I was physically falling apart without a dog. Killian is 10, and I’ve only had him a year. He’s a rescue, a divorce victim.
10 or not Killian is the craziest and most energetic Irish Setter I ever had. The one before was extremely energetic, but not as wild and crazy.
He hasn’t thrown me down yet, although he almost did the other day. After six Irish Setters, I learned how to walk an Irish Setter. Retractible leash at full extension (15 feet), so he doesn’t suddenly pull me down.
Another friend who I recently walked dogs with told me “he needs discipline.”
Whoa! He’s an Irish Setter. I want him to have a happy life.
“You gotta show yer dog who’s boss.”
“No treats unless you eat that supper!” He knows who the boss-dog is.
He’s my fifth rescue. One was severely mistreated. That one was thrilled to finally have a happy home. We lost him to cancer, also at age-10. His name was also Killian.
At age-10 I figure four or five more years. Then what?
At age-75 I wonder if I should get another Irish Setter? In five years I’ll be 80. Rescue yes, but no youngsters. Puppies are especially unfair.
What I think about is how much I loath falling apart physically. An Irish Setter wants to walk me, and not just around the block.
I’d rather remain active. Maybe #7 won’t be my last.

• My wife died April 17th, 2012.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered, but it took my ability to draw and play piano. I can pass for never having had a stroke. I no longer can hold a tune.

Self-checkout ruminatin’

“Would that I could ever get out of here without needing help!”
Mighty Weggers, the Wegmans supermarket in Canandaigua where I buy groceries, installed a self-checkout.
Techno-geek that I am, I’ve tried to use it at least 15 times.
Mighty Tops, up the street, has a U-scan, and it’s more pleasant.
“Please place your bag in the bagging-area,” after I hit “use my own bag.”
Ten seconds later: “Please place your bag in the bagging-area.”
“I’m tryin’,” I shout.
“Please place your bag in the bagging-area,” after ten more seconds.
“Oh will you shaddup!” I say. “Not you, this machine,” I say to the pretty young attendant.
The self-checkouts respond to every possibility, which makes them way too complicated.
“Skip bagging” I hit, as I scan my celebration cake-slice. I don’t want icing all over the container if I tip the bag. I put my unbagged cake on the car-floor.
“Oops! You forgot your receipt, sir.”
The other day I forgot my unbagged cake; I had to go back and get it. It was at the service-desk.
I happen to know the product-code for bananas. It’s 4-0-1-1.
“Please place your” (pause) “bananas” (pause) “in your bag.”
Maybe Tops does that too, but it never says anything.
And if you dare scan anything too light to trigger the weight-sensor: “Please deposit all scanned items in your bag,” along with an angry beep prompting the attendant to run to your side to override Armageddon with her key-card.
So much for not needing help.
It took at least 15 tries to learn all the ins and outs: receipt, potato code, unexpected prompts, etc.
Tops doesn’t do that. Just a beep for each bagged grocery, not some nattering nabob of negativism. And Tops took at least five tries. The Wegmans in Williamsport, PA, also has a self-checkout, but I did that unassisted in one try.
But not the Canandaigua Weggers. I keep tryin’.

My way or the highway!

“Is that guy still on?”
Sputter — pop — fizzle! “Awful temerity, unmitigated gall, and horrific audacity....”
It was Rush Limbaugh fulminating from the car-radio next to where I parked at a nearby grocery.
I was in a handicap slot, as was the car next to mine. A grizzled geezer was inside listening to Rush.
I considered commenting, but didn’t wanna get shot.
“I thought Rush was Trumped!” I’d say.
Since when does a guy married eight times speak for CONSERVATIVES? Rush is so loaded with pills his blustering is suspect; better living through chemistry.
Rush excoriates the dreaded media. Hello; Rush is as much the media as Time Magazine or NBC.
“What we say is always true,” he’ll claim.
Hello again. It’s true if it flies. Rush will make some wild claim, then see if it gains traction.
Usually it does. People are justifiably upset with the status quo, especially those who set policy.
Burn baby burn! Drill baby drill! No regard for consequences, especially from them hoity-toity scientists.
I met grizzle-man again inside the store. He just purchased a lottery-ticket, and it won him only a dollar.
“It’s them Liberals!” he growled, expecting me to agree.
“All Liberals should be lined up and shot!” said my brother’s wife’s father at a long-ago Thanksgiving.
“Does that include me?” I wailed.
A friend bewails Trump wanting to divide-and-conquer. No longer is the prez a unifier.
“All opponents should be lined up and shot!”