“I miss my partner”

—“Ya know,” said my aquacise-instructor. “That nature-center rents cross-country ski equipment; or else go online. You do that anyway. I’m sure you’d find something.”
“I think I could still do it.”
“I bet you could,” said my aquacise-instructor. This is despite my wonky balance that aquacise-instructor treats.
I had to explain. Facebook notified me that she, among others, was interested in cross-country skiing at a nearby nature-preserve.
I clicked that, prompting my off-the-wall response that I gave away my cross-country skis after my wife died, and now wish I hadn’t.
“I no longer have my partner,” I added, almost crying.
“But there are so many things you’ve done,” that aquacise-instructor said.
“But there are so many things I haven’t done,” I thought to myself; “lacking my partner.”
“You should do Yosemite,” another lady-friend tells me.
“But I no longer have my partner,” I say.
“Do it with a tour-group,” my friend says.
“A tour-group isn’t my partner,” I say.
Yellowstone, Royal Gorge Suspension Bridge, Grand Tetons at dawn, Pikes Peak highway, plus all the railfan pilgrimage spots we visited, two in CA.
All with my partner.
She always loved hanging out with me, even after she got cancer.
We visited Altoona (PA) once to chase trains with an Altoona railfan.
She probably was hurting — but she wouldn’t tell me.
We went to a spot south of our bed-and-breakfast, and were gonna head back north along the railroad.
My wife was gonna get out at our bed-and-breakfast to return to our room. But she changed her mind. Hurting or not she wanted to continue with me.
My wife was extraordinary. Over 76 years on this planet I’ve met thousands. Only four were extraordinary. Three were female, and one I married.
“Extraordinary” is intense interest in anything I said. Plus the ability to comprehend what I said: big words, figures of speech, obtuse concepts, whatever. I never had to explain anything, and extraordinaries say things worth thinking about.
I was extremely lucky to marry an extraordinary. Graduate that I am of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations — an utter scumbag. Despicable and rebellious according to my parents.
I was fussy; more inclined to go it alone than compromise. I walked away from a really nice girl, because I knew it wouldn’t work. Another girl was way too easy, and her perception of me was wrong.
I’m also sure my wife felt she deserved no better than me. She had a difficult childhood herself. I was difficult to live with, but apparently immensely interesting. My wife always loved things I said.
A couple years after my wife died I went on a fall-foliage railfan excursion out of Conesus (NY). 30-40 mph through dense woods: the old Erie (Railroad) Rochester branch.
A club official collared me after our return, and asked if I enjoyed the excursion.
“More-or-less,” I said.
“What do you mean ‘more-or-less’?”
“I miss my wife,” I said. “She’d be with me if she hadn’t died.”
My other problem is my dog. Do anything at all and I hafta arrange for my dog. Plus that dog wants me around.
Last year a lady-friend wanted to treat me to a movie in celebration of my 75th birthday.
“My dog is waiting,” I said. In other words, I refused.
I doubt I’ll get cross-country ski equipment, and doubt I’ll do that nature-center. To do so means leaving my dog alone in my house.
And worst of all: no partner.

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

Online banking mobile-deposit

—“Capital idea!” I thought to myself. “Avoid driving to the bank.”
A while ago my wife’s brother clued me in to mobile-deposit. Photograph a check with my smartphone, then deposit online without leaving my desk.
Trips to the bank were always additional. Another errand to hook with other errands.
I’d do it in the auto-window, so my dog got a treat. “Hup-hup! I know where we are.”
That’s a six-minute zag returning from other errands.
I’ve successfully completed other online mobile-deposits; although it usually took way more than six minutes.
That’s because I do it so infrequently, plus forgotten passwords, etc. Seems I hafta “change password” every time I attempt login; and I write ‘em into a small book.
So now Blue Cross sent me a check for $20; their obligation for dental hygiene that cost $90 or so. My health-insurance pays the remainder, but that’s only every six months, and I’m doing it every three months — out of my own pocket.
Usually my dental insurance paid my dentist directly. But Blue Cross sent a check.
Okay, fire up mobile-deposit on my iPhone.
The usual horsing around trying to figger my next move. Vertically my iPhone wouldn’t display a zero-tab, so I couldn’t enter $20.
Horizontally it would. Success without calling the bank.
Quite a bit auto-filled, although their system didn’t like auto-filled asterisks. Guile-and-cunning engaged.
Now, photograph check; front, then back endorsed “for mobile-deposit only.”
“Submit;” BOINK! “Unable to complete; we couldn’t read the transit-number.”
Try again: Attempt number-two.
Place check closer so the transit-number will be visible.
BOINK! “Can’t see check-corners.”
Great. It’s a big check. If I rearrange to make the corners visible, that makes the transit-number invisible.
Attempt number three:
BOINK! “Can’t see transit-number.”
I rearranged everything to a view I hoped the bank could crunch.
Attempt number four:
BOINK!
I gave up. I fired a complaint to their “contact us.” Guess I gotta drive to the bank. Then there’s the possibility my limited endorsement won’t allow me to deposit.
Hello, do you guys really want my $20? It’s costing me $4 or more to make this deposit.
I bet if I were some fat-cat depositing 89 bazilyun dollars my deposit would crunch.
Capital idea! But it sounds like I gotta do it the old way.

Many years ago.......

.....Summer of 1964, following my sophomore year at college.
A friend at my church convinced me to try what he said was a wonderful way to make megabucks at a summer job.
It was selling Grolier encyclopedias door-to-door.
Training was said to be paid, but I never received a penny. Promises-promises if I asked.
I guess the goal was to successfully sell a set of encyclopedias, to find a sucker.
Glitz and glamour were paraded every-which-way: fabulous jaunts to Hawaii, Las Vegas, etc. But the goal was to find that sucker.
We’d patronize some fancy restaurant before door-to-door. (I think they were paying my tab.)
That was after two weeks of so-called training: how to present our product as the deal-of-the-century. Lots of drama and room-filling displays; no pyrotechnics though.
I guess my friend was successful, but to me it was a snow-job. The goal was to take advantage of some sucker.
My doubts increased as we began working an apartment complex where door-to-door salesmanship was prohibited. The idea was to not get caught. We were sneaking door-to-door.
I managed to get inside one apartment. My presentation was horribly scattershot, but the young newlyweds were interested.
I didn’t succeed but came close. No matter, it all seemed stupid to me. $1,500 for books that never get cracked, plus trinkets that wouldn’t get used. Landfill for everything, except I fleece my clients outta $1,500.
I finally gave up — I stopped showing up. Two weeks of pointless blathering, then sneaking around door-to-door — usually to get sent packing.
The fact we patronized some glitzy restaurant beforehand, didn’t counteract the sucker-search.
Ferraris and Hawaii junkets were hot air.
I switched back to my lowly laborer’s job for a contractor painting high-steel in my father’s oil-refinery. At least there I got paid.
My first job after college was a bank in Rochester, NY. At first I was clerical, but I was soon switched to sales.
“Rules are made to be broken,” I was told.
It quickly became apparent I didn’t have a viper attitude. Some low-level cutie-pie mistakenly bounces a check, and it’s “What can you do for me, honey?” A Xerox vice-president overdraws his bank account, and quickly gets approved. Can you say “interest-free loan?”
Is this what our nation became, now that the postwar bubble is over? Vipers hot to make a killing? No wonder The Donald is prez.
I guess I never fit = too liberal. And now some of my very best friends are bleeding-heart females. The macho dudes are no fun talking to.

My unsmiling dog

Gilligan (not my Killian).

—“Ya know, a dog attaches to whoever feeds it. Didja know that?”
“Yeah,” I would say; “ya told me that some time ago, and you’re missing my point.”
I didn’t say that; I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.
“Missing my point” is more my speech compromised by aphasia, an after-effect of my long-ago stroke.
“You talk just fine,” my friend says. But she wasn’t around before my stroke, so doesn’t know how much better my speech was back then.
I started by telling everyone I had an Irish-Setter Rescue Calendar, and it has a January picture (above) of a smiling Irish-Setter.
My dog hasn’t smiled like that yet, and we’re going on two years.
Such discussions jam up immediately. I need to explain “Rescue Irish-Setter,” plus my “Irish-Setter Rescue Calendar.”
Try to do that when my speech is already messy, and my trying to explain things crashes in flames.
I probably shoulda limited to “I’ve yet to see my dog smile.”
I don’t know that my previous dog was happy, but she’d do the “bellies-to-the-sky” bit. That’s turn over asleep on her back, and paw the ceiling.

 “Bellies-to-the-sky!” by Scarlett, my previous rescue Irish-Setter. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Despite the most depressing thing that ever happened to me — the death of my beloved wife, the BEST friend I ever had — that silly dog remained extremely comfortable with me. And I was a mess.
She also was my dog. When my wife died, at least it wasn’t me.
My current dog, Irish-Setter #7, and rescue Irish-Setter #5, isn’t that comfortable yet. He seems sad.
He came from a broken home, and was already age-9. That means over half his life he was a family-dog. Lots of people to pay attention to him, instead of just one person: me.
Living alone I spend a lotta time taking care of things. I hafta screen out my dog while doing so.
Scarlett was rescued from a backyard breeder. Attention from only one person, two originally, was wonderful.
My current dog probably gets more walkies (hunting) than he got previously. But that doesn’t change his sad look; plus he seems wary of me.
Most people don’t understand my caring so much about my dog.
“He’s just a dog,” many say.
“But I promised him a good life,” I say.
“But he’s doing better than in a broken home.”
“But he’s starved for attention. Just me is not enough.”
“What difference does that make? He’s just a dog.”
“But I’d rather see a happy dog. I run him as much as I can, but there’s all the time I hafta screen him out.”
“Maybe he’s just getting old,” my friend said. “What age is he now?”
“He sure doesn’t act old,” I say. “An 11-year-old puppy!” (Lunge, BOINK!)
“He follows me wherever I go. If I change paths, he looks for me so he can stay with me.
He’s extremely attached, but unfortunately I’m all he’s got.”

This is Killian: my current Irish-Setter. It’s a cheat-shot. He’s thrilled because I just let him in after screening him out so I could mow lawn. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)


• 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. It slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)
• My current dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s 11, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. 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.
• My Irish-Setter Rescue Calendar is an annual calendar put out by the Irish-Setter Rescue group to which I belong. Killian is via that group.

For the steam junkies.......

A northbound coal-train passes a waiting southbound pusher returning to Williamsport, PA. (Photo by Jim Shaughnessy©.)

—Some of my constant-readers, like me, are railfans enamored of steam-locomotives.
You could say I’m a railfan because of steam-locomotives. In the late ‘40s Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines in south Jersey, where I first watched trains, was still using steam-locomotives.
Many railroads were dieselizing by then, even railroads partial to coal-fired steam-locomotion. But PRSL used locomotives assigned by its co-owners, Pennsy and Reading. Both railroads were partial to coal-fired steam-locomotives. They assigned some of their steamers to PRSL.
Steam-locomotives have drama. Diesel-locomotives don’t. Steamers put it out there for all to see — and hear. Forward motion is to a noisy cadence of chuff-chuff-chuff-chuff! Often the chuff-chuff is explosive, and is accompanied by a blast of coal-smoke and steam skyward. Diesels just hum along.
With side-rod steam-locomotives the driver-wheels are connected by heavy steel rods. Those rods attach to pistons that propel the train.
Back-and-forth, up-and-down, around-and-around the side-rods go, timed to the chuff-chuff-chuff. Exhaust-steam and coal-smoke blast skyward to the rigid cadence of flashing rods and rotating wheels.
Diesels don’t have that. Usually they’re diesel-electric. The giant diesel-engine generates electricity for traction-motors down in the wheels.
Full fuel-delivery on a diesel-locomotive is loud, but with a steamer it’s mind-blowing!
With that in mind, the January 2020 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar is a photograph of two Pennsy steamers, a pusher stopped on siding for a northbound coal-train to clear.
Northbound is loaded, so it’s throttle-to-the-roof!
Earlier this month I blogged the December 2019 entry of this calendar. It was a giant Pennsy steam-locomotive climbing Horseshoe Curve
It got predictable reaction. My steams-lovers were thrilled.
Herewith, more Pennsy steamers, but not the fabulous steamer depicted weeks ago.
The engines are Pennsy’s Decapod, 2-10-0, developed in the late teens. The steamer depicted for December 2019 is more modern, Pennsy’s war-baby (WWII).
By WWII Pennsy’s Decapods were antique and tired. But they were still big and heavy. Pennsy crewmen call ‘em “Hippos.”
They also were extremely powerful when developed. They were well-suited for the service depicted: delivering PA coal up to Lake Ontario for coal-ships.
The railroad they were on is the old Northern Central up to Sodus Bay in NY on Lake Ontario. It’s hilly with torturous curves = perfect for the Deks.
The photographer is Jim Shaughnessy, who died last year. Many of Shaughnessy’s photos of Deks on this line ran in this calendar.
Shaughnessy is not why this calendar began. That was Don Wood, who died some time ago, and had many photos of Pennsy steam.
But Shaughnessy had many too, and as the years rolled by, my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar used many of his photos. Some are classic.
So for all you steam-junkies out there......

And here’s the December 2019 entry. (Photo by Bert Pennypacker©.)

• RE: “throttle-to-the roof.....” —Steam-locomotives have at least two ways to control the amount of steam working the pistons. One is a throttle to control the amount of steam from the boiler to the piston-valves. Usually a large lever controls the throttle; it’s hinged to the cab-roof. Throttle closed is that lever hanging perpendicular to the cab-roof. Full-throttle is that lever pulled back all the way so it hits the cab-roof. Full-throttle is “throttle-to-the-roof!”

My train calendar

(Graphic by ****** ******.)

—“This is my son,” said pretty *****, pharmacist and head-honcho at my local pharmacy.
“He loves trains. He really likes your train-calendar.”
Her son was under her arm, clutching my train-calendar.
“Can you say ‘thank you Mr. Hughes’?” Her son is only four or five. “Thank you,” he said, barely audible, and hand over his mouth.
“Well, I’m glad I gave you one,” I said. I give ***** one every year. She and many others. She looks forward to it.
This was the second time pretty ***** cornered me in two days.
“Wanna hear a story?” I asked her last year. She was thrilled. She wanted to hear my story about how I got last January’s picture, a speed-demon train-chase.
I doubt she understood a word I said, but I was telling her a story.
***** is pretty. Not smashingly gorgeous, but pretty enough to make me wonder why she even talks to me. She’s in her early 30s, or maybe later.
As you all know Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, convinced that all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM.
Had my parents come to my defense, Hilda woulda crashed in flames. But they heartily agreed.
“Make sure you tell your son,” I’ll tell her next time; “I was about his age, 2 actually, when I started liking trains. He may get over it, but 74 years for me.”
My calendar is photos my brother and I took around Altoona, PA. It’s where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain, although the railroad is now Norfolk Southern. That railroad sees plenty of traffic, since it’s one of two main railroad arteries between the northeast and midwest.
Altoona is where Pennsy crossed Allegheny Mountain, long a barrier to east-west trade. Crossing Allegheny Mountain means climbing that railroad over 1,000 feet. From Altoona the railroad had to use helper-locomotives.
Most challenging in the early 1800s was to get across that barrier — back then was by packhorse. Allegheny Mountain couldn’t be canaled, a 7-10 mile tunnel was not possible back then, and railroading had be through and have easy grades.
Over 2% is difficult; that’s two feet up for every 100 feet forward. And Allegheny Mountain was continuous and sudden. There were no notches.
The other problem was that grading back then wasn’t what it is now.
John Edgar Thomson was brought in. He previously constructed railroads in the area, but was brought in from GA.
He decided to attack Allegheny Mountain suddenly. To be successful his railroad had to stick to valleys where traffic was. Thomson would use helper locomotives to get over the mountain quickly.
He decided to stretch out the grade: to keep it manageable = under 2%.
He took advantage of a two-pronged valley to stretch out his grade. That’s Horseshoe Curve. But two giant fills had to be made, and a rock-face cut off.
Horseshoe Curve made breaching Allegheny Mountain without steep grades possible. Pennsy was very proud of it and stopped trains mid-Curve. Thomson‘s route is still used.
Allegheny Crossing is still fabulous train-watching. Locomotives assault the heavens climbing, and descend in full dynamic braking.
There are so many trains we might see two trains at once, often side-by-side. Sometimes we see three trains at once. It’s busy railroad.
I started chasing trains in Altoona years ago with a local railfan who gave train-chases as a business. I took my camera and shot many photos.
Back then Kodak had a calendar application, so I started an annual calendar of my train photos. I mailed ‘em as Christmas presents.
When Kodak went bankrupt it sold its calendar business to Shutterfly. So now my calendars are Shutterfly.
A younger brother became a railfan after I convinced him to see restored Nickel Plate steam-engine 765 in 1993. 765 is Lima SuperPower, a hot rod. It has a gigantic firebox and boiler so it could boom-and-zoom. I’ve ridden behind 765: constant 70 mph uphill.
Norfolk Southern arranged for 765 to pull retiree trips across PA, to and including Horseshoe Curve. 765 isn’t Norfolk Southern; it’s independent. Those trips attracted my brother and I.
In not long my brother was accompanying me on Altoona diesel-train chases. He would arrive before me, and discovered some of my photo locations on his own. Most of my locations were from that Altoona railfan.
My Altoona railfan-friend discontinued his train-chase business, but my brother and I saw what he was doing.
As a train engineer passed a lineside block-signal, he had to call out the signal aspect on railroad radio. With a scanner tuned to the railroad frequency we’d hear that. We could tell where a train was, and if we could beat it to a photo location.
Soon my brother had a scanner of his own. He also did a lotta research to know which trains were coming when. It’s what my Altoona railfan-friend had done.
So now my brother and I are the ones chasing trains, although I’ve gone there alone occasionally.
Norfolk Southern changed things. With Positive-Train-Control, and in-the-cab signaling, many of the old lineside block-signals were removed. Train-engineers no longer call out signal aspects.
That ruined our scanner monitoring, but fortunately the railroad is busy enough we do well without it.
Wait 15-25 minutes and a train appears.
So I can still do my annual train-calendar. And my brother and I became more photo savvy.
This year I only did 50 calendars, not 75 or more. I no longer send to everyone, and at least 20 were given locally to friends.
Pretty ***** isn’t the only one. Many local businesses get my calendar: my mower-man (also a railfan), my dog-groomer, my tax-lady, the post-office that mails my calendar, and my investment counselor. Also the kennel that boards my dog when I go to Altoona, plus various friends at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool.
My brother and I keep getting older. I turn 76 in couple weeks, and he’s pushing 63.
But people keep telling me they love that calendar. People ask about it.
I think I can still do it. For *****’s son, etc, I will; plus I always liked chasing trains.

• “****** ******” was a photographer at the Messenger Newspaper when I was there. She’s very ‘pyooter-savvy, and we remained friends after I retired. This ancient Apple MacBook Pro was her suggestion.
• 14 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 [I had a heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well. That defect was repaired.]).
• A “through” railroad can operate continuously. Early on, when grading was rudimentary, railroads often had to use switchbacks to climb hills. The train climbs into a switchback tail, then backs up to the next switchback tail, then continues climbing forward. Sometimes multiple switchbacks are needed. A main advantage of Pennsy’s routing was to get over Allegheny Mountain without switchbacks — continuously. A previous state project used inclined planes. The train-cars had to be winched up the planes after transfer; all of which took time.
• 765 is not owned by a railroad. It’s owned and operated by Fort Wayne Railroad Historical Society of Fort Wayne, IN. 765 is a most excellent restoration of a steam-locomotive; it’s so reliable railroads have run railfan excursions with it.
• “Lima” is pronounced as in “lima-bean,” not “lee-muh.” Lima OH not Lima Peru.
• With “dynamic braking” a locomotive can exert braking-force in addition to the brakes on the cars. Previously a train had to depend on car-brakes to descend a hill. Helper locomotives remain on after helping a train uphill. Downhill they can exert dynamic braking.
• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hours per week — plus a third hour on my own.

“If my name is on it, it’s gonna look good!”

—Perhaps 15-18 years ago, a few years after my stroke, which was in late ’93....
Probably after I began at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, first as an unpaid intern, but later hired....
I got on the board of a nearby town park, mainly just to see if I could do it (stroke survivor).
That park, Boughton Park (“BOW-tin,” as in “wow”), was called “the elitist country-club” at the Messenger. It wouldn’t allow other than town residents to use the park — since they paid for it through taxes. (Three towns: Victor, East Bloomfield, and West Bloomfield. The park is in East Bloomfield.)
It’s the old Fairport water-supply. Two ravines were dammed in the ‘20s to collect Fairport’s water. The dams are earthen, but have concrete sluiceways.
There also was once a pump-house. That water-supply was at a higher elevation than Fairport, and perhaps 20 miles south. Fairport is an eastern suburb of Rochester. Fairport is on the Erie Canal.
That pump-house is gone, although I imagine the pipeline is still there. About all one can do in Boughton Park is walk your dog, or cross-country ski. Although there are picnic-tables, and people fish the ponds.
All the Board does is administer the park. The Board is volunteer.
I never did much; just attended the monthly board meetings. Others did most of what was needed — mainly arrange maintenance.
Then those others decided the park needed a brochure. Since I was Messenger I was “volunteered.”
“It’ll be easy Bob. We’ll supply you a Xerox map.”
“Oh no ya don’t,” I said. “If my name is on it, we ain’t usin’ no cheesy Xerox Map!”
I managed to enlist a graphic-designer at the Mighty Mezz. He was very familiar with “Freehand,” a computer-app. He could freehand a computer-file of the map I needed.
It would look professional; a Xerox map wouldn’t. (“We ain’t printin’ no Xerox!”)
I guess “Freehand” still exists, but if so I no longer hear of it.
The artist in me took over.
My graphic-artist friend would do what I couldn’t do: computer-draw a map.
Design of the brochure would be me. I already had in mind what I wanted: trifold with logo, rules, and history outside, then map inside.
I would use the infamous Boughton Park hamburger sign as logo. No idea who designed it, but it’s extraordinary.
My brochure would be one-color, black on ivory card-stock.
Four-color printing (color) cost a fortune. What mattered was content, although appearance had to be okay to me.
Rules and history involved font choice.
Another Messenger graphic-artist weighed in.
“Why did you pick that font? It looks awful.”
“Because I liked it.”
“You are one pathetic loser.”
My bus-driver jones kicked in. “If you don’t like it, you can do the brochure.”
In bus-driver lingo that’s “Siddown and shaddup! As long as I’m drivin’ the bus, I’m captain of the ship!”
Too much experience parrying whacko bus-passengers.
The brochure was rolling along. The park’s parking-permit was the hamburger sign, so I got one and scanned it.
For the park rules I was just creating a document, which I did in Quark-4.1. —Quark may no longer exist.
I pretty much knew the history, so I wrote that myself. Font choice again: “Nope! Looks wussy.” Try another. “There it is!”
A fellow board-member gave me a photo of her husband canoeing a park pond. I scanned that to black-and-white, put it in an oval, then onto the logo page.
My brochure was a smashing success. Hundreds were printed and given out. They got much more than expected, and it cost little. One-color printing is cheap.
They since did another, but it’s four-color. That’s megabucks!
And it lacks the hamburger sign. Another artist carved a chair memorializing a deceased park-board president. It’s based on the hamburger sign.
I guess it takes an artist to know that hamburger sign is extraordinary.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired 14 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.
• 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 stroke 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 14 years ago.
• Boughton Park has two large retention ponds. Swimming and power-boats are not permitted.
• Fairport had to give up its water-supply — not enough water. They went to Monroe County Water Authority, and sold their water-supply to the three towns.

“Get the endorphins flowing”

—Hooray, hooray!
I was able to talk to my aquacise-instructor. It wasn’t much, maybe 3-4 minutes, preceded by “Got a minute?”
This isn’t a complaint. It’s an observation.
That aquacise-instructor is an instructor. Other female contacts I have at that YMCA swimming-pool are lifeguards.
Instructors are always busy. For me to talk to her is butting in. Talking to her the other day was butting into a client session.
And unlike the lifeguards we have a lot more to talk about: like my ongoing struggle to improve my balance.
And outside that pool are many more lady-friends I developed since my wife died. And we’re not dealing with questionable balance.
A really pretty girl once told me what women like most is laughing. And I no longer avoid pretty girls.
So for my lifeguard friends, and outside that pool, we can just shoot the breeze, make each other laugh, and (this is my aquacise-instructor) “get the endorphins flowing.”
I sure can’t do that in 3-4 minutes, and I miss it: make each other feel good.
We did it a while ago: walked our dogs together at a park in Canandaigua; three times actually.
Nothing since, except five minutes here, a minute there, maybe 20 seconds there.
As I say this isn’t a complaint. It’s how things are: she’s an instructor.
As you all know I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. “NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!” And that aquacise-instructor did.
She was one of the first, if not the first, to get me past Hilda.

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

“Pennsypacker”

Pennsy “J” #6439 upgrade rounds the mighty Curve. (Photo by Bert Pennypacker©.)

(I wanted to do this last month, but ran outta time.)

—BEHOLD, the greatest train photograph Bert Pennypacker ever took.
The December 2019 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar is a Pennsy “J” (2-10-4) rounding Horseshoe Curve.
Pennypacker, like my mother, was a motor-drive. He photographed everything he could.
My Al Staufer Pennsy Power books, which I will never part with, have many of Pennypacker’s photographs.
The books detail every Pennsy locomotive. Most of the diesel photographs are Pennypacker. He seemed obsessed with photographing everything, especially from his time after WWII when Pennsy began dieselizing.
Most of his photographs, like my mother, are pedestrian; which leads me to think this photo might be a potshot. That is, the light just happened to be right for this time/location. Perhaps Pennypacker was aware, but so many of his photographs are poorly lit.
My brother and I are overly conscious of lighting, so much we might lose drama.
But Pennypacker was in the right place at the right time.
I was there myself years ago. Getting there now would be challenging. The Curve viewing-area is now completely fenced, and this location, outside the southwest extremity of the Curve itself, can only be accessed by RV-track from a private road.
Pennsy’s “J” is its war-baby. WWII flooded the railroad with traffic, and after investing so much in electrification, Pennsy had tired and antique steam-locomotives.
They needed newer power, but the War Board wouldn’t allow Pennsy to develop new steamers. Diesel production was limited, which is why so many extraordinary steam-locomotives are early ‘40s.
Pennsy had to test two already existing steam-locomotives, Norfolk & Western’s 1200-series “A” (2-6-6-4) articulated, and Chesapeake & Ohio’s T-1 “Texas” 2-10-4.
C&O’s Texas was also Lima SuperPower: a gigantic firebox and boiler, to not run out of steam at speed. Lima’s 2-10-4 is its 2-8-4 “Berkshire” upsized to add a fifth driver-set.
Pennsy, leery of articulation, chose the C&O engine. It’s Pennsy only modern steam-locomotive without its trademark slab-sided Belpaire firebox.
Five driver-sets always bring the problem of balancing heavy side-rod weight. Steel had to be used — aluminum wasn’t strong enough — but those side-rods are long and heavy.
Rotating such weight pounds the rail. At 70 inches the drivers are large enough to permit a lot of counterweight, but counterweights pound the rail too.
The J was a mismatch for Pennsy, powerful but also fast. A lot of Pennsy, especially in PA, was mountainous. That J is a 50-mph locomotive. Locomotives in PA hafta climb heavy grades. That J might be doing 25 mph.
I think the freight speed-limit on the Curve is 30.
Js were used to get trains over Allegheny Mountain in PA, but many gravitated to less mountainous lines west of PA where they could run.

• “Pennsypacker” is not me. That’s the calendar producer. Credit where credit is due.
• “Belpaire” is pronounced “bell-pear.” “Lima” is pronounced as in “lima-bean,” not “lee-muh.” Lima OH not Lima Peru.

“Here we are again”

Killian, Irish-Setter #7, rescue #5. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—I say that every morning to my silly dog as I get up.
I don’t worry. My doctor says I’m healthy, and I feel healthy. But I’m soon to be age-76.
“So begins another day,” I say. “Thank you Lord for taking me to this next day,” a friend says as his feet hit the floor.
That friend, like me, is a widower.
“Why am I here?” I ask another friend with whom I eat out often. She’s also bereaved, and wonders why she’s here.
My wife was the one supposed to make 100. All her female relatives made over 90, and her mother made 100.
But cancer took my wife. It killed its host, and thereby killed itself.
That was almost eight years ago. I’m still here, but with a different dog. The dog my wife and I got lived four more years after my wife died, and hung with me despite the mess I was.
“That dog did her job!” my sister says.
Dogs don’t last forever, and I finally had to put down that dog at age-13.
Dogs are an immense responsibility, but I decided to get another dog.
Killian is rescue, as are four previous dogs. And now he’s very attached to me.
Well of course! I live in what could be a dog-park except it lacks a pond. About three acres, entirely fenced; an old corn-field largely reforested.
It’s Heaven for a dog; best $16,000 my wife and I ever spent. I can let my dog run loose, and he can’t run into the highway.
I give that dog free-rein. My sofa has a protective sham, and I allow the dog on my bed. He also pre-washes all plates/pans/etc.
“Here we are again,” I say to my silly dog. “What do we do this time: Kershaw Park or Lehigh Valley Rail-trail?”
Bonk-Bonk! “Let’s go, Boss;” nuzzle-nuzzle.
“You and me. We’ll hunt!”
He barks the whole way there.

• The City of Canandaigua’s Kershaw Park is at the north end of Canandaigua Lake. As for Lehigh Valley Rail-trail, click the link.
• Being retired (13 years) I try to walk my dog five days per week; two or more miles per walk. I also have a nearby town park. Appointments often get in the way.

“Done!”

Before going to bed last night, Yr Fthfl Srvnt fired up his Facebook. There was notification my aquacise-instructor “updated her status.”
I switched to that. It was a long paean about cancer treatment. How chemo and radiation degrade one’s immune-system.
“Uh-oh!” I said to myself. My wife endured both, but cancer took her anyway. Cancer kills its host, and thereby kills itself.
That aquacise-instructor and I are miles apart. But I don’t wanna lose another.
I concentrated hard = trying to read word-for-word. As a stroke-survivor my mind wanders.
I guess my aquacise-instructor doesn’t have cancer, but she was bewailing the so-called “friends” of those having cancer. That such friendships are often fleeting.
“If you need help, I’m here to help.” I heard it many times myself. Then they disappear.
A Facebook “like,” a tearful emoji, “so sorry,” “prayers.”
“So who are your real friends?” she asked.
The one who always drove my wife to the hospital, then finally had to say goodbye.
I sure hope that aquacise-instructor doesn’t have cancer. My wife was the one supposed to make 100, but cancer won.

• RE: “Done!” —My aquacise-instructor wanted readers to comment “Done” instead of “sharing,” which to her indicates her 332-word post wasn’t completely read. (That’s Facebook “sharing.”)
• 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 of over 44 years 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. (Not a Facebook “like.”)
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Poor reading concentration is a stroke-effect — for me it’s minor.

Oh, the hoops!

—My cousin Patsy passed away. She was four years older than me, and one of my Uncle Bill’s eight children.
My Uncle Bill’s name was actually Ethelbert, but the family called him “Bill.” He was first-born.
I have only three cousins on my father’s side. Two are still alive. My mother came from a big family, and her brothers and sisters had many children. I have forty-or-so cousins on my mother’s side. Forty is probably wrong, but there are so many I lost count.
I’m the oldest of seven, four of which are still alive. A brother died of leukemia in 1953, and was quickly replaced by another brother who had Down Syndrome. He died at age-14 in 1968. Why seems secret.
The classiest thing my parents did was refuse to institutionalize him. He was brought home, and this was back when most mentally-retarded children were institutionalized (born in 1954).
“I can’t do that, Thomas,” said my mother. “He’s my flesh-and-blood.”
I and a sister slightly younger than me, constitute what I call “the first wave.” That sister died of pancreatic cancer eight years ago.
The “second wave” is my brother who died in 1953, plus my Down Syndrome brother.
A third and final wave exists. I have two brothers born in 1957 and 1958, plus a sister born in 1961. I was 17 when she was born, and to a small extent I was father to that final wave.
By then my parents were worn out; but then I was off to college, then out on-my-own and married. That third wave had to grow up without my presence.
Patsy was also from a big family. Many were older than her. There were only a few of my Uncle Bill’s children I knew. One was Patsy, and others were my cousin Judy, my age, and my cousin Denny, younger than me.
Patsy’s passing was announced on Facebook, unknowable to non-Facebookers.
I have a Facebook, but don’t do much with it. I only have 59 “friends,” and rarely do I look at my “home-page.”
My brother-in-Boston (1957) refuses to have a Facebook, but his wife has one. I do so little with Facebook, yet my siblings use Facebook to communicate, so I’m often outta-the-loop.
A nephew and his wife had a baby, and I didn’t know until that baby was age-three. My fault, of course. The birth was announced via Facebook, and I rarely look at my home-page.
If my brother-in-Boston knew about it his wife told him.
My contact with Facebook is through Facebook e-mail notifications. “View on Facebook,” it says. I click that and my browser triggers Facebook.
This is when the hoop-jumping began.
My default browser is Firefox, and apparently Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, decided to no longer program for Firefox.
Okay, switch to Apple’s Safari, which I also have, but it’s not default. Which means copy the Facebook address from Firefox, then paste it into Safari’s address-window.
Since Firefox is my default browser, a Facebook e-mail notification kicks off Firefox. “Oh yeah,” I say, having watched wheels spin going nowhere.
“Gotta use Safari.” Facebook’s e-mail notification was only a few words, and was to a group-site = our family. Clicking “see more” elicited more wheel-spinning = Facebook via Firefox.
The post seemed important. Although that three-year-old baby was important too, but I wasn’t notified.
That coulda been Facebook’s secret algorithm, which limits what I see on Facebook. I only have 59 “friends,” not thousands, but only get notifications for a few. Apparently my remaining sister makes the cut, as does my 1958 brother.
Usually when I go to Facebook, I’m not looking at my “home-page.” But only via that home-page can I open my family’s group site. Patsy’s passing was announced on that group site. Guile-and cunning here = fire up home-page under Safari.
Finally, after an hour dorking around, plus with what gray-matter remains, my cousin Patsy was announced as gone. I had to jump all over creation. The average 75-year-old woulda given up!
And who knows how many cousins died when I do so little with Facebook?

• A “default” Internet-browser is the one links fire up. I have both Safari and Firefox, but Firefox is default. —Since Facebook is the browser-link I most often see, I’m considering making Safari default. Although I would continue to most use Firefox.
• RE: “What gray-matter remains.....” —I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. It killed a portion of my brain.

My train-calendar for January, 2020

Norfolk Southern mixed manifest 10N switches onto Nittany & Bald Eagle in Tyrone. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—It was February 6th, 2015, a Friday. My brother and I were in the Altoona area to get snow-pictures for my train-calendar: January, February and December. It was pretty cold.
Unbeknownst to us, or perhaps known, Norfolk Southern local C42 dropped off cars in Tyrone (probably the previous day) for Nittany & Bald Eagle. Nittany & Bald Eagle is Pennsy’s old Bald Eagle branch, but Norfolk Southern has trackage-rights.
N&BE would take the cars up to its various branches, like State College (Penn State). Norfolk Southern occasionally uses N&BE’s main to get from its Erie line through Lock Haven down to its cross-state ex-Pennsy main through Tyrone.
N&BE is built to the hilt. It needed to support heavy NS coal-trains for a power-plant upstate.
N&BE could not move its local until NS cleared 10N north and 11N south. I think 11N came first, and allowed N&BE to move north before 10N appeared.
N&BE would switch off its mainline to its branches, which would allow 10N to follow on N&BE’s main.
I may have this backwards. Both 11N and 10N may have had to clear before N&BE could use its main. I remember 11N came first, which allowed 10N or the N&BE local.
The January 2020 entry of MY calendar is 10N switching onto N&BE in Tyrone.
2015 is long ago, but I remember 10N holding the N&BE main in Tyrone after we shot the N&BE local north of Tyrone.
Things don’t make sense, but apparently the N&BE local left Tyrone before 10N arrived. We have pictures of that N&BE local up in Bald Eagle, but apparently we returned to Tyrone to get this picture.
I don’t remember.
All I know is it’s snow, and fairly impressive. Every snow-picture in this 2020 calendar is this trip in 2015.
My brother and I hope to hit the area again with snow — I’m running outta snow-pictures.
But we’re both getting old. I turned 71 the previous day; now I soon will be 76, and my brother is 62.