Pearls-of-wisdom

—“I bet you troll that Facebook every minute,” my brother-in-Boston exclaimed.
“I do not!” I shouted. “I admit I have a Facebook, but it’s lucky if it gets five minutes per day.”
My brother refuses to Facebook; it’s decidedly unmacho.
“I have a Facebook due to a fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies 10 years ago. I’d dump it, except too many of my real friends use Facebook.
“You can’t dump it,” my brother said. “Betty’s still exists.”
“As does Linda’s,” I noted. Betty is my sister, and Linda was my wife. Both died eight years ago.
“I need a death-certificate to close Linda’s Facebook. Ain’t doin’ it! If they wanna be jerks, let it slide. No activity to her Facebook for eight years.”
My brother reflects a perception I heard before. Facebook is for people lacking a life. About all I do with my Facebook is post blog-links, plus occasional pictures, videos, and magazine articles.
I never look at my “Home-Page.” That five minutes is looking at Facebook’s “notifications” (the bell). What’s there is usually notification about one “friend” adding to her “story.”
I rifle it, since all she ever talks about are her soap-opera friends, plus her friends in Wide-Wild-World of Prefessional Wrastling. (Ker-SLAM!)
I also get notification about posts to my cousin’s anti-Trump Facebook group. He is “moderator;” he can disapprove a post. Most of the magazine articles are interesting; would that I had time to read ‘em.
I also get notification about posts from another Facebook “friend;” a person my brother calls a “flirt.” She happens to be female, and cute.
I don’t get everything she posts, but I visit her page every day because she occasionally posts pearls-of-wisdom.
The fact she and I are “friends” is another fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies: secretly plumbing my iPhone contacts.
That’s about all I do with Facebook. I only have 60 “friends,” not hundreds.
I have other Facebook “friends,” some of whom could be called “flirts.” Once-in-a-while they post something worth reading, although that one “friend” seems more inclined to post a pearl-of-wisdom.
And thanks to Facebook I reconnected with people who were once real friends.

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

“Every day I’m hustlin’”

(iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“I gotta get a picture of yer sign.”
I said that to one of the co-owners at the kennel that boards my dog during long trips.
They quite often short-time daycare my dog free. The price seems to be “make ‘em laugh.”
My contact was the cute one. She’s married to the other co-owner’s brother.
Both co-owners are great fun to talk to, which makes them equal to my mind. But one is cuter.
I guess she’s the sparkplug, more-or-less. So as head-honcho she’s always hustlin’.
“Yer sign is blog-material,” I said. “But I may not get to it for a while.”
“Wassa matter?” she shouted. “No-good, lazy, layabout; good for nothin’.....”
We all laughed.
They seem to love meeting my dog. “Killy!” (Killian.)
That dog reversed my childhood. “NO CUTIE-PIE WILL TALK TO YOU!”
Ten years ago I wouldna said anything to either co-owner. The cute one woulda been beyond imagining.
They also seem to like me making ‘em laugh.
Five or six years ago they daycared my previous dog so I could attend a Transit-retiree Erie Canal cruise.
“As you can see the boat didn’t sink,” I said returning to pick up my dog.
I had cutie-pie rolling on the floor. They both love it. “You’re funny,” the other co-owner tells me.
“Some day we all gotta go down to that restaurant for coffee. Make them crusty curmudgeons wonder how I get all you ladies hangin’ all over me.”
Make the ladies feel good = make ‘em laugh.

• “Killian” is my current dog, He’s a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s eleven, 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 previous dog was “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), also a rescue Irish-Setter.
• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove bus 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered well to return to work, but not driving bus.

Paranoid

—“I have a humble request,” I said to a classmate in our aquatic balance-training class.
We were at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, and our class had just finished.
Face-to-face communicatin’ at that swimming-pool is extremely difficult. Not only are there echoes and noise, but my listener wasn’t familiar with my subject. Add the messiness of my stroke-effected speech (aphasia), and face-to-face communicatin’ becomes near impossible.
“There is a lady in our class who I think had cancer. She may be a widow, but I dare not ask.”
“Paranoid,” my friend said.
“Sure I am,” I’d say. “I’ve crashed too many times! If I, a male, say anything to a lady I’m automatically suspect.”
“Uh-ohhh...... He’s on-the-make; a lonely hot-to-trot widower!”
So far the only one that didn’t do that was this lady-friend, so often it’s just she and me eating out together. We bereavers eat out once per week. (My friend is also a widow.) Often other bereavers attend.
The one who says I’m paranoid is of course that lady.
“Bob, if you like walking your dog with ****** **** as much as you say you do, you should tell her that.” That was another lady-friend.
Finally after 45 minutes of my arguing against it, I did, and it crashed mightily.
No response at all; not even a “no.”
So if I ask that cancer-survivor if she’s a widow, I expect a similar crash.
“Uh-ohhh...... A lonely hot-to-trot widower!”
“So why don’t you ask ****** ****?” my friend said. ****** **** was nearby.
Enter difficulty of face-to-face in that pool area.
“I don’t wanna ask ****** **** to join our eat-outs,” I thought. “I’ve caused enough trouble already,” and that wasn’t my intent, although what I said could be misinterpreted — this was an unfamiliar topic.
“I think the lady’s name was ****.”
Enter ****** ****; she’d ask another lady if **** was a widow.
“I have an appointment,” my lady-friend said.
“We’ll talk about it during our eat-out tomorrow,” I said.
Face-to-face always bombs, especially in that pool-area. Plus I’m trying to communicate an unknown. And my speech is always messy: mucked up by frenzied searching for better words when my speech-center is already compromised.
****** **** later told me **** was not a widow.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hour classes per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• My beloved wife of 44&1/2 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.
• I’m therefore a widower, but not lonely, nor hot-to-trot. I been on-my-own almost eight years.

Horror on the Ten-Hundred line

My favorite RTS ride, trip #2105 from Fairport and East Rochester, with a 300-series artic. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—In 1977, when I would turn age-33, my wife and I moved out of our walkup apartment into our first house. It was on Rochester’s east side.
It was originally a farm-house, built in 1865, and never improved; except for an addition on the side. The original house was two floors; the addition only one floor. A rear shed became the kitchen.
The area around it developed into a semi-urban neighborhood, annexed by Rochester years ago. The area was originally Town of Brighton.
My wife arranged the purchase, since I was unemployed at the time, and she had a job. The purchase was based on her income.
$15,000, finagled by a gumint housing program: Federal Housing Administration (FHA), I think.
Next door lived a lady who drove bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), a public employer, the supplier of transit-bus service in Rochester and environs. Her boyfriend, who lived with her, also drove RTS bus.
I started looking for permanent employ as soon as we moved. I worked for a bank after college, but was canned after three years for not having a viper attitude.
I was totally unprepared for life. I had a BA, but was no longer interested in school-teaching.
I was more interested in writing and photography. I covered motorsports for a small Rochester weekly newspaper, and tried freelance photography, mainly sports-car racing. (I had a darkroom.)
Finally I gave up. Seven years with little income. My photography was more a tax-dodge.
I interviewed at various advertising agencies, using my newspaper stories as a resumé. One guy was interested, but no one was hiring.
My neighbor noted RTS needed bus-drivers. “Oh well,” I said; “but only temporary.”
A stupid, meaningless job for a college-grad, but it paid fairly well.
I stayed at it 16&1/2 years, during which my neighbor got fired, although Transit fired people willy-nilly.
It was pleasant at first, mainly learning how to safely operate large vehicles.
I used to say driving bus wasn’t fun unless you could put-the-hammer-down at least once per day.
We chose runs by seniority, and I picked mainly country Park-and-Rides.
My greatest joy was pedal-to-the-metal on a four-lane expressway. 65 mph in the passing-lane, all a 300-series (above) would do.
My bus-driving ended 26 years ago with my stroke. I’d made many friends, particularly other bus-drivers.
But I was tiring of it, especially our clientele. At least I never had a gun drawn on me, but I was mugged once. It taught me how to deal with complete wackos, so I was finally able to shut down my holier-than-thou father.
So now, 26 years later, I’m left with bus-dreams. Nightmares sorta. Unfamiliarity with the bus-route, or driving into someplace you couldn’t get out of without management eager to assert its intellectual superiority.
Yesterday’s bus-dream had me driving my all-time favorite city-bus, our 500-series Flxible-Flyers.
I was inbound on the west side of our Ten-Hundred line, Dewey Avenue in Rochester.
I used to say driving bus was essentially driving the back end. A bus isn’t a snake. Only the front wheels steer. The back wheels follow, but well inside the fronts.
Steer a corner as you approach, and your rear wheels clip the corner — or knock over a light-pole perhaps.
We called it “swing” = “put additional ‘swing’ on it;” that is, begin turning well after passing the corner.
Plus yer bus is eight feet wide, even wider if 102 inches. It has to be properly placed, and driven so the back-end doesn’t clout things.
Street workers placed traffic-cones totally inadequate for a bus. “I just flatten ‘em all,” a fellow bus-driver once told me. “Maybe when they put ‘em back up they get the hint.”
Needless to say my bus-dream had various fearsome insanities. Traffic-cones sent flying, and an aluminum gutter downspout crushed.
Apparently I went off-route, and found myself facing a low-clearance underpass. Could I get my bus under 10 feet 6 inches? I tried, and thankfully it was just a dream.
I had a natural-gas bus once with CNG tanks on its roof. “Am I gonna be able to get this thing under the bridge without triggering Armageddon?” —We worried about this stuff.
For me driving bus is long ago. The best job I ever had, a daily newspaper in Canandaigua, came after my stroke. It was a much better fit, but bus-driving paid more.
I always say my (our) newly-constructed house in West Bloomfield (1989) was paid for by driving bus.
But that newspaper was fun, and bus-driving no longer was.
I still attend transit retiree functions, but feel sorta out-of-it. Too many Transit friends, but I don’t think or talk like a bus-driver. I don’t proceed every spoken phrase with the F-bomb.
How many bus-drivers can recite Shakespeare’s 116th Sonnet from memory?

• “Artic” (“arr-TIK”) means articulated = bendable. An artic could seat more than the average 40-foot bus. They were 60 feet long but could easily drive corners because they were two sections hinged together by an expandable bellows. The 300s were our first bendables. They were heavy and bog-slow, but they rode extremely well. A German design, but built in the USA.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “Off-route” was the naughtiest of naughties. If you got detoured off-route you had to immediately radio that to management. And if you unintentionally wandered “off-route” you were in deep trouble.
• There is a railroad overpass in nearby Canandaigua with clearance above the road of 10 feet 6 inches. It decapitated many road-trailers.
• “CNG” is compressed natural-gas.
• 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.
• Click the link readers; it’s a podcast of Shakespeare’s 116th Sonnet.

The best-looking ‘50s car

Michael Bozzo’s 1955 Oldsmobile Super-88 Holiday Coupe. (Photo by Dan Lyons.)

—The February 2020 entry in my Tide-mark “Cars of the Fab ‘50s” calendar is what I consider the best-looking car of the 1950 styling-idiom, a 1955 Oldsmobile Super-88 Holiday Coupe, a two-door hardtop.
It’s devoid of the garishness and fins that came later, yet much better-looking than GM’s turkeys of the early ‘50s.
All through high-school and college I lusted after a ’55 Chevy Two-Ten hardtop (like the car pictured below).

(Photo by BobbaLew.)

—You’d think I’d still be lusting after that Chevy, but this Olds looks better.
The chrome headlight surrounds are best-ever. Hood and front-fender shapes are perfect. And the grille and bumper are simple. After 1955 Olds got garish and fat-looking.
Striking is the two-tone paint treatment. Extravagant, yet simple.
Paint-schemes like this went out with the ‘50s, as did whitewall tires. More importantly two-tone paint was common to the average car-buyer.
Two-tone color hung around a while longer, but without the chrome separation molding.
Or perhaps the car-body was a dark color, and the roof a lighter color. Vinyl roofs became popular in the ‘70s.
Wild as it is, this car’s two-tone paint works well.
And sadly the market for ‘50s cars is waning. These are the cars I grew up with. In 1955 I was 11 years old. Cars like this ruled the highways when I was in high-school and college.
The editor of my Classic Car magazine takes on the collector-car crowd for being upset with ‘70s/‘80s/‘90s cars. Older car-guys like me are dying off: “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on...”
I have a hard time thinking a late ‘70s Toyota is classic, but I’m an oldster.
Classic Car magazine is becoming what Special-Interest Autos became. Ferrin cars as well as American. Classic Cars promised it wouldn’t do that, and now it is — I didn’t forget.
Owning a ’55 Olds would be pleasant, but I wouldn’t go anywhere with it. Modern cars are what I’m used to; a ’55 Olds only looks nice.
No ‘50s cars for this kid; and no visor above the “Wraparound windshield” as on this ’55 Olds. (That visor looks stupid.)
And now Oldsmobile is GONE; victim of the Japanese auto invasion, and now even South Korea. Oldsmobile marketed some of the all-time classics, particularly the front-wheel-drive Toronado.
The Toro is a lotta car; the ’55 Olds is ordinary. But for 1955 you could buy a great-looking ordinary car. Compare it to some of the wretched excess that came later.
A ’56 Olds looks debatable, and by 1957 Olds was bloated.

• “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on...” is from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.
• Special-Interest Autos failed.
• A “Wraparound windshield” is a one-piece windshield that wraps down around the corners. A techno-marvel that went outta style because that lower corner caught knees.

Principles are for wusses!

—Yrs Trly finally got one of those “89 bazilyun bitcoin or else!” e-mails the other night.
Stupid me; I opened it, probably poisoning my iPhone forever.
It was in my iPhone’s “junk” folder, not on this laptop. Or maybe it is — I haven’t cleaned out my laptop “junk” in a couple days.
“What if your wife found out you been fooling around?” it screamed.
HELLO; to do that yer gonna hafta drag my wife up from Hell. She died eight years ago, destined for Hell according to her mother.
I also happen to know I never fooled-around over 44&1/2 years. I was given the opportunity, but passed. I was better off with my wife: the BEST friend I ever had.
“Code was planted in your smartphone which tracks all your naughties.”
HELLO, again. I hardly use my phone.
“It’s all those apps you downloaded. Some had buried tracking code.”
So far, seven apps, and two are airline checkin.
Two others are GoogleMaps® and Weather-Channel®. Fifth would be my bank, so I can online deposit with my iPhone.
I think someone else installed “Facebook-for-iPhone,” and I installed Facebook’s “Messenger.”
The e-mail was inordinately long, perhaps 1,000 words. I read a little. I just noticed single words, like “donation,” what they demanded to avoid spilling to my deceased wife.
And then there was the e-mail demanding I “log-in” to see why my Social Security was frozen. (I just got it!)
“Failure to log-in constitutes fraud, and you will be jailed.” (Tremble!) Really? BAM! —In the trash!
Every once in a while I get e-mail notification my credit-card is frozen. (It worked at the grocery.)
The e-mail looked legit; full bank design and coloration, etc. But I phoned my bank. They requested I forward the e-mail to “abuse.”
Why are there so many predators any more? People that prey on little kids, the elderly, and women.
I think our prez sets the example. Grab some starlet’s crotch, while ripping off all-and-sundry. Rake in billions doing so, and fire anyone that counters.
I first heard it years ago: “rules are made to be broken!” = principles are for wusses!

The Facebook “Message” I won’t send

No falls! (I could hang onto my snowblower [visible in garage].) (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—Below is the “Message” I won’t send to a Facebook “friend” for reasons I’ll explain later:

“Some time ago, after tests, my neurologist diagnosed neuropathy. It’s not diabetic neuropathy, since my doctor says I don’t have diabetes.
Thompson Physical Therapy says the reason my balance is bad is because of neuropathy. I still feel pain, like if I stub my toe.
I can’t say Thompson’s assessment is correct. All I know is I stagger a lot more than others in our class.
Thompson PT said they can’t cure neuropathy. All they can do is give me tools to counter it.
I hardly fall any more. But that seems to be from using the “tools,” and strengthening (“homework” they gave me).
My major “tool” is to hang onto something: Killian, a wall, my snowblower, and you the other day pretending you were Killian.
Take that away and I start tipping over, staggering to compensate. No falls blowing out my large driveway; I had a snowblower to hang onto.
It seems like my neuropathy worsened. Years ago I’d try the gazebo steps (Kershaw), but not any more. Any step is too erratic, especially no hands.”

Explaining:
—I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hour classes per week — plus a third hour on my own. I been doin’ it around three years.
This “message” is to them.
—Neuropathy is poor nerve communication to-and-from-one’s feet.
—“Killian” is my crazy Irish Setter. I still walk him.
—I also tried dry-land balance-training in Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy in Canandaigua.
—The “gazebo steps” are into a gazebo at Canandaigua’s Kershaw Park. Four concrete steps, no railing.

I won’t send this “message” for two reasons:
—1) It exceeds the average length of a Facebook “message” by almost 200 words.
I have two friends of similar verbosity. One is an old college classmate who occasionally e-mails me 300-400 words. (His most recent was 716 words.)
The other was a girl who found me on Facebook. She was two college classes behind me. Occasionally she “messages” me 200-300 words.
I enjoy reading both. My aquacise-instructors are not word-geeks. Exceed 100 words and they’ll probably zone out.
Some of us are word-generators. That’s especially true in my case, since I write all-too-well, and lock up face-to-face. That’s aphasia, minor for me, a stroke-effect.
—2) The other problem is my “message” is too negative. I don’t wanna hurt feelings.
But I think my neuropathy contributes to my wonky balance as much as, if not more than, my negativity.

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

My latest female adventure

—“Got anyone lined up yet to use that restaurant gift-card?”
That would be my lifeguard friend at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool, where I do aquatic balance-training.
She got me a restaurant gift-card in exchange for an extra train-calendar. And I was stupid enough to tell her the one I most wanted to use it with was her.
She’s married of course.
I was sure I’d crash, but telling her that was the only way she’d know.
I told her I was considering others, but they weren’t her.
My first choice after her is another married lady, but her husband is in a nursing-home. He had a stroke. I had one myself (see footnote below), and we talk about that a lot.
I worked with that lady at the Messenger newspaper, so I think she won’t perceive me a lonely hot-to-trot widower.
I’ve had it happen. Suggest a widow join us bereavers on our weekly eat-out, and “uh-ohhh......”
I’ve tried perhaps 10. So far only one worked. I’m sure I’m going about it wrong, but another friend says “just ask.”
Perhaps I should be more oblivious to the boy-girl schtick; but where did that get me with that lifeguard?
My lifeguard friend is striking for her age. But really we’re only pool-friends. At that restaurant I’m sure I’d quickly bore her to tears.
I’ve been alone and on-my-own almost eight years. I’m not lonely, and I’m not bored. I’m so squashed for time I’m lucky if I get to bed by midnight. —And I never watch TV.
I am who I am, and I’m better off alone.
Lady-friends are fun — let ‘em talk, make ‘em laugh. Men are likely to pull macho on ya, but I have a few men friends.
So goes my lifeguard friend. I lost the eye-contact. I shouldna asked. I’m not sure I wanna ask my Messenger friend.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hour classes per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• My brother and I photograph trains down near Altoona PA, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern. Every year I take 13 of our 89 bazilyun photographs to assemble into a calendar — I do it with Shutterfly. I give those calendars out as Christmas presents.
• 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’s been like forever”

“I saw your husband’s truck out front, so I had to stop.”
I said that to *****, one of the co-owners of the kennel that boards my dog.
“Yeah; how ya doin’? It’s been like forever.” (I haven’t seen ***** in weeks, and ***** is cute.)
More important, she’s fun to talk to. We laugh.
“Gotta stop and see *****,” I told her. “Probably feel good as a result.”
“Glad ya stopped. I haven’t bought a new car yet, so I’m still drivin’ my husband’s truck.”
“Bark-bark-bark-bark!” (“I want attention — pet me!”)
I took Killian in with me; the kennel-people love Killian.
***** zoomed out from behind her counter to pet Killian.
She stooped down, and Killian plopped in her lap.
“Such a handsome boy,” she cooed, scratching Killian’s rib-cage.
“And also a ham,” I said.
“You know my balance is awful,” I commented. “I have a story if ya wanna hear it.”
“Tell me your story!”
“I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool, and the other day.....”
I locked up. “This is the stroke,” I said. “Can’t get the words out.
Our instructor happens to be cute.”
“Now we know why you attend that class.”
“That’s part of it,” I said. “But she’s not the only one.
That instructor takes my hand to stabilize me, but WHOA! How do I handle that? ‘NO PRETTY LADY WILL EVER HOLD HANDS WITH YOU!’
My counselor tells me I should continue those classes to socialize, and thereby flip-flop my dreadful childhood.”
The reason I mention this is because 10 years ago it wouldna happened.
I woulda drove past that kennel, with no interest in meeting *****. Just walking in also woulda been unthinkable. “NO CUTE GIRL WILL WANNA TALK TO YOU!”
A lot has changed since my wife died. I’ve met too many *****s.
What a joy it was to meet ***** again. “It’s been like forever,” she said. We both felt good as a result.
And for 70 years I was scared to try.

• RE: “I haven’t bought a new car yet.....” ***** had her own car, but the motor seized; so she drives her husband’s truck.
• My current dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s eleven, 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.
• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hour classes per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. It slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)
• “No pretty lady, etc. etc.” was my neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent Hilda Q. Walton, who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM. My hyper-religious parents heartily agreed. (And I’m sure by now it’s well over 14 blogs.)

“Did I hear the word ‘neuropathy’?”

—“Sure, it’s pleasant holding hands with a pretty lady.”
I’d say that to my aquacise-instructor, cute for her age. No thunder-thighs, and also an easy smiler.
I probably won’t.
“But,” I’d say; “it’s also cheating. I should be able to walk steady without hanging onto someone or something.”
I did a few days ago with another lady, a classmate.
“Can I hang onto you for a second so I can do this exercise without falling?”
We held hands, face-to-face.
“No hands,” our aquacise-instructor said. After which I immediately began stumbling and staggering.
I think our instructors at that swimming-pool are beginning to realize more is making me unstable than negative attitude.
My dry-land hospital physical-therapy noticed almost immediately.
“Neuropathy,” I told them. “My neurologist diagnosed me with neuropathy.”
That’s poor nerve communication to-and-from my feet.
“I can’t cure neuropathy,” my hospital therapist said. “All I can do is give you tools to counter it.”
I have a hunch those pool therapists never dealt with neuropathy so severe. If they did their clients gave up after three or four sessions.
I, on the other hand, kept at it perhaps three years. During that time many have come-and-gone. A couple of us are constant. It beats doing nothing, and for me just sloshing around in that pool is a workout.
My counselor says the socialization is beneficial. It counters my sordid childhood.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL TALK TO/SMILE AT/BE INTERESTED IN YOU!” Yet some at that pool do, including that aquacise-instructor.
So much for my childhood, and 70 years late.
We were trying to do four steps of varying height on the pool bottom. First was eight inches, followed by six inches, then four inches, then six inches final.
I fell off the first step. My aquacise-instructor extended her hand. “Pretend I’m Killian,” she said. (Killian is my crazy Irish-Setter who I still walk.)
“Easy-as-pie with something to hang onto,” I exclaimed. I began walking across the steps.
“Feel each step with your feet,” she said.
“I wish I could,” I said.
She let go. “Pretend you’re still walking Killian.”
I immediately began stumbling and staggering.
“There are those among us who have neuropathy,” she said as I staggered along.
“Did I hear the word ‘neuropathy’?” I asked her later.
Hooray-hooray, perhaps they’re realizing it’s not just my dreadful childhood that makes me unstable. Give me something to hang onto, and I’m fairly stable.
I call it triangulation. Grab this; grab that — to offset my neuropathy.
Even without triangulation I’m fairly stable. Unless I try to stand on one foot, or attempt stairs no hands.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hour classes per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• I’m always a sucker for easy smilers.
• I see a bereavement-counselor once a month because of my wife dying.
• “No pretty lady, etc. etc.” was my neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent Hilda Q. Walton, who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM. My hyper-religious parents heartily agreed. (And I’m sure by now it’s well over 14 blogs.)

76 trips around the sun

—“Agga-bur-yay yoo-yoo, agga-bur-yay yoo-yoo; agaa-bur-yay, agga-bur-yay; agga-bur-yay YOO YOO!”
That was my mentally-retarded kid brother Timmo (Timmy), 10 years younger than me, died at age-14 in 1968.
He had Down syndrome, and the classiest thing my parents did was to bring him home, not institutionalize him.
This was middle ‘50s, when the mentally-retarded were usually institutionalized.
My mother would not do it: “He’s my flesh and blood.”
Timmo was supposed to replace another brother who died of leukemia at age-4.
But Timmo had Down syndrome. “I’m mentally-retarded. Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!”
As of today, Wednesday February 5th, Yr Fthfl Srvnt is 76 years old.
“We’re still here,” I say to my dog every morning.
I expect to be. No heart problems, good circulation; the only thing questionable is my balance.
26 years ago I had a stroke. But that was caused by a heart-defect long ago repaired.
I have neuropathy: poor nerve communication to my feet. But I do Physical Therapy to counter that — mainly increase my awareness of what could throw me down, and increase my strength to catch imbalance.
My wobbliness is self-frightening, but usually I catch wobbliness. And I don’t try anything that might cause a fall.
I hardly fall any more, and when I do it’s because of stumbling or tripping, not imbalance.
And usually I can catch the stumbles. Go back five years and I couldn’t.
My Physical Therapist advises a cane, but I don’t know. A cane would be in the way, and doesn’t catch stumbles.
I talked to a pretty girl yesterday. A lot has changed since my wife died almost eight years ago.
We were both 68 when she died. And now, thanks to my dog and numerous pretty ladies, I find my hyper-religious Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, and my parents, who were also hyper-religious, were WRONG.
I’m not the despicable scumbag they convinced me I was. “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO/SMILE AT/BE INTERESTED IN YOU!” versus “Oh what a pretty dog.” (Oh what a pretty girl.)
I’m at my local pet-supply. Cutie-pie, the best-looking female store-employee, recognized me: “Where’s Killian?”
Someone told me dogs and babies are chick-magnets.
“And you may be the only store-employee whose name I know.”
“And why is that?” Cutie-pie asked, lighting up the store with her smile.
“I happened to see your name-tag. Your name is ********.”
“Yada-yada-yada.” Call it flirting if you wish, something I couldna done 10 years ago.
And now, thanks to my four-legged chick magnet, I no longer am scared of pretty girls. I have struck up so many conversations with pretty girls, I got so I can do it without my dog.
And women love talking, especially laughing.
76 trips around the sun, and for 70 of those trips I pretty much kept to myself. “No one will talk to you!”
My counselor congratulates me on leaving my sordid childhood behind.
“Yeah,” I add. “70 years late!”

My new MacBook-Pro

My new MacBook-Pro

—Yr Fthfl Srvnt decided to re-assert “I ain’t dead yet” by ordering what may well be my last computer, a 2019 MacBook-Pro laptop, refurbished by Apple. A laptop because they’re portable.
This current MacBook-Pro laptop, also refurbished by Apple, is over 10 years old. It’s the 17-inch wide-screen. 17’s are no longer made.
It’s slow = about five minutes boot-up. I schedule my morning around it — give it time.
Sometimes it hangs; it can’t get its operating system.
It came with OS-X Snow-Leopard. Now it’s El-Cappy (El Capitan), and it’s on hard-drive #2. The original hard-drive, 500 gigs, gave up. Hard-drive #2 is one terabyte (1,000 gigs) — big enough to swallow the entire known universe.
Fortunately I had it backing up to an external hard-drive: Apple’s “Time-Machine.” We could “migrate” my old hard-drive contents to my #2 hard-drive.
$2,209 + $165.68 taxes = $2,374.68. Probably overkill, but I can afford it. In fact, it looks like I can do it outta current income: Social Security plus pension plus what I get from retirement savings.
My wife and I never spent anything. No Corvette, no speedboat, no motorhome, no kids to put through college. So Apple benefits from my largesse.
Someone told me “priorities man” = it’s what I want. I live in a dustbin full of junk and megabuck computer equipment. My TV is putrid because I never watch TV.
Others have gigantic wall-mounted flat-screens, all to better watch the Super-Bowl — which I didn’t watch.
It’s just another football-game, unless the Buffalo Bills were in it. I’ll be dead-and-gone before that happens.
An eight-core (“2.3GHz 8-core Intel Core i9”) is over-the-top for what I do, which I’m currently doing on this ancient dual-core. Mainly slinging words (writing) and processing photographs for my annual train calendar.
I felt like this antique was on borrowed time. El-Cappy is also a bit much for a dual-core.
My Photoshop-Elements can usually extract a useable photo if the photographer composed well enough — and didn’t muck up royally. My brother’s camera sets everything automatically, so his shutter-speed may be too slow to stop a train. (We photograph trains.)
An old computer is like an old car. What’s gonna fail next?
As for the user, that too is what’s gonna fail next? Physically I’m falling apart, but the gray-matter still works pretty good. (Age-76 February 5th.)
This rig never let me down, but it’s time.

• RE: “We photograph trains.....” —My brother-and-I are railfans.

Incredible derring-do

—A couple weeks ago I walked into the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool with three of my annual train-calendars.
Two were for my two lifeguard friends, and one was for my aquacise-instructor.
As soon as I walked in *****-the-lifeguard got my attention, and started toward me.
***** is the pretty one; she doesn’t look age-64 on her lifeguard stand.
She has me wondering why she talks to me, graduate that I am of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations.
A while ago she said hello to my by name, making her one of the first, if not the first, female to get me past Hilda.
And I managed to get up enough nerve to say hello back. Incredible derring-do: the first step in reversing my dreadful childhood.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL TALK TO YOU!” Yet there was *****.
She wanted to purchase an additional calendar. I apparently gave her one last year — I forgot — and one of her railfan friends wanted one.
“I don’t know what to charge,” I said. “I give ‘em as Christmas presents.”
My other lifeguard friend wasn’t there, so I gave ***** my third calendar.
“Maybe I can get you a gift-card,” she said. “Name a favorite restaurant.”
“Well okay,” I said. “Rio Tomatlan, a Mexican restaurant in Canandaigua. It’s always been my favorite.”
So now ***** would visit Rio Tomatlan to get me a $20 gift-card, about what I’d charge if I were selling my calendars.
And they’re in demand; many people want one.
“Don’t forget,” I told *****. “What I really enjoy is doing them. My brother-and-I chase trains, then I engage what artistic talent remains.”
I had a stroke, but “if my name is on it, it’s gonna look good.”
I didn’t do the pool for a couple weeks because of sniffles, but last Tuesday I returned.
Here came ***** as soon as I entered. “I have something for you,” she said. “Don’t leave without it.”
Balance-class ended, I started leaving. ***** gave me a small envelope. It contained the gift-card and a small note.
“Now,” I told her; “this is entirely off-the-wall, but the one I would most like to use this with is you.”
I have others in mind, but they’re not you.”
Incredible moxie for a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations.
***** and I are worlds apart, but we seem to be great friends. We shoot the breeze, and laugh a lot. How we got there I’ll never know.
“I know my telling you that is crazy, but it’s the only way I know to clue you in.”
Now I’ll see if ***** and I remain friends. I bet we do.
The fact ***** went to the trouble to get that gift-card, plus write that note, wasn’t much. But to one with my history it’s amazing.

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

At the trailer

Westbound auto-racks charge off the 1898 bypass into Portage. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—The February 2020 entry of MY calendar is solid auto-racks charging off the 1898 bypass into Portage (PA).
My brother-and-I are at the Portage trailer. An old single-axle highway trailer is parked next to the railroad behind Portage station. We set up at the trailer-end looking into the bypass.
Portage is where the original Pennsy main diverged toward Sonman coal-tipple. (Sonman used to be a mine.)
The original Pennsy main thereafter began a series of torturous curves through Cassandra. That original Pennsy main is now a secondary to Sonman.
The original line through Cassandra is long-gone. But that secondary is continuous, and reconnects to the bypass north of Portage.
That 1898 bypass was a major investment. A massive rock-cut had to be made near Cassandra; then a long fill toward Portage. But that bypass is arrow-straight and miles long.
The railroad now bypasses Cassandra completely, although that rock-cut is the location of Cassandra Railroad Overlook.
That overlook bridge may have once been the highway’s entry into Cassandra. But now the highway bypasses Cassandra too.
The train may very well be 11J, but it’s 2015, before my brother began recording every train-number.
It’s late afternoon, when 11J would come through if late. And 11J is solid auto-racks.
The auto-racks are “excess-height,” but have three interior decks. Years ago auto-racks were open but degraded youth liked to pelt the automobiles with rocks.