My calendar for April 2020

Local C42 returns to Rose Yard. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

(This blog was done with two computers = my old computer, plus the one that replaces it. My new computer is incompatible with Photoshop-Elements 10, so the photo was resized with my old computer. But the blog itself is via my new computer.)

—C42 is the train-number. C42 is a local; not a road-freight. It goes out and switches cars into and out of factory sidings along the railroad.
C42 also takes cars to Nittany & Bald Eagle Railroad out of Tyrone. Nittany & Bald Eagle is the Pennsylvania Railroad’s old Bald Eagle branch. Nittany & Bald Eagle is the shortline that operates it.
It’s built-to-the-hilt, since Norfolk Southern has trackage-rights. Occasionally NS operates heavy unit coal-trains up toward Williamsport.
N&BE doesn’t go to Williamsport. It only goes to Lock Haven, where it connects to NS’s Erie line. To Williamsport is Norfolk Southern.
5631 is a GP38-2, and the  train has two units. That second unit is probably also a GP38-2, although we’ve seen GP40-2s.
Locals are why towns were crazy to get railroading in the 19th century. Expand your market beyond local.
And C42 is what’s left after trucking made railroading no longer what it was. Years ago a lot more locals were plying the rails.
Probably my first contact with railroading was a local that came out to Haddonfield (NJ) from Camden on Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines. A tiny coal-yard was off the tracks delivering anthracite-coal for heating.
A local pulled by a Pennsy Consolidation (2-8-0) came out to shove a loaded hopper-car up the dealer’s trestle. Anthracite would then be dumped out of the hopper-car into coal-trucks below.
By then home-owners were switching to fuel-oil. My family had an oil-burner; it heated water to circulate through radiators.
By now most homes heat with natural-gas, or propane away from a gas-company.
A house behind my childhood home heated with anthracite, and my elementary-school, built in 1926, had an unused coal-chute. (The school had converted to fuel-oil.)
The home of my paternal grandparents in Camden also had an unused coal-chute.
Trucking became much more flexible than railroading after improved roads became common. Factories no longer had to be trackside. And shipping was no longer at the beck-and-call of the railroad — it could be quicker. And with trucking the trucking-companies don’t own and operate the rights-of-way.
C42 is returning to Rose Yard north of Altoona after switching lineside customers railroad-east of Altoona.
Altoona was Pennsy’s locus of operation. It’s just east of Allegheny Mountain, long-ago a barrier to east-west trade.
Pennsy became immensely successful, and Altoona had yards galore. Pennsy moved tons of freight, much of which was coal mined in PA.
Altoona was also Pennsy’s shop-town, where they also built locomotives. It’s no longer what it was. Lots of empty land where railroad-yards were.
Helper locomotives still get added to get trains over the mountain. And there still are yard-tracks to hold trains for later.
But C42 isn’t a road-freight. Other locals are left, and we see some. Switching cars on factory sidings is slow and cumbersome. A gate may be locked, or autos parked on the tracks.
The advantage is a freightcar can hold a lot more than a truck. Plus each truck needs a driver.
A single truck can’t carry 14-15,000+ tons — 25-50 tons max. Many coal-gondolas are 120 tons.
Freightcars can be entrained together, 100 cars or more. That’s one or two crewmen delivering 14-15,000+ tons.

• The GP38-2 is an unturbocharged version of the EMD GO40-2 = easier to maintain. Anything “-2” has recent modular electronics.
• Coal comes in varying grades. Anthracite, commonly mined in northeast PA, is very hard, and doesn’t have the heat-content of the softer grades. But it burns much cleaner (no soot), so homes heated with it. Railroads also used it, but had to have locomotive fireboxes much wider than standard. Railroads in northeast PA, which used anthracite, were the “anthracite lines.” (Reading, Lehigh Valley, Jersey Central, etc.) —It was called a “Wootten" firebox.

“Moving forward” and “reaching out”

—Pretty  Italian  girl  with  the  smiling  eyes  —  she  was  wearing  a  mask  —  crashed  in  flames  the  other  day  when  she  used  the  words  “moving  forward.”
“I’m  sure  *****  will  ‘reach  out’  to  tell  you  their  clinic  closed.”
(*****  is  my  physical-therapist.)
Jargon  alert!
Some  time  ago  I  told  my  lifeguard  friend  at  the  Canandaigua  YMCA  swimming-pool  if  she  wanted  me  to  stop  talking  to  her,  all  she  had  to  do  was  dye  her  hair  green.
No  tattoos  either,  nor  facial  steel.
“How  about  if  we  just  talk  to  each  other?  Tell  me  everything!  That’s  more  fun!”
A  pretty  young  girl  got  a  nose-ring.  Her  father  surmised  her  a  pig.
I  guess  I  just  don’t  fit  =  wrong  generation  I’m  told.
How  can  I  enjoy  the  company  of  someone  with  acres  of  body-art?
One  of  the  co-owners  of  my  dog-kennel  has  acres  of  body-art.  She’s  such  fun  to  talk  to  I  look  past  that.
The  other  co-owner  is  cute  for  her  age,  which  is  46  or  47.
There’s  one  problem:  she  smokes,  but  only  a  little.
“No  way  could  I  climb  in  the  sack  with  someone  who  smokes!”
“I  might  hafta  quit,”  she  says.
Some  time  ago  I  collared  one  of  their  pretty  young  employees.  I  told  her  “pleeze,  puh-leeze,  don’t  start  smoking.”
That’s  not  a  moral  imperative.  “I’m  so  glad  I  never  started.  You  start  smoking,  and  you’ll  gunk  up  your  lungs,  even  if  you  quit  later,  which  isn’t  easy.”
After  76  years  one  reason  I’m  still  here  is  I  never  smoked.
My  cardiologist  asked  if  I  smoked.  “I  wouldn’t  dare!”  I  shouted.
My  brother-and-I  were  in  an  Altoona  convenience  store,  and  he  complained  about  the  price  of  gas.
“I  bet  cigarettes  in  Massachusetts  cost  a  lot  too,”  the  clerk  said.  (My  brother  lives  near  Boston.)
“We  don’t  have  that  problem,”  my  brother  said.  My  brother  never  smoked  either.
A  lot  of  jargon  came  and  went  during  my  time  on  this  planet.  I  remember  video-ads  shot  with  a  trembling  camera  to  mimic  what  home-video  might  get.
I  also  remember  “touching  base”  for  phonecalls.  That’s  still  pretty  current,  but  no  baseball  for  this  kid.
If  you  don’t  get  the  jargon,  you  are  inferior.  Same  with  abbreviations.  Why  can’t  one  say  “Internet-Service-Provider”  instead  of  “ISP?”
That’s  partly  why  tech-help  is  such  a  time-waster.  Abbreviations  and  jargon  need  explaining.
Long  ago  I  wrote  up  a  resumé  for  myself.  It  was  loaded  with  jargon.  It  seemed  that  was  what  mattered.  Not  character  or  attendance,  but  mastery  of  jargon.  And  regrettably  jargon  perpetuates  itself.
I  bet  jargon  helped  that  Italian  girl  land  that  job.  Now  all  she  has  to  do  is  show  up,  and  display  good  values.  I  happen  to  be  acquainted  with  her  bosses,  and  I  think  they  see  past  jargon.
But  maybe  not  “moving  forward.”  (GAAK!)

Her eyes were smiling

—With this CoronaVirus thingy, all my contacts began special measures.
The Canandaigua YMCA is closed, as are the restaurants my fellow bereavers patronize once per week.
About a week ago I patronized my local Petco to get treats for my silly dog. The dog wasn’t with me. I was greeted by the store-manager, a girl who knows me as “Killian’s dad.”
(They allow leashed dogs into the store.)
She was wearing surgical gloves, and would get my dog-treats for me.
Later I visited a local supermarket. “Electronic payments only; no cash,” a sign said.
“I saw your sign,” I said to the checkout clerk. “And I brought my bag.” NY state began disallowing plastic bags, requiring purchase of paper bags, or “bring-your-own bag.”
“You’ll hafta bag your groceries,” the lady said. “I’m not allowed.”
This ancient laptop rendered the black-screen-of-death. I called my computer-guru at Mac-Shack.
“Bring it in,” he said.  “But our lobby is locked. You’ll hafta telephone us from yer car, then I’ll come out and get your computer.”
When he came out, he too was wearing surgical gloves.
Mac-Shack called days later to tell me my computer was fixed. “$99 labor, but we only do telephone payments.”
Yesterday I wanted to shop Weggers. To do so I’d daycare my dog at a local kennel.
“Valet service only,” a sign said. “Knock or call us; we’ll come out and get your pet.”
Both co-owners were going for coffee, but saw me coming. “We can’t go yet — that’s Killian’s dad.”
The cute co-owner greeted me, although both are an absolute joy to talk to.
“Are you gonna valet my car?” I asked.
She laughed, then took my dog inside. She then came back outside to talk — I get her laughing.
She told me about some sales-rep wanting to shake her hand.
“And you can see I’m keeping my six-foot distance,” I said.
“Yeah, what fun is that?” she said.
A lot has changed since my beloved wife died.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL TALK TO YOU!” Yet here I am talking to a pretty lady.
Then there was my late-afternoon veterinarian appointment.
“Call from your car, and we’ll come and get your pet,” a sign said.
A cute young Italian girl brought out a dog for someone else. She was in full medical regalia: mask, scrubs, surgical gown, and surgical gloves.
I phoned from the parking-lot. I could see the receptionist inside answering my phonecall.
But suddenly pretty Italian girl was asking “what can I do for you?”
Taste and decorum here; I’m not some Trump wannabee.
All I could see were her eyes, and they were smiling. I bet she was smiling under that mask.
I’m sorry, but I eat that up. “NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU,” yet her eyes were smiling.
Diamond-eyes, but mainly smiling.
(We used to call my brother Jack “old diamond-eyes.”)
A lot has changed since my wife died. I got so I can eye-to-eye with pretty ladies. 10 years ago I couldna.
And ladies love it. Eye-to-eye contact, and off-we-go.
How pleasant! I love it myself, finding out 70 years late.
Italian girl was a little overweight, but her eyes were smiling.
No mask could hide that.

• I did aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two one-hour classes per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• The “bereavers” are people who like me lost our marriage-partners. We been eating out at local restaurants once per week for years.
• 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.
• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.)
• “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 by now it’s probably over 20 blogs.)

Possible phishing expedition

—Who, pray tell, is ***** *****, and why is she “liking” everything I post?
I click my Facebook’s notification tab — the bell —and there are 12 (count ‘em 12) notifications that ***** ***** “liked” what I posted.
That’s 11 more than average.
I only have 59 “friends,” not thousands. I put up with Facebook; I rarely look at my “home page.”
The fact I have a Facebook at all was a years-ago fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies. I’d dump it, but so many of my actual friends use Facebook.
I looked up ***** *****, and she’s some girl in Ghana. I don’t know ***** from the Moon.
My 59 Facebook “friends” are, or once were, actual friends. A few are tenuous. One is my niece’s ex-boyfriend, who I should probably “defriend.”
We have little in common. He’s also an ardent Trump-supporter. Democrats likes me are evil.
Another is my niece’s daughter, with whom I also have little in common. But occasionally she posts something worth reading.
Like how this CoronaVirus thing is excellent for introverts like her, and also me. The word “introvert” rejoined my vocabulary.
There are some who enjoy my writing. But ***** “likes” everything I wrote. Suspicion alert!
I won’t “friend-request” *****. I suspect she’s trying to snooker me into bringing her to America.
My previous hairdresser fell for that. He married some young honey in Thailand. He moved there, then died an alcoholic.
He also sold his ’67 ‘Vette, 327 four-on-the-floor. Tragic!
Not this kid! I don’t “fall for” young honeys; 44&1/2 years married to an extraordinary wife. I did way better than I expected.
I lost her eight years ago to cancer, and I don’t expect to replace her. I bet ***** wouldn’t.

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

Ya don’t tell a Hughes they can’t do something

—Or perhaps I should say “ya don’t tell a Connor they can’t do something.”
My mother’s maiden-name was “Connor.” Disregarding her strident claims her ancestors were on the Mayflower, and she was related to Betsy Ross and Daniel Boone……
(No relatives on the Mayflower’s manifest, distant relation to Betsy Ross, and related to “Boon” not “Boone.”)
The Connors were Irish — my father was English; Welsh actually. The Welsh go ballistic if I say Welsh is English.
My classical music radio station, WXXI-FM, has a “Festival of Wales.” Every time they promote it I think of Moby Dick.
The Connors were convinced they could do anything.
All my younger siblings graduated LeTourneau University in Texas. It was founded by R.G. LeTourneau of tree-crusher fame. He was a devout Christian, and convinced he could do anything.
“Ain’t nuthin’ ya can’t do with the faith of a mustard-seed, and a tanker-load a’ diesel.”
My mother’s oldest brother was a civil engineer involved in many projects. Subways in Philadelphia, gutters and curbing in our south Jersey suburb, etc.
“He built that entire Ben Franklin Bridge single-handed with only a toothpick!”
That’s an exaggeration, of course.
What is now Ben Franklin Bridge is a gigantic suspension-bridge across the Delaware River between Philadelphia and Camden in south Jersey. It opened in 1926, and many died building it. (It was originally named the “Delaware River Bridge.”)
That oldest brother, an uncle, also loudly claimed he invented the submarine sandwich: “But them greasy EYE-talians ruined it substituting ‘maters for the cucumbers.”
He also claimed he was the world’s largest leprechaun. He was tall, and marched in St. Patrick’s Day parades. He had full Irish regalia.
During the ‘60s one of my mother’s sisters was committed to an insane-asylum. The family met at that oldest brother’s home to decide what to do with that sister’s children. Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth until that uncle pounded the kitchen-table with a pot.
You wanna know why Yrs Trly has so many wild memories?
There’s yer answer, readers. How can I forget?
So here I am sitting on a futon on my (our) porch to change shoes. I’m about 16 inches off the floor, knees in my face.
This is just like my hairdresser’s sofa, where I never can get up without help.
I tried to stand no hands. That’s a leg-lift of about two feet.
KEE-RASH! = fallback number one. (I’m age-76.)
Try again; I rarely get to try again at my hairdresser. He’s waiting.
KEE-RASH! = fallback number two.
I should be able to do it. I been doing sit-stand exercises prescribed by my hospital physical-therapy, and I’m better at it.
Four more tries: kee-rash each time.
Just a matter of getting my torso-weight over my legs.
Finally, on the seventh try: SUCCESS!
“Nobody tells a Hughes he can’t do it!” I said to myself.
26 years ago Yrs Trly had a stroke. It was caused by a heart-defect long ago repaired.
During post-stroke rehab a cute young therapist advised I set goals for myself.
“I’d like to go back to riding my motorcycle.”
“Your motorcycle days are over!” she guffawed.
“Baloney!” I thought to myself. “Nobody tells that to a Hughes.” (Connor?)
And I did go back to riding motorcycle, which my stroke-rehabbers thought miraculous.

• Yrs Trly can take credit for “He built that entire Ben Franklin Bridge single-handed with only a toothpick!” The one who dreamed that up was me.

“Too much negative stuff on FB lately”

—So said an actual friend with whom I happen to be Facebook “friends.”
She thereafter began a “Family Feud” game on her Facebook. Sadly, few are playing.
I have a Facebook, but don’t do much with it. I’ve considered dumping it, but haven’t since so many actual friends use Facebook.
Some time ago I heard my friend telling a much older gentleman Facebook is worth having since it allows a family to communicate despite distant separation.
That gentleman refuses to be tech-savvy, and successfully driving Facebook takes computer-literacy.
Years ago, back before Facebook, a younger brother set up a family website. The provider was MyFamily.com.
I used it, but never had much family news.
MyFamily.com eventually tanked, perhaps because of Facebook.
So now my siblings use Facebook to communicate. Plus it’s more powerful. Facebook crunches video; I don’t think MyFamily could.
By not using Facebook I’m out-of-the-loop. That brother’s son, my nephew, and his wife, had a new baby. My learning of that was three years later. The birth was announced via Facebook, so naturally I’m out-of-it because I don’t Facebook much.
The announcement was probably on my “home-page,” which I rarely look at.
I used to say Facebook was for those lacking a life. Dancing-cat videos and bathroom humor.
But Facebook became a sounding-board for all the strident Rush Limbaugh wannabees. And that’s both ways: Trump-haters and Trump-lovers.
And it’s MY Facebook. If anyone posts anything I delete. Comments and “likes” I allow, but otherwise it’s MY Facebook.
I think my “friend’s” Facebook is the same. And it seems my “friend” no longer posts the occasional “pearls-of-wisdom” to which I earlier looked forward.
So-be-it! Facebook is no longer what it was. My brother-in-Boston, who refuses to Facebook, says I probably fiddle my Facebook all-day-long.
Hardly, although some do.
I think Facebook’s time is over.
“Too much negative stuff,” my friend says.
Plus a prez hot to make Internet potshots from the White House toilet at 3 a.m.
Gumint by Tweet®. Time for a uniter.

Christine?

Is this the actual “Christine?” (Photo by Dan Lyons©.)

—The March 2020 entry in my Tide-mark “Cars of the Fab ‘50s” calendar is Richard Frederick’s 1958 Plymouth Fury hardtop, a car that may have starred in the Christine movie.
I don’t know if this car is the actual “Christine,” but it’s painted that way. Plus the license-plate says “CHRISTN.”
The 1958 Plymouth is the best-looking iteration of that styling idiom — gigantic tailfins.
There were other Chrysler cars styled by Virgil Exner. Dodge looked especially stupid and even mighty Chrysler didn’t look as good.
The ’58 Plymouth is what the ’57 shoulda been. 1957 debuted Exner’s “Forward Look” Chryslers.
The ’57 had only two headlights where four shoulda been. The ’57 put the parking-light next to that single headlight — it looked awful.

A ’57 (coulda-shoulda).

—Stuff like this mattered to me back then — and still does.
My wife, who died eight years ago, learned to drive in a ’57 Plymouth.
I remember her telling me that Plymouth was HUGE!
My wife was “automotively-challenged.” But how does one parallel-park such a barge without tugboats?
Her mother, a real pill, became exasperated. How can anyone be so intimidated? Except my wife was like her father, also “automotively-challenged.”
He bought that ’57 Plymouth because they were about to drive Sea-to-Shining-Sea. “V8 power for the mountains!”
Their ’57 started rusting immediately. Late ‘50s Chrysler products were notorious rusters.
My wife said their ’57 Plymouth was the worst car they ever owned. “Who needs dual exhausts?” her mother bellowed. “That’s two exhaust-pipes and mufflers to replace instead of one.”
When I was about 12, my father befriended two people who also attended Moody Bible Institute in Chicago like him. (Moody wasn’t a college back then; now it is.)
The guy became a Moody representative for Delaware Valley. He had access to lotsa Moody paraphernalia, especially movie-projectors and tape-recorders. He visited churches and gave presentations.
My father was so smitten the Moody guy and his wife became “family.” ****** became “Uncle ******,” and his wife “Aunt ***. They were devout Christians, but not sanctimonious zealots like my father.
****** and *** got a ’57 Plymouth just before our family moved to DE. All I remember is the trunk of that Plymouth swallowed a six-foot roll-up movie screen lid closed.
A high-school friend drove his parents’ ’57 stationwagon. One night he clobbered my parents’ ’53 Chevy behind a shopping-center.
No damage to my car, but the left-front bumper and fender of his car were caved in. We both were 17 or 18. Explain that to your parents!
Thankfully I didn’t have to. I’da been yelled at, and probably smacked. “NO MORE KEYS FOR YOU, BOBBY!”
My very first “girlfriend” (as it were), senior year in high-school, her parents had a ’58 Plymouth hardtop.
I’d ride my junky balloon-tire bicycle four miles to her house so we could talk on her porch.
For whatever reason her mother was thrilled. Her father wasn’t. (“He’ll never amount to anything!”)
It would get so dark her mother fired up that ’58 Plymouth to drive me home.
The cavernous trunk of that ’58 Plymouth swallowed my bicycle lid closed.
Cars like what’s pictured are no longer made. Whitewall tires are gone, as are hardtops.
Nowadays you can get away with flipping your car. Flip “CHRISTN” and the roof would crush.

• RE: “automotively-challenged.......” —Always scared driving, and unable to “take command.” If my wife was driving, I’d hafta drive for her from the passenger-seat. “Keep going. You’ll pass him before he merges.”
• “Delaware Valley” centers around Philadelphia, but also included South Jersey and Northern DE. At that time our family lived in South Jersey.

Basement flooded

Tons and tons of soggy junk. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“A strange little life we live.”
I say that to my dog.
I live alone; I’m not bored or lonely; I always have too much to do. But I live in a house full of junk.
Every time I say “strange little life” my counselor asks “what’s so strange about it?”
A couple days ago my furnace stopped heating. All it was doing was blowing cold air. (It’s brand new.)
I called my heating-contractor; they would come out to see why.
We started down into my basement, where I had not been in weeks, and it was flooded. About 5-6 inches of water was atop the concrete floor-slab.
“I can’t work in this,” my heating-guy said. “Company policy; I might get electrocuted.”
We called 9-1-1 to have the West Bloomfield Fire Department pump out my basement.
“What a stellar way to get rid of the junk in my basement,” I thought to myself. 99% of what’s down there is junk. Old college textbooks, lumber, tax-records, books, magazines, etc.
Stuff I thought would stay there until my (our) house got sold.
I have another widower-friend doing the same thing. His wife died years ago, yet his junk remains.
“We’ll need a dumpster,” my clean-up guy said. “Lotsa soggy cardboard to toss.”
“Nothing doing!” an owner might scream. “That stuff is valuable!” To me it’s junk. Only a little is worth selling. Memories die with the owner, and already it’s junk to me.
My friend may wanna hang onto his wife’s memory, but to me that’s all gone.
I’d considered some company removing all that junk, but never got to it. Now the basement flooding was doing it for me.
West Bloomfield Volunteer Firemen appeared with pumps and hoses. My best contact was the West Bloomfield Fire-Chief. They pumped out the basement, but it was still slowly flooding.
The Fire-Chief returned the next day to check things out. The furnace-part that needed replacement, a computerized control-panel, was under water again. Another pump-out was needed.
“We gotta fix your plumbing problem first,” the Chief said. “Your sump-pump’s not working.”
“I don’t have a sump-pump,” I said. “I got perforated footer-drains both inside and outside the foundation, and they drain into a gravity-drain down in the woods.”
I haven’t touched that drain since our house was built 30 years ago. So now it’s  plugged. (Roots probably.) Undraining water backs up into the basement.
I have a sump-pump crock, but no sump-pump.
“We gotta put in a temporary sump-pump, and get that drain fixed,” said the Fire-Chief. “We can’t fix your furnace if the basement could flood again.”
We called my furnace contractor, and the Fire-Chief took over. “I had a stroke,” I said; “so I’m terrible at phonecalls. Could you do this?” —I handed him my Smartphone.
“The owner is elderly and disabled” — only partially disabled I’d say. I hafta be very careful and hang onto things.
“Elderly” I hafta get used to. “Geezer” I got used to; I guess “elderly” is next. To me elderly is over 80, and I’m only 76.
Calling me elderly and disabled is plying my contacts for compassion. I do that myself. I call it “my speech:” notify my contacts I had a stroke, and they don’t get mad when my verbal communication crashes.
No anger yet if I tell people in advance.
Mr Rooter called regarding reaming out my drain-to-daylight. I collared the Fire-Chief again. “Could you do this? I’m locking up again.”
“Can you guys ream out that drain today?” he asked. “The owner is elderly and disabled, and has no heat.”
He also called a local plumber I used before. The plumber would install a temporary sump-pump. In other words, it wasn’t me making the phonecalls. All-of-a-sudden there was the plumber. “I know you,” I said. “Always causin’ trouble, aren’t ya,” he said.
Heaven-and-earth moved. Thank goodness for that Fire-Chief.
Mr Rooter could not ream out my drain-to-daylight with their 300-pound snake-rooter. It binded.
They’ll return in a couple days with a so-called “jet rooter,” and see if that works. Water at 4,000 psi gets hosed into the drain.
They’ll also put in a mini TV camera to view the clog.
Temporary sump-pump installed, the furnace could be repaired.
On-my-own again. Hours later my heating repairman called from 35-40 miles away.
More telephone calls in one day than I usually get in four months. Overload for a stroke-survivor with slight aphasia.
I usually get what I want if I make ‘em laugh.
I said to another caller “I could be a jerk, and thereby turn you off. But I gotcha to laugh, so now you’ll go outta yer way.”

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Mr Rooter brought in the big gun: water at 4,000 pounds per square inch to clear out my drain-to-daylight. It failed, the pipe is probably collapsed. Excavation and rerouting needed. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.

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ADDENDUM

Temporary sump-pump output with cinder-block. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—The temporary sump-pump output, a hose, had disappeared from my backyard.
“Guess I better check that,” I said to myself. It had worked its way back into my basement, and my cellar-floor was starting to flood again. It was running constantly.
The furnace is on 2-by-4 blocks, and the water was about 1&1/2 inches deep. 2-by-4 blocks are 1&3/4 inches thick, so the new computerized control-panel wasn’t drowned yet.
I caught it just in time. I routed the hose back outside, and put a heavy cinder-block on it.
It wasn’t easy for this aging geezer to heft a 60-pound cinder-block 50 yards, but I didn’t want that hose finding its way back into my basement.
My basement flooding receded, and my furnace still works.

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ServePro on site; dumpster at left. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“If it’s fun it’s sin”

—“Just talking to a pretty lady isn’t ‘flirting’.”
So said a friend regarding my joy talking with pretty ladies.
“Thinking talking to pretty ladies is ‘flirting’,” she added; “is Hilda Walton defining your terms,”.
“‘Flirting’ is trying to talk someone into a date.” That’s not what I’m doing, but talking to pretty ladies sure is fun. I thought I’d never be allowed, and I’m 76 years old.
Constant-readers know all about Hilda, and how she sanctimoniously excoriated every male/female relationship, no matter how innocent, as disgusting and evil.
“FRAUGHT WITH SIN, I TELL YA!”
Had my parents, as hyper-religious as Hilda, come to my defense, Hilda woulda crashed. They heartily agreed: I was stupid and rebellious because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
One wonders how I attracted a wife. She was pretty, or could be. Her mother convinced her otherwise.
My counselor suggests we were well-suited for each other, both having difficult childhoods: me a complete wreck, and my wife convinced she was a frump.
We left that all behind, although I was still afraid of pretty ladies. Social contact I avoided — and not just pretty ladies.
Now, since my wife died eight years ago, introversion averted.
My dog is partly responsible, a gorgeous Irish-Setter especially attractive to ladies.
“Oh what a pretty dog” = “Oh what a pretty girl.”
My dog is a chick-magnet. He led me into shooting-the-breeze with people I previously avoided, especially pretty ladies.
I got so I could talk to pretty ladies. I got experienced at it. It got so the one striking up a conversation is usually me. And not just pretty ladies.
It became extremely pleasant, especially the pretty ladies. It was mind-blowing. No more introversion.
“That girl is gorgeous,” I’d think to myself. “Yet she seems to wanna talk to me.”
For 70+ years I was scared. Not any more.
“Oh,” they say to themselves; “a talker, eh?” And off-we-go. Often it’s me stopping us: “Well, we can’t talk forever,” or “I hafta hit the grocery.” Thereby ending 5-10 minutes of pleasant yammering — plus “Oh what a pretty girl.”
It’s so exhilarating it must be sin. That’s my background. Raised by zealots quick to pass judgment.
So I call it “flirting.” It’s probably not, but I never expected it. I was vastly unworthy.
“You were lucky,” my counselor tells me. “You married just what you needed. I’m sure she looks down and is thrilled.”
“No up,” I say. “She, like me, was an unbeliever.”
“Go directly to Hell, do not pass ‘go,’ do not collect $200. Hell for you, baby!”

---

“If it’s fun it’s sin” is the best headline I ever used, but it’s stolen.
A guy with whom I graduated college said it a lot.
He, like me, almost got canned. Our college was hyper-religious. He was alcohol and probably marijuana, and I was just an “attitude-rap.”
Were it not for professors wanting me in their classes, I mighta actually got canned.
I’d be rotting in some ‘Nam quagmire.

Flirt-alert

—“I been here a couple hours, and haven’t had a chance to say hello yet.”
I said that to my aquacise-instructor at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
She smiled. It seemed she liked my paying attention.
To my mind that’s a flirt, something I couldn’t do 10 years ago.
A lot changed since my wife died. I got so I could talk to pretty ladies.
As you all know Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations.
Hilda was my next-door neighbor and hyper-religious Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. Together with my hyper-religious parents she convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were despicable. (Her husband was probably fooling around.)
As a result I was lifelong scared of pretty ladies. “NO PRETTY LADY WILL TALK TO YOU!”
My wife liked me from the get-go. I didn’t hafta win her; I woulda been clueless trying.
I’m sure that aquacise-instructor, among most other females, was proposed to on bended knee, and given a diamond engagement-ring.
I didn’t do that, and not because I was too cheap. I didn’t know how.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL BE INTERESTED IN YOU!”
I felt totally unworthy, surprised my wife-to-be was interested in me.
She stayed with me 44&1/2 years, despite how messed up I was. Cancer took her eight years ago. I’m still devastated. BEST friend I ever had.
My counselor tells me my wife knew I was a good person. She stayed with me despite how messy I was.
But now she’s gone, and I find myself befriending pretty ladies I earlier thought wanted no part of me.
That aquacise-instructor, who is cute for her age, wanted to walk dogs with me. Not me with her, it was her with me.
This was totally amazing. Thanks to Hilda, etc, plus a wife who liked me from the get-go, I felt unworthy all-my-life.
Flirting I’m not used to, but I do it a lot. Get the lady to smile. They eat it up, and so do I.
Hilda and my parents spin in their graves: “NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!”
Sorry, but it’s pleasant for both me and the pretty lady. It makes us both feel good.
I’ve had that happen with so many ladies I do it quite often. Call it “flirting” if you want. They like the attention. Some dude is noticing. —In other words, “I find you worth talking to.”
I walk into my counselor’s office. “Well lookity-who! It’s my favorite receptionist. I know you.”
She smiles. “I’m ready for ya!”
“Oh brother,” I say. (Make ‘em laugh, and she does.)
That aquacise-instructor and I are worlds apart, but I love making her smile. So much can go wrong. Social interchange with the opposite sex is often messy. But occasionally I get that aquacise-instructor smiling.

---

—“‘Flirting’ is not just talking to a lady,” a friend insisted. “You’re letting Hilda define your terms. Just shooting the breeze with someone of the opposite sex is not by nature evil and disgusting.
Maybe it was to Hilda, but Hilda was WRONG.
‘Flirting’ is trying to get a date.”
“Yeah, but ‘flirting’ is such fun,” I said. “Plus it has Hilda and her self-righteous power-mongers spinning in their graves.
To me, talking to a pretty lady is very rewarding, and 10 years ago I was unable to do it.
I’m not on-the-make, so I’m not trying to get a date.
To me, talking to a pretty lady is flirting. But my friend has a point.

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

“Is this who I think it might be?”

—I asked that to a pretty young mother who looked like my aquacise-instructor’s daughter.
We were in the back hallway of the Canandaigua YMCA. I was leaving after our aquatic balance-training class.
Mother was shepherding her little boy who looked like my aquacise-instructor’s new grandson.
“Is this ******?” I asked.
“No; his name is ????????. (I don’t remember.)
I only mention this because 10 years ago I wouldna said anything. “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” That was Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM. (Her husband was probably fooling around.)
Had my parents, also hyper-religious, come to my defense, Hilda woulda crashed in flames. But they heartily agreed: I was disgusting and rebellious because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
A lot has changed since my wife died eight years ago.
Part of it is my dog, a gorgeous Irish-Setter. “Oh, what a pretty dog!” So begins another conversation with a smashingly beautiful girl.
My age helps, I guess. At age-76 I’m harmless.
So the pretty girls are piling up, the ones I was scared of over 70 years.
Last August a really pretty girl told me what women love most is laughing. And I make ‘em laugh. 10 years ago I would have avoided that pretty girl, but I’ve had so many successful conversations I’m no longer scared.
Usually the one striking up a conversation is me. (“Oh, a talker, eh?” They love it — I’ve had it happen. [A post-office clerk talked my ear off.])
Here we are, the infamous Hilda Q. Walton again. “Just get over it!” friends tell me. “Hilda and your parents are all dead.”
“Easier said than done,” I say. “I been carrying that albatross over 70 years, and now, at long last, I can talk to pretty girls.
Hilda and my parents spin in their graves, 14,000 RPM, enough to power FL south of Orlando.

• 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 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.
• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start tearing itself apart at 8,000 (if it gets there).

“Cache” not “Cash”

—“What, pray tell, is this?” (Above.)
I asked that to ******, my contact at Railstream. I’ve never met ******. Perhaps she’s the wife of Railstream’s owner, or just their resident ‘pyooter-guru.
When I bless them with ‘pyooter questions, it’s usually ****** that answers.
Railstream streams live railroad video over the Internet. They have 26 video-cameras at 21 locations. Some are railfan accommodations, and other locations are interesting to railfans.
The one I always watch is the Cresson webcam. it’s on Station-Inn, a railfan bed-and-breakfast in Cresson PA.
Station-Inn is right next to the old Pennsy (Pennsylvania Railroad) mainline up the west slope of Allegheny Mountain.
The railroad is now Norfolk Southern, and is still very busy. That railroad was, and still is, a main trade conduit with this nation’s northeastern megalopolis.
I have that Cresson webcam on constantly. I use it as background.
I’ve been to the area many times — “Altoona” I always say. Cresson is west of Altoona; other side of the mountain. Altoona used to be Pennsy’s main railroad town = shops and maintenance facilities. Pennsy built locomotives in Altoona years ago.
And Norfolk Southern still has quite a bit. A giant locomotive maintenance facility is just north of Altoona.
Altoona is where Pennsy took on Allegheny Mountain; long ago a barrier to trade with the midwest.
Pennsy added helper locomotives to conquer the mountain. Norfolk Southern still does.
And the railroad is very busy. “Wait 15-25 minutes and you’ll see a train,” I always say. Track-maintenance may lengthen wait-times, but it can’t throttle train-flow.
Often we’ll see two trains at a time; one westbound passing one eastbound. There are three tracks, and my first “double” (two trains at once) was two eastbounds.

My first “double” in years, in Lilly PA. (Faudi called ‘em “doubles.”) (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

Three trains on four tracks, at the Mighty Curve, Labor Day 1970. (Penn-Central back then.) (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I’ve even seen three at once on four tracks. Now it’s three tracks. I bet they cut back to two tracks in not too long.
The railroad is also the location of world-famous Horseshoe Curve (the Mighty Curve), a trick to railroad over Allegheny Mountain without steep grades.
“Addicted to the Cresson webcam,” I say.
“Sounds like 04T.” It’s about 9:10 A.M., and 04T is Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian.
Around 6 P.M., rumba-rumba-rumba. “Sounds like 07T,” Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian. 04T and 07T are the only passenger-trains left on this storied cross-state railroad. There used to be hundreds.
Many freight-trains remain: mixed freight, unit coal, unit crude-oil, or unit autos. And plenty of stackers: unit-trains of double-stacked freight containers.
40 feet are containers for overseas shipping, and up to 53 feet are domestic intermodal: thousands of containers destined for trucking. —Imagine all those containers as trucks clogging an Interstate.
But my Cresson webcam has been acting wonky. I don’t know how things work, but perhaps the actual video is stored in my computer for playback maybe 10-15 seconds after what was recorded.
If I’m actually at Station Inn a train may be passing out front, but it’s not on Railstream yet.
No matter when I’m not at Station Inn, but it’s nice to not hafta continuously refresh Railstream when its “feed” locks.
“Clear your cache,” ****** suggested.
What, pray tell, is cache?” I’d ask. I’m not a techie. Google defines “computer cache” as bits and pieces of a website you visited before so that website can avoid displaying from scratch. (Displaying from cache is faster than from scratch.)
Apparently cache increases in size as more is cached. So now my cache is so big it constricts website performance.
LA-DEE-DAH! How do I “clear cache?” ****** suggested that some time ago, but I didn’t because Railstream continued working.
But now I’m getting the “quota” message — with Railstream hung.
“Definitely clear your cache,” ****** stated.
I fired up YouTube. Thank goodness a friend turned me on to YouTube years ago. “Clear cache from Firefox,” I queried.
Many answers, but my first was barely audible, and by some techie in Indonesia mumbling broken English. (Microsoft help-desk, mayhap?)
My second hit was American, but his suggestions weren’t what was on MY Firefox. Seems they never are. I always hafta apply guile-and-cunning.
I ended up using Firefox’s help-screen. Yada-yada-yada-yada. Verbiage overload for a stroke-survivor. How can I digest all that when I can barely concentrate?
“Well,” I say. “Others my age (76) give up in despair.” The one who buys groceries, does laundry, makes the bed, etc is ME. So the one who drives this ‘pyooter is me alone.
Engage what gray-matter remains. Dodge the unfathomables: “history,” “cookies,” “sites visited,” etc. “Clear cache and something else;” (“cookies,” I think). I untoggled “something else,” thereby only clearing cache, I guess.
I clicked the “clear cache,” and nothing happened — or so it seemed.
No crunching or sounds of any kind. Welcome to computer-tech where shutter-trip sound gets added to your Smartphone’s operating-system to know you took a picture.
After two tries I guess my cache is cleared. Railstream isn’t hanging any more.
So thank you ******. And add one more fillip to the old geezer’s computer knowledge, most of which was gleaned on-my-own.

• “KRESS-in.”
• 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.

Unexpected reconnect

—Hooray-hooray! ***** and I are still talking.
“Here goes,” I said as I entered the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool area.
***** waved as soon as I walked in. She was far across the pool, and walking toward me. ***** is a lifeguard, and they “rotate.”
After mucking up royally a few weeks ago, I was dumbfounded. ***** gave me a restaurant gift-card in exchange for an extra train-calendar. She got my calendar for a railfan friend.
And I was dumb enough to suggest the one I most wanted to use the gift-card with was her.
***** is married, happily I guess. Yrs Trly is a stumbling geezer age-76, no longer in shape.
My excuse for such stupidity is never having got the hang of interacting with women. Only now, since my wife died eight years ago, do I find myself interacting with women.
***** said hello to me by name months ago, thus beginning complete reversal of my childhood. “NO PRETTY LADY WILL SAY HELLO TO YOU,” yet ***** did.
Off-we-went, striking up a friendship despite my many gaffs.
***** and I are worlds apart, but I make her laugh. My wife told me the reason we lasted 44&1/2 years is because I could make her laugh. (Her mother declared we wouldn’t last four months.)
What am I doing talking to *****, plus many others since?
A really pretty girl told me what women love most is laughing.
Some time ago ***** told me she used Google-Chrome© as her Internet-browser, and G-Mail.
“The Dark Side, eh?” I said. ***** laughed.
She dipped her foot in the pool once and “Hey, you can’t do that! I been coming here three years, and I’ve yet to see a lifeguard get wet!”
Then “When ya gonna play footsie with the pool again so I can pick on ya?”
“You talkin’ a-me?” reprising Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.
I coulda asked why ***** began talking to me again after I goofed up so bad.
Don’t say anything! Just play along like I never goofed up.
“I thought you were going to FL.”
***** pointed to her tan. “Already been there,” she said.

• 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 calendar for March 2020

Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian stops in Tyrone. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—The March 2020 entry of MY calendar is Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian making its Tyrone (PA) station-stop.
Amtrak’s Pennsylvanian is the only passenger-train left on this storied cross-state railroad. There used to be hundreds.
There wouldn’t be any, except it’s state-subsidized. Morning is eastbound, and late afternoon is westbound. It runs all the way to New York City, so has an electrified locomotive east of Harrisburg. Two equipment sets are needed. What I usually see are six AmCoaches per train.
Across PA it’s Pittsburgh to Philadelphia. North of Philly it uses Amtrak’s electrified Northeast Corridor to New York City.
Amtrak also owns the original Pennsy line into Harrisburg. It too is electrified. The Pennsylvanian changes locomotives in Harrisburg.
West of Harrisburg it’s diesel-electric, and 116 is a General-Electric P42. The P42s replaced the EMD’s F40PH locomotives, a full-cab variation of their GP40-2 freight-engine.
The original P40 was designed with safety-in-mind. Its fuel-tank is inside, less likely to puncture in an accident. (The later P42 upgrade is the same.)
Freight-locomotives (as did the F40PH) have their fuel tank slung under the frame between the motor-trucks. It punctured easily, and spilled fuel can catch fire.
The Pennsylvanian doesn’t stop at every burg. It stops at large towns. Tyrone is sort of an exception. It’s where the railroad turns east toward Harrisburg.
Altoona to Tyrone is north-northeast, the railroad following a valley. Across the state the railroad zigs and zags following valleys to notches where the Juniata River flowed between mountain-valleys. The railroad follows the Juniata.
It’s pretty much the same route the old Pennsylvania Canal used, a long-ago State Public-Works project to compete with the Erie Canal. Public-Works failed; mainly because Allegheny Mountain couldn’t be canaled — a portage railroad was required.
Tyrone is fairly large and had a Pennsylvania Railroad station. A station building is still there. It’s very pretty — yellow with green roof — and may not be the first. It’s also no longer a train station; it’s fenced from the railroad. The building is now the Tyrone historical center — or similar.
The Pennsylvanian stops nearby, but at a tiny plexiglas bus-shelter. Passengers wait in their cars.
It’s almost impossible to get that pretty station-building in a picture. My brother-and-I did once after a lotta planning.
But we lost the mountain scenery. It’s also lost in this calendar picture.

East of Harrisburg the Pennsylvanian is electric. This is an EMD AEM-7. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

• According to my latest Trains magazine, Amtrak is considering selling its line to Harrisburg to SEPTA (South-Eastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority), which runs commuter-trains out of Philadelphia on the old Pennsy mainline.
• “June-eee-AT-uh,” not “Juanita” (my mother).