On “flirting”

—“Gotta say hello to ****,” I said to my Physical-Therapist as we passed through the reception-area into Thompson Hospital’s physical-therapy gym.
Both **** and my therapist were wearing masks. **** is a receptionist.
Immediate eye-contact with ****, and she smiled. Mask or not I could tell.
Once inside the therapy-gym, another therapist walked by – I call her “Smiley.” I don’t know her name.
“You can hide behind that mask, but I still know who you are,” I shouted; “and you’re smiling; your eyes give you away!”
Call ‘em “flirts” if you want. And you can be sure I’ll do it; since both seem to enjoy my doing it.
Neither are slam-dunk attractive. Both are slightly overweight, although not gross. **** is more reserved, but both are smilers, especially “Smiley.”
I especially enjoy making **** feel good.
And if anything makes me limp, it would be that a girl smile at me.
A lot has changed since my wife died. I need not explain.
10 years ago I wouldna “flirted” with either. Per Hilda Q. Walton, “no girl will ever respond favorably to you” (me).
Again, no need to explain – click the link if you need explanation.
So I’m having more fun with women than I ever expected; mainly “flirting.”
I’m told mere verbal contact isn’t “flirting,” but it sure goes over well. Women seem to love my doing it.
So I better say something to ****. She’d be hurt if I didn’t.

• I do dry-land Physical-Therapy balance-training in a hospital Physical Therapy. I continue to do the same thing in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming pool, although right now it’s closed.

Way to go, Jack!

The vaunted UPS-Train (21E), up Allegheny Mountain on Track Three. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—My brother and I are over the eastern tunnel mouths atop Allegheny Mountain, and the train is 21E, the “UPS-train” according to my Altoona railfan friend.
It wasn’t easy getting here. I’d been here before with that Altoona railfan, and my brother and I found what looked like the trail to this location.
It was difficult, and I fell once. I hafta be very conscious of footing, lest some root or something trip me.
I wasn't sure it was 21E, but my brother identifies and records every train he photographs. Plus it has the right number of locomotives: three instead of just two.
21E starts at Rutherford Yard east of Harrisburg, collecting trailers (mainly UPS) for delivery to the West Coast. Norfolk Southern operates it to the Chicago area; after that it’s Burlington-Northern Santa Fe (BNSF).
21E has to run on time, or the railroads to get penalized. Those double stacks had me wondering. Usually 21E is just trailer-on-flat-car (TOFC).
My brother also disputes the importance of 21E; that 21J is comparable. I go with my Altoona railfan friend, who hangs out with Altoona trainmen.
I really don’t care, but “Hup-hup! 21E is climbing the mountain; we could beat it to MO!”
The train is on Track Three, normally westbound up The Hill. Track Two is adjacent, signaled both ways.
Both Two and Three go through Allegheny Tunnel, the original Pennsy tunnel. That tunnel was enlarged by Conrail in 1995, expanded to two tracks instead of just one, which it had been for years. The original tunnel also wouldn’t clear double-stacks.
Pennsy added another tunnel in 1904. But it was abandoned with enlargement of Allegheny.
That’s Track One top-right on a bridge over what once was a track to New Portage railroad, quickly acquired by Pennsy long ago since it gave them another mountaintop tunnel.
Track One was eastbound-only when this picture was taken, but now it’s signaled both ways. New Portage’s tunnel is higher than Pennsy’s, so a ramp was built up to it. It’s 2.28% (originally 2.36). Pennsy’s climb up Allegheny Mountain is 1.75–1.80%. —That ramp is called “The Slide.”
New Portage Railroad was built by the state to get its combination canal/portage railroad system off its original portage railroad, which had to use inclined-planes over the mountain.
New Portage Railroad was quickly abandoned and sold to Pennsy for peanuts.
The canal is gone, but the tunnel still exists. Pennsy had two tracks in it, but now it’s only one. That tunnel was also enlarged.
New Portage Railroad is also gone — partly obliterated by a new highway alignment.
New Portage gave Pennsy a way to get slow ocean-bound coal-drags over the mountain bypassing Altoona.
I probably took the same picture, but my brother’s worked. 21E is nearly atop the grade. It will be once through that tunnel.
12 miles up the Eastern slope of Allegheny Mountain. Heavier trains often require helper locomotives, but 21E gets by without help. It’s a climb of 1,016 feet.
Long ago Allegheny Mountain was the barrier to trade with the Midwest. The railroad was originally the Pennsylvania Railroad, founded in 1846, but Pennsy is now defunct.
Pennsy conquered Allegheny Mountain, and Horseshoe Curve was how they did it. The Curve is part of the grade, and was an immense project for the late 1840s.

• Not too long ago, train engineers reported signal aspects on Norfolk Southern’s railroad-radio. My Altoona railfan friend, and later my brother and I, would monitor that railroad-radio with our scanners. We knew where the signals were, so that’s how my Altoona railfan friend, and later my brother and I, knew were trains were. We’d hear a signal-report, and off we’d go trying to beat the train to a prime photo location. With Positive-Train-Control, and in-the-cab-signaling, we no longer hear signal reports. We have to wait trackside for a train, and fortunately they’re frequent on this line. The train engineer called out the signal-aspect, location, and train number, which is how my Altoona railfan friend knew it was 21E — and also how my brother knew.
• “MO” are the telegraph call-letters of an old signal tower near Cresson (west slope of the mountain). All it is now is an interlocking (crossovers) = a “control-point.” —The signal-tower is gone.
• A 1.8% grade is 1.8 feet up for every 100 feet forward. Not too bad, but challenging. Get over 2.5% and trouble starts. 4% is near impossible. Highways go above 8%; interstates go no steeper then 7%. Get too steep and locomotive driving wheels won’t hold the rail.

Smile-fix

—It’s Thursday, May 28th, 2020 — yesterday. Should I take Killian to Ontario Pathways in Canandaigua?
That hike is over three miles, a bit much for someone 76 years old with faltering balance.
Will I meet my smiling lady-friend again? That was last Thursday.
I doubt it! I’ll probably never meet that lady again.
I had it happen before. —My first “flirt,” if you wanna call it that.
“I see gray hairs,” I said to a lady in Boughton Park. We were walking our dogs. I saw her a week earlier, but this time we stopped to talk.
“I see gray hairs” meant I looked at her hair and found it attractive. She liked that. Call that a “flirt” if you want — my first.
I made it a point to show up at Boughton the same day the following week, hoping we’d meet again.
Didn’t happen. I haven’t seen that lady since, and that was years ago. I’ll probably never see my smiler-friend again either.
So it goes. Billions of people are on this planet. That smiler is only one.
Even if we met again, I doubt our encounter would be as pleasant. Last week was the joy of discovery; we found each other. I kept talking to her, and she kept smiling at me.
This was entirely contrary to my upbringing. A lot has changed since my beloved wife died — constant-readers won’t need explanation.
I think that lady became embarrassed our encounter was so pleasant. She said she’d limit to only waving next time.
But would I entertain her again? Probably. I’m just like my uncle, who sold cars for a South Jersey Ford dealer. He was extremely successful. People wanted to buy a car from him because he made them laugh.
Last August a really pretty girl told me what women love most is laughing. “Get the endorphins flowing,” another lady-friend tells me  — i.e. make ‘em laugh.
I’m just like that uncle (also a Robert), except I’m making ladies laugh. (Men too, if I can; but usually I get suspicion followed by posturing.)
And of course getting ladies to laugh is fun. It counters my childhood: “NO PRETTY LADY WILL LAUGH WITH YOU!” (The infamous Hilda Q. Walton — again, explanation not needed.)
So off we went, me and my silly dog. He barked the whole way there.
It was cloudy, so I fired up my weather-radar. The scan was clear, but my rail-cam down in Cresson (PA) had it raining. So I better get going before that rain gets up here.

---

So did I meet that smile-lady again?
Of course not! I’ll probably never meet that lady again in my entire life.
It did rain on my dog and I about a third of our way back.
Needing a pleasantry I decided to stop at my kennel. No one was there whose car I recognize, except **** who used her parent’s car.
“Just visiting,” I said, as she came outside.
She smiled and smiled and smiled again, and performed a silly dance for me.
She's only 19 (“I’m old enough to be your grandfather”), the cute new hire at that kennel.
That’s all I need. Some cutie-pie smile at me and I’m done.
Per Hilda that wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Please tell ***** and ******* (the co-owners) a friend is threatening to take that dog house I offered.”
“You tell your friend a 5-foot 2-inch, 125-pound, 19-year-old girl is gonna kick his butt!
“I’m glad I stopped,” I said.
And the doghouse is gone. She and her boyfriend came and got it.
A while ago I told her to make sure she marry somebody who could make her laugh. WE-SHALL-SEE! (I hope she does.)
(My wife, who died eight years ago, always told me the reason we lasted 44&1/2 years is because I made her laugh.)

• “Robert Hughes” (me) and “Uncle Rob.”
• “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. (Her husband was probably fooling around.) My hyper-religious parents heartily agreed.

“Keep smiling”

—Yr Fthfl Srvnt finds himself thinking about my encounter with that pretty lady walking her dog last week on the Ontario Pathways rail-trail near Canandaigua.
This is despite my being told 24 years ago at the Mighty Mezz that “thinkin’ is dangerous.”
I began to realize our encounter was sorta romantic; something I never experienced in my entire life. And perhaps she hadn’t either, or at least for some time.
We were attracted to each other. She kept smiling at me, and I kept talking to her — topics that would bore anyone else.
The worst thing a pretty lady can do is smile at me. Do that and I melt. Plus she wanted me to keep talking.
Killian broke the ice — as he always does.
“Oh what a beautiful dog. What’s his name?”
“Killian, as in ‘Killian Irish red’.” (By saying that I say the dog’s name twice.)
And so it began. Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada!
“He’s so tall,” she said.
“You’re not the first one that said that,” I observed.
She kept smiling at me; she was loving it.
“You have an accent,” she said. “Where are you from?”
“South Jersey originally,” I said; “dumping-ground for Philadelphia.
And South Jersey’s stellar landscape feature is the gravel-pit.
And its principal means of navigation is the cement tub.”
She told me she considered naming her dog “Lucy,” which prompted my telling about “Lucy the Margate Elephant.”
Do that with the average person and “ho-hum.”
Finally I told her “Do I dare say this? Please keep smiling at me; I really like it!”
I think she became embarrassed her loose fitting tee-shirt was exposing what would be cleavage, except she was flat-as-a-board.
She kept trying to rearrange things, then pull her hands away, so to appear she wasn’t trying to cover herself.
But bare skin wasn’t what attracted me. It was her smile, and I think she knew that.
Yada-yada-yada-yada! We talked and talked and talked and talked and talked. “Niagara Escarpment,” “South-Jersey Pine-Barrens;” she knew what they were, and so did I. We were striking sparks.
“And the finest beach in the entire known universe is 59th St. beach in Ocean City, NJ. But ya gotta wear shoes, lest the sand burn your feet.”
“This guy is interesting/he likes me.” And “she keeps smiling at me.” It was as if she was saying “tell me more!”
We talked and talked about 25 minutes. Fortunately no one else came along — we were blocking the path.
And our dogs were wondering what was going on.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!” (The infamous Hilda Q. Walton — no need to explain.)
She’s not my first smiler, but WOW!
We met again later, and I think by then she was embarrassed we enjoyed each other’s company so much. Not fair to her husband.
I made her feel good — like mere jabbering about who-knows-what made her smile.
It keeps happening.“NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!” Yet many do.
It happened again the very next day, even more extreme. A pretty blond jogger in her 40s.
Her smile lit up the entire area — and we were outside.
I’m not used to this. Per Hilda I’m scum.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 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 heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well. That defect was repaired.)

Smiling is contagious

—“Don’t stop!” I shouted to a pretty lady who had just jogged past us (me and Killian) on Lehigh Valley rail trail.
She screeched to a halt, turned toward me, and smiled gigantically — a smile that lit up the woods.
Boy am I glad I said something!
Obviously she was thrilled I noticed, and I wasn’t a creep about it.
Yada-yada-yada-yada. “I used to run,” I told her. “It’s probably why I can still walk this monster at age 76.”
“Well keep at it!” she shouted, smiling.
I hafta get used to this. Things are much different since my wife died. Killian is part of it (“oh what a pretty dog”). Plus a wife who liked me 44&1/2 years, despite how messed up and difficult I was.
“She made who you became possible,” my counselor tells me. “You were very lucky.”
10 years ago I wouldna said anything to that lady.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!” That’s Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious neighbor Sunday-School superintendent, who convinced me all males, including me at age 5, were SCUM. (Her husband was probably fooling around.)
Had not my parents, also hyper religious, heartily agreed, Faire Hilda woulda crashed in flames. With them I was “rebellious” for being unable to worship my holier-than-thou father.
Lehigh Valley rail-trail is on Lehigh Valley Railroad’s old Buffalo extension opened in 1892. It was abandoned, and a small segment was converted to a rail-trail. Much of that rail-trail is in neighboring Monroe County, and the part we hike goes through woods.
“The wooded cathedral,” I call it.
And unlike a city park, I encounter few people. With social-distancing, that’s advantageous.
Bicyclists, solitary hikers, people being walked by their dogs, families with baby trikes, and the occasional jogger.
And boy am I glad I said something to her. Her smile was incredible.
Go ahead! Strike up a conversation! I’m likely to hit pay-dirt. If I don’t, it’s no longer my fault.

• 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.

Childhood reversed

—“76 years I been on this planet, and only now am I learning women are much more fun to talk to.”
I said that to a girl walking her dog with me. We were at her turn-around.
“Men are always pulling that macho crap on you,” I said.
She apologized for enlisting me as her training partner. I was being walked by Killian, and she was trying to train her dog to heel.
Killian was a distraction, but is more a hunter. He’s also a people dog, and is leery of other dogs.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to try Ontario Pathways. An entire walk is slightly more than three miles: I bit much for someone 76 years old, but I thought I could do it. Priorities man. Killian loves walkies.
My walk became an adventure, with 3-to-4 unexpected pleasantries.

Pleasantry number one:
—Ontario Pathways is the old Pennsylvania Railroad branch into Canandaigua. It’s abandoned of course, converted to a rail-trail.
Its trailhead is in Canandaigua, next to an actual railroad. It’s New York Central’s old “Auburn Road,” some of which is also abandoned. The actual railroad is Finger-Lakes Railway, a shortline. It delivers grain hoppers to Constellation Brands in Canandaigua.
I’ve hiked Ontario Pathways many times, but never saw a Finger Lakes train. (I’m a railfan.)
This time I did. That would be my first pleasantry.

Pleasantry number two:
—My second was meeting another hiker. “All the way to the Fairgrounds?” I asked.
Strike up a conversation, I learned. You’ll likely be glad you did.
Yada-yada-yada-yada. We stood and talked maybe five minutes.
“Was that you back there at the trailhead?” He asked.
“Yep,” I said.
Yada-yada-yada-yada. Then “Have a pleasant afternoon.”
And he looked like a Trumpster.

Pleasantry number three:
—Then I encountered a lady walking her dog at the Outlet Bridge. Pennsy crossed Canandaigua Outlet, and Ontario Pathways built a new bridge on the old stone abutments.
Whoa! Stop! “Oh what a beautiful dog. What’s his name?”
“Killian,” I said; “as in ‘Killian-Irish-red’.” (He’s an Irish-Setter.)
Yada-yada-yada-yada. We talked at least 25 minutes.
“Don’t you wanna leave?” I kept thinking to myself.
Yada-yada-yada-yada. Her name was “Carrie.” “Carey?” I asked.
“Where you from?” she asked. “You have an accent.”
“South Jersey,” I said; “the dumping-ground for Philadelphia.”
She smiled and smiled and smiled. The worst thing a pretty lady can do for me is smile. Do that and I melt.
I kept throwing gibberish at her, since it seemed she didn’t want me to stop.
Finally I gave ourselves an out. “I’m gonna blog this,” I said; “but I never name anyone.”
“You can give my name,” she said.
“But I don’t want some creep stalking you,” I said.
We finally parted, both of us flushed, I think. You can usually tell if a lady is worried.
We met again, both of us returning to our start locations.
She said she had errands, so couldn’t talk, but to me she felt guilty she enjoyed our talking so much she felt unfair to her husband. Her smile gave her away.
“I only have one thing to say,” I said. “76 years etc. etc.”
Strike up a conversation. You’ll probably be glad you did.

—My fourth and final pleasantry along Ontario Pathways was that girl trying to teach her dog to heel.
Not as pretty or smile-prone as the previous lady, but a smiler.
“You probably oughta go on ahead,” I told her. “I’m kinna slow.”
“NOPE!” She’d rather hang around. Apparently she enjoyed my company.
“I’m not used to this. “NO PRETTY LADY WILL TALK TO YOU!” That’s the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious neighbor Sunday-School superintendent, who together with my similarly hyper-religious parents, convinced me all males, including me at age 5, were SCUM. (“Rebellious” to my parents.)
The girl would hang back, then pass me and Killian, advance ahead 20-25 feet, then stop to let us pass. Not as pretty as the other lady, but so what? She’s a smiler, and seems to want my company.
Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada.
“Nice day for a walk,” she said. “Laundry when raining.”
I told her I was the laundry-person since my wife died eight years ago.
“I’m sorry,” she said. I also told her Killian was Irish-Setter number seven.
“So you’re all Irish-Setters?”
“Ever since the 70s,” I said.
Yada-yada-yada-yada. Topics galore. “You’re interested in this stuff?” “Tell me about it!” She’d say.
“NO GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” Versus she keeps talking to me.
So the long tangent back into Canandaigua passed in no time.
Finally we got to East Street, where she would turn back. I had to continue, but “it sure was pleasant talking to you!”
She smiled.
“76 years, etc, etc.” and “Men are always pulling that macho crap on you.”
Only recently have I got the hang of telling a lady I enjoyed her company. 70 years late, readers!
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!” Versus make ‘em smile = make ‘em feel good. Persish-the-thought, that makes me feel good too.

—There was a fifth pleasantry, but not on Ontario Pathways.
Returning home I pass the kennel that boards my dog when I go away.
It’s co-owned by two ladies, both of whom I’ve become friends with. One is rather cute, the other is divorced, but both are great fun to talk to.
I decided to drop in — the cute one’s car was in the parking lot.
One more pleasantry, mayhap?
“Just a visit,” I said to their cute new hire, college age. The co-owners are middle 40s.
Usually I daycare my dog there for grocery shopping, appointments, whatever. But just a visit this time. “So come inside,” the new hire said.
They all were there. “Just visiting,” I said.
“Well I’m glad you stopped,” the cute one exclaimed.
“I saw your car out there!” I said.
Yada-yada-yada-yada. The wisecracks and laughing began.
“Here, lemme take your picture,” the cute one said, unholstering her Smartphone.
“It’s Santy Claus!” I was the only one wearing a mask, but thanks to COVID-19 I’m also turning into the Abominable Snowman.
Ker-Snap! “I’m gonna frame this picture and put it on the wall,” she said.
“Ho ho ho,” I said; “Merry Christmas!” (It’s the beard, readers.)
Slam-dunk number-five. Lawn goes unmowed, and necessities get delayed.
But talking and laughing with women is more fun.

• My hike on Ontario Pathways is trailhead to the Ontario County Fairgrounds, and then back.
• Canandaigua Outlet is the small river into which Canandaigua Lake drains.
• That one kennel-co-owner is very cute, but I also think she smokes. No way in a million years……

Another Hilda Q. Walton blog

—“Where’s my baby?”
So asked Cutie-Pie, the cutest employee at my pet supply.
“So it is you,” I said.
I didn't have Killian with me. (“Killian” is my dog.)
The so-called ‘Merchandise Operations Leader’,” I added. I had to side-glance her picture on the wall. I guess she’s important.
I thought it might be Cutie-Pie, but wasn’t sure. She was wearing a mask, and had her hair in a ponytail I’ve never seen before.
Cutie-Pie is the one with sparkling eyes and a winsome smile.
“I have to go get him,” I said. “He’s being doggy-daycared so I could go to Weggers.”
Things are much different since my wife died. 10 years ago I woulda avoided Cutie-Pie. She's so cute I woulda been intimidated.
“NO CUTIE-PIE WILL TALK TO YOU!” That’s the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious neighbor Sunday-school superintendent, who convinced me all males, including me at age 5, were SCUM.
She woulda crashed if my hyper-religious parents disagreed. But I was rebellious and disgusting because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
Yada-yada-yada-yada, we talked and talked and talked and talked.
I can't believe it! She’s extraordinarily cute, and COVID-19 is turning me into the Abominable Snowman. I’m also 76 years old, harmless I guess, although I could be perceived a lonely hot-to-trot widower.
Check out finished, I started to leave. I would closely pass Cutie-Pie on my way out. Social distancing be damned; I decided to touch her. Let her know I was happy to see her.
Zap! Just one finger on her pretty arm.
It didn’t spook her. I think she liked it.
(I did similar with a really pretty girl last August. Things sure have changed.)
“Give your boy a hug for me,” she said, eyes flashing, and smiling behind her mask.
Next time I visit I’ll bring Killian. Let Cutie-Pie go bonkers!

• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua. My pet-supply is across the street.
• My wife died of cancer eight years ago.

“That’s Killian’s dad!”

—Two or three weeks ago I was headed to my boarding kennel to drop off my dog (“Killian”) so I could go to the grocery store.
The kennel’s two co-owners, one cute but both great fun to talk to, were headed out for a coffee.
They were driving out as I came down the highway.
All-of-a-sudden: SCREECH! Then reverse.
I imagine the conversation: “STOP! That’s Killian’s dad. Lemme out!”
As I pulled in the cute one, not driving, jumped out of the car.
I'm not used to this. A pretty girl wants to talk to me? (Drop everything!)
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. She convinced me all men, including me at age 5, were SCUM. Her husband was probably fooling around.
Had my hyper-religious parents not agreed, Hilda, my neighbor Sunday-school superintendent, woulda crashed in flames. Hilda was also hyper-religious.
A lot has changed since my wife died, and Killian is part of it: “oh what a pretty dog,” followed by “here I am talking to a pretty girl.”
I could imagine the cute one wants to not lose my business. But I think there’s more to it than that. I also make her laugh = feel good.
A lady-friend once told me “get the endorphins flowing,” i.e. make ‘em laugh.
Last August a really pretty girl told me what women love most is laughing.
“Drop everything! Lemme out!”

“Manufacturing” the news

—A very good friend of mine, who like me retired from driving bus for Regional Transit Service in Rochester…..
…. e-mailed me a YouTube link to a video bewailing the take-over of our nation by “Big Pharma.”
The “spokesman” declared he was gonna tell how the dreaded media were tools of “Big Pharma.”
I hear that and I grab my wallet. Truth revealed = send money.
At one point the “spokesman” trotted out three TV doctors. The two I remember are Dr. Oz and Dr. Phil.
Both disputed the validity of our COVID-19 pandemic. “45,000 people a year die in traffic accidents,” Dr. Phil said. “But we don’t stop the country for that.”
Heard it before.
“It’s just the flu, and it’s mild,” they said.
60,000 die from the flu every year, 480,000 from cigarettes, 680,000 from heart disease. But we don't lock down for them.
When COVID-19 began, I wondered like maybe the media was making a mountain out of a mole-hill.
I used to work at a newspaper, where we “manufactured” the news. I remember a fly-infestation making page-one above-the-fold all because some farmer spread chicken manure on his field which attracted flies.
Uhm, manure-smell comes with rural living. All I gotta do is go out back.
“It's a press-induced panic,” Dr. Drew said. (That was the third TV doctor: “Dr. Drew.”)
The import of this video was that Big Pharma is trying to take over our nation. That the media is owned by Big Pharma.
The video then ran all those TV doctors “apologizing.” Big Pharma funds their programs with ads, so those doctors better bow-and-scrape.
Ahem; maybe so, but I also know the media wants to report what sells.
—“If it bleeds, it leads.”
—“I don't care if you read the paper, just buy it!”
The national news drags in some whimpering relative regarding the death of another relative. Tears man, the public wants tears.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that almost 15 years ago.
• “Video” is a YouTube link. Click it readers. That’s the video.

“Try it and see what happens”

—26&1/2 years ago, Yr Fthfl Srvnt had a stroke. It was caused by a patent foramen ovale (“PAY-tint four-AY-min oh-VAL-eee”), long ago repaired = open-heart surgery.
It didn't kill me — it could have. At first I was paralyzed on my left side, but now I have that all back. I can pass for never having had a stroke.
Minor detriments remain: I lost nine years of classical piano training; I no longer can hold a tune. My speech center was killed, so now something else is doing it. And it wasn't designed for speech, which means I have slight aphasia: difficulty getting words out.
I no longer can line-draw, and my keyboarding is spastic. It got worse as I got older.
My balance also seems to be failing.
Thankfully, I can still write. What a joy it was to find I could still do that when I was discharged from the hospital.
Apparently there is still quite a lot of gray-matter left. And it's covering for what was killed.
Some of that was luck, but as far as I'm concerned my brain re-wired almost immediately; mainly because I refused to be invalid = I inadvertently worked quickly.
My advice to other stroke victims is “get cracking.” By doing that you’re rewiring your brain to do what the killed part did. —And you gotta be quick about it.
My long ago advice to another stroke victim was “if you think you can do it, you probably can.”
I was cross country skiing within weeks of my stroke. “Miraculous,” I was told, but “I used to be able to cross-country ski.”
“I used to be able to tie my shoes; here, let me try it!”
My wife's mother, who died a few years ago at age 100, came up from FL to help me. But no help for this kid, especially not from someone who growled at me first visit.
The other day I got an e-mail from a Regional-Transit bus driver retired like me. It had a video about Thomas Edison, and I thought it really good. I wanted to put it on my Facebook, but had no idea how.
I forwarded that e-mail to someone who I thought might know how to do it. But then I decided to “try it and see what happens.”
In other words, what marbles remain decided to “think about it.” Let's see here, how about if I download the video, then crank it onto FB? “Try it and see what happens!”
Everything I know about ‘pyootering, driving my iPhone, etc, is self-taught. The only class I ever took was in Microsoft “Excel,” and I was one of only two in the class; night-school by my local school-district. The other girl was completely befuddled; she’d probably been assigned by her office-manager.
Stroke or not I wanted answers, and I drove that instructor nuts. He gave me hints so I could better drive “Excel” at home.
And now with my wife gone, I'm more inclined to “try it and see what happens.”
That is: “think about it,” and by so doing come up with an experiment = guile-and-cunning baby!
I mouse-clicked the video attachment, saving it to my download folder. Then I fired up Facebook, to try adding the video attachment.
SHA-ZAMM! It worked! That video is on my Facebook, and I'm amazed.
But it’s the old waazoo: “try it and see what happens!”
Apparently enough marbles are left.

• 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, but I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that almost 15 years ago.
• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. BEST friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.
• At the Messenger newspaper I was told “thinkin’ is dangerous.”

The eyes tell me

—“Your eyes are blue,” I said to *****, the pretty young thing who runs my pharmacy.
“Yes,” she said; rather embarrassed.
We all were wearing face-masks, and I asked her to repeat why my prescription call-in yesterday bombed.
It was my stroke effect: mental lock up after her first sentence.
Her long speech allowed me to notice her eyes.
“My wife’s eyes were silver,” I said, trying to avoid perception as a lonely hot-to-trot widower.
“Stay safe,” she said, as I walked away.
Her pharmacy is in a supermarket, and I had shopping to do.
Finished, I wheeled my cart into the express lane. Not much; this store is pricey.
“How are you?” the clerk bubbled. She too wore a mask.
“How do I know you're smiling?” A passerby asked the clerk.
“The eyes tell me,” I said. “You're smiling under that mask; I can tell!”
Poor *****; she has to parry some lonely hot-to-trot widower who can't keep his mouth shut, who also happens to be one of her best customers.
“And your eyes are brown,” I said to the check-out girl. “We’re all wearing masks, so the eyes stand out.”

• Face-masks required by COVID-19.
• My wife died eight years ago.

Not so fast!

—Yesterday, Wednesday, May 13th, I took Killian, my silly dog, for a long walk on Ontario Pathways in Canandaigua.
Slightly over 3.2 miles; which might be getting to be too much for someone 76 years old.
Someone told me what matters, when it comes to walking dogs, is not distance, but sniffing. To which I say more sniffing occurs over longer distances.
Ontario Pathways is a 14-mile drive to Canandaigua. My dog barks the whole way.
There are other things I can do in Canandaigua. Supper takeout from a restaurant, and also a visit to my pet-supply, where they love Killian.
“Such a ham!” the manager exclaims.
“You're not the first one that said that,” I respond.
That pet-supply is also where Cutie-Pie works, extraordinarily cute with sparkling eyes and a smile that brightens the store.
I visited that pet-supply last week, and Cutie-Pie wasn't there. Victim of COVID-19 mayhap?
Yesterday she was, just she and the guy doing check out.
The store is dead, but I’m allowed in with a mask.
“Killian!” she shrieked.
“I thought you mighta been laid off,” I said to her.
In one ear and out the other. She and Killian were having a grand time.
“I was here last week, but you weren’t,” I added.
Again, in one ear and out the other. She was more interested in fussing Killian.
Even at age 76 I have no idea how to interact with women. Someone told me once the chick-magnets were dogs and babies.
Killian was doing extremely well, but his owner was falling flat.
A few weeks ago I visited that pet store without Killian. She made me feel really good.
“Where’s Killian?” she shrieked, followed by “it sure is pleasant seeing you again.”
Mask or not her eyes were smiling.
“You too,” I said. 10 years ago I couldna done that. She ate it up.
So here I was, surprised to see her again. Hoping to continue our good vibes.
Nope! I was second fiddle to Killian.
I wasn't about to try to offset that.
Let it go! This is how things are with women, and much as I enjoy their company I can get by without.
I also know I’ll probably see her again, but without Killian. She’ll fuss over me = Killian’s owner.
But if I have Killian, let her fuss over Killian.
76 years I been on this planet, and I’m clueless dealing with women.
“Make ‘em laugh!” I’m told. Is that it? What if I have a chick-magnet with me?

• “Killian,” a “rescue Irish-setter,” is my current dog. 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.
• “Ontario Pathways” is an old railroad-grade converted into a hiking trail.
• RE: “10 years ago I couldna done that…..” —Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU! All males, including you at age-5, are SCUM.” (My parents heartily agreed.)

The end of keyboarding

—“Wow,“ I kept saying to myself.
“Yes, yes, yes; this is fabulous!”
I was using “dictation” in “Pages,” Apple’s word-processor on my laptop.
And it was getting every word. I'm doing it now.
I use “dictation” on my iPhone; except there it’s called “voice-recognition.”
It's pretty good. I have to edit what it generates. It’ll misinterpret what I said. It even slipped in the occasional F-bomb.
Not long ago I got a new MacBook Pro laptop. It had an integral camera, now I needed a microphone — so I thought.
Actually it had one already.
I discovered that doing a TeleMed the other day.
“No microphone,” I said to the nurse.
“Just click the ‘accept’ button,” the nurse exclaimed.
“VIOLA!” Face-to-face with my doctor.
And also voice-to-voice.
A writer friend noted she used dictation. “Nice idea,” I thought to myself. “Dictation would save me time.”
I had a stroke 26 years ago, and as I get older my keyboarding gets spastic. Mistypes galore, often every word.
“Pages” has a dictation function, but I never tried it. I thought I needed a microphone. I have one, but it's put away.
My keyboarding got more and more spastic. The muse works fine, but my fingers don’t.
I write these blogs cursive on a legal pad, then key in later. Reading it into “dictation” would stop the spasticity.
I did that with my iPhone occasionally. Cursive to voice recognition, especially if I said a lot.
Voice recognition could muck up, but it was pretty good. Which means edit, i.e. take out the F-bombs.
So now I'm voice-recognitioning this laptop.
I graduated high school in 1962, college in 1966. Back then such things were beyond imagining.
Often I see Apple watches, Google, whatever. Can you say “Dick-Tracy wrist-radio?”
This blog was entirely entered with dictation.

• RE: This first attempt at “dictation……” —It takes almost the same amount of time, but takes out the frustration of mistyping every single word.

Unpleasant rail-trail

This is Lehigh Valley’s massive skewed truss-bridge across the old Auburn. Both railroads are now rail-trails. Thankfully this bridge, among many others, was not scrapped. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—Friday (May 5th) I tried a different rail-trail.
There are three developed rail-trails in my area, abandoned railroad rights-of-way converted into hiking trails.
-One is Ontario Pathways, part of the south-to-north Pennsylvania Railroad line across NY state, plus a branch into Canandaigua.
-Another is Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail on part of Lehigh Valley’s double-track extension from Geneva to Buffalo.
-A third is the Auburn-Road rail-trail, developed by Victor Hiking Trails in nearby Victor.
I only hike a small portion of Ontario Pathways, the segment from the trailhead in Canandaigua.
My hike is slightly over three miles, and my dog loves it. Snort-Snoffel! Lunge-yank!
Ontario Pathways is a lot of trail. Most is Himrod junction north of Watkins Glen all the way up to Sodus Bay on Lake Ontario.
Pennsy shipped coal on this route for transloading into a Lake Ontario coal-ship.
The line was previously Northern Central from Baltimore. Pennsy got control of NC in 1861. Their intent was to counter Baltimore & Ohio.
Northern Central may have only gone to Canandaigua at first — as originally built it only went to Sunbury PA. That Canandaigua branch may have been by merger.
The Sodus Point coal-line was merged later. I’m not clear on history.
Pennsy ran passenger-service south out of Canandaigua.
Ontario Pathways was suggested by my aquacise-instructor, a dog-person like me.
She and I walked our dogs a few times at a lakeside park in Canandaigua, but I’d try Ontario Pathways on-my-own.
“A peaceful walk through nature,” she called it.
What I imagine is a Pennsy K-4 Pacific (4-6-2) steaming 3-6 maroon P-70 coaches into Canandaigua.
Or earlier, a douty Northern Central Mogul (2-6-0) trundling maybe 20 loaded coal-hoppers into Canandaigua for transfer to the Canandaigua & Niagara Falls Railroad.
C&NF later became New York Central’s “Peanut Line,” and is long abandoned.
I’m a railfan; all-the-more reason to try Ontario Pathways.
That branch into Canandaigua was only one track, so the grade is 15-20 feet wide. A train might do 25 mph; it’s not a high-speed railroad.
Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail is a small part of Lehigh Valley Railroad’s fabulous Buffalo Extension built in the late 1800s. (It’s extremely well-engineered.)
But it was essentially a bridge-line — it had few lineside traffic generators. It was built in an attempt to keep LV afloat as its traffic-base, anthracite coal for heating, wained.
Lehigh Valley Railroad went out of existence with the formation of Conrail in 1976.
Lehigh Valley was one of many northeast bankrupt railroads, and its Buffalo Extension was one of too many railroads to Buffalo.
So the Extension was torn up and abandoned. Although many of its bridges remain (as pictured above).
Only a portion of the Extension was converted into a rail-trail, mostly in Monroe County.
The right-of-way is about 50-60 feet wide — it was double-track. 6-12 feet of cinders mark the path where one track was, and beside that is mud-and-grass where the second track was. (It’s mowed.)
I came to Rochester in late 1966, early enough to see Valley hotshots on the Buffalo Extension. (See picture below.) It's 60 mph railroad! You better stop if them crossing-gates are down.
The Auburn connected Auburn (NY) to Rochester, and I think was the first cross-state railroad into Rochester from eastern NY. Auburn to Rochester train-service began in 1841.
It’s circuitous, hitting many small towns, and it avoids the Irondequoit defile.
Railroad later crossed that defile on a lengthy fill. That “fast-line” became the mainline of New York Central Railroad, which is now CSX.
The Auburn thereafter became secondary: a bypass in case NYC’s mainline east of Rochester was blocked. (It had become part of NYC by then, or was earlier.) But it also served many rural communities.
As shipping moved to trucking over gumint highways, the Auburn became moribund.
Part remains in operation as Finger-Lakes Railway, a shortline not beholden to Class-One railroad union rules.
But everything north of Canandaigua to Rochester was abandoned. That right-of-way became Auburn-Road Rail-Trail.
I previously walked my dog at a town park about four miles from where I live. The Ontario Pathways trailhead, and that Canandaigua park, are both about 15 miles away.
But Ontario Pathways sounded interesting, so I tried it.
Later I decided to try Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail, about eight miles away.
Every dog-walk presents the bathroom-problem. My town park and that Canandaigua park both have Porta-Johns. That Canandaigua park also has a bathhouse, but it’s not open all year. That park fronts Canandaigua Lake.
I quickly discovered Ontario Pathways lacks facilities, but I since discovered I can hike into adjacent woods.
Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail also lacks facilities, except where I start there are youth baseball fields, which install Porta-Johns in season, and otherwise provide privacy between sheds.
My other problem is footing. Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail is best, a flat cinder path. Boots are only snow.
Ontario Pathways is also cinders, but often it’s only a foot or two wide. It’s like threading a two-inch deep trench — I hafta pay attention.
So “Auburn-Road Rail-Trail;” I always wanted to try it.
The Auburn is also 15 miles away, but not near my grocery-shopping, etc.
No idea if parking was available — it was. But it quickly became apparent the footing was unfriendly. That rail-trail was so overdeveloped it no longer was a “a peaceful walk through nature.”
The right-of-way is often 20 feet wide, all crusher-run. Trees and brush got ‘dozed aside.
So Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail wins, and Ontario Pathways is second. And come Summer when both dry out, my town park has ponds, and my dog needs water.
That may have been my first and last visit to Auburn-Road Rail-Trail. There might be better places to start, but it’s still too far away.

Eastbound Valley hotshot, on what later became Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail. (Long ago photo by BobbaLew; probably 1971.)

• The “Peanut Line” could also be a rail-trail, but only a tiny portion is developed: perhaps a quarter-mile through woods. Some was converted to roads and driveways, houses are built on the right-of-way, and the covered-bridge over Honeoye Creek is gone. Most of the “Peanut” was abandoned in the ‘30s.
• The “Peanut Line” is the independently-built Canandaigua & Niagara Falls Railroad, eventually merged into New York Central Railroad. It was called a “peanut” by a New York Central executive because it was so tiny compared to NYC’s mainline. It is now entirely abandoned, although a short stub out of Canandaigua to Holcomb remained in service into the ‘70s. NYC acquired “The Peanut” as part of a compromise to get NYC to stop financing the South Pennsylvania Railroad across PA — competition for Pennsy. The South Pennsylvania Railroad was never built. But Pennsy had already financed building the West Shore Railroad, which competed with NYC across NY state. West Shore also went toward New York City, but not to it (north Jersey). Much of South Pennsylvania’s right-of-way — including tunnels — became the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
• New York Central’s Corning Secondary, south from Lyons, crossed Pennsy’s Sodus Point line at Himrod junction.
• The “Irondequoit defile” used to be the outlet of the Genesee river. But our most recent ice-age made the river re-route. Or was it Satan?

It’s getting crazy!

—Perhaps a week or two ago Yr Fthfl Srvnt “shared” a “Vimeo” to his Facebook posted by my aquacise-instructor.
It was a “letter” from the COVID-19 virus about how life became too frantic, and COVID-19 would dial things back by reducing Earth’s population.
That aquacise-instructor is a “liberal,” although she wouldn’t like me saying that. Yrs Trly is a “bleeding-heart Liberial” (Gasp!), much to the dismay of my CONSERVATIVE siblings.
I look at my aquacise-instructor’s Facebook often because occasionally she posts something worth reading.
Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth! COVID-19 is ravaging Earth’s population.
Even The Donald is cowed. Notice how he stands idly by? He can’t do what he’d normally do, which is badmouth or fire someone. Firing Fauci would explode in his face.
Suddenly science is trumping Trump. He even suggests poisoning his supporters: internal UV light cleansing, guzzling disinfectant, and using untested “miracle” cures.
Enough about The Donald!
“We’re still here,” I said to my silly dog as I awoke this morning (Thursday, May 7th). It was 7:46; my dog wanted to go out.
I decided to not go back to bed, to try to keep going. An attempt to offset that 1 a.m. last night, and possibly get to bed tonight at a decent hour.
I began the morning’s processing: unload dishwasher, get dressed, etc.
But that 1 a.m. set in; I felt tired. I needed to lay back down.
As soon as I did: RING-RING from the other room. (I hadn’t pocketed my iPhone yet.)
I'm not answering. When I got up later it was only my aging aunt in KY. No voicemail; probably a misdial.
I laid back down, but as soon as I did RING-RING again from the other room.
Again I didn’t answer, but this was a valid call. It was my electrician, and he left a voicemail.
I called back later and we set up an appointment.
I laid back down, but again RING-RING as soon as I did.
This time it was my Bereavement-Counselor following up my day-before question about my next TeleMed appointment.
I started doing my Physical-Therapy homework exercises, which I interlace with preparing breakfast = eggs, actually EggBeaters.
This is laying-down too.
“Oh-OOO-ga!” (My text-alert: the Model-T horn.) My medical-practice wants me to confirm a TeleMed scheduled next Monday = Drop everything!
Life was becoming the frenzy that Vimeo talks about.
RING-RING again. My electrician noticed I called him multiple times. “Tests,” I told him — now I know not to try that again.
I also need to put him and my counselor into my iPhone so I won’t think they’re spammers.
Do I ever get a spare minute?“Dialing back” is TOAST!
“Stop.” “Remain silent.” “Listen.” the Vimeo says.
“RING-RING!” “Oh-OOO-ga!”

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two one-hour classes per week — plus a third hour on my own. (COVID-19 cancelled it.)
• I also do dry-land balance-training in Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department, which just restarted one-on-one with all kinds of anti-COVID-19 safety-measures.
• A sibling told me “Liberial” is the proper CONSERVATIVE spelling of “liberal.”
• “Bleeding-heart Liberial” is my sister, who died of cancer almost nine years ago. She was ardently CONSERVATIVE.
• Because of my wife’s death eight years ago I see a “Bereavement-Counselor” once per month.
• My iPhone’s ring-tone is not actually “ring-ring.” It’s a recording my brother-and-I got years ago of Nickel Plate 765, the BEST restored railroad steam-locomotive I’ve ever seen. 765 is as old as me. I’m a railfan since age-2. Both 765 and I are age-76.

Sorry, readers

—“Wait a minute!” I shouted to the cutest employee of my pet-supply.
“You can’t just walk away without my saying hello.”
10 years ago I’da thought she was running away from me. But now I don’t think that any more.
She screeched to a halt, and turned toward me. (She was wearing a mask.)
This girl is extremely cute. Flashing eyes, and a smile that lights the store. (Hidden of course.)
Sorry, readers; I'm amazed! Cutie-pie wants me to flirt. 10 years ago I wouldna said anything.
“Where’s your partner?” she asked.
“I’d bring him in here if I could,” I said. “No more Kershaw with this COVID-19 thingy. Too many people, and they all wanna pet the dog.”
“Well it sure is nice seeing you again.” Her eyes were smiling.
I paused a second, then “you too,” I said.
(10 years ago I couldna done that!)
She loved it! I made her feel good.
“Get the endorphins flowing,” a lady-friend once told me.
To me that’s flirting, although someone told me verbal communication between sexes is evil only to the holier-than-thou’s.
I do it anyway, much to the angry chagrin of my Bible-beating parents and neighbor Sunday-School superintendent.
It’s too much fun, especially making a cutie-pie laugh.
That was last Saturday. Fast-forward to last Monday, May 4th.
I had a Physical-Therapy appointment at 1:30 p.m. I’d leave my dog at the kennel that boards my dog when I go away. They also daycare my dog when I have appointments.
That kennel is owned by two pretty ladies, both in their middle 40s. One is very cute, and they both seem to like my showing up, probably because I make ‘em laugh. (“You’re funny!”)
Due to COVID-19 that kennel is closed, but they still want me to show up.
I pulled in and the cute one was at the door waving at me.
“Hi handsome!” she yelled, as I got outta my car.
“Who me or the dog?” I asked.
“Both,” she said.
“Hi cutie-pie!” I shouted. “Where else can I get away with something like that.”
Laugh-laugh-laugh-laugh! Snide remarks and wisecracks galore!
She eats it up!
10 years ago I wouldna said anything, and she neither. I made her laugh a while ago, and that's all it took.
Now I talk with cutie-pie.
My silly dog helped: “Oh what a pretty dog!” Followed by “here I am talking to a pretty girl.”
It happened so often I got used to it. Now I’m starting conversations myself: e.g. “You can’t leave without me saying hello.”
Some call it “flirting,” but really it’s make ‘em laugh (or smile).
The fact someone with MY childhood can attract lady-friends, even pretty ones, amazes me.

• “Kershaw” is a public park north of Canandaigua lake in nearby Canandaigua. (I hook the pet-supply with a dog-walk at Kershaw Park — they allow dogs in the store.)

Reunited

—This morning, even though my beloved wife has been gone over eight years……..
I felt reunited. Dream-state mayhap. She’s no longer there when I roll over — the one who shared our bed over 44 years.
Maybe five nights alone over those 44&1/2 years. But otherwise always together, me holding on to her.
A while ago a neighbor’s friend told how he loved getting away from his wife. “Not this kid!” I shouted, much to his embarrassed befuddlement.
“My wife and I have always been best friends. She’s the one I love getting back to,” I noted.
I had a dreadful childhood. My wife did too, although not as bad as me. Her mother was a pill, but her father liked her.
With me it was both parents, although my mother began to realize my father was losing me. Hyper-religion! I was stupid and rebellious because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
My father probably had a difficult childhood himself. I know his brother and sister did. They tell me stories!
Even during her cancer my wife always tried to sleep with me. We’d start out together, but after a while she’d depart for our living-room to try sleeping on our sofa.
She was uncomfortable I guess; although she never told me. She had to sleep sitting.
Toward the end she got a cushion to allow sleep-sitting in our bed. We’d always slept together, and she wanted to sleep with me.
But it didn’t work. She had to leave.
I tear up writing this. I lost a really good one.
No idea how I did as well as I did.
My counselor tells me I struck gold. A wife perfect for someone as messed up as I was.
Things have changed since my wife died. I came to realize my parents and the church-zealots were WRONG!
My childhood is history, but self-loathing continues. Plus my negative perception of myself.
But I can talk to pretty girls, even “flirt” (so-called, although I’m told talking between sexes is evil only to the hyper-religious). 10 years ago I couldn’t talk to pretty girls.
So now I feel bad my wife can’t experience who I became. And my counselor says my wife made that possible.
I miss my wife; she can’t be replaced.

“It is finished”

“Muck and mire.” (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—Constant-readers of this blog, and there are a few, know a few weeks ago my basement flooded.
My 30-year-old drain-to-daylight, original to the house, clogged with roots, or collapsed. It no longer drained my footer-drains, so backed up and filled my cellar with water about 5-6 inches deep. Enough to drown my furnace control-panel; that furnace being brand-new.
The West Bloomfield Fire-Department pumped me out, and my plumber came and installed a temporary sump-pump.
Mr. Rooter tried to clear my drain-to-daylight, but couldn’t. Even with their 4,000 pounds per square-inch jet rooter.
We’d have to bypass that plugged drain.
ServePro® dried out my cellar, and now DynaMole would install a new drain-to-daylight.
That meant digging up my backyard — all the way to a swale 180-200 feet behind my house.

The Big Dig begins. (My brother-from-Boston noticed the butt-crack right away.) —That’s my air-conditioning condenser bottom-left. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—DynaMole brought in a large John Deere excavator.
“All went fine about three feet, but after that sand. You don’t need a big trench for an eight-inch drainpipe.
But the trench kept caving in. One foot became four feet.
When my (our) house was built, the contractor had the same problem. His cellar-hole kept caving in.
My house is built on “sinking-sand.” —That’s a Bible-song we youngsters sang in Sunday-School.
And that headline (above) is the last words of Christ on the Cross.

(iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—After two days the trench was finished, and the workers started laying in pipe. Schedule-40 PVC; much heavier than my original drain. Which was good considering there was a large boulder that would be backfilled.
Spoil from our most recent Ice-Age; or placed by Satan to lead us astray. I was told that years ago regarding drumlins.
“If the King James Version was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me!”
DynaMole had to connect everything such that my footer-drains drained into that new drain-to-daylight.
Then they could backfill their trench. Huge dirt-piles got shoved this-way-and-that with a plow on the front of their excavator.
So now my backyard is a mess. Muddy sand everywhere, and grass torn up by that heavy excavator — which was on rubberized ‘dozer tracks.
DynaMole is supposed to return some day after it dries out. They will rake it, and hopefully seed it with a hydro-seeder.
I’m still able to walk my dog, but very carefully. I think mowing that area is out for at least a year.

“It is finished.” (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)


• RE: “It is finished……” John 19:30 (NKJV).
• “Muck and mire” are words my brother used to describe my sister’s life before she found religion. (That sister is gone.)
• Boston referred to its gigantic super-highway tunnel project as “The Big Dig.”