“I can talk to pretty girls!”

—“Here we go again,” I say to myself.
Another one-a them self-celebratory blogs about triumphing over a dreadful childhood — at the hands of religious super-zealots.
I worry about this. All too many blogs have have been published about triumphing over my parents and the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, my neighbor Sunday-school superintendent when I was a child. (Click the link if you need explanation.)
Hilda and my parents convinced me I was stupid, disgusting, evil, and Of-the-Devil = a wonderful thing to tell a child only five years old.
For my parents I was rebellious, that is, unable to worship my holier-than-thou father. My mother came around as I got older, realizing my father was losing me.
If my parents had come to my defense when I was five years old, Hilda woulda crashed in flames.
Yr Fthfl Srvnt was thereby marked-for-life.
Only two or three people understand my childhood; and that’s among thousands I’ve met over 76 years.
One is my 89-year-old aunt — soon be 90. She was born in 1930, the height of the Depression, and her mother continually told her she was unwanted.
Another is a cousin, the only child of my uncle Rob. Uncle Rob once told me anyone named Robert was automatically disgusting. My name is Robert, my grandfather’s name was Robert, and my uncle Rob was also a Robert. We all are in deepest doodoo.
“I don't know how my father ended up being as decent as he was,” my cousin tells me.
“Marked-for-life” equals terrified of pretty girls. “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” equals “I can’t talk to her, she’s gorgeous.”
People wonder how I even managed to get married. I say it’s because my wife liked me from the get-go.
My mother had already picked out someone who would “straighten-me-out,” but I was rebellious.
My wife’s mother had already picked out the perfect mate for my wife, who my wife couldn’t stand.
My wife also had a difficult childhood. It was mainly her mother, and also a nearby aunt who declared her “heathen” for not attending church.
So my parents were mad at my marriage-choice. And my wife’s mother predicted we wouldn’t last four months.
44&1/2 years, and now that my wife is gone (she died of cancer eight years ago) I begin to be able to talk to pretty girls.
It’s partly my dog: “oh what a pretty dog,” followed by “here I am talking to yet another pretty girl.”
70 years late I’ve gotten so I can talk to pretty girls. I find this so amazing, I write about it too much.
Totally surprising and mind-blowingly unexpected.
My doggy-daycare kennel has a cute co-owner, who always wants me to talk to her.
She singles me out.
10 years ago I couldna, but now I love that it’s happening.
That co-owner is chasing me?
UNBELIEVABLE!
And she is only one of many. I’m apparently doing the right thing, which is “make ‘em laugh.”
My uncle Rob did this. He sold cars for a South Jersey Ford dealership, and was very successful at it. People wanted to buy a car from him because he was funny.
Last August an extremely pretty girl came over to talk to me at a party. With so much prior experience, I wasn’t terrified.
We talked and talked and talked and talked, and I was looking her straight in the eye.
10 years ago, eye-contact would have been utterly beyond the pale. Without eye-contact “he doesn’t wanna talk to me.”
When I left, I told her “it sure was pleasant meeting you.”
Again, UNBELIEVABLE!
I find myself saying similar things to other pretty girls: e.g. “I sure am glad you didn’t quit,” and “but you’re here!”
10 years ago I couldna.
A pretty jogger ran past me on Lehigh Valley rail-trail, and all I said was “don't stop.” She turned around and smiled so broadly she woulda lit up the entire woods.
I find myself blurting-out like that, and woman seem to love it.
“What do I need a sweetie for when I had one 44&1/2 years?” I.e. I’m no longer in-the-hunt.
And apparently I’m doing what women want; which is “talk to me, make me laugh, make me feel good.” And it’s not being done by some lecherous Trump wannabee, who would be threatening.
What’s more important is what I’m getting away with is revolutionary.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” yet I attract ‘em like flies.
Hilda and my parents spin in their graves!

• Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail is hiking-trail converted from Lehigh Valley Railroad’s old Buffalo extension. I get on about eight miles north of where I live.

My calendar for July 2020

Three EMDs charge west. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—The July 2020 entry of MY calendar is three Norfolk Southern units charging west.
It may be at Gray interlocking.
If it is, the train is obscuring a new signal-bridge, and the tracks would be straight through the interlocking.
Which means the train may already be beyond the interlocking. Also missing is Track Three, which merges back into the Main at Gray.
But the train may be on Three, although I doubt it, because it was boomin’-and-zoomin’.
Track Three, one of Pennsy’s four-track Main, is now a signal-controlled siding.
I was by myself = no Jack (my brother).
The train may also be westbound on One beyond Tyrone’s station.
It’s morning light, and Track One is westbound in the morning to allow Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian to use Track Two.
Two is adjacent to station-platforms. If Amtrak were on One, passengers would hafta cross Two = unsafe.
One is normally eastbound, and Two westbound, but not until Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian goes through.
The lashup is all EMD (ElectroMotive Division), previously General Motors, but now Progress Rail. (GM sold EMD when it went bankrupt.)
The two lead engines look like new SD70-ACe’s.
That third unit is an old SD40-2.
“We need another unit,” the engineer probably told his Trainmaster.
“All I got is 3577,” the Trainmaster said.
“We’ll take it!”
The train was mixed, and probably heavy. Harrisburg to Altoona is all uphill, although not arduous.
Probably Run-Five or Six; Allegheny Mountain would be Run-Eight (full fuel delivery).
That ductwork behind the cab says SD40-2. It’s not the exaggerated “laundry-chute” that came later.
The lead engines don’t have the “laundry chute.”

“Talk to me, make me laugh!”

—“Come on in,” said my cute new friend at my doggy daycare kennel.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
She’s 19 years old, and trusts me, smiling.
“Careful!” my hairdresser exclaims.
I imagine the following: “Talk to me, make me laugh. Make me feel good like you seem to do.”
But I also imagine her father going ballistic to protect his daughter from some “lonely hot-to-trot widower.”
I'm not dating her, nor do I want to.
We just talk, and both enjoy it. Me especially, since it counters my dreadful childhood. “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” That’s infamous Hilda Q. Walton and my hyper-religious parents. (If you need explanation click the link.)
She went to get my dog. They daycare my dog when I go into Canandaigua for groceries.
She also rearranged carpets for my dog to walk on.
I want to keep my dog off slippery floors. I think kersplating on a slippery floor is what tore his ACL.
We seem to be together on this.
Beyond that we talked and talked and talked some more. Which seems to be what women want most.
Sex is nice, but talking is more fun.
I’ve told that to a few.
For a marriage to succeed the couple has to be able to talk without putting each other down.
And be interested in what the other person says.
I think this is why my 19-year-old friend and I hit it off so well.
“Yes, what you say matters, and I wanna hear it!”
I do like her, but just as a friend. We enjoy each-other’s company.
She inadvertently found someone who listens, and happens to be old enough to be her grandfather.
“What do I need a sweetie for when I had one 44&1/2 years?”
I feel like I have to warn her the world is full of lecherous geezers and Trump wannabees hot to intimidate.

• My wife and I made 44&1/2 years. She died of cancer eight years ago.

Spin on Hilda-baby!

—“Boy I sure am glad you didn’t quit!”
I said that to the pretty new hire at my doggy-daycare kennel who’s only 19 years old.
She smiled.
There you have it, readers. I did it again. Said something that made a pretty girl smile, setting Hilda and my parents spinning in their graves.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL SMILE AT YOU!” That’s Hilda Q. Walton, who I need not explain. (Click the link if you need explanation.)
Hilda and my parents were hyper-religious zealots who convinced me I was disgusting.
That girl and I talked a long time about my dog, recently crippled by a torn ACL.
“I don’t wanna lose that dog,” I kept telling her.
“I don’t want you to lose that dog either,” she’d say.
“Neatest Irish-Setter I ever owned; completely wacko.
“And also a ham,” she added.
Finally, after 20 minutes or so, I stopped. We couldn’t talk forever. And unlike what I expected, it was me stopping us, not her.
“What does that cutie-pie see in him?” people ask.
“Let ‘er talk,” I answer. “Tell me about it.” “Keep going.”
I walked around to get in my car, and she opened the door into the kennel.
As she entered, “Boy am I glad you didn’t quit!”
We talked earlier about my not seeing her a while, which had me worried.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
“But you won’t work here forever. Your whole life is ahead of you, and mine is almost done. About all I can do is make sure you think you’re worth listening to.”
(And not be a creep about it.)
And it’s so much fun. Make ‘em feel good. “I like you; tell me more!”
Enter Hilda, stage right: “Go to Hell Bobby. Do not collect $200 dollars; go directly to Hell!”

House-build

Our ’79 Ford E250 van is roadside at left. Our contractor’s Ford pickup has made its first foray onto our property, in what later became our driveway. (Long ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—Yrs Trly inadvertently dumped his 89 bazilyun photographs of our house-build all over the floor the other morning.
There on top (above) was our contractor’s pickup in its first foray onto our property. Our ’79 Ford E250 van was parked roadside.
Our property is an abandoned cornfield.
The first thing our contractor did was cut the driveway. Gravel then crusher-run on top.
Then he cleared our building-site with a small rented ‘dozer.
That house-build, 30 years ago, was the greatest adventure my wife and I ever undertook. The culmination of weeks of research, model-making, architect consults, planning, and a gigantic spec-book that turned off at least one bidder. (We started with four.)
Our house was to be super-insulated. “You could heat it with lightbulbs,” our contractor joked.
He drove Fords. Normally I’m a Chevy-man = rather conventional. But super-insulation was way out there. I figgered I needed a contractor willing to take risks = a Ford-man.
Super-insulation was a reaction to our tiny first home in Rochester. Double-hung windows so leaky we were heating the outdoors.
I still live in the house we built. My wife died eight years ago.
She was tired of our home in Rochester, which needed total rehab or else tear it down and start over.
Designing a house seemed like something I could do. She got me interested with her research on super-insulation.
We coulda done other things: bury the house below-grade, solar heating, or a heat-pump drawing heat from the surrounding soil.
(I pass a business on the highway, which recently installed a “solar-system.” A sign out front plugs the install. “I want one-a them there ringed-planets!” I’d say.)
All those concepts might need repair. A super-insulated house just sits there. You’re not maintaining anything.
We worked with that contractor before. He remodeled our kitchen in Rochester, a rickety attached shed.
My spec-book would turn off anyone.
That guy never built super-insulated before, so we became a team. My Magic-Marker markings are still inside on the shell plywood. They were for double-wall construction, which I understood, but he didn’t.
For whatever reason we worked well together. Anyone else would have said stuff it!
I doubt he paid much attention to our spec book. But I knew it, and he wanted to please me.
We also weren’t building conventionally. We were paying him as he built, which means we owned what he built.
Usually a contractor owns what he built, then sells to his customer.
Our contractor had already built two houses, one for his parents, and one for himself.
I liked the way he finished them, and told him so. “I want soffit-overhangs just like your house.” I’m sure he liked that. (The appearance of his previous builds factored into our choosing him.)
The first thing I did was measure our E250. I wanted a garage that would swallow it. (I.e. No more oil-changes in the snow.)
18 feet long, plus three feet in front for workspace, plus three feet behind, is a 24-foot-deep garage.
Which is huge, but so is the house.
2x12 floor joists two feet on-center span 12 feet, so usually a house is 24 feet wide with a single center beam.
Our house needed two center-beams.
So here I am, 30 years later, picking up hundreds of photos I took as our house was built.
Cellar-hole, septic, foundation, framing, drywall, cabinets, etc.
I also installed phone-wiring for every room. But it just hangs. I’m about to dump that landline.
I also wired cable-TV to every room, but just discontinued my cable-TV.
And my cellar is bone dry, because my wife and I did the under-slab vapor-barrier. (“I don’t want that thing leaking!”)
Recently my heating-contractor did an environmental evaluation. I passed with flying colors.
“I see someone insulated between the floor joists out at the exterior wall.”
“My wife and I did that, and it wasn’t easy. Cutting and fitting around all kinds of piping.”
Memories upon memories, and all for naught. I can’t stay here forever.
Whoever buys my house gets an unforgettable adventure. Plus a garage with a pit.
(“$2,500,” the contractor told me. “Do it!” I shouted. “That adds maybe five bucks to our monthly mortgage payment.” —I haven’t used it in years.)
Things are different over 30 years. I’m on garage-door number-two, all our windows had to be replaced (the wood frames were rotting), and much of our 4.7 acres has been fenced.
“Best $16,000 we ever spent; I can let the dog out and let him run without worrying about him getting in the highway,” where bellowing Harleys might get 80 mph, and crotch-rockets wheelie at 100 mph.
We also had to redo the north wall of our porch. It suffered water damage, due to erroneous flashing installation.
Much of our property has reforested, and recently I went to a metal roof.
I don’t look forward to leaving.

As finished, 30 years ago. (The foreground has reforested.) (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

“I don’t have any sexual partners”

—“One of your sexual partners has tested positive for COVID-19,” screamed a recent text.
“Are you kidding?” I shouted. “At my age? (76.) Come on man!
I don’t have any sexual partners.” I said. “And in fact, the only sexual partner I ever had was my wife (GASP).”
I have many more female friends than I thought I’d ever have, but none of them are sexual partners.
My wife may have had other sexual partners, but I kinda doubt it. If she did she certainly had every right, considering how completely impossible I was to live with back then.
But my wife was my only sexual partner. In other words, GET REAL dudes; you just phished the wrong guy.
ZAP! “Delete!”
Just recently I got a voicemail, supposedly from The Donald, exhorting me to vote for one of his cohort wannabees.
“Chris Jacobs stands for what I stand for. Against that crazy Nancy Pelosi and her do-nothing Democrats eager to destroy our country.” (I’ve yet to see the logic of “do-nothing Democrats” destroying our country by doing nothing. Isn’t destroying one’s country doing something?)
Lots of yelling by orange-man with blustering stolen from Limbaugh.
“Chris Jacobs will protect our Second Amendment right to own and use assault weapons.”
Yr Fthfl Srvnt has been on this planet over 76 years. It seems like 30-40 years ago insanity like this wasn’t happening. Not even eight years ago when my wife died.
Recently I disconnected my cable-TV. Even Trump’s latest 3 AM Tweet® from the Great-White-Throne didn’t justify the cost.
And that’s all I watched. Everything else seemed a wasteland compared to my writing.
Recently a friend posted to her Facebook something about disregarding the news: COVID-19, violence, looting, etc.
I “shared” it, and now many other FB “friends” are “sharing” my share.
Not long ago some goofball stumbled upon this laptop’s admin password. He’s demanding 89 bazilian in bitcoin, threatening to divulge all the raunchiness on my hard drive.
Well GOOD LUCK dudes. You won’t find any kinkiness on my hard drive, unless someone else planted it there.
They (he) threatened to clue in my wife: HELLO; she’s been dead over eight years. (Afterlife, mayhap?)
A few weeks ago I got a Facebook message from ***** ********, a Facebook “friend” I contact maybe once a year for her birthday; she was in my high school class.
It contained some raunchy video, supposedly of ME performing some kinky sex act.
It didn’t read like *****; her command of English would be better.
I didn’t open the video; I’m not poisoning my rig!
So her “message” sits in my FB message folder. As far as I know I can’t delete it.
Other strange things happened. A far-away e-mail contact wanted me to buy an Amazon gift-card as a favor while he was outta town.
I’da helped him, but how would I know it’s actually him? (I didn’t buy the gift-card.)
Today was a deluge of texts — actually “iMessages,” I guess.
I can perceive some lackie stealing my e-mail contacts, and I guess he can steal my iMessage contacts too. They’re all in this laptop — but just Apple contacts. Anyone else is non-Apple.
Text after text after text! Finally I stopped deleting; that is, I no longer opened the text.
My friend says she’s very scam-savvy. I’d like to think I am too.
Technology brought us many wonders. I do these blogs “dictation” = voice recognition. (That’s talking to this machine.) Then I “edit” to take out the flubs. (Not much.)
It’s wonderful. It saves me time.
On the other hand, it’s showering me with insanity.

“Judge not, that ye be not judged.”

—Hopefully after 35-40 years I can safely talk about this case. Especially if I can’t remember names.
This is the only case I ever juried.
All I had to do is show up in my bus-driving uniform, complete with glittering silverware, and the prosecutor would send me packing.
After all I was carrying the dudes he wanted to put in the slammer.
Kids were out cruising one night, and someone backed right in front of them. Kee-RASH!
They hired a high-zoot megabuck lawyer to sue the back-up man. (The kids were related to the lawyer.)
We jurors were supposed to play along.
Photo-evidence was presented, but the damage didn’t look serious. Fenders were caved in on the kids’ car.
The lawyer insisted the kids’ car was blue. But the photo-car looked white. Okay, photograph with an Instamatic and the colors shift — especially with flash.
But the damage wasn’t serious.
Back-up man was worried sick we jurors were gonna fall for that lawyer.
After enduring a day-long sob-story, we jurors were to decide the case.
Hemming-and-hawing in the sequestration room. A foreman was appointed, but he wasn’t a leader. He just looked like a leader. (Tall and handsome.)
Finally, I got tired. “We gotta decide this case,” I said.
“I think the kids want too much,” a lady noted. “These jury decisions are getting outta sight!”
“Beyond that,” I said; “I’m not even sure the photos depict the actual car, and the damage isn't much.”
“$187,000,” we decided. “Guilty as charged.”
Not the 89 bazilian the lawyer wanted.
Back-up man was thrilled, and the lawyer and his clients depressed. They appealed our decision, I think.
Decision rendered = justice served. Lawyer-man’s snow job crashed mightily in flames. Crumpled fenders do not constitute a disaster.
No one was killed, and injuries were slight.
How I ever got to this case I don’t know. Usually all I had to do was say I drove bus, and the accident-lawyer would cut me loose.

• “Judge not, that ye be not judged” is a Bible-verse, Matthew 7:1 of the King-James-Version. (“If the King-James-Version was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me!” a zealot once bellowed at my wife — who died eight years ago, and is now supposedly roasting in Hell.)
• 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. I was still driving bus when I juried this case. My heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended my bus-driving. 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.

“Old man makes new friend”

—So said one line of something posted by a Facebook “friend.”
The “old man” is of course me. (Age-76.)
My “new friend” is only age-19.
“Watch it!” my hairdresser says. I, on the other hand, am amazed — and humbled.
She’s the new hire at my doggy-daycare kennel, where I have other female friends in their 30s or 40s.
She was leery at first: a lecherous old geezer with an attractive dog.
I wanted to tell her something. She looked anxiously at her boss, the cute co-owner of the kennel, who said “listen to him!”
“Yer gonna get married someday,” I told her. “Whatever you do, marry someone who can make ya laugh! My wife always told me the reason we lasted 44&1/2 years was because I made her laugh.”
Up-and-down and back-and-forth since. But now it seems she trusts me, and wants to talk.
Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada. Let ‘em talk. It’s what women want most. (And not some creep!)
“Tell me about it,” followed by; “it’s your life,” and “I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”
I think the reason she came to trust me is because I’m no longer in the hunt.
“What do I need a sweetie for?” I told a cousin once. “I already had one 44&1/2 years.”
She comes out to get my dog and strikes a pose. In other words “talk to me, make me laugh, make me feel good like you seem to do.”
No touchy! Or in the words of Trump’s legions no grab-ass.
“Yes, my friend, what you say matters. You’re not a dishrag to this kid.”
I could say she’s playing “keep-the-customer,” but I think not. My Facebook “friend’s” post seemed to say look for the good in people.

ACL injury

—“Wait just one cotton-pickin’ minute,” my dog said as he hobbled toward my door. “You’re not hangin’ that flag out without me helping!”
My dog has a torn (or sprained) ACL.
I had to Google “ACL” = anterior cruciate ligament: the ligament that connects the thigh-bone to the shin-bone in one’s knee.
Injuring it is common to basketball players. They make sudden twisting motions above their sneakers tractioned to the floor.
Dogs get it too, according to my veterinarian, although my dog wasn’t playing basketball.
He was falling on slippery floors. All-of-a-sudden KERSPLAT!
Veterinarians and pet-supplies have floors that puddle urine. My doggy-daycare kennel has that too.
My dog needs rugs = something that won’t slip his feet.
My dog fell quite a few times recently, all on slippery floors.
Without a rug he can’t get up — he's terrified. Recently he fell again at my pet-supply. He had to be carried to a rug.
Fortunately ******** (“cutie-pie”) was there. She’s one that goes bonkers over my dog.
“Have you got a vet appointment?” she worried. Had she not asked I probably wouldna done anything.
$777.17. X-rays, blood tests, vet assessment; the entire kibosh.
And I just got done laying out $428.50 when he got sick. Probably a nest of baby bunny-rabbits. Down the hatch!
Well, I’ve spent more on dogs.
My dog’s name is “Killian,” but the vet calls him “Killian-2.” That's because we had an earlier Killian — same vet.
Both Killians were rescues, and both were Irish-Setters. All our dogs have been Irish-Setters; Killian-2 is Irish number-seven. (Killian-1 was number-five.)
So far, five of the seven were rescue. Killian-1 was abused, but Killian-2 is just a divorce victim.
I have a tee-shirt that says “if it’s not an Irish-Setter it’s just a dog.”
“Keep him quiet,” I’m told. “No running, jumping, playing, etc.” In Killian’s case that’s no hunting.
Zoombity-BOOM all over my giant pondless dog-park. Barking at all-and-sundry!
I dare not point out a bunny-rabbit.
Long walks are out, probably for a while. He can’t run anyway = although he tries — on three legs.
The drill is to avoid falls. KERSPLAT is probably why he hurt himself.

• 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. By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue, rescued two years ago at age-9.

RE: “I’m having fun”

—Saying “I’m having fun” reminds of a long-ago guy I befriended, who graduated in my college class, who like me almost got expelled.
Except I was only twice — he may have been more times. He was imbibing alcoholic beverages, but me rarely.
Our college, Houghton College, was hyper-religious. Alcoholic beverages were Of-the-Devil.
My friend frequented bars and other houses-of-ill-repute, but I only remember hitting a bar twice.
I also remember trying to pick up girls at Geneseo State College. But we were perceived as “townies.”
During my sophomore year, my friend and I hitchhiked from Houghton all the way to Boston, to visit a fellow ne’er-do-well at Harvard Divinity school who graduated Houghton in 1963.
We arrived at that guy’s apartment at some ungodly hour, then talked for hours on end — quaffing evil fluids.
My classmate always said “If it’s fun it’s sin!”
Spot on, baby! That seemed our college’s reaction regarding “having fun.”
I bet Houghton would be aghast I do so well with ladies. My friend also did well with ladies while at Houghton.
I didn’t, but that was long ago.
Now, 54 years after getting my degree, I’m having much more fun with ladies.
Of course my lady friends are no longer young honeys, except I do have one who’s only age 19.
But I’m not some lonesome hot-to-trot widower. I’m not in pursuit.
We just like talking to each other.
To me that’s what “having fun with ladies” is all about. Yada-yada-yada-yada; talk-talk-talk-talk-talk! No touchy!
Talking is what women seem to love = let ‘em talk, especially laughing.
Last August a really pretty girl told me what women love most is laughing.
Not too long ago one of my lady-friends made a comment which prompted “oh, a smarty-pants, eh? A wise-guy!” She knew I was imitating Moe of the Three Stooges. Laugh-laugh-laugh-laugh-laugh! (“Here, see this?” POINK!)
And it sure is fun.
Entirely contrary to my upbringing, wherein “having fun is sin.”

• Geneseo State College was perhaps 30-40 miles from Houghton. It wasn’t religious.
• My upbringing had input from 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.

“Well, why didn’t you?”

—So asked a classmate at my 40th high-school reunion in 2002.
My wife was still alive then; she went with me.
She died of cancer ten years later, just short of my 50th.
I singled out this lady and said “Would that I knew back then what I know now. I woulda taken you out.”
“Well why didn’t you?” she exclaimed.
“Because back then I was royally messed up. The product of hyper-religious parents, and others, who convinced me ‘NO GIRL WILL ASSOCIATE WITH YOU!’
I was rebellious and DISGUSTING because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
Not much changed until my wife died. Since then my sordid childhood has been flip-flopped.
Self-loathing continues, but I since befriended so many pretty ladies it became apparent ‘NO GIRL WILL ASSOCIATE WITH YOU!’ was bunk.
Perhaps you remember the following,” I said to my high-school classmate.
“Botenelli was dee-jaying a Jr. high sock-hop at Springer, and engaged me to entertain with my sax.
After my sax, Botenelli left, and I fell to dee-jaying myself.
BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! on the far-away locked front-doors of Springer.
It was my hyper-religious father come to retrieve his rebellious son.
What I remember most is the look of horror on ***** *****’s face as my father dragged me away by the ear.
‘Is this for real? Is this actually happening?’
Yes *****, that was my father, prone to fits of amazing madness. And I was playing the Sword-of-the-Lord card.
To my father I was evil.
(***** went on to marry her high-school sweetheart, and was also our school’s humanities scholar. Our school didn’t have a valedictorian, which she woulda been.)
Shortly after my family moved to northern DE, another classmate invited me to a sock-hop.
‘ARE YOU KIDDING?’ I shouted. ‘No way is my father gonna let me attend a dance.’ —No prom for this kid either. My sister did after a screaming Mexican-standoff with my father, which my mother ended: ‘Oh Tom, I think it’ll be all right.’”
(Dancing, of course, was Of-the-Devil to my father.)
“We’da gone to Lynthwaite’s for ice cream,” I told my classmate.
“I wish we had,” she said.

• During junior-high and high-school I blew first-chair alto saxophone. (No longer.)

New roof

New metal roofing gets applied to our garage. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—31 years ago, when my wife and I designed our house (the one I currently live in — my wife died eight years ago)…..
……I did a gigantic Spec-Book that turned off at least one of our four bidders.
Another was turned off by architect requirements regarding our treated-wood-foundation. (“Sure, replace the foundation in 10 years.”)
Only two remained interested, one of whom remodeled our kitchen in Rochester, and built a few houses on his own — including his own house.
The other guy did energy-efficient housing, what we were interested in.
That kitchen remodeler ended up being our contractor.
(“Which will it be?” I asked. “Ford-man or Chevy-man?” Our kitchen remodeler drove a Ford pickup. The other guy drove a Chevy pickup. I’m a Chevy man myself, but I needed someone willing to take risks.)
As finished our house had 30-year shingles. I don’t remember if we specified that, but the contractor was driven to “do-it-right.”
His angle was to build per what he built for himself.
If his house had 30-year shingles, our house would also have 30-year shingles.
I don’t think you can get 30-year shingles anymore. They may no longer be legal = too much asphalt.
My roof is now 30 years old. I probably could bend another year out of it, but I wanted a metal roof.
30 years ago our roof woulda been white = less a heat sink. Now I go for marketability = “barn red.”
Our contractor was always mad at his wife, and also his overly-confident son; who flattened some of his shrubbery with a dump-truck.
But he always tried to please me.
I think he appreciated how much research my wife and I had done. He never built “superinsulated” before, so we became a team.
My Magic-Marker® marks are I still on the inside of an exterior-shell corner. They were for “double-wall construction,” which he was not familiar with.
The shell-walls of my house are a foot thick. Eight inches of blown-fiberglass are inside the exterior wall. 4-inch fiberglass bats are in the interior wall, behind a 10-mill vapor barrier. (10-mill is extreme. We had to UPS it from Minnesota.)
“You could heat that house with lightbulbs,” my contractor joked. But I do have a small furnace.
The layout of my sewer-lines is by ME. The contractor advised, but it’s my layout.
I also liked the way he finished his home’s exterior. “I want similar soffit overhangs,” I told him.
He was going to build separate soffit-structure independent of the shell.
“You don’t have to do that,” I suggested. “Just use the roof-trusses for soffit support.”
He took my suggestion.
The roof lines are also mine: our architect ran with ‘em. I’d made a model, and my wife loved it.
My neighbor once admired my roof lines. “They’re mine,” I declared; “extremely simple.”
We also went about our house-build in an unconventional way. Usually a contractor owns and builds a house on-his-own, then sells to whoever he’s building it for, or otherwise.
My wife and I saved a huge sum, so we payed the contractor as he built. In other words, we owned what he built, instead of him.
So now our house has a metal roof. Not as attractive as shingles, but I bet it outlasts me.

Almost done (front is done, back isn’t). (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Hilda and my parents spin again in their graves

—Tuesday (June 16th), after completing my grocery-shopping at the Canandaigua Wegmans……
…..I returned to my doggy daycare kennel to retrieve my silly monster.
After getting him in my car with noisy histrionics — he’s lame…
…..another lady arrived to pick up her dog. That kennel is closed. But they daycare my dog, among others. They love my dog.
“I tell people I’m 28, but I'm actually 64,” she said.
If I’d thought of it I’da sung her the same Beatles song I sung to a lifeguard-friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool, where I do aquatic balance training.
She’s also 64. “Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I’m 64.”
My lifeguard friend doesn’t look 64. I'm sure she dyes her hair. If she didn’t it would be silver like my friend at the kennel.
I started backing out. That lady was watching. She was too far away to tell if our eyes met, but she was looking for a wave.
Do it! Things are much different since my wife died. Give her a wave, she’ll like it.
10 years ago I wouldna done that. I was DISGUSTING to Hilda Walton, and my parents. (Click the link if you don’t understand.)
SCUM to Hilda. “Rebellious” to my hyper-religious parents, because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
(Hilda was my Sunday-school superintendent neighbor. I bet her husband was fooling around.)
Things are much different since my wife died. I gained so many pretty lady-friends, I’m much more confident talking to a lady. I wouldna done it before, but now I can.
I’m sure this makes all the zealots in my childhood mad as Hell. But I’m having fun.
Give her a wave, and she did love it. (She was hoping I would; a huge smile.)
G-head; make her happy! Nothing makes a woman happier than some dude noticing her.

• “G-head” is how my Down-Syndrome brother used to say “go-ahead.” He died at age-14 in 1968.

On “Rape”

—Titling my blog about my recent haircut “Rape of the Lock,” got me thinking about the word “rape.”
“The Rape of the Lock” was a burlesque written by English poet Alexander Pope in the early 1700s.
It treated theft of a lock of hair from a British damsel without her permission. That caused a gigantic flap among upper-class British families.
Back then “rape” didn’t have the sexual connotation it has now.
By that earlier definition I could say my first kiss was “rape.” It was stolen by Linda ********, youngest child of Ed and Dorothy ********.
Their other child was “Dee-Dee,” also named Dorothy, but called “Dee-Dee” to distinguish her from her mother.
“Dee-Dee” was maybe three years older than me, Linda the same age.
The ******** where our neighbors in Erlton. They lived at 623 Jefferson Avenue, we at 625.
Linda and I were hiding in shrubbery in front of 623. We were both about age 3 or 4.
All-of-a-sudden Linda kissed me, a stolen kiss. I started crying = “rape.” I hadn’t permitted her.
Many kisses occurred since, all requested or per my permission. But that first kiss was “rape” by the old definition. I felt violated.
Our friendship wained. I no longer was comfortable with Linda ******** = a “rapist.”

• “Erlton” (‘EARL-tin’) is the small suburb of Philadelphia in south Jersey where I lived until I was 13. Erlton was founded in the ‘30s, named after its developer, whose name was Earl.
• Perhaps because of this incident, I was always leery of anyone named “Linda.” For 44&1/2 years I was married to a “Linda.”

“I just want my silly dog back!”

—I said that to a nice veterinarian at Ark Veterinary Hospital and Urgent-Care.
I was referred there because my regular vet couldn’t schedule an appointment.
We were following COVID-19 protocols. I was outside in my car, and Killian was inside being diagnosed.
“I want back my lunging chick-magnet, who drags me into meeting so many pretty girls,” I could say.
“Oh what a pretty dog! Followed by “Here I am talking to another pretty girl.” That contradicts my childhood.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU;” the notorious Hilda Q. Walton. (Click the link if you need explanation.)
That’s Hilda and my Bible-beating parents, who heartily agreed I was disgusting, mainly because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
The vet was discussing whether I could afford 300-or-more buckaroos. The actual amount was $428.50.
Four days ago Killian returned from hunting in my vast backyard, loaded with burrs and greenery, many more burrs than usual – hundreds.
He also got himself sick. He refused to eat the next four days.
He probably caught something — a nest of baby bunny-rabbits, mayhap.
Down the hatch, causing stomach-upset and nausea.
I feed him raw, but it’s freeze dried, much like kibble. “Big-Nose” appeared as soon as I opened the bag.
“Is he drinking?” “Yes.” “Urinating normally?” “Yes.” “Stools?” “Hardly anything, and very runny.” “Diarrhea?” “No.
I gave him Famotidine a few days ago, but then I stopped.”
“Famotidine is fine,” she said. “Go back to giving it to him.”
Various medicines were dispensed, including an anti-nausea injection.
“Give the dog a pill?” I exclaimed.
“I get chomped.”
“Pill-Pockets,” they advised.
“Sure,” I said; “eat the pill-pocket, then spit out the pill.
He snuck one off a cabinet — it had a pill in it, and he ate everything but the pill.”
They returned Killian to their entryway for me to pick up.
More trauma = a floor so slippery it throws the dog down.
Why are veterinary hospitals finished with a slippery floor?
Killian’s back-end is weakening, yet on a slippery floor he can’t dig in his front paws to pull himself up.
My pet-supply, which welcomes dogs with parents leashed, is the same.
And Killian wants me around. He loathes COVID-19 social distancing.
Leaving him with a vet, a complete stranger, is traumatic, especially on a slippery floor.

Righty-lefty, lefty-righty!

My favorite Transit ride was 2105 with an “artic;” and it’s the one “Blondie” got. (The destination sign says “1300 E. Main,” which is “the Barns.” Run complete, I have just pulled in.) (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—During my 16&1/2-year career driving transit-bus for Regional Transit Service in Rochester……
……My all-time favorite rides were our 300-series, our first “artics” (articulated). They were German design, but built in North Carolina to be “made in America.”
Our mechanics hated ‘em, since they were metric.
They were almost 60 feet long, but bent in the middle = hinged. The motor and drive-wheels were in the front part, and the trailing part had a separate engine to drive the air-conditioning.
I used to tell the bus-placer they needed to attach that large AC motor to the drive motor. (Six more cylinders.)
They were bog-slow and heavy. You had to hit the accelerator when the opposing light changed to yellow.
But they rode great, unless you drove across a pavement depression and they started pogo-ing.
All our other buses rode like lumber-wagons. Suspensions wore out, prompting replacement with el-cheapo parts, which turned ‘em into lumber-wagons.
And everything else rode on airbags; I don’t know if our 300s did.
Sometimes an airbag blew, plus our buses were supposedly self-leveling. (If the right side got heavier than the left side, the right side pumped up to level the bus.)
The idea of a “bendable” was to carry more passengers per driver. I don’t think that’s what happened.
2105 (above) covered two separate morning bus-trips from Rochester’s eastern suburbs. To do that I had to start in 10-15 minutes earlier, then be 10-15 minutes later through the second suburb.
The two separate bus-trips averaged 50-60 passengers total. 2105 averaged 30-35; hardly the capacity of a 300.
Fairport residents had to get up 10-15 minutes earlier, and my East Rochester residents ended up late for work.
Of course none of that mattered to my all-knowing managers as long as they continued receiving their bloated paychecks.
But they were probably crestfallen our 300s weren’t getting the projected passenger-counts.
Time to hit the company water-cooler for free coffee and day-old donuts supplied by our boss.
As you can tell, we lowly bus-drivers and mechanics (unionized = GASP!) were always at loggerheads with management. Despite that I always say Transit paid for my house.
Some of that was no Corvette, no speed-boat, no motorhome, and no kids to put through college.
All of which contributed to owning my house free-and-clear, plus healthcare and other bennies.
After 16 years I didn’t wanna drive bus another 14-15 years. Driving bus was fun at first, but our clientele was getting troublesome.
Thankfully, my stroke ended my bus driving, and got me into the newspaper-biz. Although that paid nowhere near as much.
But I loved our 300s. One of my best rides was to a faraway rural suburb in the morning. Deadhead out (no passengers) then express-to-downtown.
I covered quite a few stops northwest of Rochester, then got on an expressway. Hammer down, pedal-to-the-metal, head for the passing lane! 65 mph, about all a 300 would do.
(I used to say it was no fun driving bus unless you could hammer-down at least once per day.)
My passengers loved it. A fast ride into the city. I averaged 15-20 regulars.
35 or more passengers in a 300 was silly, but there was more to it than my bus.
To my passengers I was “a good one.” Never absent, and always on time no matter what the weather. And I waited if I saw a passenger running for my bus.
Nope, that’s “Blondie.” She’s four houses down the street, but I ain’t stickin’ ‘er. I rode bus myself years ago.
The other trick was backing an “artic;” same problem as faced by drivers of 18-wheelers.
Most of the time a bus goes forward, so the driver never has to back up.
Turn to back-up left, and the trailer swings right. This made a difference in the old Midtown Plaza Park-and-Ride terminal.
Pull-in then back out, making sure your trailer didn’t clout something. To get the trailer aimed right, you had to steer left at first.
For whatever reason I wanted to make sense of this. You could do it wrong and usually get away with it. A supervisor was there to stop you if need be.
Often after returning to “the Barns” I was directed to park my 300 next to a wall behind the Overhaul-Shop.
Challenge time: parallel-park an “artic.” The only way to do this was backing.
Righty-lefty, lefty-righty! I parked successfully, three feet from the curb front-to-back. (15 minutes, and maybe four tries.)
Would anyone else do this? I bet the mechanics noticed.
As I increased in seniority, I picked runs that used a 300.

• An “artic” (“r-TIK”) was a two-section (“bendable”) bus powered by one motor. The second section was a trailer connected to the first section by drawbar/bellows. An “artic” had a single driver.
• 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.
• Bus-runs are picked by seniority.
• For you lecherous readers, “Blondie” was young and pretty, but smoked. (No way in a million years could I climb in the sack with a smoker!)
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, large sheds for storing buses inside. An operations administration building was attached. We bus-drivers always said we were working out of “the Barns.”

Rape of the Lock

—At long last, after 2-3 months of COVID-19, my overly hirsute locks are shorn.
A giant heap of white whiskers adorned my hairdresser’s worktable. I shoulda taken a picture.
No longer will one of my lady-friends be able to weave corn-braids into my hair.
And thankfully, per my hairdresser, she hadn’t attacked me with her dog-grooming clippers.
“I’ve trimmed so many messes,” he noted.
With me a haircut is every five weeks, and that includes a trim of facial hair.
I was wearing a mask at first. He wasn’t, but “I don’t wanna spray my kooties all over you,” I said.
“You’ll hafta remove that mask if you want me to trim your beard,” he remarked.
“That’s the worst part,” I commented.
So now, at long last, I’m no longer Santy-Claus. “Ho-ho-ho. Merry Christmas!
Nor am I the “Abominable-Snowman,” nor the “Wild-Man-of-Borneo.”
“Your hair is long,” my hairdresser observed.
“Yeah,” I said; “over my ears and all white.”
Years ago I let it go uncut for a while, but decided in favor of a haircut. And back then it was still brown, but too unkempt.
I also switched to a beard years ago to avoid shaving, which bloodied my sink.
But no Moses-beard for This Kid. COVID-19 tempted me to shave it off, but it looks okay short. And shaving seems less blood-prone than 40 years ago.
As far as I know that gigantic whisker-pile didn’t clog his toilet.

• “The Rape of the Lock” was a mock-heroic narrative poem written by Alexander Pope in the early 1700s. It had to do with the unpermitted cutting off of a damsel’s hair-lock, which caused a rift among upper-class English families.
• That lady-friend is co-owner of a nearby kennel where I daycare my dog.

Still communicatin’

Look hard and you can see the double top left. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—As you all know, Yr Fthfl Srvnt continues low-level communicatin’ with his aquacise instructor.
She’s cute for her age, and she suggested aquatic balance-training for me in her YMCA swimming pool in Canandaigua, where she’s head instructor.
My balance is going south — I’m diagnosed with neuropathy.
I don’t know if she’s married, but I think she is. We never discussed that, but with others I have.
If there’s one thing I learned since my wife died, it’s that friendships with women are much more pleasant than with men. Men often become suspicious, or combative. Maybe not physically, but verbally.
And friendship with women flies in the face of how I was brought up. “NO PRETTY LADY WILL ASSOCIATE WITH YOU!” That’s notorious Hilda Q. Walton — no explanation needed. (Click that link if you don’t understand.)
Sadly, my first contacts with this aquacise instructor, among others, were overwrought.
She probably was no more interested in me than any of her other male clients, but never before had a pretty lady seemed interested in me. So I overreacted.
How I remain friends with another early contact I have no idea, although I didn’t have her phone number.
I did have my aquacise instructor’s phone number, so a blizzard of texts began. I also had another lady friend coaching me to be more forward (thank you *****, never again).
I cut back, but our communicatin’ continues. —At a much lower level. Occasionally I try to stop altogether, but “Oh ***** **** might be interested in this.”
Recently I photographed a rainbow (above) for my brother’s Facebook. I mistakenly also put it on my own Facebook.
Much to my surprise that lady reacted right away. I didn’t photograph it for her.
We’re Facebook “friends,” thanks to a fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies.
We’re worlds apart, but I thought she’d be similarly horrified when I mistakenly killed four baby robins.
She was.
Other pleasant memories remain, even though they go back to “too many texts.”
—Once she texted me from Detroit’s airport. She was probably flying back to Rochester after flying home to VA. She was probably responding to one of my too many texts.
—I took a picture once to prove I’d been out Canandaigua’s City-Pier, and she thought it fabulous. It’s Canandaigua’s famous boat-houses (below), and my photo was barehanded in frigid weather with a lunging dog.
My picture is also a repeat of similar artsy photos — the boat-houses do that. There’s little photographer input. It’s just a pot-shot.
—She began Facebooking photos she took herself. Most were pretty good, and one was extraordinary.
—I gave her a packet of seeds my wife wouldna thrown out. I think she understood — most wouldn’t.
—I Facebooked my “Chessie” blanket (also below), and she “liked” that. For most it would be “who cares.”
—Knowing I’m a railfan she texted me a Tumblr® video of Nickel Plate 765, the BEST restored steam locomotive I’ve ever seen. She wouldn’t know it was 765, but I did immediately, and told her.
So here we are still communicatin’. She could tell me to stop, but she hasn’t. It’s much more low-level than before, but we continue.
I feel like I’m sharing the same things I shared with my wife.
The other night I cranked that iPhone rainbow picture into my Photoshop-Elements, and I manipulated it a little. I pumped up the color saturation, and darkened it a hair. I was so blown away: “that’s something ****** **** might wanna see.”
Previously it was my wife. I’m not lonely, and I’m not bored. But our friendship is pleasant.

Years ago, probably the teens or ‘20s, a Chesapeake & Ohio railroad crew found a stray cat on one of its passenger trains. They adopted the cat, and nicknamed it “Chessie.” “Chessie” became the railroad’s mascot. As many more railroads were merged into Chesapeake & Ohio, C&O renamed itself “Chessie System.” “Chessie” was emblazoned on the front of its locomotives. Even more railroads were merged into “Chessie System,” which renamed itself “CSX.” “Chessie” was retired. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Canandaigua’s boat-houses. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.
• “Color saturation” is how intense the colors are. If I were to “pump it up,” I would make reds even more red, yellow more yellow, blues more blue, etc. I can exaggerate the colors in a rainbow. With Photoshop-Elements I can increase or decrease the color-saturation different from what the camera saw. I can also increase/decrease brightness, contrast, tint, lots of things. Photoshop-Elements is great fun!
• My beloved wife of 44&1/2 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. BEST friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.

Another “Relations with the opposite sex” celebration

(Sorry, readers. All too many pleasantries are occurring, and they all involve women.

—“I’m trying to eat my breakfast-cereal before 4 PM.”
I shouted that to one of my lady friends as I drove out of their boarding kennel. (She was driving in.)
The other day I walked my dog on “the peaceful walk through nature.” It’s Ontario Pathways rail-trail. But the part I hike probably isn’t the part my lady-friend calls “a peaceful walk through nature.”
That rail-trail is drying out. There’s water here and there, but my dog needs much more.
3.2 miles and only one water stop is probably a bit much for both of us.
—Okay, time for a smile. We would go to my pet-supply in Canandaigua, in hopes ******** (“Cutie Pie“) would be there.
“Bark-Bark-Bark-Bark!” as I entered. Then “Look who’s here!” I yelled.
“Killian!” ******** shrieked, arms reaching skyward for a gigantic hug.
Then “What fun would it be to come here without Killian?” I asked.
Our eyes met, and hers were smiling. We were wearing masks, but her eyes gave her away.
And what pretty eyes they were = sparkling and bright. And unlike 10 years ago I look right at ‘em.
(“Don’t do that to me,” I think. “With eyes like that I melt.)
—Next smile would hopefully be at my boarding kennel, which I pass on my way home.
I’d only pull in if a car I recognized was in the parking lot. *****’s mother’s car was outside.
***** came out and struck a pose, smiling. Cute as could be and only 19. “I’m old enough to be your grandfather,” I said.
Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada — we talked and talked and talked and talked and talked.
“***** and ****** aren’t here,” she said.
“But you are,” I said.
I falter some; shocked I do as well as I do = say the right things at the right time = practice.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” Yet this girl wouldn’t leave. (“He’s makin’ me feel wonderful; and he’s not a creep.”)
Finally, “I sure am glad I stopped.”
“I’m glad you stopped too,” she smiled. (UNBELIEVABLE!)
A pretty girl wants to hang out with me? (Again, UNBELIEVABLE!)
Smile-fix number two, or four; WHATEVER.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL SMILE AT YOU!” Smile like that and I am done.
“If you only knew,” I said to myself as a motored out their driveway.
—But WHOA! Here comes smile-fix number three, or six; WHATEVER.
It’s ***** and ******, co-owners of the kennel. ***** was driving, so she pulled next to me. We opened our side windows, and the wisecracks began.
“I can weave corn-braids into your hair,” ***** said.
“Oh STOP!” I shouted.
Laugh-laugh-laugh-laugh-laugh. Make ‘em laugh! They love it.
And I love it too. It’s flip-flopping 70+ years of my sordid history.
My hyper-religious parents and neighbor Sunday-School superintendent spin in their graves.
14,000 RPM, enough to power Florida south of Orlando.

• 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).

Bright eyes

—“I don't know you from the Moon,” I said to a pretty lady smiling at me from inside the George Ewing memorial conference-room near Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department.
“But I recognize you, and you’re smiling at me. I can tell!” I said. “Your eyes give you away.”
We were all wearing masks. I saw that lady last week in the same location.
I had a physical-therapy appointment the other day, and after clearing Security — masks, temperature check, “the speech” (COVID-19 questions): “Can I use the little boys room?”
To do so I have to walk a long hallway which passes the George Ewing memorial conference-room. George Ewing, Sr. was head honcho of the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper when they hired me.
I guess he donated a lot of money to Thompson Hospital. Next-door is a continuing care-center (nursing home) named after his wife.
Both died years ago; his wife first.
A lot has changed since my wife died. When I passed that conference room last week, and that lady waved at me from inside, 10 years ago I woulda kept going.
Instead, I stopped, wheeled around, and went back to the door that looked into the conference room. “Do I know you?”
So now, when I pass that conference room, I always look inside to see if I see that lady again.
Back-and-forth before my appointment, then back-and-forth after. Nothing each time, except passing the last time.
There she was again, sitting in the same chair, waving at me from behind her mask. “It IS you, isn’t it?” I said. “I don’t know you from the Moon, but I recognize you — and you’re smiling at me!”
Call that a flirt if you wish. 10 years ago I wouldna done it. But a lot has changed.
It’s so easy, and so much fun. The ladies love it. They attracted me. That makes a lady feel great. So much better than the attention of some lecherous geezer.
What’s notable is 10 years ago it wouldna happened. I’da walked right past that doorway without looking inside. If she had waved at me, I’d pretend I didn’t notice.
And here I am looking inside that conference room for that lady, hoping our eyes will meet again, and we will smile at each other.
And WOW! There she was! Our eyes met, and we smiled at each other. Mask or not — the eyes always tell!
Gigantic reversal of my childhood (“NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!”) began at Thompson Physical-Therapy years ago after my left knee was replaced.
“Cutie Pie,” young and cute, was my therapist.
I got so I could talk to her — I no longer was intimidated.
Also about that time I befriended an outgoing lady at my Goodwill donation center. She was probably in her middle 40s.
Baby steps = my first steps.
Then a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming pool said hello to me by name. She was statuesque — in her early 60s, but didn’t look it.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL TALK TO YOU!”
Then my aquatic balance-training instructor at that YMCA swimming pool, also a cutie, wanted to meet my new dog.
I never had anything like that happen in my entire life (76 years old). Per my parents and the infamous Hilda Q. Walton I was SCUM! (“Rebellious” to my parents, but they agreed with Hilda.)
And so my turnaround began. I blew that aquacise-instructor all outta proportion. She probably was no more interested in me than she’d be with any of her male clients, but “NO PRETTY LADY WILL BE INTERESTED IN YOU!”
I began meeting other pretty ladies.
Walking my dog at a Canandaigua city park I got dragged onto a dock were a tour-boat ties up. A pretty young girl was out there taking a breather from jogging.
“Oh what a pretty dog,” she exclaimed. Surprise-surprise! “If I knew you were out here I woulda gone the other way,” I said.
Then to myself: “Here I am talking to a pretty girl.”
My silly dog, a chick-magnet, was dragging me into talking to pretty girls.
I remember talking to a pretty blond. 10 years ago I couldna done that.
Last August a gorgeous stunner at a party came over to talk to me. Our eyes met; I got so I could do that.
Yada-yada-yada-yada, then “it sure was pleasant meeting you.” She loved it — a gorgeous lady. I cried afterwards (UNBELIEVABLE!).
Get the endorphins flowing = make ‘em smile or laugh.
That pretty girl last August told me what women love most is laughing.
And I’m doing it. It’s so much fun I can’t resist. I pass that conference room looking for another smile.

• I do dry-land balance-training in a hospital Physical-Therapy department. I also do aquatic balance-training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming pool.
• The Canandaigua Daily-Messenger is the 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.)
• 3-4 years ago I had my left knee replaced.