On *****
It's apparent my continuous talking about Hilda Q. Walton is driving people crazy! Guilty-as-charged. This will be my last.
It's just that finding out 70+ years late that Hilda and my parents were WRONG is so surprising and amazing I talk about it too much. I can talk to pretty girls! Spin on Hilda baby!
—For 16&1/2 years Yr Fthfl Srvnt drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the provider of transit bus service in Rochester (NY) and environs.
It was supposed to be temporary until I found employ as a writer: public relations, etc. But it paid well and was pleasant to start, mainly learning to drive large vehicles.
My stroke 26+ years ago ended it, but I was tiring of it.
My final run, which had me pulling out at 5:05 AM, had me getting up at 3 AM, and going to bed by 8:30 the night before.
The biggest problem was our clientele, which had me picking country runs.
City runs could get you mugged, or even shot. One of our drivers was run over by her bus and killed.
During those 16&1/2 years I made many friends, and most were bus drivers.
But a few weren’t. One was ***** ****, head of what that time was called “Human Relations.” Now it’s called “People Department” — I stifle a giggle.
Back then “Human Relations” was on the first-floor of the Administration Building — we called it “the Crystal Palace.”
Now the first-floor looks like a prison entrance. It’s set up to keep the public at bay.
I remember ***** telling me about some angry drunk staggering in to threaten all-and-sundry.
To her that was terrifying, but “*****, those are the people we parry every day!”
I remember some passenger incensed Motor-Vehicle took his license away for drunk driving . He had to use the bus — GASP!
Finally, I got mad. “People like you are the ones that kill motorcyclists, and I’m a motorcyclist.”
For whatever reason that shut him up — no pity from this kid!
Yesterday's wake-up dream was about ***** ****, who of course I hadn’t seen in 26-27 years.
I attended a Transit retiree function, I think it was a Christmas-luncheon, and ***** **** was there.
“Are you ***** ****?” I asked.
“Yes,” she smiled.
It was the same smile my aquacise-instructor rendered years ago, that I blew all outta proportion.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!” the notorious Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious Sunday-school superintendent neighbor, who convinced me all males, including me at age 5, were scum.
Had my parents come to my defense, Hilda woulda crashed in flames. But they heartily agreed. To them I was “rebellious” for being unable to worship my holier-than-thou father.
A wonderful thing to tell a five-year-old little boy = marked-for-life.
I also had a coach advising me to be more forthcoming.
“Don’t listen to ******,” my bereavement-counselor told me. “You’ll make many more lady friends just being yourself.”
And I have, but sadly that aquacise-instructor was the first pretty lady to smile at me in my entire life. (70 years late.)
I’ve experienced many more pretty-lady smiles since, some way more extraordinary than that aquacise-instructor, whose smile seems kinda sad.
So there’s ***** smiling at me, and the worst thing a pretty lady can do is smile at me — it indicates she enjoys my company. (Utterly impossible to Hilda.)
***** isn’t gorgeous, but she also isn’t gross = thunder-thighs, insanely fat, a slovenly Harley-Mama.
**** was her last name years ago, although I think she married and changed to her husband’s last-name, or **** was her husband’s last-name and they divorced.
Whatever, she was smiling at me; which makes her “cute.” Same with my aquacise-instructor.
I’ve since learned to not be so smitten by a female smile.
And also that Hilda and my parents were WRONG!
• I always say Hilda and my parents spin in their graves, 14,000 RPM, about what a recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might get; enough to power FL south of Orlando.
• 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.
• As a result of my wife dying eight years ago, I see a bereavement-counselor once a month.
It's just that finding out 70+ years late that Hilda and my parents were WRONG is so surprising and amazing I talk about it too much. I can talk to pretty girls! Spin on Hilda baby!
—For 16&1/2 years Yr Fthfl Srvnt drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the provider of transit bus service in Rochester (NY) and environs.
It was supposed to be temporary until I found employ as a writer: public relations, etc. But it paid well and was pleasant to start, mainly learning to drive large vehicles.
My stroke 26+ years ago ended it, but I was tiring of it.
My final run, which had me pulling out at 5:05 AM, had me getting up at 3 AM, and going to bed by 8:30 the night before.
The biggest problem was our clientele, which had me picking country runs.
City runs could get you mugged, or even shot. One of our drivers was run over by her bus and killed.
During those 16&1/2 years I made many friends, and most were bus drivers.
But a few weren’t. One was ***** ****, head of what that time was called “Human Relations.” Now it’s called “People Department” — I stifle a giggle.
Back then “Human Relations” was on the first-floor of the Administration Building — we called it “the Crystal Palace.”
Now the first-floor looks like a prison entrance. It’s set up to keep the public at bay.
I remember ***** telling me about some angry drunk staggering in to threaten all-and-sundry.
To her that was terrifying, but “*****, those are the people we parry every day!”
I remember some passenger incensed Motor-Vehicle took his license away for drunk driving . He had to use the bus — GASP!
Finally, I got mad. “People like you are the ones that kill motorcyclists, and I’m a motorcyclist.”
For whatever reason that shut him up — no pity from this kid!
Yesterday's wake-up dream was about ***** ****, who of course I hadn’t seen in 26-27 years.
I attended a Transit retiree function, I think it was a Christmas-luncheon, and ***** **** was there.
“Are you ***** ****?” I asked.
“Yes,” she smiled.
It was the same smile my aquacise-instructor rendered years ago, that I blew all outta proportion.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!” the notorious Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious Sunday-school superintendent neighbor, who convinced me all males, including me at age 5, were scum.
Had my parents come to my defense, Hilda woulda crashed in flames. But they heartily agreed. To them I was “rebellious” for being unable to worship my holier-than-thou father.
A wonderful thing to tell a five-year-old little boy = marked-for-life.
I also had a coach advising me to be more forthcoming.
“Don’t listen to ******,” my bereavement-counselor told me. “You’ll make many more lady friends just being yourself.”
And I have, but sadly that aquacise-instructor was the first pretty lady to smile at me in my entire life. (70 years late.)
I’ve experienced many more pretty-lady smiles since, some way more extraordinary than that aquacise-instructor, whose smile seems kinda sad.
So there’s ***** smiling at me, and the worst thing a pretty lady can do is smile at me — it indicates she enjoys my company. (Utterly impossible to Hilda.)
***** isn’t gorgeous, but she also isn’t gross = thunder-thighs, insanely fat, a slovenly Harley-Mama.
**** was her last name years ago, although I think she married and changed to her husband’s last-name, or **** was her husband’s last-name and they divorced.
Whatever, she was smiling at me; which makes her “cute.” Same with my aquacise-instructor.
I’ve since learned to not be so smitten by a female smile.
And also that Hilda and my parents were WRONG!
• I always say Hilda and my parents spin in their graves, 14,000 RPM, about what a recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might get; enough to power FL south of Orlando.
• 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.
• As a result of my wife dying eight years ago, I see a bereavement-counselor once a month.
Labels: Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, Relations with the opposite sex
posted by BobbaLew at 6:39 PM
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