On charm

—Yesterday Yr Fthfl Srvnt renewed contact with some of the pretty ladies I befriended thanks to Killian.
But this time no Killian. I had to pull the plug a couple weeks ago. Cancer hit him like a ton-a’-bricks.
Spunkiest Irish-Setter I ever had, then suddenly BAM!
“Are you sure you want me to visit?” I asked my lady friends.
They’re the ones who boarded Killian. Frequently they daycared Killian.
I’d be relying on my own charm; my four-legged charmer was no longer alive.
“Sure!” they told me.
My childhood convinced me “NO PRETTY LADY WILL ASSOCIATE WITH YOU!” So I have doubts.
“We want you to keep coming,” the cute co-owner exclaimed.
“I do like coming here,” I told her.
My 19-year-old friend — I’m pretty sure she’s 20 by now – walked in and struck a pose.
WOW; I’m not used to this. She’s being cute.
“What's all this about?” I asked, as I struck the same pose back.
“Bob, if she trusts you that much, you should take advantage.”
“No way José! I’m not gonna ruin a fabulous friendship by becoming a lecherous geezer.”
She’s gonna encounter creeps and weirdos galore, and I won’t be one of them.
I know, she’s young and finding her way, but I’m not gonna put her on the defensive.
Just shooting the breeze is too much fun, and every once in a while I get the pose.
“Uh-oh…..,” I think; “five-foot two-inches, 125 pounds, but she’s gonna kick my butt.”
And there she is, smiling at me again — “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL SMILE AT YOU!”
Mostly I was talking to the co-owner. I used the word “dude,” and she laughed uncontrollably.
The same thing happened long ago with my lifeguard-friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool. “LA-DEE-DAH,” I’d said. She laughed.
“Yes *****, ‘La-Dee-Dah’ is the real me talking.” And so is “dude.”
What do ladies want most? A male friend they can laugh with; not some lecherous creep they hafta parry.
In other words “I really like hanging out with this guy.”
I’ve had it happen.
Like always, I had to shut us off. (I expect the ladies to wanna stop talking with me, but that’s not what happens.)
We’d yammered almost a half-hour.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL TALK TO YOU,” yet the one who cuts us off has to be me.
“Groceries await,” I said.
“BEHAVE!” they shouted.
“Yes mother,” I said, and they all laughed.
That’s the key = make ‘em laugh.

• “Killian” (as in Killian Irish-red) was 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 was my fifth rescue.

Last night’s iPhone adventure

—Anyone reading this blog knows Yrs Trly purchased a new iPhone a few months ago, an i11-Pro.
It has three camera lenses; an i11 (non-Pro) has only two.
That third lens is telephoto, and cost me $400 more. The total cost of my i11-Pro was 1,000 smackaroos, thus reprising the joke about charging $1,000 for an iPhone.
I don’t know if the lenses are zoomable optically or digitally, but I’ve used all three.
Like all smartphones it has a touchscreen. Caress the telephoto icon, and I can zoom the telephoto. Caress the other lens icons, and I can zoom those lenses.
Great! Check the viewing window, and see what you get.
The i11-Pro replaced my i6, which produced fabulous photos, but its battery was acting wonky.
The techie at my Apple-store noted my battery was swollen, victim of an overly heating closed case. I could repair my i6, but an i11 didn’t cost that much more.
It was about time to retire my i6 anyway.
What really sold me was login by facial recognition. No more failed attempts at textual login ruined by sloppy keyboarding — a stroke-affect.
I set up fingerprint login on my i6, but it fails after maybe six months. It needed to be renewed.
Facial recognition would circumvent the failed logins.

Last night my i11-Pro locked up. It happened before; my brother showed me how to reboot my iPhone trackside in Altoona — out in the middle of nowhere.
Lotsa noisy blustering about how a reboot reorganizes your smartphone’s hard-drive, making it more efficient.
LA-DEE-DAH! So I rebooted my iPhone (I forget why), activated by a touchscreen icon.
Except now my iPhone touchscreen was dead = “frozen” as they say.
So NOW WHAT? How do I reboot my phone without its touchscreen?
Years ago, well before my wife died, and I was still using an ancient Motorola G4 Apple tower, instead of this laptop……
A girl who worked at the Mighty Mezz as a photographer when I was there (she no longer was at the Mighty Mezz) came to visit and advise regarding my ‘pyootering.
We came upon a technical logjam, so the girl fired up YouTube to query it.
VIOLA! Great idea! I’ve done that ever since — hundreds of times.
YouTube has hundreds of little video-clips about how to solve various technical problems: e.g. how to finagle Facebook insanities, retrieve logins, etc.
So I wrote up a YouTube question regarding how to reboot an iPhone with a frozen screen. Thankfully I can use dictation with my Apple “Pages” software, which gets around my erratic post-stroke keyboarding.
(Thousands of times I’ve asked when Gates and his cronies are gonna make their Microsoft software friendly to us stroke-survivors? Apple does.)
I got my iPhone to reboot by engaging Siri; that still worked = my screen was dead except for Siri. “Reboot my phone!” I screamed.
YouTube came later, and none of my hits mentioned Siri.
But now, thanks to YouTube — and that girl — I can reboot my i11-Pro, even with a frozen screen.
Thank you AM!

• My brother and I photograph trains down near Altoona PA, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern. Every year I take 13 of our 89 bazilyun photographs to assemble into a calendar — I do it with Shutterfly. I give those calendars as Christmas presents.
• My brother, whose company I enjoy, is an all-knowing, know-it-all, knower-of-all-things. He lives near Boston.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost 15 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.)
• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012.
• “AM” is ****** ******, my Messenger photographer friend.

Wandering off-topic

(Screenshot by BobbaLew.)

—The image above was posted to a “story” of one of my Facebook “friends.”
I screenshot it so I could put it on my own Facebook, with which I do little.
The image was “liked” by some of my Facebook “friends,” most of whom are ne’er-do-wells like me.
“I bet you’re on that Facebook every minute!” my brother bellows. He refuses to Facebook, as do many of my actual friends.
“NOPE!” I commented. “At most an hour per day, if not less. I only have 53 Facebook ‘friends,’ not the hundreds of some.”
The fact I have a Facebook at all is due to a fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies.
Some of my FB “friends” are also due to similar SuckerBird fast-ones, like secretly trolling my iPhone contacts.
I think of one “friend” in particular. I put her business-card phone-number in my iPhone contacts, and suddenly she was suggested as a Facebook “friend.”
WHAT? How did that happen? She’s not mutual with any of my “friends.”
So who knows if any others were suggested. I don’t add “friends” galore, and have “friends” I could “unfriend.”
Being “friends” with her is okay, since we are similar in some ways. In other ways we aren’t.
Occasionally she posts something on her Facebook worth “sharing.”
But it woulda been better if we had crossed paths not via a Facebook fast-one.
I have other “friends” who found me legitimately. A girl with whom I attended college, a cousin who thinks like I do, plus the first girl I dated in high school. (She lives in Washington State.)
I have another “friend” I found myself only because she told me she had a Facebook, so I looked for it. I rarely talk to her, only on her birthday, which I don’t do via Facebook.
For a while SuckerBird and his cronies deluged me with busty cleavage. Like my age (early 70s back then) made me a lecherous geezer.
Finally they gave up!
What always melts me is some pretty girl smiling at me, an indication she enjoys my company.
And many of my female friends are flat-chested. But they can talk, and that's what matters. Sex is pleasant, but it can ruin conversation.

I had to look back at that screenshot, since I seem to be wandering off-topic.
I had to get used to considering myself an artist, since I always was told I was stupid.
I used to be able to line-draw, and I come from a family of so-called “artists,” mainly from my father’s side. My aunt (his sister) could paint, and my youngest sister wanted to become an artist. We’re good with our eye-hand coordination.
The import of the image seems to be that artists consort with the dregs of society.
This certainly is true in my case, since most of my friends are ne’er-do-wells.
“What in the world does she ever see in him?” my wife’s mother shrieked on first meeting me. “He’ll never amount to anything!”
And I haven’t = 16&1/2 years of driving transit bus.
“You have a college degree, and you drive bus? What did you major in?”
“Bus-driving,” I’d say.
My wife always told me the reason we lasted 44&1/2 years was because I could make her laugh.
“Yer gonna get married someday,” I’ve told many pretty young girls. “Whatever ya do, marry someone that can make ya laugh!

• 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.
• My beloved wife of 44&1/2 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. BEST friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.
• I lost my ability to line-draw with my stroke. (I also lost nine years of classical piano-training.)

Thank goodness I know a little HTML

—“Why, pray tell, would it do that?” I asked myself.
I was assembling my giant Train-chase from Hell blog comprised of 14-15 files = a file for each photo, and there were 14 photos.
The first file went on correct, everything aligned flush-left.
But then all the text under the second photo was align-center — centered in the column, with widows and orphans standing out.
Widows/orphans are one or two words at the end of a paragraph that hang below the paragraph.
I don’t worry about widows/orphans as long as they’re flush-left. At the Mighty Mezz a page-editor would go back through the paragraph to take out a word or two, and thereby kick the widow/orphan up into the paragraph.
But if that widow/orphan is centered instead of flush-left it stands out like a sore thumb.
My knowledge of HTML is tiny. I go by how the HTML displays my blog.
I know <br> prompts a one-line paragraph drop, and <p> is two lines.
<i> and </i> begin and end italic text, and <b> and </b> begin and end bold text.
<u> and </u> begin and end underlining.
I also know other HTML tags, like for photographs and links. (“Train-chase from Hell” is a link.)
I also have one for blog-rules, e.g.:

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All were copy/pasted (stolen) from an HTML book.
I also made my own HTML tag to defeat Internet-Explorer’s mucking up my blog.
That was years ago. Hopefully Gates and his cronies have made IE better. (My browser is not Internet-Explorer.)
I studied BlogSpot’s picture-tag. It had “text-align = center”.
WHAT? Engage “try it and see what happens.”
I took out “align = center,” then published.
VIOLA! All the text below that second photo was flush-left.
AMAZING = just an experiment.
Guess I gotta take “align = center” out of 12 more HTML picture tags.
“Try it and see what happens” is the way I learned computering and my iPhone.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost 15 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.)

Flirtin’ with the waitress

—“You have brown eyes,” I said to our cute little waitress (server?) in an Altoona restaurant.
She was no more than 17 or 18 years old.
What I failed to say is “I notice because we’re all wearing masks.”
That takes the edge off what could be perceived a flirt, sort of a “how ‘bout it, honey?”
I was in Altoony with my brother and another friend to chase and photograph trains.
Mainly to introduce my friend, a retired bus driver like me, to train-chasing.
It’s a shame pretty young girls quickly become jaded by loathsome lotharios.
My brother and my friend were already doing a bang-up job of talking to her, so I let ‘em. Just talking is what I’d do too — my brown-eyes observation was just an aside.
Women, girls, ladies love talking.
LET ‘EM!
I’m glad my brother is already talkative; I’m getting there 70 years late.
If we get stopped by police, I let him do the talking. If I say anything the police get defensive. He has the hang of it, and I’m only getting there.
To say she has brown eyes (and I prefer blue), tells her I like what I see. This makes cutie-pie feel good = more likely to talk.
Something similar happened a few years ago at my nearby town park. I was walking my dog, and a pretty lady approached walking her dog.
We talked a bit, then “I see gray hairs,” I said.
That made her very happy. That meant I’d checked out her hair, and liked what I saw.
It was only an aside, but she wouldn’t leave.
I’d made her feel really good.
Finally after about 20 minutes, I had to break off our conversation. Our dogs were going nuts. “What’s all this yammering about? We have sniffing to do!”
I decided to give our waitress a similar out. “We gotta let this poor girl work,” I said.
She threw up her hands, and glanced around the restaurant. We were the only ones there.
She wouldn’t leave. We talked quite a bit more. Jabber-jabber-jabber between she and my brother.
Let ‘em talk! Give ‘em a chance. They love jabbering to someone they don’t hafta worry about.
“Flat as a board!” My friend said later.
“So what!” I exclaimed. “She was fun to talk to. All she has to do is smile at me and I'm done.
And mask or not she was smiling; her eyes told me.”
And let ‘em know you think they’re pretty; i.e. you enjoy their company.
Again, it’s a shame that waitress will quickly become jaded by the “how ‘bout it” crowd.

• 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.

GO TO HELL!

—“No pretty girl will talk to you, yet here you are talking to me.”
I said that to my cute 19-year-old contact at the kennel that used to daycare my dog.
I think by now she’s 20.
I’d been recounting my hoary childhood. “You don’t know my history,” I told her.
What’s notable is I backhandedly inferred she was pretty, and she noticed.
Ten years ago I couldna done such a thing.
A while ago I said something similar to my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua's YMCA swimming-pool: “no pretty girl will talk to you,” etc. etc.
I was backhandedly telling her she was pretty, and she liked that.
I could see it in her eyes.
“Yes, I think you’re pretty, and despite my childhood I’m gonna tell you that.”
“GO TO HELL, BOBBY! DO NOT PASS ‘GO’; DO NOT COLLECT $200. GO DIRECTLY TO HELL!”
Again, what’s notable is I can do this. 10 years ago NO WAY, JOSE!
That’s a flirt = EVIL, I tell ya!
That kennel-girl smiles at me and I melt.
It helps I’m not some lecherous geezer, but 10 years ago I woulda been scared.
Me, a disgusting scum-bag, male (gasp!), possessed with evil intent and lust?
70 years ago my parents, et al, convinced me I was disgusting. I carried that albatross ever since. Only now, since my wife died, do I realize it was bunk.
“I sure hope your boyfriend makes you smile like I do.”
“I wear the pants,” my friend said. “But he’d take a bullet for me.”
“And I wish I’d known 10 years ago what I know now. I coulda made my wife happy too.”
So now off to Altoony, hoping to meet my cute receptionist friend at our Motor Lodge.
“You’re doing it again, smiling at me.”
She will, eyes flashing, and I’ll love it.
As my college friend said: “if it’s fun, it’s sin!”
But it sure is fun!
“GO TO HELL, BOBBY! GO DIRECTLY TO HELL!”

• “Bobby” is of course me: Bob Hughes.

Cancer always wins

—What follows is what I’d say to *****, my cute little 19-year-old contact at the kennel where I daycared Killian.
I haven’t seen ***** in a while, so I worry.
She probably knows Killian is gone; her coworkers probably told her.
***** seemed to love Killian.
I took Killian to my local pet-supply before I put him down.
Killian always loved going to that pet-supply. He’d bounce out of my car, then drag me toward the entrance.
The door opened automatically, then “pets, please keep your parents leashed.”
And in we’d go, thrilled to greet his many friends. Everyone at that pet-supply loved Killian.
“Such a ham,” followed by, “pet me!”
I’d try to shop, and Killian dragged me back to his friends.
Nuzzle-nuzzle! = “Why’dga stop?”
But this time was different.
There’s a small rug near the entrance; I’d keep him on the rug so he didn’t fall on the slippery floor. He was only on three legs.
I got him inside, but he wanted to return the car.
The fire was gone; no longer a spunky dog.
This would depress my 19-year-old friend, who may be 20 by now.
She was thrilled a week ago to bring out my Spunk-Meister. Smiling broadly, and I melt when she does.
But now the fire was gone = no more Spunk-Meister.
“I just wanna go home, back to my sofa.”
Cancer always wins! I lost my wife to cancer, and now five dogs (outta seven).
How I ever made friends with a 19-year-old I have no idea. But I think Killian helped.
No Killian if I meet her again. And if I do I’m sure I'll just cry.
We lost a really good one. Cancer always wins!

A sad and sorry end to my chick-magnet

—“Since the late ‘70s I’ve had seven Irish-Setters,” I said to the veterinarian at Emergency Veterinarian Services near Rochester.
I was there to put my beloved Killian down. He had bone-cancer, among other ailments. The cancer had already metastasized into his chest.
“Two Irish-Setters were standouts, and Killian was one of them.
What I’ll miss most is that long nose, plus all the long walks we took — often over three miles.”
Wildest, craziest, spunkiest Irish-Setter I ever had. My previous Irish, Scarlett, was spunky, but Killian spunkier still.”
I always say Scarlett was the one who got me through the worst thing that could happen, the death of my beloved wife; BEST friend I ever had.
Scarlett, like Killian, was also rescue, but from a failed backyard breeder. Killian came from divorce.
My wife and I got Scarlett years ago. “Do I really wanna take on a dog this spunky at my age?” I was in my 60s then.
My wife died eight years ago — we both were 68.
Scarlett lasted five more years, and hung with me despite how messed-up and outta touch I was after my wife’s passing.
Scarlett and I were extremely attached. I was “the Boss,” and Scarlett my side-kick.
I had just turned 74 when I got Killian, and he was even spunkier.
Thanks to Scarlett I learned how to walk a spunky dog.
Let ‘im pull! That way he’s not charging out to the end of his leash to yank me to the ground.
Trainers go nuts seeing my dog pulling. “You gotta show that dog who’s boss.”
Baloney! Let ‘em pull! That way they don’t throw me down.
Scarlett threw me down a few times, but Killian only once.
More than anything they’re an Irish-Setter.
Let ‘em lead; they love it. Yank-a-pull; lunged left-and-right. As long as they’re ahead I can offset a yank.
What I say about Killian was he was a chick-magnet; the one who reversed my childhood.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU” versus “OH WHAT A PRETTY DOG” followed by “here I am talking to yet another pretty girl.”
“If I’d known you were out here, I wouldna come out here.”
Then “oh what a pretty dog! Can I pet him?”
Young and gorgeous — my parents, et al, convinced me I was unworthy. Not too long ago I woulda been scared.
Killian was very much a people dog = looking for human attention.
He dragged me into meeting pretty girls, and I got used to talking to pretty girls.
Go ahead! Say something; let the pretty lady pet the dog.
“What’s his name?” “Killian, as in Killian Irish-red.”
(Say that, and I won’t hafta repeat the dog’s name.)
The ladies love it, especially since I’m not a Harvey Weinstein.
“Oh look at that pretty dog!” followed by “Do I dare come over there?”
“Sure;” and off-we-go to meet three pretty ladies.
Years ago I wouldna said anything, but with Killian I got the hang of it.
Gorgeous and cute and attractive; not the frumps my parents, et al, approved. Most cutie-pies are happy to talk to anyone other than some lecherous geezer.
Ladies make great friends — hardly the trophies Trump and his legions prefer.
Seventy years late I learn this. Contrary to my parents, et al, I’m not disgusting.
And Killian is the one who triggered it. He wasn’t afraid of pretty ladies, so I shouldn’t be either.
The vet probably wondered why I was so distant as Killian was put down. I’m told Killian knew I was there, but he was so drugged he was off in the ozone.
I'm even more alone now = no more second beating heart in my house. No more eyes-on-fire and sonorous barking as we set out for Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
I’d see a deer, and point it out to Killian. “Lemme at ‘im; I’ll get ‘im!”
On the way home from Canandaigua, I’d pass a herd of black-Angus cows. I’d point them out to Killian, and he would send them packing: “get outta that pasture!
I get up from my supper table, and glance into my living-room towards Killian's sofa. No Killian.
I’m alone, and I sure miss that silly dog.

• Seven Irish-Setters, five of whom were rescue, five lost to cancer. (Four out of five rescues; one rescue ran away during a thunderstorm.)

Train-chase from Hell

Westbound empty coal-cars charge off Bennington-Curve onto the long uphill straight towards tunnels atop Allegheny Mountain. An eastbound intermodal is coming down next to it. The third track at left comes down “The Slide” from a slightly higher tunnel atop the mountain. (Smartphone photo by Jack Hughes.)

—“Assuming my brother and I do another train-calendar,” I said to the receptionist at our Motor-Lodge in Altoona (PA)….
“If I mail it to this Motor-Lodge next January are you gonna get it?”
“Yes,” she smiled.”
“I wanna be sure you get it,” I said. “You’re the one who always smiles at me. —Yer doin’ it right now!”
I gave that receptionist our 2020 calendar seven months late. “This is what my brother and I do here.”
She just said hello to me in-passing outside. We recognize each other, and I talk to her.
“Flirting” I call it; but I’m told it’s not.
With MY childhood it’s flirting = EVIL! I’m talking with a female. (Gasp! “Disgusting, I tell ya!”)
I make her smile. Clearly she likes it, and her smile is irresistible.

(That was my first proposed lede. Here’s my second.)

—“Enjoy yourself!” said my smiling 19-year-old female contact at the kennel that boards my dog.
“Would that I could,” I thought to myself. My dog is crippled with a torn ACL. He hops on three legs, and those kennel-ladies rearrange rugs so he’s not on slippery floor.
That 19-year-old calls him “ham,” since he’s such a lovable ham — a people-dog = “pet me!”
(That 19-year-old smiles, and I melt.)
All those kennel-ladies love my dog, and are trying to set up a second opinion — since my first opinion was negative.

(That was my second proposed lead. Years ago at the Mighty Mezz I learned: “start with a quote; readers love dialogue, and a quote draws ‘em in. Otherwise what you wrote lines the bottom-of-the-birdcage.”)

But this trip became the train-chase from Hell.

(Enter final proposed lead.)

—Yr Fthfl Srvnt drove all the way to Altoona without his camera. I had all my other photo-equipment, but not my camera.
“We needed your telephoto at Bennington-Curve,” my brother exclaimed.
“No great loss,” I texted another friend. “I have so many images from earlier trips I wasn’t planning on photographing much. My calendar is only 13 pictures, and many are already planned. I only need a few ‘extraordinaries’.”
These Altoona sojourns have become palling around with my brother.
The only two locations not done yet, one of which is Bennington-Curve, I can try again next month when I plan to go to Altoona with a different friend. My brother may not be able to.
All I hafta know is how to get to Bennington-Curve.
So, I let my brother do the photography, with occasional input from me: “SHOOT-SHOOT-SHOOT-SHOOT!”
He can’t do motor-drive, and his camera sets shutter-speed itself. Often too slow to stop a train.
What I forgot goes well beyond my camera. “Perhaps my crippled dog is a distraction?”
No change of tee-shirts, no hat (in case it rains), no chocolates.
Worst of all was my camera.

My brother comes a day before me — a nine hour trip from near Boston.
A few days later we ram up-and-down 40-50 miles of railroad, taking fabulous photos of trains. We’re both railfans. Altoona was where the Pennsylvania Railroad took on Allegheny Mountain in the 1840s. At that time Allegheny Mountain was a barrier to East-West trade.
The railroad is now Norfolk Southern, but getting a railroad over that mountain is still a challenge. There are heavy grades both up and down — helper-locomotives often get added.
And that railroad is very busy. It’s still a main trade conduit between the midwest and the east-coast megalopolis.
What I usually say is “wait 20-25 minutes and you’ll see a train.” Sometimes it’s longer or shorter, or tracks get closed for maintenance.
That old mainline across Allegheny Mountain is fabulous for railfans.
Trains galore! And wide-open-throttle climbing. In steam parlance it was “throttle-to-the-roof!” With diesels it’s “run-eight!”

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(Wednesday afternoon)

—Per usual my brother drove to Altoona Wednesday, July 22nd.
He arrived early enough to shoot some photos, his first being at Gray Interlocking. Gray is where a signal-controlled siding merges back onto the two-track main.
The siding runs north (railroad east) out of Altoona all the way to Gray, where are the railroad returns to the two tracks to Harrisburg.

35A (mixed manifest) charges through Gray Interlocking, SD70ACe #1000 on the point. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—From Gray my brother charged south to the lower Riggles Gap Road overpass over the tracks, hoping to beat 35A.

35A continues toward Altoona at the Lower Riggles Gap Road overpass. The railroad says 35A is westbound. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—Before giving up for the day, my brother went down into Altoona, and up onto the Eighth Street bridge. (Shooting here in late-afternoon puts the sun behind the train.)

Eastbound intermodal 20R goes through Altoona. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

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(My brother alone on Thursday)

Westbound trash-train exits Altoona for The Hill. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—On Thursday my brother photographs trains while I drive down. I usually arrive in the afternoon, then we hook up and photograph trains until our daylight goes away.
The first place he went, alone of course, was the 24th St. bridge Pennsy’s old Slope-Interlocking. Slope Tower is gone, and now the interlocking is just Altoona’s yard-entrance, as it was under Pennsy.
Exiting Altoona is 63V, a westbound trash-train. The train is all purple containers filled with trash and garbage for landfilling out west.
The trash-train usually stinks = rotten garbage.

Westbound 21E curves toward Cassandra-Railroad-Overlook on Track-Three. (Probably 50 mph.) (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—My brother then went to Cassandra-Railroad-Overlook, where the railroad goes onto the 1898 bypass.
An old overpass remains, converted by a local resident into Cassandra-Railroad-Overlook.
He noticed railfans were hanging out on that bridge. He cut the grass, and added tables and chairs.
My brother said many people were there, plus our usual entrance to Cassandra was all torn up. He got there by driving around.
Cassandra-Railroad-Overlook is a great place to watch trains. They round a curve onto the bypass, and you watch from the overpass, or a nearby grassy hillside.
My brother also said a sleepover was planned at the Overlook.
(How anyone could sleep at Cassandra-Railroad-Overlook is well beyond this railfan.)
Reasons for us to avoid Cassandra.
According to Phil Faudi, my railfan friend from Altoona, 21E is the “UPS-train.”
21E used to be all UPS-trailers to the West Coast. It ran on time, or the railroads got penalized.
Phil is the fan who long-ago started me chasing and photographing trains. He did “tours” at that time. We’d ram up-and-down the same 40-50 miles of railroad my brother and I do.
“Drop everything!” Phil would shout. “21E is climbing the mountain! We could beat it to MO.”
We’d bootleg-turn his aging Buick, and pedal-to-the-metal up Sugar-Run Road.
My all-knowing brother disputes that 21E is the UPS-train.
I really don’t care, but I think Phil is right. He says most of the websites my brother relies on have errors. Phil hangs out with Norfolk Southern crewmen.
Phil told me 21E gets three locomotives, in case one fails.
My brother’s Cassandra 21E has only two.
Things probably aren’t what they were years ago, so 21E may no longer be the vaunted UPS-train.

Eastbound 12G (mixed manifest) climbs Track One toward the summit (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—Then my brother went to “five-tracks,” were PA State Route 53 crosses five tracks of Norfolk Southern’s mainline approaching the summit of Allegheny Mountain.
The two left-most tracks are on the original alignment of the Pennsylvania Railroad. The right-most tracks — the train is on Track-One — are on the alignment of New-Portage-Railroad toward New Portage Tunnel, which is separate from, and slightly above, the original Pennsy tunnel.
Pennsy took over New-Portage-Railroad when it abandoned eons ago. It gave them a second summit tunnel. (They added a third, but it was abandoned when the original tunnel was enlarged.)
“Never before have I seen a railroad mainline with five tracks,” my brother always says. “This is incredible! Even if one of those five tracks is just a siding. Usually it’s no more than two or three.”
The slightly higher New-Portage alignment renders a slightly steeper climb up the west slope.
To get back to the original Pennsy alignment on the east slope, Track-One has to descend a ramp known as The Slide. It’s at 2.28% (originally 2.36%) which isn’t too bad; and now even westbounds are climbing The Slide.
The highway bridge isn’t too bad = traffic is fairly often, but there’s plenty of room to safely set up a photograph. You have to be careful switching sides.
My brother really likes this picture: that 12G is all colorful boxcars slathered with graffiti.

Westbound intermodal on Track-Three cruises downhill through Lilly. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—Then my brother went to Lilly (PA) south (railroad-west) of Cresson.
A large street-bridge leaps over the railroad, plus a small creek.
My brother went up on that bridge, from which we’ve shot many times. I don’t consider the view photogenic, although it’s worth seeing.
The sun always lights only one side of the train, and in the morning it won’t light the front of the locomotive = back-lit. Also, too much straight railroad = to get any curvature, ya gotta telephoto.
I coulda called the train a “stacker,” since it has double-stacks. But it also has TOFC (trailer-on-flatcar).

Westbound 294 on Track-Two trackside through Altoony. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—The railroad fronts some of the streets in Altoona. One street runs parallel to the tracks, and houses are on it.
The houses are on one side of the street, and the tracks are on the other side. A waist-high fence separates from the tracks.
I could never live there: I’d be up all night watching trains.
We tried this location last year, but it doesn’t work very well. Light-wise you’re on the wrong side of the tracks. Plus the background is turgid.

---

(Paling around all-day Friday with my brother.)

747 (westbound on Three) passes the empty grain-train on the Cresson runner. (Still foggy!) (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—On Friday my brother and I chase and photograph trains all day.
But —A) I didn’t have my camera, and —B) There were only two places we wanted to go, both to which we never had been.
First was what I call “the ramp,” railroad-west of Cresson. It’s an on-ramp from State Route 53 onto the Route 22 expressway.
That expressway crosses the railroad on a large bridge, and we haven’t tried it for fear of parking/standing on that expressway.
But the previous day my brother noticed another fan photographing from that bridge, and that fan wasn’t actually on the expressway.
He was on an on-ramp that’s part of the bridge.
The Cresson runner ends at that bridge. Norfolk Southern parks grain-trains on that runner for a transfer to Corman.
Corman operates the old Pennsy branches out of Cresson, and there’s an ethanol plant up in Clearfield (PA).
The grain-train is for that ethanol plant.
Corman brought empty covered-hoppers back to Cresson for transfer back to Norfolk Southern.
The grain cars are on the runner, ready to merge onto the mainline. Engines are attached, but need a crew.
Meanwhile, westbound 747 on Track-Three hurries past the grain-train.

Eastbound intermodal on Track-Two starts into “Benny.” (At left is Track-One; and in the distance are the summit tunnels atop Allegheny Mountain. Also in the distance is “The Slide” down Track-One.) (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—Next would be Bennington curve, a location from which we never shot.
We’ve shot inside the curve, but not outside. The location was a rock outcropping near and above the tracks.
Getting to it was challenging, although we took the hard way = through woods, no paths.
I fell twice crossing downed trees. I was sidestepping, but the trees were only a few feet apart. My balance is awful, so I used my brother’s umbrella as a cane.
Bennington curve is where Pennsy’s “Red-Arrow” passenger-train from Detroit flew off the track at 3:21 a.m. February 18, 1947 after descending “The Slide” at too high a speed without brakes.
All told, 24 were killed and 138 injured.
The “Red-Arrow” was running late, and had two double-headed K4 Pacifics pulling it.
“Benny” is a sharp curve; 30 mph speed-limit. Nearby is the abandoned Bennington mine-camp, with Bennington Cemetery = out in the middle of nowhere.
To get to it you have to travel a trackside one-lane dirt-road — it’s right next to Track-Three.
We stayed there about three hours, and photographed many trains.
It’s a fabulous location, and I’m glad we found it.
That rock overlooks the entirety of Bennington curve, which means the train is in view as well as the locomotives as the train rounds the curve.

591 (empty coal-cars) on Track-Three comes off Benny toward the summit tunnels. It’s passed by 20R headed down The Hill on Track-Two. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

38A descends The Slide. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—Track-One over the mountain had been closed for maintenance pretty much all day. Track-One includes The Slide.
Before we left Benny Track-One was cleared for service. Supervisors patrol the tracks often to locate flaws, like at switches, that need repair. They use pickup trucks with retractable railroad wheels.
Soon 38A was descending The Slide on Track-One.
Things are no longer what they were with in-the-cab signaling. Train-engineers no longer call line-side signals, which we’d hear on our scanners.
Many of those line side-signals have been removed.
But my brother is “smarter than the average bear — nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!”
Train-engineers still call out signals at interlockings, plus in-the-cab signal-aspect changes.
There still is chatter on railroad radio.
Plus he also has crib-sheets galore, and knows what to expect.
He also monitors a new railfan website called PT-242, which logs every train past Horseshoe Curve.
The Mighty Curve is part of the railroad over Allegheny mountain, and 242 is the milepost location from Philadelphia.
“23Z, westbound on Three, just passed the Mighty Curve. We could beat it to Portage.”

23Z, Penn-Central Heritage-unit on the point, curves off the 1898 bypass into Portage. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—We packed up and left Benny — no falls, since we were on paths.
That rock outside Bennington curve is the BEST location we ever been to.
We motored to the abandoned trailer behind the old railroad station in Portage.
Portage is where the 1898 bypass eastbound begins. The original Pennsy mainline remains — it’s used as a secondary to-and-from a coal loadout.
We been to that Portage trailer many times — my 2019 Christmas-card is from that trailer.
But this time the trailer was socked in by weeds.
Boring to this kid, but my brother has the camera — and the Penn-Central Heritage-unit was on the point.

---

(Addendum)

—Amidst all this, and out in the middle of nowhere at Bennington curve, I got a deluge of faraway phone calls concerning my dog.
Luckily I had my iPhone and working cell-phone service. All calls were from home, 265 miles away — although my phone nearly died.
My crippled dog developed an infection in his ailing leg, and had to be taken by my kennel-friend to an emergency veterinary service.
With COVID-19 that friend had to wait outside four hours.
I was making a torrent of executive decisions from out in the middle of nowhere.
“You do pretty good for a stroke-survivor,” my brother commented.
My kennel-friend finally retrieved my dog, along with anti-infection pills. I shouldn’t have gone to Altoona, but “go to Altoona,” she said. We didn’t expect such a mess.

• RE: “throttle-to-the-roof” and “run-eight.” Steam locomotives usually had their throttle lever, maybe three feet long, hinged to the cab roof. Pulling it back all the way — full throttle — meant angling that long lever up toward the cab-roof. Diesel locomotives usually have eight throttle positions on their control-stands. Run-eight (the final position) is maximum fuel delivery = the equivalent of full throttle. (Diesel engines aren’t throttled.)
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

A “cripple” mayhap?

—My cousin David reports via Facebook he is at a Toyota dealership in Springfield VA.
“And I guess we’ll be here a while,” he remarked in a comment he later hid.
Dave is the only child of my father’s younger brother Robert (“Rob”).
My Uncle-Rob once told me anyone named Robert was automatically Of-the-Devil. His father’s name was Robert, his name was Robert, and of course my name is Robert.
“A cripple mayhap?” I thought to myself.
Reminds of a trip my wife and I took long ago with our first Irish-Setter “Casey.”
Our car was a 1978 Rabbit purchased used; it had non-factory accessory air-conditioning.
The trip was from our home in Rochester (NY) to my wife’s parents’ home near De Land FL.
We’d take “scenic” routes along the Atlantic coast, and visit Saluda grade, a railfan pilgrimage stop. (I’m a railfan.)
Saluda is the steepest mainline railroad grade in our country: 4.24/4.9%. (That’s 4.24/4.9 feet up for every 100 feet forward; go beyond that and you need cog railway — the drive-wheels won’t hold the rail, they’ll slip.)
Freight-trains had to be tripled to climb Saluda — that’s divide a train into three sections.
Descending safely was also a challenge. There are runaway tracks, and a train had to maintain 8 mph to switch past a runaway track. (And of course there have been runaways.)
Saluda is now closed. I think the track is still there, but it’s no longer operated.
Saluda grade could be deadly. A cheap shot: just run the railroad right up the side of the mountain = no loops, no switchbacks. Then hope for the best!
We stopped in the town of Saluda at the top of the grade. The grade dropped off just like a roller-coaster.
Volkswagen designed a flaw into anything with a transverse engine, and Rabbits used a transverse engine.
Motoring near Saluda our Rabbit died. It wouldn’t even crank. Obviously our battery was dead.
A friendly Volkswagen-owner stopped and jumpstarted our car; apparently there was enough to run our car, but not crank it.
Meanwhile my poor wife was parrying a railfan hot to find Saluda. I was so obsessed I hardly noticed the dead battery. Plus Casey got into tar — it was in her coat. “Gotta find Saluda!”
And of course finding it was nearly impossible = driving all-over-creation in mountainous woods, with a nearly dead battery.
A gas station quick-charged the battery, so we found Saluda, and also found a Motor Lodge in nearby Spartanburg.
Fingers crossed, we hoped the battery would get us to the Volkswagen dealer in Spartanburg.
It did. 170 buckaroos to replace a suspect alternator.
Fiddlesticks! That alternator was probably fine.
Years later I had a 1983 Rabbit GTI. Suddenly it wouldn’t crank!
I got my various testers out, and determined that alternator was charging fine.
But its output wasn’t making it to the battery.
I thereupon wired my own workaround, such that now the alternator was charging the battery.
I poked around and noticed the charging lead was soaked. That alternator was charging everything but the battery.
How many Rabbits, Jettas, and Sciroccos did I see behind tow-trucks? (They all had the transverse motor.) A wonderful way to sell Bosch alternators ($$$$).
I helped a guy with a Scirocco once = dead battery.
“I bet your charging lead is shorting out. Tell that to your mechanic!”

• “Cripple” is bus-lingo. If a bus won’t operate, it’s “crippled.” I drove transit bus 16&1/2 years.

Secrets

—My mother was secretive. There were things she refused to talk about.
First was my Aunt Ginny, one of her older sisters.
Aunt Ginny’s last name was “Broadwater.” But there was no Broadwater.
The only “Broadwaters” I knew were David Broadwater and Mary-Lou; both were cousins.
So where was their father? I dared not ask for fear of getting smacked.
“I am your mother” (SMACK!); “and you are rebellious!” (SMACK!)
I saw Walt Disney’s “Cinderella” as a child. As soon as I saw “Mary Queen-of-Scots” I thought of my mother.
“OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!” was the same as “DON’T GET SMART!”
Or was it “Snow White?” Happily-ever-after with prince-charming who was a toad until kissed.
“Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy!” SMACK!
Most friends can’t believe my parents were so awful.
My youngest sister bewails I say such terrible things about my mother.
“Well, the parents you had weren’t the parents I had,” I say. “By the time you guys were born, they were so worn out they no longer could be the Sword-of-the-Lord.
I was first through the jungle,” I say = first-born, and unable to worship my holier-than-thou father.
The second secret was Timmo, my brother Tim, who was supposed to replace Tommy, who died of leukemia in 1953.
But Timmo had Down syndrome, and died at age-14.
I always say the classiest thing my parents did was to bring Tim home instead of institutionalize him.
But he may also have had some bodily flaw my mother refused to talk about, like a hole in his heart or liver or something.
Supposedly Tim died of dehydration, but why he dehydrated isn’t explained. I dared not ask: “DON’T GET SMART!”
Our family’s joke is my youngest sister is a product of my mother and “Big Ed,” our milkman.
I doubt it! Another secret, mayhap?

• My youngest sister was born 17 years after me. By then I was driving. I brought her and my mother home from the hospital.
• “Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy!” was from the earliest days of television: the program was Smilin’ Ed’s Gang.

#1600

Pennsylvania Railroad’s E-6s Atlantic (4-4-2) #1600. (Photo by Jim Buckley.)

(This blog was written last month, but I never got a chance to publish it.)

—The July 2020 entry in my Tide-mark All-Pennsy color calendar is Pennsylvania Railroad’s E-6s Atlantic (4-4-2) #1600 ready for duty at Camden Engine Terminal in 1955.
By 1955 many railroads switched to diesel locomotion, but Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines (PRSL) still used hand-me-down steam-locomotives of its two co-owners, Pennsy and Reading.
By 1955 dieselization began on PRSL, but they still had steamers in use.
Which means I probably saw #1600. In fact, I may have ridden behind it.
That was 1949. My father took my sister and I on a train-ride, Haddonfield (NJ) to Philadelphia. Our locomotive was an E6 Atlantic.
I have recordings of E6 Atlantics, and the one I remember is #460, the “Lindbergh engine” (see footnote below). 460’s whistle was wonky and I remember hearing it as a child.
460 still exists. Pennsy saved it, and now it’s at Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania in Strasburg PA.
It’s cosmetically restored, and on display — inoperable.
The E6 Atlantic is not a powerhouse. It’s more a speedster.
Pennsy built 80 in 1914, and they were intended for lines without grades.
Their first stomping-grounds were what we now call the Northeast Corridor, Washington DC but only to New York City, not Boston. And the E6s couldn’t access Manhattan Island. Only north Jersey at first, and by 1914, Pennsy ran tunnels under the Hudson River with third-rail electric locomotives.
Smoky steamers would be impossible. Those “tubes” are 2.76 miles long.
The railroads that became the Northeast Corridor weren't electrified at first. The E6 Atlantics were designed for that service = flat-out speedsters on grade-less railroads.
The E6s ran all the way to Manhattan-Transfer across from New York City in north Jersey. Pennsy swapped out the E6s for DD1 third-rail electrics for “the tubes.”
“The tubes” remain in service, but need to be replaced. Pennsy switched to overhead power delivery, and eventually wired all the way to Washington.
Amtrak now owns and operates that line, and can run 120 mph or more where permitted.
The Northeast Corridor is now our country’s supposed “High Speed Rail.” Except there are twisting segments that can’t run high-speeds.
Zoo-Interlocking in Philadelphia is 40 mph railroad. And a lot more than Amtrak uses the Corridor. All the major cities have non-Amtrak commuter-service.
Everything has to fit a system laid out eons ago. And it’s not direct. The Corridor gets switched this-way-and-that, to connect lines laid out in the 1800s.
“The tubes” also have limited clearance. You can’t run freight through ‘em, or even double-deck passenger cars. If intended for “the tubes” the equipment has to fit “the tubes.”
To me the E6 Atlantics were the prettiest locomotives on PRSL.
Both the E6 Atlantics (4-4-2) and K4 Pacifics (4-6-2) have that same red Keystone number plate on the front of the smoke box, but most K4s got front-end modifications not used on the E6.
Many K4s moved the headlight atop the smokebox so the generator could be relocated to the smokebox front. A platform on the smokebox-front was added below to service that generator.
Many K4s replaced that gorgeous slatted pilot with a heavy cast-steel drop-coupler pilot.
The front ends of the E6 and K4 were identical at first. But later the “beauty-treatment” was done to most K4s. (Pennsy’s M1 “Mountains” [4-8-2] had the same “beauty-treatment.” I never saw an M1.)
I always looked for the red Keystone number plate as a child. That meant I’d see a gorgeous steam locomotive. Reading’s steamers, which PRSL also used, were ugly.
Only recently did I learn of the “beauty treatment.” I didn’t notice as a child. All Pennsy steamers were gorgeous. Their proportions and lines were much more attractive than Reading.
So here we have E6 Atlantic #1600, one of those “dirty old steam-engines,” per my mother.
I bet I saw it as a child, and got covered by cinders as it chuffed out of Haddonfield’s railroad-station.
“Oh, Bobby; you and those dirty old steam-engines” — SMACK!

• In 1927, when Charles Lindbergh solo-flew nonstop USA to Europe, the first to do so, he returned to Washington DC on the US Navy cruiser USS Memphis. At that time, before TV, newsreel footage was usually played as a preview in movie theaters. So the race was on to see who could get newsreel footage from Washington to New York City first. Most newsreel companies used airplanes, parachuting undeveloped newsreel footage into New York City. In New York it had to be developed and assembled before it could run in movie theaters. International News Reel Company took a different tack; namely to use a train, so as to develop the film enroute in a baggage-car converted into a darkroom. The engine used was E6 Atlantic #460, the last E6 built. Often well over 100 mph! International News Reel won! Their footage was in theaters first, and #460 still exists. A train got those newsreels to New York City theaters before the airplanes.
• “Haddonfield” (“ha-din-feeld”) was an old Revolutionary-War town in south Jersey near where I lived as a child.

Lust

—76 years old, way over-the-hill, somewhat obese, walk like a little old man……
But still smitten by pretty ladies.
Just shopping my supermarket makes that obvious. We’re all wearing masks due to COVID-19.
But I can still see their eyes, etc.
“WOW! Look at her, then look at her, then look at her!”
Flaccid arms, but she might be fun to talk to.
Years ago I drove bus for Regional Transit Service. The hardest thing in summer was to get past the Liberty-Pole on Main Street in Rochester.
“How am I supposed to keep it between the lines with all them pretty ladies lounging in the sun?”
I suppose this attraction between sexes is designed in. Procreate the species, blah-blah…..
Otherwise how would anyone be attracted to anything so scattershot?
Wherein is a nose attractive?
Imagine some extra-terrestrial encountering humans. “UGH! Who designed that?”
And please don’t smile at me. Do that and I melt.
I find myself tryin’ to make ‘em smile.
Do that, and we all feel good.
Sadly, I learn this 70 years late.
I have one female friend only 19 years old. I guess I gained her trust. I’m not some dirty old hot-to-trot widower.
She’s cute, but not extraordinarily.
But when she smiles at me I love it.
I guess I’m more attracted to that, not the physical.
I suppose what matters to This Kid is “can we talk?”
Many can’t, so I keep looking = looking for that smile.

• 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.

On smiling

—“You’re smiling,” I said to my cute little 19-year-old contact at the kennel that daycares my dog.
Eyes flashing she smiled even more; she was lighting up the entire neighborhood.
This wasn’t supposed to happen: convinced at an early age I was unworthy.
“I’m happy your dog seems better,” she smiled.
“Is this just a sell-job?” I’d ask myself; “smile and make the customers wanna come back?”
If so it sure does work.
How can I switch kennels and leave behind that smile?
“You better stop smiling,” I thought to myself.
“Your dog seemed spunkier, not the utterly whacked out dog we had the other night.
“I sure hope your boyfriend does this,” I’d say = “tell you you’re attractive.
Marry someone and flirting goes away.
I had to lose my wife to see that. BEST friend I ever had; she liked me from the get-go.
Make ‘em feel valued; they eat it up.
I’m hardly Adonis: 76 years old, outta shape, and slightly obese. I walk like a little-old-man.
Yet here’s this little cutie smiling at me; something I thought I’d never see.
So go ahead — infer they’re cute.
Let ‘em know you enjoy their company.
It’ll make everyone happy, including yourself.
I wish I done that with my wife.

• My dog is currently crippled — he has a torn ACL. He can’t walk on all four feet. I left him at this kennel while I photographed trains with my brother down in Altoona (PA). —While away his leg became infected, but we reduced that. Otherwise he may have to be put down, but hopefully not right away. We may have to amputate one rear leg.