On striking sparks

—“She’s probably a slut,” I say to myself.
The fact a fiftyish woman so enjoyed my being attracted to her has me wondering.
I turned and said hello to her the other day, and clearly she loved it. She kept smiling at me. We were striking sparks.
“I still attract the attention of the younger ones,” except at age-76 I’m hardly a younger one.
But I AM laughably innocent. My experience with women is zilch.
It’s my childhood of course. Convinced at an early age that no female would have anything to do with me. Marked-for-life, = scared of women.
But now, 70 years late, I find that horribly WRONG. My silly dog, who I no longer have, can take credit.
He’d drag me into meeting pretty girls, and got me used to interacting with pretty girls.
But my interaction with women is rudimentary. We strike sparks, and it makes us both feel good. I tell a girl she’s pretty and she smiles. No “buzz off creep,” perhaps because I’m so innocent.
“He’s not hittin’ on me, but we sure are striking sparks.”
I worry what my innocence might get me into. Striking sparks is a lotta fun, and if doing that makes a girl feel good, well hooray!
Except I like it so much, I take chances I probably shouldn’t take.
Better not say anything. It might get me into trouble.
But I loved seeing that older woman smile.

My calendar for November, 2020

21V struggles for the mountaintop. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—“Not bad, R-J,” my brother declared.
“Tried to tell ya!” I exclaimed.
Thus concluding a torrent of noisy bellyaching refusing to at least check out this location.
My brother Jack was driving per usual. We had driven a long service-road east of Pennsy’s old summit tunnels atop Allegheny Mountain.
We went inside Bennington curve, and passed this location going.
“I’d like to at least check it out,” I said as we returned.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada! Complain-complain-complain-complain-complain!”
By diverting to this location, my brother would no longer be in command. He’d be acquiescing to my desire.
We can’t have that! Not with a retired all-knowing power-plant manager.
Much to my surprise, we drove back to check it out = a rocky overlook between the tracks and the road. I’d seen railfans there before.
The location is towards the top of the mountain. Altoona-to-the-summit is all uphill, and trains slow as they near the top. The grade is constant, but long.
Curvature also slows train-speed, and Bennington is tight and near the top.
The train pictured had just passed Benny at this location. It’s HAMMERING! Run-Eight = full-fuel delivery.

• “R-J” is of course me: Robert John Hughes.
• A diesel-electric railroad locomotive has eight fuel-delivery positions the engineer can use. “Run-Eight” is maximum.

Look what we been missing!

—Per text a prescription was ready at my pharmacy. I went there after hiking Lehigh Valley RailTrail and saying hello to my dog’s ashes.
At my pharmacy I was met by a fairly attractive girl who I never met before. It wasn’t pretty *****. No sign of her at all.
I couldn’t talk! Her eyes left me speechless.
“It’s your eyes,” I told her. It took me three stuttering tries to indicate the pharmacy had my prescription.
Gotta not tell her she has gorgeous eyes; but her eyes were smiling.
“No fair!” I’d say. “How am I supposed to do anything with you knocking me out with them eyes?”
I think she liked it. I wasn’t giving her the presidential once-over, or grabbing her privates. I was attracted by her eyes.
Our eyes kept meeting, and hers kept smiling. She wasn’t looking askance — she wasn’t turning away.
“It’s these masks!” I blubbered.
So now I worry about pretty *****. I can imagine her being let go for not meeting “goals.”
Amazingly ***** and I became friends. We’re worlds apart, but she knows me, and I know her, so we talk, which is great fun.
And ***** reverses my childhood. “No pretty lady will ever become friends with you!” But ***** did, and she doesn’t avoid me.
(Plus I owe her son a train-calendar; she tells me he really likes it!)
***** is prettier, but her eyes aren’t those of this new girl.
As I walked away I turned back toward those eyes again and said “look what we been missing!”
Her eyes smiled again.

• 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. (I give one to pretty *****, who gives it to her son, who is five years old, and loves trains.)

Never-ending blog-material

—“Guess I better not tell that girl she has pretty eyes,” I said to a friend. “That could become blog-material.”
Last night I and that friend, plus two others, all of us bereaved, ate out at a restaurant in Canandaigua. We do it every week, and have been for years.
The girl tending bar was cute; she had gorgeous eyes.
I texted all that to another friend afterward, a fellow retired bus-driver like me.
I have so much success telling girls they have pretty eyes, he warned me I might get bit.
More importantly I know what happens. When I strike sparks with a pretty girl, which always seems to occur, I end up blogging it. Lawn goes unmowed, mail remains unopened; writing is more fun.
And of course “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL ASSOCIATE WITH YOU!” is my torrid childhood. So I am blown away when I strike sparks with a pretty girl.
If she smiles at me or flashes her pretty eyes, I am done! “You can hide behind that mask, but you’re smiling. Your eyes give you away!”
I’ve had so much success at it, I find myself amazed. It flip-flops my entire childhood, wherein I was convinced I was rebellious and disgusting.
For over 70 years I was terrified of pretty girls, scared to even say anything to them.
And now I find myself experiencing amazing success striking sparks with pretty girls.
I was convinced at age-5 that anything like this would never happen.
And if I may say so, I think the fact I’m not checking out their physical attributes, e.g. their rack, is extremely appealing.
No, what got my attention was their eyes. “You’re someone I could talk to = I see it in your eyes. Talk to me! Keep going! Tell me anything!”
Or as I said to pretty-eyes at my computer store the other day “tell me more!”
I think that’s what women want more than anything: talk-talk-talk-talk-talk.
Forget “cozy.” Talking comes first. And so often are the Trump wannabes hittin’ on the pretty girls no wonder I always strike sparks.
So now I’d go to Lehigh Valley RailTrail to hike it, and say hello to my dog’s ashes.
Except there’s always a chance I’ll encounter some pretty girl, and we’ll strike sparks. It’s happened so many times I’m a little afraid of hiking that rail-trail, because I end up getting blog-material.
Lawn goes unmowed, mail remains unopened, etc.
It’s also raining.

Every day something

—“Can I just squeeze in there and get something?” a pretty lady asked me.
I was slowly perusing the frozen vegetables section at my supermarket in search of the elusive frozen asparagus.
Our eyes met, as they wouldna five years ago, and her eyes were gorgeous.
I almost said something, but she grabbed what she wanted, and disappeared.
I continued shopping, then began self check-out. But I forgot my wallet. I asked the supervisor to cancel my transaction, so I could go out to my car and get my wallet.
I ambled outside, and there she was again, taking off her mask, and getting into her car.
Wallet retrieved, I walked over to her car, which was one or two parking-slots away from mine, and she rolled down her window.
“I almost said something,” I said; “but I didn’t. Your eyes are gorgeous.”
“Why thank you!” she gushed.
The infamous Hilda Q. Walton, and my hyper-religious parents, would call that flirting (Ugh!).
For me to tell a female she was attractive would be EVIL and DISGUSTING.
For 70+ years I was convinced no girl would ever have anything to do with me.
Now I find that totally WRONG.
I’m amazed no female has told me yet to “buzz off, creep” or “get thee behind me Satan!”
I tell some girl she’s pretty, and she blushes. I turn and say hello to a lady yesterday, thereby acknowledging I found her attractive, and she smiles so broadly she lights up the parking-lot.
No one is telling me to “get lost.” They eat it up, or so it seems. Flirting I suppose, but not “hittin’ on ‘em.”
It also helps what got my attention was the eyes, instead of other sexual attributes. (I’m not The Donald.)
Hook-nose, a little heavy in the hips, but gorgeous eyes.
“The eyes are the window to the soul,” a lady-friend tells me. What’s behind those windows might turn me off, but the windows were gorgeous.
After saying goodbye, I hurried back into my supermarket, saying “every day something” to myself.
I bet “pretty-eyes” tells her husband some geezer told her she has pretty eyes. —I think she really liked it. It seemed she did.
I’m told I’m dreamin’ to think so; in which case I say “DREAM ON BABY!”

“Yer smiling at me!”

—I said that to a 50-ish lady I never met before my entire life, and probably will never meet again.
“Always,” she cooed, smiling even harder — lighting up the entire area.
Think about this readers: of course she smiled. The fact I turned and said hello indicated I thought she was attractive.
I parked my car in the parking-lot of the Honeoye Falls supermarket I occasionally use. I needed to use their bathroom.
Finished, I walked back outside toward an adjacent hardware store to buy batteries for my remotes.
To do that I had to walk right past two ladies, who just sat down together at an outside table.
As I started past, the attractive one turned and glanced at me. So I stopped, turned, and said hello to her — a complete stranger.
She smiled. That’s all it takes: “No pretty lady will smile at you!”
Okay, her legs were old, but shapely and rather exposed = they got my attention.
Her hair was gray, but fulsome and undyed.
Things are different than they were five years ago. If yer gonna turn and glance at me, I’m gonna stop and say hello back. You’re attractive enough for me to do that, and I seem to be able to get away with it.
What I didn’t notice was her figure or any cleavage. What got my attention was her smile. It made a difference she wasn’t bloated or disgusting, but her smile was what blew me away.
Batteries purchased I walked back outside, and “fair is fair; now I gotta say hello to the other one” (who wasn’t as pretty).
As I turned back toward my car, that 50-year-old smiled at me again, so broadly it nearly knocked me over.
This keeps happening, readers = complete reversal of my early childhood. It keeps blowing me away; totally unexpected.
Never-ending blog-material. Every day something!
“No pretty lady will smile at you!” Yet so many do.
I am so surprised by that, I celebrate it too much.
Plus I fish for it; I didn’t used to.
“I’m not used to this,” I said to her as I walked away.
I think I made her feel pretty good; she sure made me feel good!

• This battery purchase was part of an errand, where I also went to my computer store. There I was served by a lady with pretty eyes. “Do I dare say this? You have pretty eyes.” Ker-SLAM! She smiled behind her mask = her eyes told me — they twinkled. I also waved goodbye to her; five years ago I wouldna.

Story-time

Killian with his ducky. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“Any chance I can get you to complete your story?”
A gentleman asked me that as he started to pass me on Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
“What story?” I asked.
“Why you come here to say hello to your dog’s ashes,” he said. (Earlier I told him that when he passed me.)
“Well, I’ve had seven Irish-Setters, and Killian was number seven. He was my fifth rescue, and was the most extraordinary setter I ever had.
“What’s a rescue?” the guy asked. “Rescued from a puppy-mill?”
“Nope,” I said. “His previous owner got divorced, and was left with Killian. He had to leave Killian in his house all day so he could work. Not fair to a dog as spunky as Killian.
He didn’t wanna give up Killian. But his situation was unfair to an Irish-Setter.
So he turned Killian over to me, extremely lucky for both of us, the most incredible Irish-Setter I ever had.
Wild and crazy, and also a “people-dog.” He’d lean into people and nuzzle = “Oh what a friendly dog!”
“Thanks to Killian I got so I could talk to pretty girls.
Killian and I hiked this rail-trail many times. He’d yank me towards the woods, and start barking. I never saw anything, but ‘CRITTERS BEWARE!’
All I had to do was give the signal, and not just in these woods, and ‘Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!'
So I figured these woods were where to put him to rest.
And now his ashes are no longer visible — from dust to dust.”
“I already took a picture of the marker where you dispersed the ashes. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a picture of you. Things being how they are nowadays, not often do I come across a person who cares.”
“I dispersed the ashes of other dogs, but never kept reconnecting,” I said. “But Killian was extraordinary, so ‘hello Killian!’
I can’t stop. Neatest dog I ever had. I cry every time I say hello.”
“I’m gonna put this on my Facebook,” the guy said as he unholstered his iPhone.
I couldn’t just stand for him, so I sat on a rock. It’ll be a squint photo. The sun was so bright I couldn’t open my eyes.
People ask: “Why are you still heartbroken over losing a dog?”
Killian was extraordinary.

Chick-magnet defined

—A Facebook lady-“friend,” with whom I long-ago attended college — she was class of ’68, me ’66…….
Commented on “A girl named ***” that I am a “chick-magnet.”
I find that laughable.
I’m 76 years old, slightly obese, and can hardly walk. I’m hardly a stud.
She Googled “how to be a chick magnet.” I always call Google “the Dark Side” — and they’re not driving my car!
“To be a chick magnet, you need to constantly show respect to the women and girls around you. Respect speaks volumes. Women who know you respect them will want to be around you. Show respect to the girls and women around you.” (My underlining.)
“Right on the money, honey,” I told her. Treat females with respect and they flock to your side.
“Respect” is part of it, but I think there’s more.
Namely, make ‘em laugh, and make ‘em smile.
A really pretty girl once told me what women like most is laughing.
I’m motoring toward my dog kennel; I don’t remember why. The two female co-owners are leaving for coffee.
“STOP! That’s Killian’s dad!”
SLAM! Into reverse. Then back toward the kennel.
One co-owner gets out to greet me. I make her laugh, and I’ll probably do it again.
So yes, I treat her with respect. We talk, and I wanna hear what she says.
Beyond that, I also make her laugh. That’s irresistible.
Do that, and they won’t walk away.
“Yer funny,” the other co-owner tells me.
Respect first (and above all), then make ‘em laugh!

• “Killian,” a rescue Irish-Setter, was my most recent dog. He made age-11, and was my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. I daycared and boarded Killian at that nearby kennel. (Yet another dog lost to canine cancer.)

In pursuit of fall foliage

21E approaches Brickyard Crossing. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—“Call Jack,” I commanded into my new car’s Bluetooth.
I was in Tyrone PA, having completed most of my five-hour drive to the Altoona area.
Tyrone is where the old Pennsylvania Railroad, now Norfolk Southern, turns east toward Harrisburg. It goes through a notch.
Tyrone, north of Altoony, is about as far railroad-east that we go. My brother and I have photographed in Tyrone, so he might be there.
“Where are ya?” I asked.
“24th Street bridge,” he said; so I’d go to 24th St. bridge in Altoony.
No Jack when I got there. I took a few photos, and then called Jack.
“I went to Brickyard. I’m on the embankment. Here comes one!”
I drove to Brickyard Crossing, and there he was up on the embankment with another fan, both sitting in canvas chairs.
The embankment looked too challenging for this geezer, plus I wanted to take what is my lead photo.
That's my cannon (300 mm zoomer) on tripod, although probably only 180–200 mm.
Our usual drill is Jack drives out to Altoona Wednesday, nine hours for him. I drive down Thursday.
Except his nine hours became 10&1/2 hours due to an accident-caused traffic-jam on Interstate-80 in Jersey. Someone flipped their motorhome trailer blocking all three lanes. A crane had to be brought in.
Jack usually arrives in time to take a few photos, but this time it was dark when he got there.

DAY ONE (Thursday October 8th)

Cheat-shot (they’re probably helpers on the rear of 25v). (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—His first stop was “Five-Tracks” where PA Route 53 crosses five tracks of the old Pennsy up the west side of Allegheny mountain.
“Of all the railfan hotspots I’ve visited I’ve never seen five tracks side-by-side on railroad right-of-way.”
The leftmost track pictured, Main-8, is only a storage siding, but tracks Four through One (right-to-left) are main-line railroad.
Tracks Four and Three (right-most) are on the original Pennsylvania Railroad right-of-way out of Pennsy’s original tunnel. Tracks Two and One are on the right-of-way of New Portage Railroad and aim at New Portage Tunnel.
Pennsy got New Portage when it was abandoned eons ago, since it gave them a second summit Tunnel.
But it was higher, so they had to ramp up to it. One can see the New Portage alignment is higher than the original Pennsy.
Tracks One and Two merge into only one track through New Portage Tunnel.
But the railroad’s crossing of Allegheny mountain is three tracks, not the usual two.
Who knows how long that will last with Precision-Scheduled-Railroading. It used to be four tracks. Conrail cut back to three. (Pennsy-Penn Central-Conrail-Norfolk Southern.)
What’s pictured is what my brother and I call a “cheat-shot.” It looks like the train is approaching, but the locomotives are helping hold back the train going away as it descends the mountain.
The locomotives have engaged Dynamic braking.

Through the rock-cut from the Railroad Overlock bridge in Cassandra. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

Also from the Overlook bridge, but looking railroad-east. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—The first picture is train 36A threading a cut through rock at the end of the 1898 bypass. It has a slide-fence.
The second picture is the same train past the Overlook bridge heading toward Lilly.
(All American railfans, BY LAW, should be required to visit Cassandra Railroad Overlook. Shade man, shade is hard to come by at Horseshoe Curve).

Loaded coal-train 740 eastbound on Track One approaches the overpass in Lilly. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—The next place my brother went is the overpass in Lilly PA. It’s just north (railroad-east) of Cassandra.
Grade-crossings are few and far between on this heavily-traveled railroad. I can think of only two between Altoona south (railroad-west) to South Fork, a distance of perhaps 15-20 miles.
Most highways get over the railroad by an overpass built recently. Or perhaps the railroad bridged the highway eons ago. Route 53 still has narrow stone culverts under the railroad.
Sometimes the railroad built the highway overpass; grade-crossings lead to crashes.
This railroad sees a lotta traffic.

—My brother also tried Carneys Crossing before that Route 22 on-ramp, but nothing is worth doing.
Westbounds approach down a long tangent from that on-ramp which isn’t very photogenic.
Carneys is one of the two crossings-at-grade south of Altoona before South Fork. It’s also the location of a defect-detector.
“Norfolk Southern milepost 253.1, Track Three, no defects.”
We hear that on our railroad-radio scanners, and use it to know if a train is coming.
If it’s a full train — not just helpers — we got a minute or two at Cassandra. Or it’s already in sight at Cresson. That defect-detector doesn’t broadcast until the last train-car is past.
If it’s a helper-set, that detect-detector broadcasts well before the helpers are in sight at Cresson.
253.1 isn’t our only detector. There are a few others.

21J. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—Another place my brother went is the Route-22 on-ramp near Cresson.
Route-22 over Allegheny Mountain is a gigantic four-lane expressway, built at huge expense, and probably up to Interstate standards.
Route-22 crosses the railroad on a gigantic overpass; and standing on it to photograph trains going under it is clearly unsafe. Traffic would be passing at 70-100 mph.
But recently my brother noticed the bridge over the railroad is near the Route-53 interchange. You wouldn’t be standing next to expressway. You’re standing on an on-ramp to the expressway.
This makes photography here much safer, although you might attract attention from the gendarmerie.
Last visit we tried it, intending our visit would be short. In other words, you hafta know a westbound is coming.
Train engineers no longer call out signal-aspects, but they do call out Control-Points (usually interlockings), and CP-MO is nearby in Cresson.
“21J west on Three, CP-MO, CLEAR!” on our railroad-radio scanners.
Zoom, if we’re near the on-ramp 21J is coming.
Pictured is 21J.
That on-ramp is about where the Cresson runner begins. It’s visible next to the track the train is on, left (right in the cab) of Track Three.
Trains for the Corman branches out of Cresson go onto the Cresson runner. Those branches are old Pennsy.
Notable is a unit grain train for an ethanol plant up in Clearfield.
Nothing is parked on the runner in this photo, but often there is.

21G on Track Four rounds the curve toward Cresson after Five-Tracks. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—My brother did get one more usable picture after the on-ramp. A road north of Cresson runs through woods next to the tracks. Along that road is a cut-out that looks at the tracks where the railroad curves towards Cresson.
Distant in the picture is the Route 53 bridge over “Five-Tracks.” Already you can see the higher grading that carries Tracks One and Two toward the summit.
The train is on the original Pennsy gradient, two tracks at this point. The four-track main returns to three tracks at MO interlocking to the west near Cresson.
It’s multiple tracks because Allegheny Mountain could be a bottleneck. Track One was closed for maintenance that day, leaving only two open tracks over the mountain: Three and Four.
Precision-Scheduled-Railroading might eliminate a track, which could throttle the mountain to only one open track during maintenance.
A lot of two-way traffic is on this railroad. I don’t think one track over this mountain could handle all the traffic.

20R, lead by 8105, the “Creamsicle” Heritage-Unit, crosses Porta Road at Brickyard Crossing. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—By now I was in Altoony. I found my brother up on the embankment at Brickyard Crossing.
Not long ago there was a Brickyard adjacent to the tracks. It has since been taken down, and replaced by a warehouse.
But railfans and railroad employees still call it Brickyard Crossing.
As noted earlier (see above), I shot a few failures at 24th St. bridge in Altoona, and my brother had to gone to Brickyard.
The “Creamsicle,” one of 20 so-called Heritage-Units painted the schemes of predecessor railroads out of which Norfolk Southern was formed, is called the “Creamsicle” because its colors match those of a Creamsicle = yellow and orange.
The railroad it honors is Interstate Railroad.
8105 is a General Electric ES44AC, 4,400 horsepower.

---

DAY TWO (Friday October 9th)

25V westbound on Track Three charges the Summerhill overpass. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—My brother, who drives us around, seems to finally wanna visit South Fork PA.
Perhaps what interested him was Track One was closed for maintenance, and “CP-W” was involved.
“CP-W” (Control-Point W) is just east of South Fork.
Hooray-hooray!
How many times have I advocated South Fork, but it’s always too far. We end up at the Post-Office bridge in Altoona, or Eighth Street bridge, or maybe the covered pedestrian overpass if we’re lucky.
How many times have we been down that cemetery road east of Gallitzin? Not bad, but anything we shoot there is repeat. I’m looking for a photogenically interesting picture, which usually involves track curvature.
My brother, on the other hand, seeks the standard three-quarter locomotive view — engine bearing down filling the frame.
Which is fine, since I’ve used many of his three-quarter shots in our calendar.
It’s MY calendar — that is, I’m the one who designed it. I’m also the one who chose the pictures.
I like to depict scenery.
South Fork has a gigantic curve west out of the valley toward Pittsburgh.
Very scenic.
But the light can be wrong. Afternoon is backlit; morning light isn’t.
So we’d drive down to South Fork in the morning.
But it was heavily fogged in. Photography was impossible. We couldn’t even see the tracks.
We turned right around and headed back out of the fog.
The next town north (railroad-east) was Summerhill PA. A recent highway bridge is in town, probably to replace a grade-crossing.
We walked up on the bridge, which is just west of where an old Pennsy signal was (since removed with Positive-Train-Control and in-the-cab signaling) to take the above photograph.
Our photo is a repeat, except prior photographs had the signal-bridge.

We beat it! (Train 590, loaded coal eastbound.) (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—“I bet we can beat that sucker!” I said to my brother as we walked down the Summerhill overpass.
An eastbound came through on Two as we returned to my brother’s car.
Hammer down! Pedal-to-the-metal! We’d charge up Route 53 hoping to beat the train.
This is what it's all about, readers. We see a train and chase it.
It was easier when train-engineers called signal-aspects. Those signals have since been removed with Positive-Train-Control and in-the-cab signaling.
Now all the engineers call out are interlockings. All we’d hear are “MO” and “SO.”
We might also hear “MG”, but that’s 15-25 minutes away, plus a westbound has to clear “MO.”
53 parallels the railroad, and goes under it at two points.
“No train yet” as we drove through the first underpass, an ancient culvert.
“We’re ahead of it, but it won’t be long,” I said.
We continued up 53; maybe 10 miles South Fork to Lilly.
By Lilly we were so far ahead we had time to set up. The train wasn’t boomin’-and-zoomin’.
There’s another recent overpass in Lilly, but we didn’t use it.
We’d go out west of Lilly to Plane-Bank, where there once was a Pennsy signal, 254.7 I think.
No cannon-on-tripod this time; that eastbound was coming.

04t, Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian, passes the railfan platform in Cresson. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—Our next stop would be the trackside railfan platform in Cresson PA, another location like South Fork that always got poo-pooed.
Pittsburghers would come out to Cresson to escape their smoky city.
Cresson was also the location of Cresson Springs resort, which Pennsy got control of and rebuilt.
Cresson Springs took advantage of mineral-water springs, and the clear mountain air.
Cresson Springs is gone, but the railroad remains. A small display of railroad stuff, plus a pavilion, sits next to the tracks through Cresson. Included is a retired Pennsy caboose.
The platform, for railfans, is at the same level as the tracks — in other words you have the climb steps to get up to it.
I’ve always wanted to try it, and have on occasion by myself. But I never got any trains.
Westbounds were coming when we arrived, but westbounds are too far from the platform.
That platform is not very photogenic = it’s too far from the tracks.
Eastbounds aren’t too bad, but in the afternoon they’re backlit.
Trackage past that platform is a long tangent = no curves at all.
We were the right time and light for Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian, which was coming per our scanner-feed.

65R charges Carneys Crossing. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—I’m not too sure where we went after Cresson, but the photographs make it look like we went to Carneys Crossing next.
Carneys is one of only two crossings-at-grade between Altoony and South Fork. The other is Brickyard Crossing up near Altoona.
Neither crossing is heavily traveled, and Brickyard is little more than a street.
Carneys isn’t very photogenic — too much tangent track.
Looking railroad-west is okay with strong telephoto, and the picture has a surfeit of colorful foliage.

21G westbound charges off the 1898 bypass into Portage. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—Next would down to the abandoned trailer behind the Portage railroad station. That abandoned trailer has been there for eons.
This shot is a repeat = I even had it once as a Christmas card.
The 1898 bypass begins in Portage; the original Pennsy main also went through Portage, and is now used as a secondary to a coal loadout that was once a coal-mine.
The original Pennsy main also went through Cassandra, with many tight curves. Which is why the bypass was built. It involved a long fill and a rock cut; all straight.

38g eastbound on Two rounds the curve past South Fork. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—Hooray-hooray! It looks like we’re finally going to South Fork (PA).
Railroad-west across PA, the railroad traverses a long valley from Tyrone south to Altoony. The valley parallels Allegheny-front, then crosses the mountain west of Altoona.
It then turns south again to South Fork, were it turns west toward Johnstown and Pittsburgh.
The railroad turns sharply west at South Fork, although it’s a very wide curve.
As noted above, the light into that curve is much better in the morning. But the morning-fog was so dense we couldn’t photograph anything.
So late afternoon, when the engine fronts are backlit.
Fortunately the sun was very bright, and the sky clear, so back-lighting was minimal.

#4001, a “bluenose,” is in the lashup. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—My brother also got one of the two “bluenoses” as part of the lash-up on 22W.
4000 and 4001 are rebuilds of General Electric Dash 9-40Cs built in 1995, then rebuilt in 2015 by GE/American Motive Power into AC44C6Ms.
They were converted from Direct-Current to Alternating-Current.
Other locomotive conversions were also done, and many more are planned. Some were done in Roanoke, and others were done at Juniata Shops north of Altoona.
Norfolk Southern really struck gold with those shops — one of the largest locomotive repair facilities on the entire planet. (It’s ex-Pennsy.)
The paint-department at Juniata shops went bonkers. 20 Heritage-Units in paint-schemes of predecessor railroads, plus other rebuilds in various colors, not just the standard Norfolk Southern black.
I’ve also seen yellow and green, plus other rebuilds that honor veterans and first-responders.

21E, westbound on Three, starts into the turn past South Fork. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

20Q comes and goes under Cassandra Railroad Overlook. (“Coming” by Jack Hughes; “going” by BobbaLew.)

—By now our light was going away.
But Cassandra Railroad Overlook again, where I’d repeat my years-ago shot in the rain.
By this time the rock-cut before the Overlook would be lit, although the light was extreme.
Visible in my “going” shot is Cassandra Railroad Overlook, the old bridge over the railroad where are the 1898 bypass ends.

65M west on Three, passes 20Q east on Two. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—“Any chance this old geezer can lean on your truck?”
I asked that to two gentleman in a black Chevy pickup trackside at the compressor in Cresson.
The compressor-location in Cresson is west of the railroad, which most of the day doesn’t work, since the sun is in the southeast.
But in late afternoon the sun comes around west of the railroad.
“I am not too stable,” I told them; “and usually my brother parks where I can lean against his truck.
But he parked up there, and I wanna shoot down here.”
“Sure!” they smiled.
“I’m age-76, and I can’t stop. Chasin’ trains since age 2.”
Calling myself a “geezer” always works.
The photo is a “double.” 65M westbound on Three, passing 20Q eastbound on Two.
Also visible is the Cresson runner, but nothing was on it = trains for delivery to Corman.
Anything on the runner would block photography of the Main.

07t (Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian) descends west slope of Allegheny Mountain on Track Three. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—Our final stop was Five-Tracks again.
07t (Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian) was coming.
As the chatters say on Virtual Railcam’s YouTube web-stream of Horseshoe Curve:
“Elvis has left the building. We now resume our regular Norfolk Southern programing already in progress.”

Loose as a goose!

—People lined up outside our restaurant last night to get in.
Instead of dutifully falling into line, as I woulda done five years ago……
I barged past them all, and through those lined up in the entranceway, saying I had a reservation.
Inside I met a pretty girl at a podium, the greeter I presume.
Our eyes met, and she smiled at me. That’s all takes: tact and diplomacy be damned!
“You have pretty eyes,” I gushed.
“Why thank you,” she said, smiling even harder, eyes flashing.
Per COVID-19, we were all wearing masks. “You can hide behind that mask if you want, but you’re smiling. Your eyes give you away.”
I’m sorry readers, but this blows me away.
“No pretty girl will smile at you!”
I was convinced of that as a child, but now many do.
I’m so thrilled by that, I say things I shouldn’t, like “you have pretty eyes.”
And sadly I had to lose my wife to notice. If she was still around I’d probably still be as difficult as I was, and she jealous.
A lady-friend once told me “the eyes are the window to the soul.”
So now, like our prez checking out the physical attributes of women in that infamous Billy Bush video…..
I find myself checking out females at my supermarket, except what I check out is their eyes.
“WOW! Looka them!” Then “gorgeous,” then “do I know her?”
Eyes, eyes, and prettier eyes.
“Flat as a board,” our prez would say; some of my male friends too.
To which I say “who cares? She smiles at me!”
Some masked cutie-pie flashes her eyes at me, and “Yer hittin’ me with me them eyes again!”

• Ever since my wife died (over eight years ago) I been eating out once per week with fellow bereavers. The others are all widows, so I am the token male. I started with another widower, but he seems to have disappeared.

A girl named ***

—“It is you after all,” I said to *** in our supermarket, after our eyes met and she walked toward me.
“I wasn’t sure it was you,” I said; but your eyes told me. I recognize the eyes.”
I was walking into the store, and she was walking out. We were all wearing masks per COVID-19.
Other things told me also. She’s a skinny little thing, and looks rather haggard. Her hair is also frizzy and wild.
But mainly it was her eyes, overly made up with too much mascara. No matter, I know her, and she knows me. We began talking.
Five years ago I woulda avoided her completely and walked right into the store.
But things are no longer as they were. 70 years late I discover people love talking. I’ve had so much success striking up conversations I’m gonna wait.
Our eyes met, and here she comes. “Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada!”
The equivalent of “happy to see ya;” which I didn't say, but “I recognize you, and you recognize me, so let’s talk!”
“How’s your buddy?” She asked.
“GONE!” I said.
“*** died?” she gasped.
“I thought you were talking about my dog,” I exclaimed.
Years ago I was eating out with***, a fellow widower; and he knew ***, which is how I came to know ***.
“I had to put my dog down over two months ago, and I’m still devastated.”
“I could get another dog myself,” she said; “but I don’t want the heartbreak.”
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada!”
I’m not used to this. I been avoiding people since age 5, when hyper-zealots convinced me no-one would wanna talk to me.
Talking to anyone, especially women, was flirting. Talking to women was evil and disgusting.
Now, well into my 70s, I find that was WRONG!
People love talking, especially women. They run to my side to begin talking to me.
Give ‘em an ear, and they won’t stop.
I find myself trying to give them an out, thinking they don’t wanna talk to me.
That’s my childhood interrupting, and it’s WRONG!
Usually the one ending conversations is ME. “Groceries await,” or “I’d like to eat my breakfast-cereal before 4 PM.”
So “groceries await” with ***.
Maybe someday I’ll try the following: “Modest proposal here. That we share dinner so we can talk. Separate checks if you wish. You come in your car, and I in mine.
We talk and talk and talk and talk. Then we both go home to our separate abodes.
We’re worlds apart, but I know you, and you know me. So we can talk.
Let’s talk!”

Be ye not cocky

—“Don't worry, I’m not gonna bother you this time,” I said to the pretty receptionist who takes my temperature before I enter Thompson’s Physical-Therapy department.
That’s all I said as she took my temperature = 97.1°.
I coulda said “no flirting this time; I don’t wanna make you nervous.”
That’s “flirting” per the definition I have. All I’m doing is talking — or as I did two weeks ago, tell a girl her eyes were pretty.
I’m told “flirting” is making a proposition = the intent being to get cozy.
Not what I want! And furthermore: at my age?
What I coulda said is “just because I’ve had such smashing success telling girls they’re pretty, doesn’t mean it won’t bomb with you.”
She smiled at me: mayhap she wanted me to at least say hello.
PASS! I don’t wanna make this girl nervous. Too risky!
I’ve run that so-called “flirt” by all too many girls and most times they love it.
That was immensely surprising to this kid. I never did anything like that before in my entire life.
Yrs Trly graduated the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender-Relations = “NO ONE WILL TALK TO YOU, ESPECIALLY NOT PRETTY LADIES!”
(Click the link if you need explanation, readers. I’ve tried to avoid Faire Hilda, but she keeps interrupting.)
My success with anyone, especially pretty girls, has been mind-blowing.
It totally reverses the way I was brought up.
For 70-some years, I pretty much kept to myself. But now I strike up conversations with complete strangers.
Most amazing is how readily I befriend pretty girls.
Totally unexpected. It just blows my mind.
The other day, I told a girl she was pretty. (With the childhood I had?)
She really loved it; I could see it in her eyes.
There have been others, and it seems like I always make them feel good telling them that.
They start talking to me = I broke the ice. And they love talking; especially women.
But now I’ve learned that telling a girl she has pretty eyes is a risky way to break the ice.
What a shame! We coulda been just friends; me and that pretty girl.
But I ruined it.
Bad mistake.

• As a COVID-19 precaution, a receptionist takes your temperature before allowing you in the Physical-Therapy department.

Hook-and-Ladder

This is the sort of thing Rochester had: no cab roof (open), no trailer enclosure (also open) = an older hook-and-ladder, probably from the ‘50s.

—“You didn’t have anything to do with hook-and-ladders, didja?”
I asked that to a gentleman backing his black Chevy Equinox out of where he parked in the parking-lot of where I get on Lehigh Valley RailTrail in Mendon.
So began 25-30 minutes of constant yammering, proving yet again the absolute joy of striking up a conversation, which I discover 70 years late.
“The hook-and-ladders were before my time,” he said. “What I worked were the Quints that replaced them.”
I had noticed a “Retired Rochester Fire-Fighter” plate-surround on his car.
“What I started on was pumpers,” he added; “the Quints came later.”
I guess a Quint is a combination pumper and ladder truck.
“When I came to Rochester in 1966,” I said; “they were still using hook-and-ladders. They had one at that fire-station on University Avenue.
It would barrel out of that building, siren at full-wail, and it was a real siren,” I said; “not one of them wonky electronic gizmos.
Down University it roared toward Culver Road, giant airhorn blasting all-and-sundry = ‘GET OUTTA THE WAY!’
And the back-end steered. I saw one clout a tree after angling off Winton onto Humboldt Street.”
We talked and talked and talked and talked. He seemed to be a grizzled Trump-supporter, but he kept talking to me.
Give ‘em a chance, and they talk your ear off; although I avoided politics and religion.
That parking-lot is also for adjacent baseball fields.
“You see that wall over there with 220 on it? My son was the only kid that could hit over that wall, and that’s at age-12.”
Yada-yada-yada-yada. My knees were starting to ache, and I needed to use the Porta-Pot. But he needed someone to talk to.
I struck up multiple conversations on that rail-trail, which is why I go there so often.
“My dog’s ashes are by that marker,” I said to two ladies.
“You realize you’re sitting on a railroad culvert?” I said to a hand-holding couple at trailside.
Long-winded conversations began in each case.
“This trail was once a railroad,” I noted; “Lehigh Valley railroad’s Buffalo-extension.”
“I see the pocket imprint of a SmartPhone,” I said to a pretty lady. “What ya got there?” She smiled and pulled out her Android.
People wanna talk, even men occasionally.
“God bless you!” Mr. grizzled Trump-supporter said.
The couple’s husband said the same thing after perhaps 10 minutes of trailside talking.
Face-to-face is so much more fun than the written word, which is one-sided.
And now, 70 years late, I discover that.

Hello Killian

“Come down outta that tree and fight!” (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—Off to Lehigh Valley RailTrail, yet again to say hello to Killian, who’s ashes lay trailside.
I’ll stop at the marker, say hello to Killian, then tear up as usual.
Why am I still so heartbroken over losing this dog? (August 14th was two months ago.)
I really poured it on with Killian, and he loved it.
I walked him as much as I could, and let him run loose around my property — a dog-park without a pond.
“I see a squirrel out there,” and out he’d lunge.
Rabbits, squirrelies, deeries, birdies; all hot-pursuit.
And then there were chipmunks = “bite-size bundles of protein.”
I’d dissemble my back-steps so he could chase chipmunks.
“You see them cows, Big-Monkey?”
Up he’d get in the back of my car to tell off the cows.
“Get outta that pasture! Get off my planet!”
We became a team: me the eyes, he the ears and nose.
This was how it was supposed to be: eyes/ears/nose hunting, then “share-the-kill.”
I did that with my previous dog, but Killian made me try harder.
“Share-the-kill” was also letting him be my Prewash-Department.
Any plate/pan/dish that he licked off went into my dishwasher.
Others might not allow a dog to do that, but I’m still alive.
Killian also got me used to interacting with pretty girls.
“Oh what a pretty dog; can I pet him?”
He’d lean into them and start nuzzling.
“Here I am talking to yet another pretty girl.”
Anyone reading this knows how difficult my childhood was.
“No pretty girl will associate with you!” Killian reversed that.
So many pretty girls I’m no longer afraid of pretty girls.
I also learned to strike up a conversation, even with pretty girls. People love to talk, especially ladies, and especially pretty ones, who normally hafta fend off Trump wannabees.
Killian was my chick-magnet, and Lehigh Valley RailTrail was where we met so many pretty ladies.
I still go there alone. Some lady comes along, and I do what Killian woulda got me into. We smile and talk to each other.
“My dog’s ashes are up by that marker,” I say; “and I’m still heartbroken. I wouldn’t be talking to you but for that silly dog.”

• I never addressed Killian as “Killian;” always “Big-Monster” or “Big-Monkey,” since he was so energetic. Gone at age-11 (cancer always wins).

It’s doing it again

—“Be-be-be-be-beep!”
I had just put down my iPhone, and again it was making a pocket-call; this time to a person I recently Facebook “friended” in the middle of the country.
This time it was Facebook Messenger’s “video chat,” Facebook’s iteration of Apple’s “FaceTime.”
This person and I had been messaging regarding how technology seems to have distanced everyone.
Not the first time. A few weeks ago I mistakenly pocket-called the same person. Suddenly a voice was emanating from my rear pocket: “Hello hello?”
This may have only been Messenger’s “audio-chat.” My iPhone screen was blank (black), but this person was talking to me.
I’ve voided many FaceTimes to my aquacise instructor. We both have iPhones, and happen to be Facebook “friends” after SuckerBird and his cronies secretly trolled my iPhone contacts. I had her in my iPhone from her business-card.
Apparently my pocket-calls to her were just Apple’s FaceTime, not Facebook Messenger’s “video-chat.” My iPhone “recents” indicated that.
La-dee-DAH!
Ever-advancing technology has inundated us with many wonders.
“Call ****,” I voice-command into my iPhone. It calls my brother in far away northern DE.
“Call ****,” I say into the iPhone Bluetooth in my car, and it calls my other brother somewhere in Altoona PA, where I haven’t even arrived yet.
Similarly, I speak “Call ****” into my iPhone at our motor-lodge near Altoona. That brother and I are in separate rooms, and I need to ring him up. I can do that without a two-way radio?
I also keep my grocery-lists in my iPhone. That’s a lot less time-consuming then having to update a written grocery-list, since —a) that iPhone is always in my pocket, and —b) I’m adding by voice instead of keying in.
Again: “La-dee-DAH!”
Wondrous technology, but every day something.
Time-saving technology seems offset by time-gobbling hairballs. This morning I had to reboot my in-house Wi-Fi.
And that of course was after “Why is this not working?”
Guile-and-cunning had me rebooting my in-house Wi-Fi. Another friend my age would be calling his grandchildren, or pulling the plug.
And now our TV is often by wire, instead of over-the-air as it used to be.
Now I unlock my car over-the-air, plus it won’t even run without that radio-fob in my pocket.
Does my mid-country friend know what rabbit-ears are?
I bet she does. (Like me she was probably born in the wrong century.)
“You can remove that mask,” my Altoona motor-lodge attendant said.
“Do you know what an iron-lung is?” I asked him.

Pool lady

—Yesterday (Tuesday, October 6th) Yr Fthfl Srvnt had a Physical-Therapy appointment at Thompson Hospital.
Actually it’s called “AfterCare.” But it’s in Thompson’s Physical-Therapy department.
I see pretty much the same people, except now I have an AfterCare therapist.
I guess my health-insurance will no longer pay for physical-therapy. I’m not making sufficient progress, i.e. my balance just keeps getting worse and worse.
I’m sure I drive my AfterCare therapist nuts. I say hello to all the people I know = loose-as-a-goose.
I probably make my AfterCare therapist nervous, like perhaps I’m not supposed to be bothering anyone. E.g. **** the receptionist, ***** my previous physical-therapist, ****** the guy I started with, ****** who long ago helped me recover from my knee-replacement, and ******, who I call “Smiley,” a physical-therapist who always smiles at me.
**** is rather plain, but always smiles at me = I can’t resist.
This time on entering I noticed someone who looked familiar. But she disappeared into the therapy-gym before I could say anything — my AfterCare therapist was trying to direct me elsewhere.
Later I saw the lady inside the therapy-gym, and “you look very familiar. Are you a YMCA pool person?”
“Yes I am,” she smiled.
“I recognize your eyes,” I said; “mask or not, I recognize your eyes.”
(I also recognized her hair, which was extremely gray — but I didn’t say anything about that.)
I guess she was there with her poor husband, who was a complete wreck. He barely could walk, and used a walker, and what he said to me made no sense — like maybe he had Alzheimer’s.
That lady has to be older than me; she’s probably in her 80s.
So what? I recognized her, and she recognized me. We smiled at each other; her eyes gave her away.
And I think she might have once been a YMCA swimming-pool balance-therapist; employee or volunteer.
I remember her trying to show me how to walk heel-toe without holding onto the pool edge.
“Focus on the wall,” she’d say. But heel-toe is near impossible with my neuropathy, which is poor nerve communication down my legs to my feet. (And it’s not diabetic neuropathy.)
She was let go because she wasn’t certified.
“Someone I recognize,” I said; “happy to see ya!”
And she said she was happy to see me. She was smiling at me, mask or not I could tell.
AfterCare complete, I was directed toward an exit.
“Gotta see if I can say goodbye to this lady.” She no longer was standing in the therapy-gym, but was in an adjacent hallway with her struggling husband.
I said goodbye to them all, then walked out to my car.
The lady got in her own car, then moved it around to where she could help her husband get in.
As I left and passed them, I beeped the horn to let them know I was happy to see them.
Us oldsters are still alive, and we have to celebrate that.
If I see her again — and sadly I probably won’t — I'll tell her I really like the way she “stands by her man.”

Keep doin’ it

—Since my wife died eight years ago, Yrs Trly has been seeing a bereavement-counselor for probably five of those eight years.
A friend who lost her husband had been seeing the same bereavement-counselor for eons; even before her husband died.
My bereavement-counselor is more a psychiatrist = we spend most of our time discussing my difficult childhood.
What she does most is listen: to my continuous and disjointed blathering about what I endured as a child.
“MARKED-FOR-LIFE!” I always say.
And now, 70 years late, I’m finding my hyper-religious parents and Sunday-School superintendent neighbor were WRONG!
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO/SMILE AT/ASSOCIATE WITH/HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU!”
(“Pretty” meaning sexually attractive I guess.)
That’s a wonderful thing to tell a five-year-old little boy, that he was disgusting.
And of course if my Bible-beating parents had to come to my defense, that Sunday-School superintendent neighbor woulda crashed in flames.
But they heartily agreed, since I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
(As first-born, I probably had it worse than my other siblings.)
My childhood is pretty much left behind, so that’s not what we discussed this most recent visit.
This time we discussed what appears to be my incredible success engaging women — and whether I’m just dreaming.
Critics tell me I’m dreamin’ to think my lady-friends enjoy my company.
It’s hard to think they don’t when they don’t back away, push me off, or tell me to buzz off.
My lady-friends at the kennel that daycared my dog all run to the door to let me in.
My college-age friend at that kennel seems jealous she has to share me with the others.
When we do get to hang together, just me and her, she smiles and smiles and smiles. She looks happy to me; she’s not backing away.
I’m sure the fact I’m not hittin’ on her makes her happy. All we’re doing is talk-talk-talk-talk = enjoying each other’s company.
Dreamin’ I’m told, but the one who cuts off conversations is ME.”
“We could talk forever, but I’d like to eat my breakfast cereal before 4 p.m.”
“Just shootin’ the breeze, just you and me, would be fun, but groceries await.”
I had a pretty lady sigh we had to stop talking (“back to work,” sigh……).
I did have one lady balk, but she quickly reversed field as I walked away.
“****,” I said to my hairdresser; “I’m 76 years old, I walk like a little old man, and I’m hardly a stud. Yet I got ladies hanging all over me!”
“You encourage ‘em to talk,” he said. “You make ‘em laugh, and that’s what women want most. Plus yer not putting ‘em on the defensive.”
So I asked my bereavement-counselor if my critics were right.
I have so many successes, it’s hard to think I’m just dreamin’.
“They’re not doing what you’re doing; and they probably can’t. If your wife was still alive, she’d be jealous you ‘flirt’ so much.”
The definition I have for “flirting” may not be right. I'm told “flirting” is trying to connect sexually.
All I do is talk. No grab-ass. I guess that makes me safe.
Per my childhood just talking with a woman was “flirting,” especially if they liked it.
“Evil and disgusting.”
Unfortunately I like it too, since it reverses my childhood, and I’m makin’ ‘em smile.
“One of my critics is a widow,” I said. “And I enjoy hanging out with her — she smiles and laughs at my jokes. Plus unlike many she doesn’t think I’m hot-to-trot.”
“Probably all your lady-friends understand that,” my counselor said; “otherwise they’d be pushing you away.
Plus talk-talk-talk-talk, and not just about yourself.
As long as they keep smiling at you, you’re making ‘em feel really good.
Keep doing it!” my counselor says. “Don’t listen to your critics = they don’t understand what you’re doing.
Your lady-friends do, and they love it. You tell them they’re pretty, but yer not hittin’ on ‘em.”

• RE: “Kennel that daycared my dog…..” —Nearby is a boarding kennel, where I used to daycare and board my dog, who I recently had to put down. They want me to keep visiting.

The eyes have it

—It’s a rare day I walk my 2.8 miles on this rail-trail (Lehigh Valley RailTrail) without experiencing some kind of smile from a pretty lady.
There was one, sorta. Toward the end a couple approached holding hands. Wife, girlfriend, main-squeeze, whatever, and she was pretty.
The guy wore a “Penn State” hoodie.
“Penn State, eh,” I said stopping.
“Yes,” he said.
“State College?” I asked.
“Yep!”
“I’ll be driving past there on Thursday.”
“How come?” the guy asked.
“Altoona,” I said. “My brother and I chase and photograph trains there. We’re railfans.”
“Yada-yada-yada-yada,” at least 10 minutes, proving yet again that striking up a conversation is often worth it — usually pleasant.
Finally I couldn’t hold back any longer: “I'm sorry,” I said to main-squeeze; “but your eyes are incredible.”
“Well thank you,” she said, slightly embarrassed.
What I didn’t say is “you keep smiling like that and you’re gonna light up these woods!”
“You’re not the first pretty eyes I encountered this weekend. Two sets yesterday, and another set last weekend.
Look what we been missing. Now that we’re all wearing masks, I notice. Eyes, pretty eyes, and even prettier eyes!”
Her eyes were blue, and they sparkled. Her smile was fantastic.
Here I am trudging along on this rail-trail, and this guy comes along with a gorgeous female.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada,” but she was a distraction. And perish-the-thought, I think she was pleased I said something.
At least the dude didn’t clobber me. I guess he also liked I noticed her eyes — that we could all share a smile.
Rail-trail again tomorrow, I hope. That rail-trail often gives me blog-material.

• It seems only smilers are gorgeous. Females of debatable beauty become “gorgeous” when they smile at me. Main-squeeze’s smile made her incredible; more than just pretty.

RE: “Cutie-Pie”

—Yesterday (Saturday, October 3rd) Yr Fthfl Srvnt decided to cross the main highway next to his supermarket, to visit the small shopping plaza across the street which contained the pet supply I used when I had Killian.
They all loved Killian. He’d charge through the auto-door, then bark at all-and-sundry, to let ‘em know he arrived.
“I hear Killian!” from out back.
And suddenly here comes pretty ********, otherwise known to me as “Cutie-Pie,” the cutest employee in the store; arms stretched skyward to give Killian a gigantic hug.
“Killian!” she’d shriek.
Killian ran to her to slam into her legs. Then he’d start nuzzling her: “PET ME!”
This visit would be different — I hadn’t been there in over a month. The idea was to tell ******** et al that Killian was gone.
******** doesn’t work there every day — I wasn’t sure she’d be there. There also is another girl I wanted to inform, but she’s not as cute as ********. Plus she smokes — NO WAY could I ever get cozy with a girl who smokes.
I don’t think ******** smokes, but she might — I sure hope not.
I walked toward the back, then back toward the front-door. There she was, manning a cash-register; so I got in line, dogless of course.
She had to leave her cash-register to do something out in the store.
When she returned, our eyes met across the distance: the same pretty eyes that always flattened me every time she looked at me.
“How’s my boy?” she cooed.
“Gone,” I said.
She couldn’t hear me, since we both were wearing masks, so she moved closer.
“Gone,” I repeated.
She still couldn’t hear me, so she moved closer yet.
“We lost him,” I said. “Neatest Irish-Setter I ever had = absolutely fabulous.”
Her eyes turned down.
“Sad news indeed,” she said.
“Yer burning me up with those eyes again!” (And of course her eyes were all I could see.)
“Ya gonna get another?” she asked.
“I’ll never get a repeat Killian,” I said; “he was extraordinary. Plus I don’t know if I should get another Irish-Setter at age-76.”
“Ya don’t look it,” she shrieked.
“Oh come on ********. I may not act 76, but I sure look it. I hardly can walk, and my balance is terrible. How in the world I ever befriended you I have no idea!
Killian was part of it, maybe even the main part. He wasn’t afraid of pretty girls, so I shouldn’t be either.
Ergo, we became friends.
A year-or-two ago you woulda scared me off; no way in a million years can I talk to pretty ********.
But Killian would drag me toward you.
I had prior experience with other pretty girls, but you were over-the-top.”
Her eyes flashed; we were striking sparks = I think I was making her feel really good.
And I wasn’t hitting on her = trying to get cozy.
Per COVID-19 safety precautions, I bopped her in the elbow, to let her know I really enjoyed seeing her again.
She bopped me back, then grabbed my arm. I’m not used to this. A gorgeous cutie-pie grabbing my arm?
“I hope we meet again sometime, hopefully with another dog,” I said.
“It sure is good seeing you again,” she said.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” Versus the cutest girl in the store is talking to ME.
“And please tell that other girl,” I said.
“She's on vacation,” ******** said.

• “Killian,” a “rescue Irish-Setter,” was my most recent dog. He made age-11, and 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. (Yet another dog lost to canine cancer — five outta seven so far.)
• Any physical contact between me and a pretty girl is mind-blowing to someone with my history.

See ya later pretty eyes!

—“See ya later pretty eyes!”
I said that to a cute store employee as I walked toward my supermarket exit. I earlier noticed her eyes were pretty, and told her.
Again, I said that? With the history I have!
“You’re smiling at me. I can tell. You can hide behind that mask, but you’re smiling at me.” Her eyes twinkled.
She’s been at that store eons. Probably in her thirties by now, but still cute.
“If you didn’t have that mask on, your smile would light up the entire store!”
I could be suspicious — she wants my business, staggering geezer that I am. But her eyes were flashing at me, and she wasn’t backing away.
I was making her feel good, and I wasn’t on-the-make.
Which means I recognized her, mask or not, and I learned how to “flirt,” if you wanna call it that.
I never said anything to her before, like I was scared. But no longer.
Say something to ‘em and they eat it up — or so it seems.
Just the fact I said something makes ’em feel good.
What’s notable here is I got so I can do this:
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL SMILE AT YOU!” versus her eyes were smiling.

“Let’s talk!”

—“It looks like I’m not gonna be able to hike Lehigh Valley RailTrail as I hoped.”
I texted that to my widow-friend, who suggested we eat out after she took her dog to the vet.
Her vet and our restaurant are in the same town.
That widow is 82 years old, but she smiles and laughs at my jokes. We hang out, and enjoy each other’s company, at least me her.
“Almost handsome,” my hairdresser said as he finished my haircut.
“****,” I said; “I’m 76 years old, way over the hill, and no Beto O’Rourke. Yet I got ladies eating outta my hand.”
“Who’s Beto O’Rourke?” my hairdresser asked.
“Some dude ladies lust after. I think he’s a Texas congressman.”
“Ya talk to ‘em,” **** said; “and let ‘em talk to you. That’s what ladies love most = talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.”
“A simple exchange of emotions,” someone once told me. Men don’t do that, but women love it.
**** then told me about taking the Harvest-Queen to his high-school Junior Prom. “She was so gorgeous the other boys were afraid to ask her.”
“And the pretty girls carry a cross,” I interjected. “Boys are afraid, or become loathsome-lotharios. What a pretty girl wants most is normal conversation. Their beauty gets in the way.”
“So I took her to the prom, and we had a wonderful time,” **** said.
So here at home I Googled Beto O’Rourke, expecting some muscled hunk.
“I detect a charmer!” I said to myself. “The same charmer George Clooney is, and women think him irresistible.”
The other day I hiked Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and about two-thirds of the way to my turn-around I came upon a girl doing calisthenics trailside.
“Do I dare say hello?” I asked, as I approached.
Silent acknowledgment, so I continued walking.
Suddenly “Have a nice day,” about 10 yards after I passed.
“TOO LATE!” I said to myself. “Now you wanna talk, but earlier when I tried to start a conversation ya balked.”
To my turnaround is 10-15 minutes, then back is another 10-15 minutes.
She could see me turn around, so I think she might have stayed in hopes I’d try again.
“I thought by now you’d be gone,” I said on my second approach.
She giggled and smiled. No idea what we talked about, if anything. But I think she was happy I tried again.
Do it! Say something! Start a conversation. If that bombs, try someone else = try charming someone else.
Let ‘em talk! That seems to be what women want most, i.e. you value what they say = “yes, I like you; let’s talk!”

My calendar for October 2020

04T (Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian,) descends the west leg of the Mighty Curve (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—“Any chance you can get two aging geezers up to the viewing area before 04T comes down the mountain? We heard it calling MO.”
(04T is Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian).
I had walked into the roadside Horseshoe-Curve museum complete with camera, tripod, and lens-bag.
The Curve itself is up on the mountain-sides.
The viewing-area is right in the apex, but you have to get up to it. There is a 194-step staircase, or the funicular, sort of a glorified elevator except it’s outside.
Cables pull tiny imitation railroad coaches up and down the funicular. There are two cars, one up and one down.
It’s a railway; the cars run on track.
There is no way my brother and I could beat 04T climbing 194 steps.
Two guys were in the museum funicular-area sharing coffee; one to operate the funicular.
“Sure,” they said, even though it wasn’t time. The funicular operates every half hour (although right now it’s not operating due to COVID-19).
I motioned my brother into the museum, and up we went.
Horseshoe Curve is a triumph of 1840s engineering.
It got continuous railroad over Allegheny Mountain without impossible grading. That is, a train could operate up and over the mountain without stopping — although it might need helper engines.
“How come the railroad didn’t just trestle this valley to avoid a horseshoe?” A tourist asked.
“Because that woulda been too steep,” I shouted.
“Look at this railroad,” my brother said; “and the west leg ends higher than where the east leg enters. It’s a 1.75% grade; that’s 1.75 feet up for every 100 feet forward = not very steep, but not as in limiting as 3 or 4% or more. Interstates are limited to 7%.”
Allegheny Mountain used to be the barrier to trade between the east coast and midwest.
The Alleghenies don’t go all the way up into New York State, so New York could build the Erie Canal, which opened up trade to the Midwest, and made New York City the premier east coast port.
Capitalists and investors in Philadelphia and Baltimore worried New York City would forge ahead.
Both Baltimore and Philadelphia had the Allegheny barrier to cross.
Baltimore’s solution was the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad; since railroading technology seemed to be moving ahead of canalling technology.
The state of Pennsylvania built a cross-state combination canal/railroad system, which linked various existing railroads with new canal.
Allegheny Mountain had to be portaged — it couldn’t be canaled.
And grading at that time was so rudimentary, the portage railroad had to have inclined planes.
Cross-state operation was bog-slow and cumbersome = transferring canal-packets to railroad flatcars for operation over the portage railroad, then winching the loaded packets/flatcars over the mountain.
Operation was so slow Philadelphia capitalists came together to found the Pennsylvania Railroad = through continuous railroad across Pennsylvania.
John Edgar Thomson was brought in to engineer the building of Pennsy.
Thomson had built railroads locally, but was in Georgia at the time.
Wisdom suggested putting the railroad up on mountain-sides, to ease the grade over Allegheny Mountain.
Thomson engaged his prior railroad experience, which was to build down in valleys where traffic was. Then take on Allegheny Mountain suddenly.
But not too suddenly.
No switchbacks, nor grades so steep they’d limit train weight. You might need an additional engine to get a train over the mountain, but you weren’t breaking a train into sections — or using switchbacks.
I been wanting to take this picture for years.
My first visit to the Mighty Curve was Labor Day 1968. At that time Horseshoe Curve wasn’t the historical site it is now = no museum, no visitors center, and no funicular.
There was a tiny store staffed by railfans at the base of steps since replaced.
Finding Horseshoe Curve was near impossible; the Mighty Curve is nothing like what’s pictured in photographs, plus no direction-signs.
My wife and I were wandering around west of Altoona, in the wilderness, and suddenly “there it is! We’re right smack in the middle of it! It's up there on the mountain-sides.”
Noisy argument has arisen within my family. A younger brother insists he and my other siblings visited the Mighty Curve before I did.
I’m not so sure about that, since I have memory my parents decided to visit after I did, and I told them entry was free.
I really don't care, but I’ve visited the Curve hundreds of times. Although only a few times at first, then never at all for perhaps 20 years.
And before the historical site, you could get trackside out past the viewing area. Now the viewing area is fenced.
I never developed interest in revisiting the Curve until shortly after my stroke in late 1993. Revisiting would counter my stroke.
My first revisit may not have been until 1996. I got rained out at least once, but then my brother and I decided to ride our motorcycles there. Like I needed a help-mate.
Riding motorcycle after a stroke took nerve, and I’m not loaded with overconfidence. I’m easy pickings for CONSERVATIVES.
I been to the Curve many times since. It’s immensely attractive, right in the apex. Trains are in your face.
And getting a train over Allegheny Mountain requires maximum fuel usage. “Throttle-to-the-roof” in steam parlance, or “Run-Eight” in diesel parlance. Diesel-engines aren’t throttled; in a diesel locomotive “Run-Eight” is maximum fuel delivery.
The other problem is getting down, since west-to-east on the Mighty Curve is down Allegheny mountain. A train has to not run away down the mountain.
Diesel-electric locomotives can have regenerative braking (“Dynamic braking”), wherein their electric traction motors get turned into generators, which add braking.
Downhill is safer as a result. Individual freightcar brakes no longer burn up — they aren’t applied as hard.
It used to be anything descending the mountain was wreathed in brake-smoke, and occasionally trains run away — 60-70 mph through Altoony destroying buildings.
The grade can also stall an uphill train. “Too many cars,” a crewman from a stalled train once told me.
The Curve itself is also an impediment. The wheels aren’t differentiated between the rails. Which leads to metal-to-metal sliding; not much, but that explains all the squealing you hear.
As soon as we got to the viewing area my brother and I set up. It wouldn’t be long; 04T was calling out “MG,” halfway down the mountain.
There it was, glittering stainless behind marginal fall-foliage.
I’d already spent many minutes trying to set up a fantastic photograph.
My brother just shot: no fevered input or poking around.
Just shaddup and shoot! Sometimes that’s what it takes.
If he gets too much, I can always crop, which I probably did — I forget.
All six coaches, plus the P42 up front = the entire train on the west leg of the Mighty Curve.
And unlike the old days, the Pennsylvanian won’t stop mid-curve for the train crew to announce “Horseshoe-Curve;” Pennsy’s triumph of 1840s engineering.

• 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. It slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)
• RE: “Throttle-to-the-roof” and “Run-Eight…….”—The throttle on a steam-locomotive, which controlled steam usage, was hinged to the roof of the locomotive cab. As the engineer pulled back on the lever to open the throttle, it angled toward the roof. Wide-open throttle was “Throttle-to-the-roof.” A diesel locomotive has eight fuel input positions. (Diesel motors aren’t throttled.) “Run-Eight” is last = maximum fuel input.
• “MO” and “MG” are telegraph call-letters of old railroad towers once at those locations. “MO” Tower was railroad-east of Cresson, and is long-gone. “MG” Tower (though abandoned) still exists, and is “mid-grade” on The Hill. Both locations are now just crossovers controlled from Pittsburgh.