Charm

—“I saw that!” I said to a lady in my supermarket the other day.
“Saw what?” she asked. She was a complete stranger, and per COVID-19 we were all wearing masks.
“You twinkled your eyes at me!” I said. “Yer doin’ it now.”
“You are cute!” she said.
There you have it readers: Yrs Trly is a charmer.
I can imagine the torrent of blustering I’ll get if I say I’m a charmer. A fusillade of noisy put-downs claiming I’m DREAMING.
Critics will chime in, telling me I’m stupid and EVIL and disgusting — the same sorry litany I been hearing all my life.
A few notice the difference, the same difference I notice myself.
I no longer am who I was before my wife died. I’m emerging from my shell.
My cleaning-lady notices, as does my bereavement-counselor, and even some of my critics: “he’s much more outgoing than he was before.”
“You’re a-payin’ all them people to be your cheering section,” bellows my brother. “They tell you what they think you wanna hear.”
Most noticeable to me are all the lady-friends I gained over the past few months. This wasn’t supposed to happen: “No pretty lady will have anything to do with you!” A legacy of my early childhood.
For years I kept to myself — the only reliable judge of my self-worth was ME; for everyone else I was disgusting.
Perhaps the one who notices most is Killian’s previous owner — Killian being the fantastic Irish-Setter I lost over four months ago due to cancer.
I always tell Killian’s previous owner Killian was the one who took away my fear of pretty ladies. Killian wasn’t afraid of pretty ladies, so I shouldn’t be either.
“Oh what a pretty dog. Can I pet him?”
Here I am talking to yet another pretty girl!
“You are perfect!” a pretty young jogger told me.
“Perfect” because I struck up a conversation without hitting on her. Then I commented I was so glad I said something to her.
Honesty goes over so much better than deviousness.
I could detail many pleasant experiences, many of which happened because of Killian.
The cutest girl at my pet supply loved Killian. “Oh what a friendly dog!” —Nuzzle-nuzzle!
“Yer hittin’ me with them eyes again!” I’d say.
I got so I could talk with the cutest girl in the store — even without Killian.
And telling a girl she has pretty eyes is charm.
“Go ahead, say it! It will make you both feel good.”
“‘No pretty girl will smile at you,’ yet here you are smiling at me. Mask or not, your eyes tell me!”
I’ve told many girls they have pretty eyes, and I haven’t been smacked yet. What I usually get is a smile or a blush.
“Take the risk,” my bereavement-counselor tells me. “Both you and she will feel better for it.”
“70 years late,” I tell that counselor; “and not much time left.”
“Keep charming,” Killian’s previous owner tells me. “It probably was always in there.”
I’m like an uncle who sold cars for a south Jersey Ford dealership, and was very good at it.
He probably was charming his customers. Make ‘em laugh, make ‘em smile! They wanted to buy from him.
“You’re funny!” a lady-friend tells me.
“You’re smiling at me, I can tell!”
We laugh and smile at each other.
Charm, and I’ve gotten very good at it — probably because the rewards are worth the risk.
“Go ahead, tell that girl she has pretty eyes.“ (Assuming they are.)
“Why thank you!” she gushes.
Charm the other day: I struck up a conversation with a lady being walked by her Doberman.
15-20 minutes of pleasant talking. I thought she might wanna continue. (Critic-alert).
But NO, she wanted to talk. (Women seem to love talking.)
“You’re smiling at me,” after which her smile broadened. Charm-alert.
“Well,” I said; “I’m glad I said something. 10 years ago I wouldna.
Striking up a conversation always works.”

So many pretty ladies, so little time

—Three pretty blondes in about 15 minutes.
Yr Fthfl Srvnt was out delivering his annual train-calendar the other day to various local friends.
One was pretty *****, head-honcho at my in-store pharmacy in the supermarket I use in Honeoye Falls.
***** is not a railfan, but her little boy is. He’s age five or six.
She likes receiving my calendar, but she passes it to her little boy.
***** is not gorgeous, but she's pretty enough to have previously been intimidating.
“No pretty lady will ever associate with you!”
Since my wife died over eight years ago I’ve gotten much better at associating with ladies.
***** may have been first.
She’s no longer intimidating. That may be because I previously coulda been perceived a lonely hot-to-trot widower. And back then, I was dazed-and-confused dealing with women.
Pretty ***** and I are now friends; and that’s actual friends, not Facebook “friends.”
She knows I’m aware she’s married. Her husband’s name is “Steve.” He runs that pharmacy when she’s not there.
“Steve” is lucky; ***** has pretty blue eyes. I hafta force myself to not say anything.
Sometimes pretty ***** is more chipper then I’m used to. She’s not chipper with me anymore — she’s more at ease.
I’d suggest she update her pharmacy phone-greeting, since it’s so chipper it isn’t the ***** I now know. (I haven't, since I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.)
So I parked my car in the supermarket parking-lot, next to another car containing a barking dog. One of them little dust-mops. Lotta sturm-und-drang.
The dust-mop was barking furiously at me as I got outta my car.
But he was inside the car, behind a window.
At the car-door was a pretty blonde number-one.
She was only somewhat pretty, but had gorgeous long blonde hair. She was loading groceries.
As I walked around, the dog increased his frenzy, but now through an open window.
I considered flirting — which to me is only striking up a conversation — but I didn’t.
“Protecting your master, eh?” I said to the dog. I didn’t say anything to the lady. I didn’t wanna make her nervous.
A little overly made up = heavy on the eyeshadow and mascara. I suppose blondes hafta do that if they’re actually blonde.
Her pretty tresses were probably dyed, but I didn’t see brown roots.
We men can do that = decide whether a lady is gorgeous. This lady was attractive, but not smashing. Too much make-up, but her long blond hair was pretty.
I didn’t stop or anything – I just kept heading towards the supermarket. All I did was address the dog.
After delivering my calendar to *****, I came back outside into the parking-lot, and about 40 yards from my car was another blonde — pretty blonde number-two.
40 yards is too far to strike up a conversation, plus it looked like a man was with her.
Trying to strike up a lady-conversation with a male around is asking to get punched.
Although I’ve done it. I think the reason I didn’t get punched back then was because I talked to the man first.
That made his girlfriend/wife/whatever secondary. And in fact I was more interested in jawing with him than his main squeeze.
She kept looking at me and smiling. (Gorgeous eye-contact.)
Finally I had to say something: “please excuse me for saying this, but your eyes are gorgeous.”
“Why thank you!” she smiled.
What I didn’t say was her gorgeous smile was lighting up the path we were on: Lehigh Valley RailTrail, where I’ve engaged so many pretty ladies.
I think I was perceived as telling the dude he was lucky to have such a gorgeous sweetheart.
So I didn’t say anything to pretty blonde number-two.
After the supermarket I drove across the street to a Goodwill. I wanted to get rid of some rags.
I pulled in behind Goodwill, and right next to me was pretty blonde number-three.
She was so gorgeous how do I strike up a conversation with her?
She was lugging a heavy computer-printer into Goodwill. She was probably the secretarial eye-candy and charwoman for a small-business CEO.
So, “do they take stuff like that here?” I asked.
She avoided me at first, but then she realized I was talking to her.
“Yes they do,” she said after our eyes met. “I checked it out online,” she added.
10 words with a gorgeous blonde = LAH-DEE-DAH!
Would that she smiled like that earlier sweetheart.
What’s notable here is I’m no longer afraid of attempting to strike up a conversation with a pretty lady.
If it bombs, so what? Pretty ladies are a dime-a-dozen.
And quite a few like that a guy notices, yet isn’t on-the-make.
I’ve had it happen, and it reverses Faire Hilda, who 70+ years ago convinced me no pretty lady will associate with me.
So if a pretty lady appears, I try to make contact. All I do is try to strike up a conversation. If that makes the girl nervous I dive.
But making pretty ladies nervous is so infrequent I’m surprised.
Hilda spins in her grave. Ladies seem to enjoy my company, but I still feel unworthy.
Maybe that’s why they like my company.

• 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.

“Take the chance!”

—“Go take your walk,” said my Facebook “friend” from St. Louis, the only FB “friend” I’ve never met, and probably never will.
“Take the chance!” is that tiny small voice in the back of my head, encouraging me to be more forthcoming with females.
“Go to Hell, Bobby!” That’s my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, who convinced me all males, including me at age-five, were SCUM.
“You’ve had so many wonderful experiences taking that chance,” says that tiny voice. “She’s a lady, but don’t be afraid. You can do it — you’ve done it before.
Do it, do it, do it!”
“Do not pass Go, do not collect $200! Fiery furnace for you, Bobby!”
“If you were out here,” I “messaged” her; “I’d hope you would join me, and we would talk, talk, talk, talk, and talk some more.”
Apparently my saying that — my taking that chance — didn’t bomb.
“Here’s to taking that walk one day…,” she “messaged” back about an hour later, along with two emoticons.
A few weeks ago, hiking a nearby rail-trail, a pretty young jogger approached from the other direction.
“Do it!” that little voice said. “She’s a pretty girl, but strike up a conversation. You can do it. Don’t be afraid; you’ve done it before.
“I used to do that,” I said to her as she approached.
“Running?” she asked. She stopped and removed her earplugs.
And OFF-WE-WENT! “Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada.” 10-15 minutes of joyous yammering.
Finally, “I am so glad I said something to you,” I said to her. “Striking up a conversation always works.”
“I’m glad you did too,” she said. “You are perfect.”
(Me? The lifelong scumbag?)
Of course I’m perfect. We talk and laugh and talk some more.
And most importantly, perhaps, I’m not on-the-make.
I met her again later, and this time it was her striking up a conversation. Never before in my entire life has a pretty girl struck up a conversation with me. (“No pretty lady will ever associate with you!”)
“Now that the zealots are dead,” my St. Louis friend said a while ago; “we can be our own judge = decide our worth on our own terms.”
Easier-said-than-done, when the ghost of Faire Hilda keeps putting me down.
I could detail some of the future chances I’m considering with a few of my other lady-friends, or would-be lady-friends.
But that’s another blog.

Opening lines:

—Dealing with ladies, especially pretty ones, is entirely new to This Kid. And 70 years late.
It’s my early childhood, whereby my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor told me all males, including me at age-five, were SCUM!
Had my parents, also hyper-religious, come to my defense, that neighbor woulda crashed mightily in flames.
They heartily agreed. I was rebellious and disgusting because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
So all my life I kept to myself. I especially avoided women. I was unworthy.
A few years ago, as I began aquatic balance-training at my local YMCA, an attractive lifeguard there said hello to me by name, which began confused recovery from my tortured childhood.
A lot has happened since then, all of which made me more confident dealing with women.
I’ve experienced incredible and mind-blowing successes. I’ve made many more lady friends than I ever expected, many of them gorgeous or extremely cute.
I had a dog that helped = my four-legged chick-magnet. He wasn’t afraid of pretty girls, so he got me used to talking to pretty girls.
I lost that dog over three months ago, but I can still talk to pretty girls.
Following are some of the opening lines I use to strike up a conversation with a pretty lady:
—1) (And this actually happened:)
“Can I request a favor?” I asked the pretty self-checkout attendant at my supermarket, as she walked away.
“Can you please turn around and look me straight in the eye?”
She did, and “WOW!” I said. “Your eyes are gorgeous.”
“Why thank you!” she gushed.
She didn’t smack me, or tell me to buzz off.
—2) (This happened too:)
“I almost said something in the store, but you got away.
So now here we are out in this parking-lot, and your eyes are gorgeous.”
“Why thank you!” again.
I bet she went home and told her husband some dude told her she had gorgeous eyes.
—3) (This also happened:)
I went to a local restaurant to pick up takeout I ordered over the phone.
A pretty young girl brought out my takeout, our eyes met, and “WOW!
I hafta say something. I’m 76 years old, and you’re a pretty girl.”
(BLUSH!)
I told her that? After the childhood I had?
And she didn’t become nervous, or tell me to get lost.
What made it work is not saying “how ‘bout it, honey?”
—4) (This happened too:)
“If I’d known you were up here, I woulda used self-checkout instead of a checkout lane.”
She’s married, I’m sure. But we laugh and talk and enjoy each other.
“I see your name is *****. I’m no good at names, but I’ll remember that!” I said.
—5) (Most extraordinary is:)
I’m hiking a nearby rail-trail, and a pretty young jogger approaches.
“You can do it!” I say to myself. “Strike up a conversation! She’s pretty, but you’ve done it before.”
“I used to do that myself,” I said; a really dumb opening line.
“Running?” she asked, after which OFF WE WENT! “Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada!”10-15 minutes of joyous yammering.
Finally, “I am so glad I said something to you! Ten years ago I wouldna.”
“I'm glad you did too,” she said. “I hope we meet again. You are perfect,”
(Me, the lifelong scumbag?)
Of course I was perfect = I wasn’t propositioning her. I was allowing her to talk equally with a male.
She didn’t hafta defend herself.
—6) (Also extraordinary:)
A while ago I’m hiking another rail-trail along with my dog that’s now gone, and I encountered another lady walking her dog the other direction.
We struck up a conversation, which lasted almost a half-hour.
She smiled and smiled and smiled at me. Finally I told her I really liked her smiling at me, wanting her to keep it up.
We were really striking sparks. She became embarrassed we were having so much fun just talking it was unfair to her husband, who wasn’t there.
She was lighting up the woods with her smile — and our dogs were going nuts: “we wanna hunt!”
—7) (Another smile encounter that actually happened:)
A 40-ish lady bicyclist was resting on a rock where I turn around on that nearby rail-trail. She was about 400 yards away when I first saw her, and I think she waited to see if I’d strike up a conversation before she left. (That’s 10-15 minutes.)
I made it, and we began talking.
She smiled and smiled and smiled some more. I can still visualize her smiling at me.
She wasn’t that pretty, but her smile was ravishing.
Probably 10-15 minutes of continuous yammering: bouncing things back-and-forth between each other.
“We could talk forever, and it sure would be fun. But errands await!”
—8) (An imaginary encounter, partly real:)
An older lady sat down with another lady outside the supermarket I use in Honeoye Falls.
She gave me a side-long glance as I walked by, so I wheeled around and said hello to her.
Smile, smile, smile, smile! She was lighting up the entire parking lot!
“You’re smiling at me,” I said.
“Always,” she cooed.
Had that other lady not been there, the following woulda happened:
“Would you mind if I sat down across from you?” I’d ask. “I don’t know you from the Moon, but you keep smiling at me!
Let’s talk. Tell me about yourself! I’m all ears!”
—9) (And finally, all imaginary = all in my head:)
“I don’t know your name,” I would say to the pretty lady who takes my temperature per COVID-19 in the lobby outside Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department.
“To me you’re the ‘temperature lady.’ I always hope it’s you, and here’s why:
I know you, and you know me, which means, I hope, perhaps we could talk.
If that makes you nervous, I don’t wanna make you nervous.”
Weeks ago I told her she had pretty eyes, but that made her nervous; she’s extremely pretty, which would make her attractive to loathsome lotharios.
I left her alone for a while, but now she seems more talkative.
“Okay,” I would say. “Even only 15 words is more fun than nothing.
Let’s talk! That seems to be what women want most; and men don’t. Especially if they’re strangers. Men get defensive, or start pulling that macho-crap on you.
I have way more lady friends than I ever expected, and it seems that’s because I encourage ‘em to talk. We bat things back-and-forth, and it’s great fun.
The fact you’re extremely beautiful is sorta irrelevant = it only counters my sordid childhood.
What matters is TALK — the simple back-and-forth exchange of emotions = make ‘em laugh, make ‘em smile!
All my lady friends are talkative — and I was sanctimoniously told no lady would ever talk to me!”

Truck-stop candy

—Who, pray tell, is ***** *****, with the deep, dark cleavage? And why is Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, suggesting I “friend” her?
I could run a screenshot of her buxom profile picture. But I don’t want some loathsome lothario stalking her.
A wisp of a smile, but I’ve seen prettier eyes.
Her rack would be distracting. And dare I say it, boobies are not what attract This Kid.
Every one of my female friends aren’t similarly endowed. What they have are an engaging smile and/or pretty eyes.
I remember years ago a lady who was flat-as-a-board.
We talked and talked and talked and talked and talked, and she kept smiling at me. Finally I told her I really liked her smile.
That made her smile even harder: she was lighting up the entire woods. We were hiking a rail-trail, she the other direction.
“This guy is really interesting!” I could see it in her eyes: they sparkled.
She became embarrassed we were having so much fun talking it wasn’t fair to her husband (not there).
We both were walking our dogs, who were going nuts. 25 minutes or so: “we got hunting to do!”
I’ve had many similar encounters. One was a pretty young jogger who told me she was thrilled I struck up a conversation with her.
Of course she was thrilled. I wasn’t hittin’ on her!
That is, I treated her as an equal talker.
Another was an older lady who smiled and smiled and smiled at me.
Another was the 40-ish bicyclist lady smiling at me as we talked and talked and talked some more.
“We could talk forever, and it sure would be fun, but errands await.” She wasn’t that pretty; but her smile was ravishing.
Sadly, I don’t think my wife ever smiled like that; or if she did, I didn’t notice.
What attracted me was that she liked me, firstborn of hyper-religious, overly judgmental parents, eager to tell me I was disgusting because I couldn’t worship by holier-than-thou father.
My wife wasn’t a sexpot, but she could be attractive. She’d been raised by her mother to be a frump.
“You get rid of them glasses, and let your hair grow, and you’ll look a lot prettier,” I told her.
Her mother was aghast. I was leading her daughter into sin and degradation; I was making a frump pretty!
Facebook was making another “friend” suggestion for someone I thought might be my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
This “friend” suggestion had the same first name as that lifeguard, but I been told that second suggestion wasn’t a lifeguard.
All of which has me wondering why Facebook would suggest two women I don’t know.
I did some research into that second lady’s FB “friends,” and none are “mutual friends.” Also, none of *****’s 89-bazilyun “friends” are “mutual.”
No doubt researching *****’s “friends” triggered a slew of fevered Facebook algorithms. “That Hughes guy is researching ‘boobie-girl’!”
And if their second “friend” suggestion had actually been my lifeguard friend, how would they connect me with her?
“Google knows where we are,” I told my lifeguard friend once. “My iPhone is in the locker room, and yours is in the office. Google knows we’re both at this YMCA pool.”
(And perish-the-thought, I think my lifeguard friend likes that I say things like that. “You’re funny,” she would say. And I’ve heard that from other ladies, and they laugh and smile telling me that.)
2-3 years ago my aquacise-instructor, cute and definitely not a Harley-mama, gave me her business card. I immediately cranked that into my iPhone contacts, about when a friend installed “Facebook for iPhone.”
Within a week Facebook suggested that aquacise-instructor as a “friend.”
Where did they get her? She’s not “mutual” with any of my “friends.”
SuckerBird and his cronies secretly trolled my iPhone contacts. Another Facebook fast-one!
Ignorant as I was at the time, I sent her a “friend” request, and I’m glad I did, because I probably access her page more than most.
So will Yrs Trly click the “friend-request” button for *****?
ABSOLUTELY NOT!
I scroll through *****’s 89-bazilyun “friends,” and many are grizzled truckers.
Truck-stop candy? No way José!
Her cleavage is appealing, but no match for the smile or flashing eyes of one of my flat-as-a-board lady-friends.
And if I may say so, I think the girls with a buxom rack carry an albatross. They can’t talk easily with the lechers they attract.
Poor *****! Pretty, but candy for truckers.
The quantity of Facebook “friends,” or bedpost notches, do not denote one’s worth.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, currently one class per week — almost an hour — less than usual due to COVID-19.
• “Harley-mama” defined: smoke, drink, gamble, a slattern, slovenly, thunder-thighs, etc.

Risk of the day

—“Could you please do me a favor?” I asked the girl manning the self-checkout at my supermarket.
Her name was the same as my deceased sister, which l so noted, after which she walked away.
“Could you please turn around and look at me again?” I asked.
“WOW!” I said, eye-contact reestablished. “Your eyes are gorgeous!”
“Why thank you!” she gushed.
I haven’t been smacked yet, and I’ve told many ladies that.
“I can do that,” I told her. “I’m 76 years old. It’s one of the perks of old age.”
We laughed and she smiled. “Ya don’t look it,” she said.
“I do too!” I said. “I’m way over the hill, although I don’t remember any hill.”
We laughed some more. A little overweight, but gorgeous eyes.
And not a Harley-mama. No smokers, no drinkers, no gamblers, no slatterns. Only the classy ladies, especially if they have gorgeous eyes.
“It's these masks,” I told her. “I can’t get outta this supermarket without noticing eyes. And many are gorgeous; pretty blue eyes, pretty brown eyes. I see yours are brown.
Don’t do that!” I shouted. “Yer twinklin’ yer eyes at me again!”
“How am I supposed to be a good boy when you keep hittin’ me with them eyes?”
My childhood calls that FLIRTING; EVIL and disgusting.
But it sure is fun!
Striking sparks with women is fun. They smile or laugh.
“Go to Hell, Bobby! Do you not pass Go! Do not collect $200! Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”

“I can’t quit”

—“BobbaLew!" said my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool as I came around the pool.
She’s the only one to call me “BobbaLew” beside a friend with whom I once worked.
“This is the third time I’ve seen you this month, and I like it,” I said. “You’re someone I can talk with.
I been here three consecutive weeks, and you been here every time I been here. Do you work here every Wednesday?” I asked.
(Wednesdays are my aquatic balance-training class.)
“Yes I do,” she answered.
“Well I guess I better not quit!” I said.
“Which is why I show up,” she said. “You BETTER NOT quit!”
We laughed and laughed and laughed some more.
I find this amazing, after all the mistakes I made with this lady.
“No pretty lady will ever become friends with you!” —A legacy of my childhood 70 years ago.
2-3 years ago she said hello to me by name, and I managed to get up the nerve to say hello back, later of course.
I been scared of women all my life = another childhood legacy.
She was probably just being sociable, but I thought she was interested in me. Bad mistake.
Fortunately I never had her phone number, so I never was able to try too hard.
What I did instead was chase her around the pool, trying to talk to her.
I’d imagine a conversation, then hike over to her lifeguard-stand to say a few words to her.
Other times she’d “rotate” around the pool to where I was, and we’d talk to each other.
(Two lifeguards are on duty at all times, and they “rotate” to positions around the pool).
Other times I’d call her name, and we’d come together to talk to each other.
With the childhood I had, I was always amazed she continued to talk to me. (“No attractive lady will bother with you!”)
I have befriended many pretty ladies ever since that lifeguard said hello to me. And I no longer think they’re interested in me.
My bereavement-counselor suggested I just be myself; that I’d make many more lady-friends being myself than trying so hard.
So now perhaps my thinking she was interested in me has departed. Romantic interest no longer messes things up.
Our eyes meet, and our yammering begins. “Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada.” We talk and laugh and joke and make snide-remarks.
Friends at last, and I really like it.
And the fact she’s an attractive female counters the fevered zealots who convinced me at age-five I was disgusting.
Yrs Trly unloaded an 88% chocolate bar on her the other day.
“Too bitter,” I told her. “I can’t eat it.”
“Well I can,” she said. “Just eat it with red wine; that’s what keeps me going!”
“So in other words if I just guzzle some ‘Wine-wine-wine Spodee-Odie,’ I’ll regain my youthful ‘vigah’.”
She’s 64 years old, but on her lifeguard-stand she looks like she’s in her 40s.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, currently one class per week — almost an hour — less than usual due to COVID-19.
• My wife died over eight years ago. As a result I see a bereavement counselor once per month, although she became more a psychiatrist.
• Wine-wine-wine Spodee-Odie, and Jerry Lee Lewis are before her time.
• “Vigah” is how President John F. Kennedy pronounced “vigor.” If she was born in 1955, Kennedy may be before her time.

“I don’t know you from the moon!”

—Yrs Trly was waiting in Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy reception-area for my friend **** to get off her phone to check me in.
**** and I are friends because if I say hello to her she smiles at me.
So I better say hello to her. If I didn’t she’d be hurt.
I didn’t say much to the temperature ladies out in the lobby, one of whom is exceptionally pretty.
A few weeks ago I said something to her, and it made her nervous.
She’s gotten friendlier since, but I ain’t makin’ her nervous. Any talking we do will be her move.
So here I am waiting for ****, and a pretty lady walks past, our eyes meet, and she says hello to me.
She looked maybe 65 or so, stridently silver hair, but eyes twinkling above her mask.
“Do I know you?” I asked. My guess is she thought I was someone she knew.
Things are different since my wife died. Years ago I woulda avoided that lady, but no longer.
We began talking. “I don't know you from the Moon,” then she wished me a merry Christmas.
30 seconds of joyous bliss. Don’t avoid people. Strike up a conversation. Do it! It always works.
I began my appointment. It’s not actually physical therapy, but it’s in the Physical-Therapy department — use of their exercise machines.
Suddenly, there she is again. She’s walking toward the exit.
“Wait a minute!” I shouted; “you can’t just walk out of here without saying hello again!”
Our eyes met again, and hers sparkled again.
“You’re smiling at me,” I said; “mask or not I can tell. Your eyes give you away.”
Call that a FLIRT if you want. Per my childhood any contact, even verbal, between a male and a female is EVIL = disgusting.
But it sure is fun.
Me and that lady — a complete stranger — were striking sparks.
My lifelong fear of women is flip-flopped.

“I’m old enough to be your grandfather”

—“I had a dream about you the other morning,” I’d say to my pretty college-age friend at the kennel where I used to daycare Killian.
“Don’t worry,” I’d say; “it was clean.”
“We were walking hand-in-hand up a bombed out city street picking our way through a dusty detritus of crumbled bricks.
I was the token male, protecting you from the thugs and rapists that people city streets.”
Although at age-76, I doubt I’d be much protection.
“I can take care of myself,” she’d say. And she probably could. She’s the daughter of a business owner, and has moxie and self-confidence. Her father refuses to hand the business over to her: “too opinionated,” he says.
How I became friends with her I don’t know, although I’d like to think my never hitting on her mattered.
I also almost immediately gave her my speech, the same speech I gave to almost every pretty young girl at that kennel.
She was wary at first, but “listen to him!” said one of the kennel co-owners, age 48, also cute. “This is extremely important. We don’t want you to make a mistake!”
“Yer gonna get married someday,” I told her. “Whatever ya do, marry someone who can make ya laugh! Do that and yer in it for the long-haul. Frustration, jealousy, exasperation; they’re all gonna happen. But if he can make ya laugh, you’ll get over ‘em!”
“‘No pretty girl will smile at you!’ I was told long ago, and here you are smiling at me.”
She’d smile harder, pretty brown eyes askance, embarrassed I backhandedly told her she was pretty. Plus I also wasn’t hittin’ on her.
“What I should be asking is are you engaged yet?”
She has a boyfriend, and he wants to do the whole kibosh: diamond engagement ring, bended knee, etc.
“Well,” I said; “89 bazilyun buckaroos doesn’t buy love!”
That kennel co-owner burst into “Can’t buy me love,” by the Beatles. My friend also doesn’t want the 89 bazilyun dollars.
No bended knee for This Kid, although mainly because I didn’t know how.
“I want you to be happy,” I’d say; “and I know how marriage can tangle you in commitments and entitlements. Actually enjoying each other, which probably occurred before marriage, gets lost with marriage.
My wife and I managed 44&1/2 years, but my sister tried four times. Marriage can destroy a friendship, and I’m no longer who I was before my wife died. She’d probably be jealous of my flirting.”
So there we were, enjoying each other’s company — or so it seemed.
I haven’t seen her in a while, since I no longer have a dog; i.e. I no longer use that kennel.
That girl told me to drop by. So I tried a couple times, but no one answered their door, etc.
My childhood has me thinking they’re avoiding me, but they also may be out back.
I visited other times, but that co-owner often was around, or my friend was in their lobby.
I ask myself how did I ever become friends with a pretty young girl? She’s college-age.
“I could be your grandfather!” I tell her.

• That girl is a millennial = 20 years old.
• “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.)

At long last……..

—“Hooray, hooray, hooray,” I said to myself. “You mean I’m actually gonna be able to talk with ****** ****?”
I said something to her during our aquacise class — she leads it — hoping we might be able to talk after class.
Class ended our eyes met, she smiled at me, and “what’s up?”
WOW! It was her starting our conversation, instead of my feeble attempts at interrupting, or a manufactured opening.
I don’t think she tries to avoid me, although maybe she does. But I never get to talk to her.
That’s because she’s an instructor, often busy with a client; unlike most of the other lady-friends I cultivated since my wife died.
Those lady-friends counter my early childhood when I was told “no pretty lady will ever talk to you!”
And unfortunately ****** **** was first, or most likely first, to counter “no pretty lady will ever smile at you!”
She smiled at me. That was long ago, and I blew it all wrong.
No idea how to deal with ladies who attract me; I had been scared of females all my life.
Another lady-friend told me “just because a lady smiles at you, doesn’t mean she’s interested in you.”
And that wasn’t a push-off; she was recounting how things were 20 years ago when she was dating.
My conversation was milquetoast. ****** **** posted something to her Facebook — we’re FB “friends” — about Winnie-the-Pooh.
I noted part of a Canandaigua rail-trail had a surfeit of Pooh paraphernalia. She knew of it.
****** **** and I are worlds apart. But we have a few similarities. I guess we’re both health nuts. I’ve stolen food advice from her.
Plus every once in a while she posts something on her Facebook that gets my attention.
“Ya mean we gotta have a pandemic to be able to talk?” I’d say.
Probably only a minute, but that’s way more pleasant than 10 seconds of my fumbling.
But ****** **** is always special. If not first, she was among the first, who countered my being marked for life.

• I do aquatic balance-training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, currently one class per week — almost an hour — less than usual due to COVID-19.

Talk is what matters!

—My cousin near Washington DC put a winking emoticon on the FB “message” I sent him the other night.
I couldn’t find his daily post of our pandemic day-count. Someone “commented” three buxom tarts spilling cleavage all over his post.
“Can they talk?” I “commented” myself. “How ya supposed to talk smothered in boobies?” I asked.
I wanted to edit out “boobies;” “Can they talk?” was enough.
I’m not a Trumper. I think girls are much better than mere sex-objects.
Many of my female friends are what some of my male friends call “flat-chested.”
What makes a girl attractive to me is her smile or her eyes.
Beyond that “can they talk?” I bet my cousin and his main squeeze are bonded by talk.
“That guy can park his boots at the foot of my bed anytime!” a lady-friend shouted, regarding some glowering hunk movie star.
“But can he talk?” I asked.
“DOESN’T MATTER!” She yelled.
The very next week she entertained us about her new boyfriend who was so wonderful because they could talk.
Uhm, HELLO…….
For a marriage to work the couple has to be able to talk to each other. No put-downs = they hafta value the thoughts of their mate.
Talk is what matters!

“Happy to see ya!”

—“Boy am I glad you’re here,” I said to pretty *****, head-honcho of my in-store pharmacy at my supermarket in nearby Honeoye Falls.
“When I don’t see you I worry,” I added.
Perish-the-thought I think telling her that put her more at ease than the perfunctory “hello, how are you? Have a nice day!”
We could talk, she smiling and looking right at me = eye-contact with her pretty blue eyes.
“My annual train-calendar is on order. Your little boy will get one, but you have to be here so I can give it to you.”
“I’ll be here,” she smiled, eyes twinkling.
***** is not gorgeous, but she’s pretty enough to be among the women of whom I previously was scared.
“No pretty female will associate with you!”
That’s my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, who together with my parents, also hyper-religious, convinced me at age-five I was disgusting.
A few days later at my Canandaigua supermarket: “if I’d known you were up here, I’da used this self-checkout instead of a checkout lane.”
Yet another of the many lady friends I cultivated since my wife died.
She’s not cute, but I recognize her, and she recognizes me. We talk and laugh and enjoy each other’s company.
Another lady-friend walked in, and saw me talking with that supermarket lady.
That friend is one who tells me thinking my lady friends enjoy my company is dreamin’.
To which I say, they’re not walking away. Usually it’s me that ends conversations: “We could talk forever, and it sure would be fun; but I gotta buy groceries!”
Our eyes met, and off-we-went!
I’m sure that lady is married, but so what? We talk and laugh and smile at each other. I’m not on-the-hunt.
“Happy to see ya!” I said to my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool the other day.
“Happy to see you too,” she said.
And again, I think that put her more at ease than she usually is.
We began talking: “so I see a pretty lady running in front of me on Sand Road. I’m supposed to stop, hoping you won’t blow me in to the Ontario County Sheriff.”
“I've never seen anyone else running Sand Road, so it’ll be me. And I’ll know it’s you,” she said laughing.
That lifeguard and I go back at least 2-3 years. I always felt her attractive, especially for her age, which is now 64 years old.
Like what in Hell’s name am I doing talking to her after the childhood I had? Especially after all the flubs I made trying to get used to talking to a lady who attracts me?
Most extraordinary is the encounter I had maybe 2-3 weeks ago with a pretty jogger on Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
“Here she comes!
Now do it! Strike up a conversation, even with a pretty girl. You’ve done it before!”
“I used to do that myself,” I said as the girl approached.
She stopped and extracted her earplugs.
“Running?” she asked. And off-we-went! Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada.
She smiling and her eyes twinkling.
We talked and talked and talked some more. I thought she might wanna continue running.
But no, she wanted to talk.
After maybe 10 minutes I said: “I am so glad I said something! Striking up a conversation always works!”
“I’m glad ya did too,” she smiled. “You are perfect!”
A pretty girl is saying that to a lifelong scumbag? Absolutely mind-boggling!
Then, when we met a second time, it was her saying hello to me; again amazing.
“I am so glad I struck up a conversation with you!” I said as she jogged past.
“Me too!” she exclaimed.
“I hope we meet again sometime,” she said.
Again AMAZING!
And I’ll probably never see her again during what little time remaining I have on this planet.
What do I say to her if we do meet again? I don’t wanna ruin things = the extraordinary vibes we had.
“Happy to see ya! Thrilled to see ya!”
Then, “talk to me! Anything!”

• “Eye-contact” is what makes eyes pretty. It means whoever you’re talking to thinks you’re worth listening to.
• 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 do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, currently one class per week — almost an hour — less than usual due to COVID-19.

Another “relations with the opposite sex”

—“Lemme know if I have this wrong,” I said to my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
“If I see a pretty lady running in front of me as I drive Sand Road (that lifeguard runs, as did I years ago), I’m supposed to stop and say hello, hoping you won’t call the sheriff.”
“I’ll know it’s you,” she laughed, waving.
“What if it's not you?” I asked. “The girl calls sheriff, and he drags me off to jail as a ‘prevert’.”
We laughed and laughed and laughed; we were wearing masks, but her eyes gave her away.
This was ***** my pretty lifeguard friend who long ago said hello to me by name, and I managed to crank enough nerve to say hello back — later of course.
I blew that all wrong too, thinking she was interested in me. Bad mistake.
Yet somehow or other she kept talking to me despite all my incredible flubs and faux pas trying to get used to talking to pretty ladies.
One flub was an incredible boner I thought would end our friendship forever.
Yet the next day, here comes *****, like “happy to see ya!”
“If you can forget yesterday,” I thought to myself; “I guess I can too.”
Off we went, boner forgotten.
Yr Fthfl Srvnt decided to not chase ***** yesterday. In the past I always tried too hard to make contact with *****. I noticed if I try too hard I don’t get the eye-contact or smiling I get if I let her run things.
And I love seeing her smile; laughing too.
So we meet in passing; I ain’t chasin’!
I’m not desperate, but I do like shooting the breeze with *****.
Doing so contradicts my childhood, whereby “No pretty lady will ever interact with you!”
For 64 years old, ***** is attractive. On her lifeguard stand she looks like she’s in her 40s.
I been attracted to ***** ever since I first started showing up at that swimming-pool two or three years ago. I remember a male friend asking how things were going with my lifeguard honey.
“Lifeguard honey” my foot! Lust at my age (76)? Get real, dudes!
But I DO like talking with her, and I think she likes talking with me.
She isn’t avoiding me.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, currently one class per week — almost an hour — less than usual due to COVID-19.
• “Prevert” is how the hyper-religious zealots at my college mispronounced “pervert.”

Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk!

—“It’s these masks,” I said to my receptionist in Canandaigua EyeCare’s Optical-Department.
“They force us to look at eyes,” I told her.
“Yes, we’re used to looking for a smile,” she said. “With masks we can’t.”
“Eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes,” I said. “Everywhere eyes, and many are gorgeous. It’s like eye-contact makes eyes gorgeous.
I was at Canandaigua EyeCare Center because I dropped my glasses in the driveway of a friend, so she and/or I could unknowingly drive over and destroy them.
That friend lives in Canandaigua, so I picked up my damaged glasses from her, then went to EyeCare on my way home.
Eye-contact I’m not used to. When it happens I am smitten. Pretty blue eyes, pretty brown eyes, and eyes that sparkle or twinkle.
“You can hide behind that mask, but you’re smiling at me. Your eyes give you away.”
“Your eyes are pretty,” I said to another receptionist. She was looking at me with her pretty blue eyes. Eye-contact makes eyes pretty.
Finally I was guided to a sales table.
Only one sales person, and she’s not attractive. But she’s talkative. I guess ya gotta be to succeed in sales.
I’m not used to talking either, but 70 years late I discover it sure is fun. Especially with ladies. Strike up a conversation with an unknown lady, and off we go.
Try that with men, and they get defensive. They might even hurl the macho-bit atcha. There are a few men I can talk to, but I know ‘em.
The other day I told a joke to my female therapist and her male boss. The therapist laughed crazily, but her boss got defensive: like the fact I made that girl laugh made me a threat.
So me and that sales-girl started shooting the breeze.
“My wife, who died eight years ago, was raised to be a frump. Her mother was a real pill.
‘You get rid of them glasses, and let your hair grow, and you’re gonna look a lot prettier’!”
“So what did your wife say to that?” the sales-girl asked.
“Her mother’s reaction is what I noticed. I was leading her daughter into sin and degradation (GASP)!”
We laughed and laughed and laughed some more.
“I got another story if you wanna hear it,” I said.
“Hit me!” the sales-girl said.
“The first time her mother met me, she growled at me. I can still visualize it,” I said. “She’s sitting on their living-room sofa growling at me, actually growling.
‘Look what the cat dragged in! What in the world does she ever see in him? I had the perfect husband picked out for her, but she had to go out on her own! GUILTY, I tell ya’!”
“Well we women can do that = pick who we marry,” the sales-girl said.
Talk, talk, talk, talkity, talk ; and laugh-laffity-laugh!
“We could talk forever, and it sure would be fun. But I hafta get new glasses,” I said.
And I couldn’t order repeats of my damaged glasses. They no longer were made. I had to choose new frames.
She also told me about how well she gets along with her husband’s parents.
The first time she met them they were playing high-speed euchre. Her father-in-law, a champion, wondered if she wanted to join them.
“Only if ya don’t yell at me,” she answered.
“Notice I’m letting you talk,” I said. “I’m not butting in. Yer likely to say something I wanna hear. Talking is fun. For marriage to succeed the couple has to enjoy talking to each other, no put-downs, bad-mouthing, etc.”
“Their marriage won’t last three months!” her mother shrieked.
“44&1/2 years,” I noted; “and probably woulda made 50 if cancer hadn’t intervened.”
That sales-lady and I talked quite a bit more. She wasn’t attractive, but talking is fun.
Attractiveness counters my hyper-religious parents and neighbor Sunday-School superintendent, also hyper-religious: “no pretty lady will ever talk to/smile at/laugh with/associate with/be interested in you!”
So the other day, at my supermarket, the following didn’t occur, but probably shoulda:
“Can you please do me a favor?” I’d ask the checkout girl.
“Just look at me with your eyes.
WOW!” I’d say.
“It’s these masks, and your eyes are gorgeous!
Look what we been missing!” I’d exclaim.
I shoulda done it; her eyes were gorgeous.

• The joke: “Two TV antennas met on a rooftop, fell in love, and got married. The ceremony was so-so, but the reception was fabulous.”
• One time in college the guy who my wife’s mother wanted dated my wife-to-be, and scared her to death demonstrating the 100 mph potential of his ’57 Chevy.

Eye-Contact

—I walk out of the inner sanctum of my doctor’s office into the lobby, and suddenly I’m face-to-face with a pretty girl with gorgeous eyes.
Only a nano-second of actual eye-contact, enough time for her to spring up and walk out before some lecherous geezer gets cute with her.
That nano-second is nowhere near enough time to deliver my preliminary babble to avoid being perceived a lecherous geezer.
“It’s these masks,” I’d say. “They force us to notice eyes. Eyes, eyes, and eyes everywhere, and many are gorgeous. Your eyes are gorgeous! It’s like look what we been missing!”
None of that happened. She split before I could say anything.
There was another girl who works there, and last visit I told her she had pretty eyes. “There are those eyes again,” I said to her. “I recognize your eyes!”
The visit to my doctor was to deal with extravagant swelling of my left thumb. Cellulitis it’s called. Why it infected I have no idea, but it kept me awake all night. No sleep at all.
The swelling was lanced, and a river of puss flowed. My doctor prescribed an antibiotic to my pharmacy where I hoped I’d meet pretty *****.
I did. “Boy am I glad you’re here. When you’re not I worry,” I said.
Our eyes met, flagrant eye-contact, and I noticed she has gorgeous eyes.
She seemed more outgoing, like no longer was I perceived a lonely hot-to-trot widower. —We could talk.
Previously I guess our eye-contact was minimal, like maybe she had been looking askance.
This time she was looking right at me, and her eyes were pretty blue and sparkling.
Which got me thinking on my way home. Why were her eyes so gorgeous this time?
It’s the eye-contact I surmise. “No girl will ever look directly at you!”
I didn’t say anything to *****, but WOW!
She wasn’t as defensive as previous, and she was hittin’ me with her gorgeous eyes.

Not smacked yet

—“You have pretty eyes,” or “boy am I glad I said something to you!”
After which the pretty girl says “I’m glad you said something too!”
ME? The lifelong scum-bag?
“I almost said something to you in the store, but you got away. Now here we are out in this parking lot, and your eyes are gorgeous.”
“Why thank you!” the lady gushed, and I didn’t get smacked.
I bet she goes home and tells her husband some geezer told her she had gorgeous eyes. And perish-the-thought, I bet she liked that.
Why am I getting away with this? I’ve yet to get slapped.
“If some guy told me I had pretty eyes, I’d get out my mace,” a lady-friend told me.
Only one failure so far among numerous successes. And with her I was lying.
I admit I hesitate; I also unload a torrent of preliminary babble hoping it will make my complement sincere.
I go to a nearby restaurant to get takeout, and a pretty girl brings it out.
“I hafta say something. I’m 76 years old, and you’re a pretty girl.” BLUSH! “Life is not fair,” I’d add.
I passed a lady outside my supermarket, she glanced at me, so I wheeled around and said hello to her: face-to-face, full eye-contact.
She smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled at me.
“You’re smiling at me!” I said. “Always,” she cooed, as she smiled even harder, lighting up the entire parking-lot.
Her eyes twinkled. Why do I get away with this?
I was hiking a nearby rail-trail, and a fortyish lady bicyclist was resting on a rock, maybe 400 yards away.
Would I get to where she was before she left? But I think she was waiting to see if I’d talk to her.
I made it, we began talking, and she smiled and smiled and smiled at me.
She wasn’t that pretty, but I can still see that smile, and her sparkling eyes.
Why do I get away with this?
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, whereby “No pretty lady will ever associate with you!”
So befriending pretty ladies, at which I seem to be mind-blowing successful, counters Faire Hilda.
Why do I not get maced when I tell a lady she attracts me?
I don’t tell her point-blank, plus I try to cushion my saying so: I’m not saying “how ‘bout it honey?”
I think perhaps the fact I did prior defense makes it possible to tell a girl she attracts me.
Plus what got my attention was her smile or eyes, not sex-appeal.
Plus I’m partial to classy ladies; no Harley-mamas. Drink, smoke, gamble, drugs: never in a million years!
What I really wanna do is talk-talk-talk-talk-talk. If that happens the lady usually smiles at me.
“No pretty lady will ever smile at you!” So I’m always after that smile. I can still visualize that bicyclist smiling at me; that supermarket lady too.
Innocence mayhap? They perceive I’d be no good hittin’-on-‘em.
Then they smile at me: BAM! I am done; and they can see it.
“Yer hittin’ me with them eyes again;” cutest girl in the store — I’m probably old enough to be her grandfather.
And she LOVES it: she’s not telling me to “buzz off creep!”

Catharsis

—“It’s time to move on to something new,” my friend says.
Seventy-some years ago, the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious and overly judgmental Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, told me all males, including me at age 5, were despicable and disgusting.
I think her husband, a hotshot RCA engineer, was probably fooling around.
Had my parents, also hyper religious, come to my defense, Faire Hilda woulda crashed mightily in flames.
Instead they heartily agreed, all because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
Over 76 years on this planet I have met thousands. Only two seem to understand the madness of my childhood.
One is my aunt, age-90, badmouthed all her life by her mother, who continually told her she shoulda never been born. That aunt probably had it worse than me.
The other is my cousin: the only child of my father’s brother. “I don’t know how my father ended up being as decent as he was after the childhood he had.”
My aunt regals me with stories about how she walked into a tree-branch, and it knocked her down. “You deserved that! Harr-harr-hardy-harr-harr! You had that coming!”
“No female will ever associate with you!” That was Faire Hilda marking me for life — and my parents agreed.
My parents mellowed as more children were born. But I was first-born.
Especially my mother, as she began to realize my father was losing me.
So now, 70 years late, I’m beginning to realize the zealots were all WRONG.
Forgetting such a childhood would be easy-as-pie for the average person. The average person couldn’t comprehend the madness I endured = the continual put-downs and badmouthing, that I was rebellious and disgusting.
So now, 70 years late, I find myself befriending way more ladies than I ever expected.
It’s joyous and mind-blowing.
And it seems like something like that happens every day.
The fact I make so many lady-friends gets celebrated as blog-material.
“Every day, something!” I say to myself, as yet another wondrous contact with a female occurs.
A lady smiles at me, or her eyes sparkle = we’re striking sparks.
“Your eyes are pretty,” or “boy-oh-boy am I glad I struck up a conversation with you!”
I celebrate it too much: stuff like this is totally unexpected after the childhood I had.
“I’m 76 years old, and you’re a pretty girl.” Blush! “Boy did I hit the mark with that! After my childhood?”
Another “relations with the opposite sex” blog = boring as Hell to my friend.
But these blogs score 10-to-15 hits per blog. I’m sure some of those hits never get read.
Even if I go down to zero reads, I’ll probably keep celebratin’. My childhood is being flip-flopped.
Writing these blogs is catharsis for me = my friend doesn’t hafta read ‘em.

• “RCA” is Radio Corporation of America, an early marketer of in-home electronics — radios, record-players, and eventually TVs. It was based in Camden, NJ, across from Philadelphia. Not far from where I grew up in south Jersey.

Reflections

—“Why in the world would *****, a lifeguard at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, make such a production of meeting me after eight months?”
I found myself wondering about that this morning as I awoke.
I round a corner poolside, our eyes meet, and “BobbaLew!” she shouts.
I’d like to think she was waiting for me, since we saw each other earlier, her in the pool-area and me outside.
She coulda just waved and said hello to me, but instead she hit me with questions.
Did I see her running on a nearby road? (She runs.)
I didn’t, but apparently she saw me. “I’m pretty sure it was you!” she said to me.
Contrary to my critics she seemed happy to see me.
She’s married, of course. And I’m sure her husband is way more attractive than I am.
Plus I make too many mistakes in my fumbling and feeble attempts to befriend women I find attractive.
I surmise it makes ***** feel good I consider her attractive. The old girl (age 64) can still attract the little boys, even though that little boy is 12 years older than her.
“What about your wife?” people ask. I wasn’t physically attracted to her until later.
What brought us together was her attraction to me: “I like the way that Hughes-guy thinks.”
She was a frump who could be made pretty. ***** isn’t gorgeous, but she’s attractive.
Our friendship blossomed into much more, mainly the fact that we talk and laugh — despite all the dumb mistakes I made trying to befriend a lady I consider attractive.
I admit I gravitate toward an attractive lady with whom I can talk, and that’s not just *****.
I never can leave that pool without trying to talk to *****; and she’s only a lifeguard = I’m not interrupting.
I try too hard.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, currently one class per week — almost an hour — less than usual due to COVID-19.

Guilty-as-charged

—“You have pretty eyes,” I told a young checkout girl at my supermarket.
“Why thank you!” she gushed.
“I’m not supposed to tell you that!” I said.
“If some guy told me I had pretty eyes, I’d get out my Taser,” a lady-friend told me.
“I been told saying you have pretty eyes is a FLIRT,” I said to her.
“Yes, but it’s not intended as ‘how ‘bout it honey’,” I thought to myself.
A lot of preliminary yammering proceeded “you have pretty eyes.”
“Hi, how are you?” the girl chirped as I slapped groceries on her chute.
“Not much here,” I responded. Only two mouthwashes and my Egg-Beaters.
I walked toward the end of her chute, and she returned my keys. My store savings-tag is with my keys.
“Hello-Hello,” I said, as I inserted my card into their chip-reader.
“What?” the girl asked. A large clear-plastic sheet separated her from me — it impedes communication.
“Hello again,” I said.
Guilty-as-charged. Our eyes were meeting.
I said something else; suckered in by our eye-contact.
All my life I avoided eye-contact. Now I find it pleasant!
“What?” she asked again, looking right at me.
I admit I was wallowing in it. Eye-contact with a cutie is such fun!
“It’s these masks,” I said. “They force us to notice eyes.
“Dare I say this?” Ulp! “You have pretty eyes!”
And I didn’t get tased.
I bet that girl tells her cohorts about how some weird geezer told her she had pretty eyes.
Somebody had to tell her, and it was me.
So far only one strike-out among multiple contacts. And with that girl I was lying.

“Houston, we have eye-contact!”

—Yrs Trly is waiting outside Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool; COVID-19 protocol.
Around the pool comes *****, my lifeguard friend at that swimming-pool.
We wave at each other, and per my critics ***** is probably saying “UGH! Not that Hughes guy again.”
***** disappears around a corner, so the second lifeguard lets us in.
I round that corner, and suddenly “BobbaLew!” (“Houston, we have eye-contact!”)
She wasn’t avoiding me; she’s looking right at me and smiling. (Masks or not I could tell.)
Sorry critics, but I think she was happy to see me.
And I was similarly thrilled to see her. “A person I thought I might never see again in my entire life,” I said.
She began peppering me with questions. Did I see her running along Sand Road? (She runs, as did I years ago.)
“I’m pretty sure that was you,” she said.
“I did see someone walking a dog, and realized later it mighta been you,” I said.
“So glad you addressed me as ‘BobbaLew’,” I commented. “Over and over I try to get people to call me that, but I have only one other friend who calls me ‘BobbaLew.’
So if I see some girl running along Sand Road, I’m supposed to stop, hoping you won’t perceive me a lonely hot-to-trot widower?”
“I’ll know it’s you,” she laughed.
“What if it’s not you?” I asked. “The girl calls the sheriff!”
***** and I go back years, ever since she said hello to me by name, and I cranked enough nerve later to say hello back.
We remained friends despite the many flubs and faux pas I committed trying to befriend someone of the opposite sex I consider attractive. (Little experience at age 76 with women, despite being married to one 44&1/2 years.)
And for someone 64 years old she’s attractive. On her lifeguard stand she looks like she’s in her late 40s.
I thought I’d lost her for good after committing a real boner. But NO; she seemed happy to see me the next day. (“If you can forget yesterday, I guess I can too.”)
“DREAMIN’,” my friends say. “She’s just being pleasant to you.”
My response is “Dream on, baby!” If I were suspicious, I think she’d notice.
It’s much more pleasant to pretend we enjoy each other’s company, because it seems we enjoy each other’s company. We laugh, and talk, and smile at each other.
I don’t think she could fake it that well = too much direct eye-contact.
No eyes avert — she’s not trying to get away from me.
“No pretty lady will ever become friends with you!” I been hearing that all my life. To say I’m “dreamin’” is just repeating that.
So confused and as inexperienced as I am dealing with women, I seem to have gained many female friends.
And it seems one of them is *****.

• “Houston, we have eye-contact!” is a takeoff on “Houston, Tranquility Base here; the Eagle has landed.” July 20th, 1969. (That’s goin’ to my grave!)
• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, currently one class per week — almost an hour — less than usual due to COVID-19.

They come and they go

—“I see gray hairs,” I cooed to a pretty lady with whom I stopped to talk in a nearby town park.
That was years ago. Maybe 10 hairs were actually gray. Everything else was brunette, elegantly coifed. She was probably in her late 30s, but attractive.
We were walking our dogs, me in, and she out.
I was just being cute, but it went over extremely well. It meant I had looked at her, and thought her attractive. I had to stop us from talking; she wouldn’t leave.
A guy (me) had found her attractive, and in all the right ways. I wasn’t hittin’ on her!
This came to mind after meeting that pretty jogger the other day. I struck up a conversation with her, and that went over extremely well too.
Like the fact I struck up a conversation meant I found her attractive.
Yes, she was attractive; but I was forcing myself to talk to a pretty lady. I’ve only recently gotten so I can do it; also with men.
“No one will talk to you, especially pretty ladies.”
“Go to Hell, Bobby! Do you not pass Go, do not collect $200. Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”
A wonderful thing to tell a five-year-old little boy.
That gray hair encounter was so pleasant I revisited quite often the next few days.
I haven’t seen her since, and probably never will again.
That jogger and I were really striking sparks.
“I hope we meet again sometime,” she said.
Me? The lifelong scumbag?
“No pretty lady will enjoy your company!” And on second encounter it was her saying hello.
But I bet I never meet her again either.
Me and that jogger, plus that other lady, really enjoyed each other.
“Boy am I glad I said something to you!”
“I’m glad too,” my jogger friend said.
They come and they go.

• I been advised I’m dreamin’ to think these ladies actually enjoyed my company.

My calendar for December, 2020

Another train-load of Bakken crude descends The Hill. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—Here it comes! Another train-load of Bakken crude-oil comes down the mountain for east-coast oil refineries.
My brother took this picture five years ago on my birthday in 2015. The train is approaching the 24th St. overpass in Altoona over Pennsy’s old Slope interlocking.
Slope used to have a tower, but now it’s operated remotely from Pittsburgh.
Slope is Altoona’s yard entrance, and long-ago Pennsy founded Altoona because that’s the foot of their grade over Allegheny front.
In the early 1800s, Allegheny Mountain was the barrier to trade across PA with the newly opened Midwest.
Philadelphia and Baltimore worried New York City might become this nation’s primary ocean port. And it did, thanks to New York’s Erie Canal.
Philadelphia and Baltimore had Allegheny Mountain to cross — it didn’t cross New York State.
Now that our economy is so tied to burning petroleum, we look for other crude-oil sources. Saudi Arabia and Venezuela come to mind.
But capitalists found they could frack crude-oil from the Bakken Shale Play under Eastern Montana and Western North Dakota. Crude-oil could also be extracted from tar-sands in Canada.
Viola! A crude-oil supply other than dictatorships and the tempestuous Middle-East.
Pipeline capacity was inadequate, so enter railroad unit oil trains.
The train pictured is all tankcars (“oil cans”) except for the idler between the tankcars and locomotives.
My guess is this photograph is a “shaddup-and-shoot.”
Here comes one down The Hill, so my brother leaps to the other side of the bridge and shoots.
Being backlit the light is all wrong. My brother prefers lighting the front of the engine. Looking east into Altoony would be okay by this time of day.
Nevertheless, this is how railroading became. Hundreds of tankcars, and only tankcars. A unit-train of nothing but tankcars.
Back-and-forth they go: empty out to the Bakken oil fields, then loaded back to the east coast. —Or Gulf Coast, or southern Californy, or wherever.

• The “idler” is a single unused freight-car behind the locomotives and ahead of the tankcars, to keep the tankcars from rolling into the locomotives if the train derails or wrecks. A unit oil-train has a single idler at each end.

“You are perfect”

—Yrs Trly paged through an entire Orvis women’s catalog picturing 10 to 15 pretty models in attractive attire. But not one girl looked more attractive than that jogger I met the other day.
The models were meant to look like the girl-next-door, cute but not chesty tarts spilling cleavage all over the page.
They lacked the smile and sparkling eyes of that jogger.
Or was it what she said to me? Telling me she really liked that I struck up a conversation with her.
She smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled. I coulda just passed her and kept going, but after I struck up a conversation she stopped running.
Talk, talk, talk, talk, and talk some more. Just a simple exchange of emotions, whereby we trigger each other.
Yes, I loved listening to her, and I think she loved that a male was more interested in talking to her than sex.
She was attractive, but her smile is what got my attention. Plus the fact she responded so favorably to my striking up a conversation.
My opening line was nothing. But by so doing I was acknowledging her. That struck a chord.
I’ll probably never see her again. They come and they go.
“No pretty lady will hang out with you!” Yet there she was, face-to-face, and not trying to leave.
And it was her striking up a conversation when we crossed paths a second time.
So what if we do meet again, and she said hopefully we would. How do I not ruin such good vibes?
I’m not used to this; I have a childhood that declared me “disgusting.”
Yet there she was, and I am so glad I struck up a conversation with her.
And she said she was glad I told her that: “You are perfect,” she said.

• Sorry readers, another “relations with the opposite sex.” They keep happening!