On smiling

Classical pianist Mahani Teave of Rapa Nui (Easter Island).

—70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt discovers the incredible joy of the female smile.
I’m averse to publishing the names and photographs of women in this blog.
I don’t want some creep stalking some female I identified, especially among my lady-friends, all of whom aren’t public figures.
Hopefully Mahani Teave, a classical pianist from Rapa Nui (Easter Island) is enough of a public figure to publish her name and photograph.
She’s not gorgeous, but her smile is fantastic.
The classical music stream I listen to interviewed Mahani, and also published her photograph (screenshot above).
WOW! She’s not gorgeous, but her smile is incredible.
I get smiles like that among my lady-friends.
Once my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua's YMCA swimming-pool smiled at me, and I will never forget it.
She’s not an easy smiler but she lit up the entire pool area. Total eye-contact with smiling eyes.
“No pretty lady will smile at you!” Then POW!
Another female smile I won’t forget is *****, an employee in my supermarket’s produce-department.
She’s a big sturdy girl, who looked like she’d take my head off if I said anything to her.
Instead she turned and smiled at me. The mere fact I said anything to her indicated I liked what I saw.
We were wearing masks, but her eyes twinkled. And she uses those funky black mascara chips on her eyelids.
No matter!
One time I struck up a conversation with a lady on a nearby rail-trail. She wasn’t that pretty; she was probably in her 40s.
But she smiled and smiled and smiled at me. I can still visualize her smile.
Another time I met another lady on a different rail-trail. At least 20 minutes of continuous smiling; our dogs wanted to hunt! She lit up the entire woods!
Finally we stopped talking to each other.
She became embarrassed we were having so much fun just talking it wasn’t fair to her husband, who wasn’t there.
She said she wouldn’t say much to me if we met again. But she did.
“I only have one thing to say here,” I said.
SCREECH! She wanted to hear it — I’d been making her happy.
So every time I fire up this rig I hafta get past Mahani and her ravishing smile.
It’s not easy! Minutes get wasted just loving her smile.
And 70 years late I learn the joyous wonder of the female smile.

Jealousy?

—The other day I received a video e-mail from an old friend. She long ago co-led the grief-share I attended after my wife died.
I’m always suspicious of e-mails, texts, and Facebook “Messages.” Now even phone-calls can be hacked.
So I’d ask that grief-share friend if it was safe.
Like me she uses Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool. I’m in a class, but she’s isn’t. I see her often, so we remained friends.
I coulda e-mailed her back, but figgered I’d see her at that pool.
That swimming-pool is also where I see my pretty lifeguard friend. We talk and laugh, mainly talk. The fact we’re friends reverses “No pretty lady will ever be friends with you!”
Both ladies were at that pool the other day. But my grief-share friend was nearer, so I’d talk to her first.
I walked around the pool edge, and usually I see my lifeguard friend first. It seems we’re happy to see each other.
I think the fact I like her pleases her. Other lady-friends seem similarly pleased.
It’s almost like the fact I like talking to ladies makes me attractive. Plus I don’t hit on ‘em. We talk as equals. They’re likely to say something I wanna hear.
So I started talking to my grief-share friend, and my lifeguard friend looked a little miffed.
Jealousy mayhap? “What’s he talkin’ to her for?”
“DREAMIN’!” my critics will shriek. “No pretty lady will prefer your company!”
I already have one lady friend who seems jealous I’m attracted to my lifeguard friend.
A lady would desire my company that much?
If I may say so, what ladies like is I’m attracted to ‘em. Plus we talk, and ladies love talking.
This all flies in the face of “No pretty girl will ever associate with you! You are disgusting!”
So how do I continue my friendship with my lifeguard friend?
I have no experience with women whatsoever. I don’t wanna lose that lifeguard friend.
I have a hunch all I can say to her is “happy to see ya!” (Which I will be.)

Another Long-Tall-Sally adventure

—“No thank you,” said Long-Tall-Sally, the store-employee manning self check-out at my supermarket.
I call her that because she’s over six feet tall and extremely skinny. She also has a booming voice.
She has many things to make her feel poorly about herself; I wouldn’t dare call her “Long-Tall-Sally” to her face. It’s just that I don’t know her name, and I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.
I was trying to give her a small piece of paper on which I had written the web-address to a magazine-article I thought she might be interested in. It was about how life was tough for tall girls.
She looked a little distraught. “But thanks anyway for caring,” she added.
I have a hunch she actually believed I felt badly about noticing her tallness earlier.
Yrs Trly is a “liberal” (GASP), a “bleeding-heart Liberal” (double-gasp), as labeled by my tub-thumping CONSERVATIVE REPUBLICAN sister who died of cancer a while ago.
“That’s okay,” I would say. “If your bosses don’t want you accepting anything from customers, DON’T DO IT!
In fact,” I’d add; “if I’m making you nervous, DON’T DO THAT EITHER. I don’t wanna make you nervous.”
She looked pained. Our eyes met again later and it looked like she wanted to say something to me.
Here she comes!
“Did I forget something? I asked. She was carrying something I mighta forgotten.
No, I think she just wanted to make sure I didn’t go away angry. “Stiff me will-ya? Why I oughta…….”
A few years ago I attended a birthday party for an 80-year-old aunt, and reconnected with a long-lost cousin — hadn’t seen her in eons.
“You were the guy who made me feel a lot better about myself,” she exclaimed.
“That was 50-60 years ago,” I said.
“And I haven’t forgotten!” she commented.
I suppose my sordid childhood makes me more forthcoming with the downtrodden.
The other day, per COVID-19, I bopped Long-Tall-Sally on the arm to let her know I liked her.
Do it! Let ‘er know!
“I don’t care how loud or tall you are; I like you.
You recognized me, and I recognized you, and you said hello to me.
We can talk, so let's do it! Happy to you see ya!
What matters is what’s between the ears!
If being tall makes you feel bad, maybe I can make you feel better.
And if I make you nervous, I will leave you alone.
Someday some dude is gonna marry you, if you're not married already.
And it won’t be me, since I’m probably old enough to be your grandfather.
Having been downtrodden myself — the lifelong scumbag — I’ll feel better about myself I can make you feel better about yourself.”

“Long-Tall-Sally” is a hit by Little Richard from the ‘50s.

“I just met a girl named Maria”

—“Loose as a goose!” I would say to my friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
What I did say was: “I'm no longer who I was three years ago when you first talked to me.”
Yrs Trly is trying to disconnect his landline.
Frontier-Communications, my landline service for eons, doesn’t want me to disconnect. My brother also advises against it, citing safety concerns.
Frontier makes disconnecting very hard, but they’re happy to bill me for a phone I never use.
They expressed concern I hadn’t paid for a while. I set up a bill-pay months ago, but it failed. Frontier just kept adding my new balance-due to previous balances-due.
Finally they wanted me to contact them. So I did, and I got a guy in India whose command of English was marginal.
“All I wanna do is disconnect,” I told him.
I was referred to their “Loyalty-department.”
Around-and-around with that lady I went, but she offered putting my landline “on-vacation,” which gives me the chance to pursue safety concerns.
She gave me the number and extension of her actual phone, so “who should I ask for?” I asked.
“My name is Maria,” she said.
“Thoughts of Leonard Bernstein and ‘Westside story’,” I said.
I started singing to her: “I just met a girl named Maria.”
I could hear her joy on the other end. “This guy is cute,” she’d say.
“Make ‘em laugh!” I told my hairdresser once. “Do that and you can get away with murder!”
This morning I got a voicemail from Maria. I can tell she hopes I’ll call back. Her phone, her extension, and “I look forward to hearing from you.”
Sounds like I made Maria, who I never met, and probably never will, a friend.
Go ahead, be a nut!
“Ya know where I first saw that movie?” I said to my lifeguard-friend later.
“Houghton, my college: Class-of-1966.
My friend is a native of Wellsville, NY, which is south of Houghton. (See footnote below.)
That pretty lifeguard picked up “Maria” immediately, which puts her in league with my wife — to whom I never had to explain anything.

• Back then viewing movies as a Houghton student was supposedly evil and Of-the-Devil. I was supposed to have written parental permission to view movies, but I don’t think I did because I was already perceived to be evil and Of-the-Devil.

Say hello to the pretty girls; they’re gonna like it

—Yrs Trly shuffled into the lobby of Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department…….
Pretty ******, one of the vaunted COVID-19 “temperature ladies,” waved at me.
It wasn’t me waving at her. It was ****** waving at me.
“No pretty girl will wave at you,” and ****** just did.
****** is extremely pretty.
Young and cute, but not gorgeous. “Gorgeous” is a smiler.
****** is prettier than gorgeous. Toss in the smile and ****** would be INCREDIBLE.
But ****** seems to be happy to see me. Just recognition, plus “a guy who won’t hit on me.”
We enjoy just talking to each other.
“I recognize you, and you recognize me. Happy to see ya!”
And you can be sure I’ll wave to her as I leave Physical-Therapy.
I do that from outside in the parking-lot. I knock on the wall-glass if I must, and I had to today.
******, inside, waved back.
“Well look who’s here,” said “Long-Tall-Sally” at my supermarket self check-out.
“Long-Tall-Sally” is Little-Richard hit. I thought of it because the girl is tall and skinny, taller than me.
But I won’t say that to her face. She’s already embarrassed she’s so tall.
Here we are again readers. A pretty girl striking up a conversation — it wasn’t me.
“No pretty girl will say hello to you!” versus “look who’s here” from happy eyes.
I mentioned an article that said tall girls had it tough.
“You almost made me cry,” she said.
“Whoever wrote that article knows a tall woman,” she said.
Yrs Trly is so glad I said something to her the other day.
Now it’s “I recognize you, and you recognize me. Happy to see ya!”
Readers, I’m not used to this. 70+ years on this planet afraid of pretty girls.
Baloney! It was all hyper-religious baloney!
I could recount another fabulous female encounter I had inside the Physical-Therapy with a Nazareth college student, young and pretty.
Say hello to her, strike up a conversation; she’ll probably like it.

This is all new to me

—“What day is it?” I ask myself.
“What lady-friend do I entertain today?”
Seems it’s a different lady-friend every day of the week.
—If it’s Monday it might be *****, head-honcho of my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls.
***** is not gorgeous, but she’s pretty enough to scare me off years ago.
She also was scarier then, but happier now; and I tell her that.
***** is probably the first attractive lady I befriended.
“No pretty lady will ever befriend you!” And now ***** and I are friends.
Mainly it’s TALK. She seems to like talking with me.
She’ll bounce away from her workstation so we can talk. Often she’ll repeat what she said to me before, but it’s only so we can begin talking.
I could be bored, but we’re talking to each other — and she’s a pretty lady.
I think pretty ones like her have it hardest; they’re always being pursued by some hot-to-trot lothario.
Yrs Trly is no longer on-the hunt. I can talk with a pretty girl without scaring her to death.
And it seems what pretty girls never get is actually talking to some guy without being pursued. I.e. talking as equals.
—If it’s Tuesday it’s the “temperature-ladies” outside Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department per COVID-19.
One “temperature-lady” is ******, extremely pretty, prettier than gorgeous, but “gorgeous” is also a smiler.
****** is extremely pretty, but she doesn’t have the eyes her sidekick has.
And unfortunately I am an eye-man. ****** attracted me at first, but then her sidekick showed up. (That sidekick’s eyes were gorgeous.)
I hope I can tell that sidekick someday, but I have other lady-friends at that hospital, and I don’t wanna hurt their feelings.
**** always smiles when I say hello, but she’s plain.
Nevertheless her smile is ravishing.
Often **** and pretty-eyes are in the same reception area.
—Wednesday is my aquatic balance-training class at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
I get to strike sparks with *****, my pretty lifeguard friend at that swimming-pool.
I always feel intimidated because she’s rather impressive. But she seems to wanna talk with me.
She’s 65 years old, but still fairly attractive. She looks like she’s in her late 40s on her lifeguard stand.
She’s been there every Wednesday for weeks, ever since I restarted aquatic balance-training.
It’s almost like she wants to be there — I don’t think she has to be.
What a joy it is to talk with *****. It’s no longer romance; we’re way beyond that.
All we do is talk and laugh.
She is female, which reverses “no female will ever enjoy you!”
It’s like how in the world did I ever befriend *****? I feel unworthy, but that’s my hoary childhood resurfacing.
—If the weather were more accommodating on Thursday I might drive up to Lehigh Valley RailTrail to walk my imaginary dog I lost to cancer six months ago.
People wonder why always Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
“Because that’s where the pretty ladies are,” I say.
“Better than bar-hopping,” some guy told me once.
I shuffle along, and HERE SHE COMES: some gorgeous cutie-pie or pretty young jogger.
I strike up a conversation, and the girl is thrilled: “a guy is talking to me, and he’s not trying to win me as a trophy!”
We talk and laugh, and finally “I gotta keep going; errands await!”
The girl saddens because we gotta stop talking. I’ve seen it happen.
“I hope we meet again,” she says.
“Me, the lifelong scumbag?” I think to myself.
“No pretty girl will ever enjoy your company!”
And of course the girl is completely unknown to me. We’re starting from scratch. No baggage.
They smile and smile and smile at me, and “No pretty lady will smile at you!”
Can I maintain good vibes like that with my known lady friends?
Make ‘em laugh, don’t hit on ‘em, just shoot the breeze.
Being friends with a female is also thrilling to me.
“No lady will have anything to do with you!”
—Friday is another visit to Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
It’s not a class; it’s called “water-walking,” just sloshing around in the swimming-pool.
No *****, but usually I see my aquacise-instructor, who has another class prior to water-walking.
I hafta be careful. I made a lotta mistakes with that aquacise-instructor, mainly being romantically interested. She’s cute, and was the first pretty lady to seem interested in me.
My complete inexperience with women made me goof up royally.
Nevertheless, I enjoy talking with her, which can’t be often, since she’s usually busy. ***** is just lifeguarding.
Maybe someday I can reestablish friendship with that aquacise-instructor.
Friendship with any lady was utterly beyond imagining. “No lady will ever be friends with you, Bobby!”
—Saturday: go to Weggers in Canandaigua to purchase groceries for the following week.
That chances two female encounters: —1) I might meet ******, the girl I called “pigtail-girl.”
She’s a Wegmans produce employee, and wears her long dirty-blonde hair in pigtails.
She’s a big sturdy girl, but when she smiles at me she’s a cute little thing.
She uses those funky black mascara chips on her eyelids, which I disregard when her eyes twinkle.
I struck up a conversation with her once when she appeared without pigtails.
Now it’s just “I recognize you, and I think you know who I am. Happy to see ya!”
All we do is say hello and smile at each other.
—2) I never can escape that store without striking sparks with some pretty lady.
“Gotta say hello to her,” I say to myself. “Her eyes are gorgeous.”
No one has smacked me yet, and so many blush when I tell them they have pretty eyes.
“You are so sweet!” one whispered, softly caressing my arm.
“Why thank you!” ladies gush. Many thank you’s, and many blushes.
Tell ‘em; let ‘em know!
Ladies seems thrilled some guy liked their eyes.
—Sunday-Sunday-Sunday: Lehigh Valley RailTrail again — chancing encounter with a lady I met before.
“You look familiar,” I say. “Did we meet along here a few days ago?” I ask.
That lady is thrilled I found her attractive enough to say something — that I recognized her.
What’s happening here is 70+ years late I am finding that friendship with women can be so enjoyable.
“No pretty lady will ever be friends with you” was BUNK!

• RE: “Temperature-ladies…….” —In the lobby next to Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department are two ladies per COVID-19. One interviews you, and/or the other takes your temperature. I call ‘em the “temperature-ladies.”
• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.

“Those laps can wait!”

—“What in the wide, wide world can he possibly see in her?” people might ask.
“She’s 65 years old, and has wrinkly knees. Her face is full of wrinkles, and she’s gangly.”
On the other hand, every time I step out of the toilet-stall in the men’s locker-room at Canandaigua’s YMCA, and see myself in the mirror:
“What, pray tell, can she possibly see in me? I’m 77 years old, flabby, and my balance is awful. I’m way over the hill, although I don’t remember a hill.
Maybe we have ulterior motives: one perhaps being that she can still attract a little boy (me) despite her age.
(That “little boy” is 12 years older than her.)
With me it’s the fact she’s female. If I can attain and maintain her friendship, that counteracts my hoary childhood: that I was convinced at age-5 no female would ever have anything to do with me!
I think maybe it’s the fact we can talk. And that’s despite the many flubs I made with her, including a real zinger.
For whatever reason she hangs with me.
Sometimes I think it’s because I’m a charmer. My critics will guffaw loudly, but I noticed I make women happy.
My beloved wife, who died of cancer almost nine years ago, told me the reason we lasted 44&1/2 years, and some of her older female relatives insisted we wouldn’t make three months, is because I made her laugh.
“Make ‘em laugh!” Do that and they never walk away.
“How come that old geezer has them ladies hangin’ all over ‘im?”
Any romantic intent I had years ago after she first spoke to me is long gone.
Now it’s just “Happy to see ya! Hooray-hooray, let’s talk!
Maybe I’ll say something that makes you laugh or smile, which counteracts ‘No pretty lady will laugh or smile at you!’”
Or maybe she'll say something which makes me think.
I don’t play the “women-are-inferior” card. What matters is what’s between the ears, and women are just as mentally-inspiring as men — often more so. Women don’t play the macho card.
And it seems she wants to talk with me — “No pretty lady will talk to you!”
“I hope we can talk sometime,” I say.
SCREECH! That stops her in her tracks.
“You go swim your laps,” I say.
“I wanna hear your story first,” she’ll say. “Those laps can wait.”
I know I spin a pretty good story — I’m doing it now. Perhaps she likes that, but she can talk to me too.
That lady is not an easy smiler, but every once in a while POW! She leaves me speechless = WOW!
I fish for that. “No pretty lady will ever smile at you!”
And she, among others, does. Occasional, but WOW!
She’s rather impressive, so sometimes I feel like I overreached.
A cousin in NC, also female, tells me what really matters to women is whether a guy can talk — that is, whether he is willing to talk as equals. Sexual attractiveness of the guy means nothing.
Maybe it’s the fact we talk as equals. I love talking with her, and she keeps talking to me.
Often I feel unworthy, but that’s my childhood.
I’m interacting with a lady, and she’s impressive = amazing!

Fervent pursuit of snow-pictures

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat photographer John Rucosky and Yrs Trly at South Fork, PA. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—“I need snow pictures,” I kept saying; “I’m running out of snow pictures.”
Every year Yr Fthfl Srvnt produces a Shutterfly calendar with train-photos taken by my brother and I near Altoona, PA.
Altoona is where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain.
Back around 1800 Allegheny Mountain was a barrier to trade between the East Coast colonies, and the newly opened midwest.
That mountain didn’t extend into New York State, so NY was able to build its Erie Canal.
PA built a combination canal/railroad system, but had to portage Allegheny Mountain.
The Pennsylvania Railroad was an attempt by Philadelphia capitalists to streamline trade with the Midwest, since that combination canal/railroad was so cumbersome and slow.
The idea was for Philadelphia to be better able to compete with New York City.
The Pennsylvania Railroad (“Pennsy”) became extremely successful, since it was very well-managed merging feeder-railroads accessing its system at Pittsburgh.
Pennsy disappeared after it merged with arch-rival New York Central Railroad in 1968 (Penn-Central). Penn-Central went bankrupt June 21, 1970.
So “Pennsy” is no more. Its railroad still exists, but as Norfolk Southern.
NS is now one of two major railroad-systems in the eastern USA. The other is CSX.
A lot of NS traffic flows over the railroad that once was Pennsy.
So my brother and I can expect a lotta trains over Allegheny Mountain on the old PRR line near Altoony.
While in South Fork, south of Altoony, a reporter/photographer for the Johnstown Tribune Democrat newspaper, named John Rucosky, stopped to meet us.
“Railfans,” he exclaimed. “I been up and down this Route-53 corridor interviewing business-owners that cater to railfans, but I’ve yet to meet any railfans.”
There we were, my brother and I, freezing in the snow, on a hill overlooking the curve at South Fork.
“This railroad is probably the best rail-fanning location in the entire country,” my brother exclaimed.
“Many trains, and pedal-to-the-metal climbing Allegheny Mountain.”
“Looks like fun,” Rucosky said. “I might hafta try it myself.”

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THURSDAY’S PICTURES

My brother drives from near Boston to Altoona on Wednesday — I drive down there on Thursday.
If he gets there early enough, and the light is still okay, he’ll take pictures on Wednesday.
He takes pictures himself all-day Thursday while I drive down.
If I get there early enough, we’ll join up and take pictures together.
Following are Thursday’s pictures, but only the last picture is mine.
(Rucosky called it the “Route-53 corridor.” My brother and I call it the “West-Slope.” The Railroad parallels PA State Highway 53.)

Train 590 (loaded coal) blasts east on One parallel to Thomastown Road (or Thomastown Road parallels the old Pennsy main toward Tyrone, PA). (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

Train 04t (Amtrak’s eastbound Pennsylvanian) makes its Tyrone station stop. Amtrak’s Heritage P-42, #145, is on the point (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

37a, westbound on Two, railroad west of Tyrone. —The old Route 220 highway overpass is in the background. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

776, eastbound on the siding toward Gray interlocking, railroad-west of Tyrone. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

#754, (a motorless slug that can lead) returns from Hollidaysburg into Altoona on the Cove Secondary. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

37a picks up cars in Altoony’s Rose yard. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

23m, westbound on Three, arrows into the curve next to South Fork. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

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FRIDAY’S PICTURES

A helper-set, eastbound on Two past South Fork, returns to Altoony for another help. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

25z, westbound on Three, passes South Fork. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

20r, eastbound on Two, passes South Fork. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

21g passes Portage on Two. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

34a, westbound on Three, passes Portage. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

22w has the Erie Heritage-Unit in the lashup. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

20t, eastbound on Two, passes Cresson. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

23z, westbound on Three, passes under the MO signals. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

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******, my head-honcho lady-friend at the pharmacy I use in nearby Honeoye Falls, to whom I will give this blog link for her son, who like me is a railfan, tells me my brother and I are “amazing.”
What I would tell her instead is we are “nuts.” (One dude is 77 years old; outside in freezing cold three hours.)

“Women are so forgiving”

—Yrs Trly came on a little too strong last week with *****, the pretty head-honcho of my in-store pharmacy in Honeoye-Falls.
She’d made a comment a few days earlier that seemed to badmouth her husband, which prompted me to be more forthcoming, although not much.
I could see I was making her uncomfortable, and I don’t want that.
***** and I are mainly friends, which I prefer. She’s a pretty lady, and I don’t wanna make her nervous.
***** is not smashingly attractive, but is probably the first pretty woman with whom I became friends. We stumbled along and now seem to be friends; that is, I don’t seem to make her nervous any more.
Years ago I would have avoided ******: “no pretty lady will ever associate with you, Bobby! You are despicable!”
So I was pursuing *****; mainly trying to not muck up.
My wife had to die to make me able to do that. My wife wasn’t an impediment; I just didn’t have any confidence. I long ago was marked for life: “No pretty lady,” etc. etc.
My first contact with ***** was years ago, when she was working for Rite-Aid across the street from where she is now.
I used to call her “angry-*****” back then, because she always looked mad. She trained as a pharmacist, but was being used as a clerk.
Suddenly the supermarket across from Rite-Aid opened up an in-store pharmacy, and employed ***** to head it.
She invited me to switch to her new pharmacy, so I did. I wanted to stay with *****; and was happy to see her happy.
Would I be able to retrieve *****? Had I lost her forever?
Similar gaffes occurred earlier.
About a year ago I goofed up my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
That lifeguard gave me a restaurant gift-card in exchange for an additional train-calendar. She wanted it for a friend.
I suggested the one I most wanted to use it with was her.
Stupid me! She’s married of course, and I thought I lost her forever.
We met again a few days later and “happy to see ya!”
I went along; no turgid mea-culpas.
“If you can forget the other day, I guess I can too,” I said to myself.
Not long ago I made a similar gaffe. I thought I lost her that time too.
I thought I’d try that “happy to see ya” bit.“
It worked, amazingly; back to talking and smiling. As if she decided “if you can pretend you didn’t muck up, I guess I can pretend too.”
I thought I'd try that with pretty *****. “Happy to see ya,” and maybe she’d disregard my muck-up.
“Nothing for me,” I said to her helper; “but I’m hoping I can talk to *****.”
HERE SHE COMES! A bit tentative, but “happy to see ya” from me.
“Women are so forgiving,” an old college friend tells me.
Maybe enjoying each other’s company is more pleasant than being angry.
Yr Fthfl Srvnt doesn’t know any of this. Women are challenging, but so enjoyable.

• 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, and I gave one to *****, who passed it on to her little boy — a railfan.
• Of course, had my wife not died, I doubt I’d be befriending ladies.

The eyes are the window to the soul

—“Can I please just say hello to you?” I asked the girl I call “pigtail-girl” at Canandaigua’s Wegmans.
Her actual name is “******,” I think — I’m not sure.
She was working the banana-detail; putting out bananas for sale.
She’s a store employee, and I’ve heard stories about the banana-detail.
“Yo Luke, toss me that there plum, and I’ll see if I can bat it outta the store with this here banana.”
“Pigtail-girl” has long dirty-blond hair, and she weaves it into long pigtails.
I said hello to her once, and now every time I do she smiles at me. We’re wearing masks, but her eyes tell me.
Asking if I can say hello to her is friendlier than just hitting her with “hello.” I am male, and ****** is female — I don’t wanna be perceived as making a pass.
“Just ‘I know you and you know me. Happy to see ya!’
Next time I’ll remember your name,” I told her.
Like all Wegmans employees, ****** was wearing a name-tag.
“I'm no good at names,” I told her. “I always knew you as ‘pigtail-girl.’ But I will try.”
She smiled at me again. WHOA! I’m always a sucker for that.
Some of my male friends tell me I have it all-wrong. I should check out ******’s sexual attributes.
NOPE!
“The eyes are the window to the soul,” a lady-friend once told me.
“No pretty girl will ever look at you, Bobby! You are DESPICABLE!”
****** was looking right at me, and smiling.
WOW!

“Tell me the story!”

—“I’m hoping we can talk sometime before I leave,” I yelled to *****, my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
I was already in the pool, and ***** was walking along side it.
“You have 25 seconds,” my aquacise-instructor said.
“Not enough time,” I said.
Our aquatic balance-training class was about to begin, and I was hoping I could talk to ***** before class began, but I got there late.
“Why is she talking to me?” I keep thinking to myself. “We’re not married = she’s not my wife. I lob stuff at her that would throw off the average person.
The average male would be completely turned off.”
Telling her that was a set-up, readers. By doing that, I was letting her know I wanted to talk to her = setting her up to listen to me.
And I bet she’d wanna. That's how ***** is, and I don’t understand why!

---

—Aquacise finished: “Time for me to go swim some laps!” ***** said.
“I hope some day I can tell you my elevator story,” I shouted as she walked away.
SCREECH! That stopped her in her tracks. She turned around and looked right at me for about 20 seconds = eye to eye.
She wants to hear my story and right now, BobbaLew.
Yrs Trly just performed a conversation trick, readers. It always works, and I’m just noticing.
I gave her permission to keep walking away, and giving her that permission was much friendlier than hurling my story at her outta the clear blue sky.
Suddenly she wants to hear the story; lap-swimming can wait.
Can I compress my story into 10-20 seconds?
I try; suddenly I got the audience I was fishing for.
“I get on an elevator down in Altoona, and a pretty young blonde was in there alone. Not eye-candy, but fairly attractive, 30-35 or so.
‘Been outside yet?’ the girl asked.
‘Once,’ I said.
‘Is it still cold out?’ she continued.
‘Not too bad,’ I said; ‘unless you’re standing outside for three hours with your brother waiting for a train!’
‘YIPPEE!’ she smiled. ‘A guy is talking to me, and he’s not hitting on me!’
I could see it in her eyes, and we were wearing masks.
We continued talking even after the elevator.”
“*****,” I said; “I’m no longer scared of pretty girls, and I can thank my dog for that. Wanting to be petted, he’d drag me into meeting some gorgeous young cutie-pie.
‘Oh what a pretty dog,’ she’d exclaim. ‘Can I pet him?’
Here I am talking to another pretty girl.”
“I notice the eye-contact,” ***** said.
“You’re first to say that,” I would tell her.
What I did say was “Yep, I got much better at that, and here I am looking directly at you!
I also noticed if I’m the least bit apprehensive or tentative, that reflects onto you. You won’t be so happy to see me. I’m afraid to make the gamble, so I avoid you.
‘So knock on the glass dude,’ and I think I saw you smile a little the last time I did that.”
“I’m glad you think about this stuff,” ***** said.
She’ll probably think about it later herself.

I shoulda stopped

—AfterCare exercise regimen completed in Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department……..
Yr Fthfl Srvnt exited the building. Per COVID-19 I can’t exit through the lobby; I have to go out a side entrance.
In the lobby are the “temperature-ladies,” the ones who take my temperature, and pepper me with 89 bazilyun questions per COVID-19.
The ones there yesterday were not the ones I usually see. The ones I usually see are both pretty, especially ******.
****** is extraordinarily pretty, but doesn’t have the gorgeous eyes her sidekick has.
I didn’t see ******, but I did see her sidekick elsewhere. Her name is *****.
“I do recognize you!” I shouted. All we did was say a few words to each other, the equivalent of “I recognize you, and you recognize me.”
WOW! (She smiled at me, pretty eyes twinkling.)
Exiting I looked inside the lobby to see if I saw ****** or *****. —I was outside in the parking-lot.
“Is that ******?” I asked myself. “Eyes look right but her hair looks wrong. The color is right, but it looks longer than what I usually visualize.”
Also, it wasn’t *****, but a different sidekick with hair dyed red = KEE-YUCK!
So I kept walking toward my car, then hesitated.
“What if it was ******?” I thought to myself. “Maybe I should go back and look.”
“DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” Don’t let her down. Let ‘er know you recognize her — that’s all it is, but she’s worth it. She’s gonna like the fact you recognized her. (She always does, and I mucked up pretty ****** a few weeks ago.)
I looked inside a few seconds, our eyes met, and ****** waved at me!
“It is ******,” I said to myself. “Hooray-hooray-hooray!” I sure am glad I walked back.
I then went to my supermarket, and then drove homeward after shopping.
I went to my bank to get cash out of their ATM machine. After that I pass the kennel where I used to daycare my dog when he still was alive.
****’s car was parked outside the kennel, but I didn't stop; I kept going. And I shoulda stopped.
**** is my cute little college-age friend I thought I’d never see again in my entire life; that kennel told her to get another job.
She’s a millennial, and I’m old enough to be her grandfather.
She’s only age-20, but when she smiles at me, she’s extremely cute.
“No pretty girl will smile at you!” So when she does, it knocks me flat! —It’s a backhanded way of telling her she’s pretty; and she eats that up.
She deserves it too, she’s a good girl.
And so is ******.
Both are class acts: neither smoke nor do drugs, or drink or gamble or hang out in bars.
They both remind me of my wife, who I lost to cancer almost nine years ago.
Pure as the driven snow.
Both are different from my wife, and ****** is extremely pretty.
“You’re gonna get married someday,” I would tell ******; “if you haven’t already. And it won’t be me, since I’m way over the hill — although I don’t remember a hill.
I hope that lucky dude knows what he’s getting = one of the classiest ladies I ever met.”
So I sure am glad I went back to recognize ******, and I shoulda stopped for ****. Both should know I really like ‘em! (Both seem to like that I do.)

The art of conversation

—“I’m hoping sometime today we can talk about (whatever).”
“I hope sometime I can tell you the (whatever) story. Not right now; it might take a while. Sometime I hope.”
“Can I say hello? Happy to see ya!”
Analysis time, readers.
What am I doing here?
I’m not shoving some story on that lady outta the clear blue sky.
I’m asking her permission; I’m not pushing myself on her.
Positive contact, with hopes it rubs off on her — and it looked like last Wednesday it did.
Every time I say hello to a pretty lady is a gamble = it may crash in flames: “not that Hughes guy again, UGH!”
But not saying anything to her is avoiding her. Hesitant or not, I don’t want that.
I have a lady friend at Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department; she’s a receptionist. I always say hello to her because every time I do she smiles at me.
Which means I damn well better. If I don’t she’s gonna wonder why I didn’t.
I would be making her sad, and every time I say hello to her our eyes meet and she smiles at me.
“DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! Say something to her; don’t let her down! Let her know you’re glad you saw her!”
Doing that will make you both happy.
I have a lady friend who lifeguards Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool. She’s married, but somehow or other we became friends.
We talk and laugh at each other, and I make it a point to wave hello to her when I first check in at that YMCA.
To do that I have to knock on the glass that separates the pool from the YMCA lobby. Doing that is rather gauche.
Do I, or don’t I? It might turn her off, and I don’t want that.
She looks a little bored, but “DO IT! DO IT! DO IT,” the little voice says; “knock on the glass if you hafta; don’t be scared. You’ve done it before! Go ahead and make a fool yourself to get her attention!”
Thankfully I didn’t hafta knock on the glass last Wednesday. Our eyes met and we waved at each other; and I think I saw her smile a little.
“See that?” the little voice says. “It looks like your gamble made her happy; and if you hadn’t done it she might think you were avoiding her. Which woulda been a much more serious crash.
Hundreds killed, and your friendship with that pretty lifeguard utterly destroyed.
“Take the risk!” my bereavement-counselor exclaims. “If you make a fool of yourself to get her attention,” the little voice says; “she might like it.” (Reprising Dustin Hoffman in a final scene of “The Graduate.”)
RE: “I’m hoping sometime today we can talk about (whatever)………”
In talking to women — any sex really — I noticed it makes sense to plant the seed first.
Diving straight into a topic never works: “Huh?” “Pardon me?” Your listener is lost.
You’re making them think about something they know nothing about — and suddenly.
Repeat and explain equals boredom.
If I give a lady my topic in advance, it prepares her to listen. It also makes her wanna know what’s on my mind.
Don’t do that, and the lady tunes out.
I also noticed if I say “we’ll talk later,” the lady wants now.
If I say “you might have things you prefer to do,” she says “they can wait.”
I’ve given her the option of not listening to me. Giving her that option is friendlier than pushing myself on her.
RE: “Can I say hello?”
It’s only an opening line, but often it’s led to “yada-yada-yada-yada-yada-yada!”
“I can’t leave without saying hello to *****.”
BOINK! She bounces up from her workstation toward me so we can talk.
Women love talking. Give ‘em a chance and the one stopping us is me.
“We could talk forever, but errands await!”
Call this the art of conversation. Let your listener talk too; don’t push yourself on her!
70+ years late I learn all this. Let ‘em talk, and I gain another lady friend.
The simple exchange of emotions back-and-forth. Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk!
I see ladies walking together and talking to each other. If it’s me striking up a conversation, it’s “YIPPEE, a guy wants to talk to me, and he’s not hitting on me!”
I’ve had it happen.

One little incident tells all

—Or things are much different than they were even six months ago.
Yrs Trly, a lifelong railfan, has been chasing trains ever since 1948.
I won’t bore you with where this has taken me: Californy, North Carolina, Colorado, West Virginia, western Maryland, Wyoming, etc.
Most recent has been chasing trains with my kid brother near Altoona, PA.
Altoony is where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain about 1850.
In the early 1800s, Allegheny Mountain was the barrier between the eastern colonies and the newly-opened midwest.
That railroad still exists, but now it’s Norfolk Southern.
The railroad is still extremely busy, as it’s one of two railroad corridors from the midwest to the upper eastern megalopolis (New York City, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington DC).
What my younger brother and I do is chase and photograph trains around Altoony. —He’s become a railfan himself.
That section of railroad is a great location to chase and photograph trains. Getting over that mountain requires maximum fuel usage = “assaulting the heavens.”
Then there is getting back down the mountain: maximum braking, plus additional braking techniques, to not have the train run away downhill.
Pennsy often added additional locomotives (“helpers”) to get up the mountain.
Now it’s diesel-electric helpers, and they can add additional braking going back down.
So now the helper locomotives run through from Altoona to Johnstown adding Dynamic braking. Helpers used to turn at the mountain-top.
For years I considered a trip to Altoony to be escaping reality.
“Reality” being the continual madness of self-loathing and mistakes here at home.
Trips to Altoony were escaping home, so that as we started back home I would say to my wife “well, back to reality.”
My beloved wife died almost nine years ago, so my most recent trips gravitated toward being with my younger brother.
Even then, it was still “back to reality.”
I’d pull out of our Motor Lodge onto Plank Rd., then get onto I-99 saying “back to reality.”
“Reality” has become much more pleasant over the past few months. And if I dare say so, it’s because of all the lady-friends I accumulated.
A few days ago my brother and I went to Altoony to chase and photograph trains.
Frigid-cold in snow, but I needed snow photographs for our annual train-calendar. January, February, and December should be snow.
This time “back to reality” wasn’t as depressing as it’s been in the past. I’m returning to all my wonderful lady-friends. They distract from how unpleasant life was before.
My lady-friends talk with me, and smile at me. Readers, this is all-new to me; I have a dreadful childhood.
70 years late I discover I should not be scared of women, and that includes gorgeous young cutie-pies.
My silly dog, who I had to put down six months ago, got me used to meeting pretty ladies.
So now I strike up conversations — take incredible risks — with pretty ladies I woulda previously avoided.
No one has smacked me yet, nor have I been MACED.
And much to my surprise, those ladies seem to really like my striking up a conversation with them, i.e. I considered them attractive enough to strike up a conversation.
They don’t act like they’re faking it, and so many pleasant encounters with women have occurred, I just get more and more confident.
Due to it being cold, my brother and I stayed in one of those gigantic four-story motor-hotels that cost a fortune. We were on the second floor.
I had to use an elevator to get back down to the lobby. I stepped inside the elevator followed by a pretty young girl, probably in her early 30s, but alone.
It was she that struck up a conversation, but once it began I wasn’t backing out.
“Been outside yet?” she asked.
“Once,” I said.
“Is it still cold out?” she asked.
“Not too bad,” I said; “unless you’re standing there for a long time, like my brother and I were yesterday waiting for trains. Hours at a time in bitter cold; fingers and toes frozen!”
(“YIPPEE; he’s talking to me! And he’s not hitting on me!”)
Off we went: “yack-yack-yack-yack-yack-yack!” We continued talking to each other even after we got off the elevator.
Six months ago this wouldna happened — maybe even a month ago. I would have avoided that girl = scared to death to say anything to her at all.
That’s not how it is anymore: “back to reality” is much more pleasant than it was previously.
Engage what little experience I have dealing with women: I noticed she had a pretty eyes, not gorgeous, but pretty blue smiling eyes. Eye-contact; that’s what it is, and she was looking right at me.
“No pretty girl will look at you, Bobby!”
Don’t say anything = don’t tell her she has pretty eyes. Do that and you’ll ruin the mood; you’ll put her on the defensive.
Let ‘er talk.
Enjoy it dude; she wants you to talk to her.

• 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.

The winner is……

—“Today’s winner is *****,” I kept saying to myself as a drove home Wednesday from Canandaigua after having done my aquatic-therapy class at the YMCA, and shopping my supermarket.
Yrs Trly has three pretty lady-friends at that YMCA, and no experience whatsoever dealing with women.
“Into the fray,” I always say to myself as I exit the locker-room into the swimming-pool area.
“Who am I gonna muck up today? Who am I gonna strike sparks with today; am I gonna strike sparks with any of my lady-friends?”
I been doing aquatic balance training for three years or more.
I noticed *****-the-lifeguard almost immediately; she’s rather attractive.
How in the wide, wide world am I ever gonna be able to become friends with her?
Just LOOK dude; “NO WAY will ***** have anything to do with you! You are nothing!”
A few years ago, for some unknown reason, ***** said hello to me out of the clear blue sky. She was probably just being sociable.
“Why is she saying hello to me? I’m the lifelong scumbag.
Gotta say hello back. Gotta get up my nerve.”
“Did you say hello to me earlier?”
“Yes I did,” ***** said.
“Sorry I’m late, but hello back.”
So began my wild and crazy attempt to befriend a lady to whom I was attracted.
And somehow or other, despite numerous flubs and foul-ups, plus at least one real zinger after which I thought I’d lost her forever, we became friends.
***** is not the easiest person to talk to. She’s kind of distant; her eyes wander.
And no wonder: some of the things I said to her were stupid. No experience dealing with women at all.
Yet she seems to wanna keep talking to me: we strike sparks occasionally.
She’s probably only rotating, but here she comes. Hooray-hooray; it looks like we’re gonna talk.
She’s not avoiding me.
I began trying to let her know I like meeting her. I always look for her when I check in per that YMCA’s Covid procedure.
I glance up into the pool area to see if she’s there, and if she is I knock on the window-glass to let her know I’m happy to see her.
That’s positive contact, with hopes it rubs off. It looked like Wednesday it did.
I’m gambling my acknowledging her gets a positive response. Not acknowledging her could be perceived as avoiding her. I don’t want that, scared or not.
I looked up there the other day, although I didn’t actually have to knock on the glass. Our eyes met and we waved at each other.
Perish the thought, I think that’s “happy to see ya,” and nothing more.
It looked like that made her happy too, and I was afraid it wouldn’t.
I also do this for others: tell ‘em, let ‘em know! “Happy to see ya” is starting out on the right foot.
When I came into the pool-area later, ***** began rotating toward where I was, and attempted to begin a conversation.
Usually it’s me first.
I was already in the pool, and we were all wearing masks, so I couldn’t hear her.
***** stooped down to poolside so she could talk directly to me.
Readers this is mind-blowing, a pretty lady wants to talk directly to me?
I’m not used to this; this is not the way I was raised. 70+ years of “NO PRETTY LADY WILL HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU!”
And then there was the eye-contact, which I got once before. ***** tends to look off into the distance, which is okay, since I do it myself.
But once before, and this time, fabulous eye-contact, and she was clearly smiling. Her eyes were sparkling.
I’m not used to this, readers: “no pretty lady will ever smile at you!”
***** is married; and there’s no evil intent by either of us.
Why in the world she’d ever get any pleasure outta talking with me I’ll never know. I’m not a stud, I’m 77 years old, and I’m way over the hill, although I don’t remember a hill.
Charm mayhap? Talk probably; I noticed women love talking. And ***** and I talk.
Her stooping down to talk to me for 5-10 minutes just blows my mind.
As we parted I told her I was happy I met her; and she told me she was happy she met me.
I admit perverse intent, our striking sparks negates my hoary childhood.

• RE: “Rotate……” —Canandaigua's YMCA swimming-pool has two lifeguards; one on the lifeguard stand, and the other on the other side of the pool. Every 10-15 minutes they swap positions = “rotate.”

I ain’t dead yet!

—“Well, you are 77 years old,” the technician said. “Over 77 years anything could go wrong. Your hearing may fail; any metal in your body? Bullets, metal shards in your eyes, facial steel, pumps, a tattoo?”
I was at Thompson Hospital in Canandaigua for yet another MRI, a brain-scan prescribed by my neurologist.
I guess an MRI machine has powerful magnets that could suck metal outta your body.
I don’t like being 77 years old, or perhaps more precisely I don’t like it being inferred I’m feeble and incompetent because I’m age-77.
At this point I hafta surmise what my aquacise-instructor might say, the lady who for some unfathomable reason, despite my many flubs and foul-ups, seems to continue wanting me to like her.
I base this on her reaction to that neurologist telling me my neuropathy — poor nerve-communication to my feet — is incurable.
“I love it when they tell you things like that,” she said.
I said something to that neurologist about “waking up the muscles,” a goal that aquacise-instructor pursues in her aquatic balance training.
“I projected negativity,” I said to her; “so I got a negative prognosis,”
Hooray, at last a chance to actually talk to my aquacise-instructor — thanks to COVID-19, which took away many of her clients.
After 60-some years of a slinging words (writing), Yrs Trly — a “failed writer” per my Facebook — decided, noted, whatever, face-to-face communicatin’ works much better than the written word.
With face-to-face: —A) you get immediate notice of missed communication, and best of all: —B) what you hear may very well be completely different than what you expected.
“That MRI technician needs to improve his bedside manner,” I told a Physical-Therapy coach.
Not long ago my doctor retired, and I told him he was the BEST doctor I ever had, and I’ve had many.
It was mainly because he could laugh; we always had a good time. He also didn’t get huffy when I asked questions.
The one who declares me a geezer is me, not some hoity-toity pup.
MRI finished I had to get up from laying down on the scanning table.
“Are ya dizzy? Are ya dizzy?” the tecky kept asking.
“NOPE!” I said. “I have the same problem getting outta bed in the morning. It’s wonky balance.
I know getting up drains blood outta my head, but that only lasts a second or two.”
“Is anyone here to drive you home?”he asked.
“Get over it, dude! I drove here myself, and can safely return home on my own.”
Looks like I gotta strike sparks with some of my pretty lady-friends to prove to myself I’m still viable.
“I ain’t dead yet!”

• Over 27 years ago I had a stroke due to a heart defect long ago repaired. It killed part of my brain. I recovered fairly well, but the MRI is to determine if any more damage is occurring. My balance may be being effected, although it’s also effected by age.

Detritus

Detritus Detritus. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—Yr Fthfl Srvnt, despite working for a bank eons ago……
….which made me suspicious of banks — namely if anything can go wrong it will……
….decided to stop monitoring all bank activity.
I’ve used the same bank for some time. Banks come and go, and over the years we had quite a few.
Most recent has been over ten years.
They’ve yet to make a mistake. It’s always me. I still keep track of my checking account, in case I forget to enter something.
Well, maybe they made one mistake. But it was only ten bucks. I dickered quite a bit, but gave up.
It was probably my mistake, and my time was worth more than ten bucks for three hours of hair-pulling.
So I just adjusted my account $10.
Years ago bank branches operated independently, and as the branch’s chief-clerk (chief-jerk) I had to balance that branch every afternoon.
My goal was to balance “first-strike.”
If it was off a few cents, “1782!” 1782 was our Canadian-exchange account where we “shoved” the error.
Back then a few dollars were worth researching, but pennies weren’t.
Usually it was a keyboard error, often a “transposition” = divisible by nine.
There is so much slop I need not pay much attention. I get Social-Security, a pension, and savings income. My living expenses are usually less than my monthly income.
I got a new car (cash), and also a new roof for my house (also cash). But I also lost quite a bit after my basement flooded. Insurance didn’t cover everything.
What I’m short of is time. It’s gotten so is it worth my trying to recover $1,000?
There also is my communication problem: the fact I long ago had a stroke makes my communicatin’ messy.
1,000 bucks I’d probably chase, except I think I lost $1,000 when my basement flooded.
To go after that $1,000 I’d hafta make numerous phone calls, with hours of arguing.
Which I no longer can do.
I remember the grandstanding I did when the bank lost my paycheck and charged our account. “I got a receipt — honor it, or I’m blowin’ you in!”
I don’t know that I could do that since my stroke.
For a while I had Quicken® computer software, with which I reconciled my credit-card account.
I gave that up such that all I was doing was verifying charge-slips to my credit-card statement.
Often I don’t get a charge-slip, or I forget. If a charge seems valid I check it off despite no charge-slip.
A lot of what’s visible in the picture are charge-slips not filed yet. Verifying my credit-card statement seemed enough.
If Weggers charges someone else’s groceries to my account in error, I might pursue it if I have time, i.e. it doesn’t balloon into a four-hour wrastling match with 89 bazilyun phone-calls.
Weggers would probably just eat the loss. What’s $70 compared to losing a regular customer?
Many of my bills have gone paperless, and I use my bank’s online bill-pay for nearly everything.
All my banking is online; I never visit my bank except for safe-deposit. Even deposits are electronical: all monthly income is electronical, and checks I deposit via my iPhone.
My checking-account is in this computer. I update it once or twice per week. Online bill-pays I set up on my iPhone.
It’s gotten so it makes no sense blowing so much time monitoring bank activity.
I could harass ‘em to the Moon, but no mistakes yet.
I suppose I exist in my aquacise-instructor’s “bubble.” Everything seems pleasantly hunky-dory.
But it’s partly self constructed. Sweetness-and-light continue because my wife and I never spent anything: $10, $70, $900; I can afford it; although I’d probably chase that $900.

• Use of the term “detritus” may be incorrect, since it refers to organic waste.
• The very first job I had after college was for a bank.
• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.
• Two years ago, riding Amtrak back from my niece in Fort Lauderdale, I texted that aquacise-instructor about how where we lived in Canandaigua was a “bubble” compared to Fort Lauderdale. She responded she liked the “bubble.”

“Keep evolving”

—“Keep evolving, YOU!” says the birthday-card from my aquacise-instructor at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
“Keep evolving” refers to something I said to her the other day, about how I no longer was who I was when we walked our dogs three years ago.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re coming out of your shell.”
She’s not first to say that. There’s also my cleaning-lady, my bereavement-counselor, plus various friends.
Yrs Trly had a dreadful childhood. Very early I was convinced I was rebellious and disgusting; that —A) all males, including me at age-5, were despicable.
And —B) I was rebellious and sinful because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
That aquacise-instructor became my most important female friend, despite my continual muck-ups.
Maybe it’s her nature, except some of my other lady-friends are much more forgiving than I expect.
I come from a family of scorekeepers, mainly my father.
Since I was able back then, I gave a couple thousand dollars to my younger siblings to help pay their way through college.
My father never thanked me; “are you kidding?”
What I got instead was continual weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth over the $600 he had to pay for a car-loan he cosigned for me.
I’m used to people keeping score = holding grudges.
I have another lady-friend at that YMCA swimming-pool; she’s a lifeguard.
Like that aquacise-instructor she’s also married, and I’ve mucked her up royally at least twice.
Once I mucked her up so badly I thought I lost her forever = “never in a million years is she gonna forgive me.”
A few days later we met again, and “happy to see ya!”
She was smiling at me; this was not the world I came from = this was not my father.
“Well okay,” I said to myself; “if you can forget the other day I guess I can too.”
I mucked up with her again just recently, but a week later I met her again and “happy to see ya!” —But me more than her, since I decided if I was happy to see her, that might make her happy to see me.
It worked!
Friendship restored, or so it seemed.
Yr Fthfl Srvnt has no experience whatsoever dealing with women. I was always scared of ‘em = “no pretty lady will ever associate with you! You are despicable!”
What “evolution” occurred is now I can talk to pretty ladies. That’s mainly my dog, my four-legged chick-magnet, who I lost six months ago.
He’d drag me into meeting some pretty girl, slam into her pretty knees, and start nuzzling.
“Oh what a pretty dog. Can I pet him?”
Here I am talking with another pretty girl.
“Okay,” I thought to myself. “Go with the flow.”
My confidence increased with every encounter.
“Keep evolving,” she says; except now “evolving” occurs at a breakneck pace.
I no longer can escape my supermarket without striking sparks with some pretty girl. “Gotta say hello to her; she’s gorgeous.”
“Are you by any chance the pigtail girl?” —She turned and smiled at me; she didn’t take my head off.
“I normally keep to myself in this store. I don’t talk to anyone. But your eyes are gorgeous.”
“You are so sweet,” she whispered as she caressed my arm.
“I saw that!” I shouted. “Saw what?” the lady asks.
“You twinkled your eyes at me!” “You are cute!” she exclaimed.
“I hafta say something,” I said to the girl bringing out my takeout dinner. “I am 76 years old, and you are a pretty girl.”
BLUSH!
“I hafta come this way, because you have the eyes. Many don’t, but you were blessed.”
Again BLUSH!
My confidence builds by leaps and bounds = at breakneck speed.
DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! “Take the risk,” my bereavement-counselor says. No ladies have smacked me yet, nor have I been MACED. I’m continually amazed I do as well as I do.
All of this counters my hoary childhood. “No pretty lady will I have anything to do with you! You are scum!”
So the other day I struck up a conversation with one of my aquacise-instructor’s clients.
“You look familiar,” I said to her. That brightened her right up: kaboom! “He wants to talk to me, YIPPEE!”
Off we went. “Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada.” 15-20 minutes; way more than I ever expected.
Proving yet again what women like most is talking; and nothing goes over better with a lady then indicating to her you’re attracted to her enough to wanna talk to her. (A guy, no less.)
Later I realized I woulda never said anything to that client six months ago. Then I cut back to three months; then I cut back to a month. Then it became two weeks, and now I don’t know if I coulda struck up a conversation with her a week ago. Things are happening at rocket speed.
Boom-zoom: DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!
I wrote two texts to that aquacise-instructor, but sent neither.
Yrs Trly decided face-to-face works a lot better than text, which is one-sided.
I wanna hear what she has to say. She’s quite liable to say something other than what I expect.
Plus women love talking, especially as equals. I’ve had it happen so many times.
Let’s talk, you and me. I’m all ears!

• My birthday was Friday February 5th, 77 years old. So “evolving” 70+ years late.

The time has come

—After well over 40 years of membership with WXXI-FM, the classical-music public radio-station out of Rochester…
Yr Fthfl Srvnt has decided to move on.
I found an online classical music alternative during another of their dreaded fund-drives.
“454–6300! Your gift will be doubled!”
Whither Bach? Whither Beethoven, et al?
My clock-radio remains tuned to WXXI, but as soon as I get up I switch it off, and fire up this ‘pyooter aimed at https://www.yourclassical.org.
I got there roundabout, but quickly noticed the lack of program promos, and “this segment brought to you by Velmex of East Bloomfield” (????), etc.
I realized WXXI had become a radio station: Copeland, Ravel, and Stravinsky instead of some droning rapper — at least Little-Richard could hold of tune.
But promo after promo after promo.
My long-ago switch to WXXI came with my last rock ’n’ roll album by Def Leppard (“too loud”).
That’s eons ago. And I gave all those albums away. All vinyl. Had they ever caught fire, the smoke woulda blotted out the sun.
classical.org’s stream claims it’s “radio,” but it’s not over-the-air.
It comes via my Internet cable, and I stream it along with a railroad webcam out of Cresson, PA. (I’m a railfan.)
I can’t stream two video-feeds at the same time. Cresson disappears, perhaps crowded out by YouTube’s Horseshoe-Curve webcam, which might be prioritizing itself over Cresson.
Sometimes I could run both video streams at once, but not when the gamers are on up the street, around supper-time, or if it’s raining = they can’t buzz the pastures with their two-stroke ATVs.
My time with WXXI goes back to when WXXI-FM switched over to classical music in 1975. A local for-profit classical music station switched formats.
I switched maybe a year or two later.
I always was a classical-music geek. That preference was stoked by Houghton College, my Alma Mater, where Johann Sebastian Bach sat at the right-hand of Jesus.
After college I accumulated a vast stash of rock ’n’ roll albums: Led Zeppelin, Cream, Hendrix, plus Beatles and the Stones.
But with Def Leppard I lost interest.
I found myself returning to what I liked most: Bach.
I remember driving across Kansas with Copeland’s “Billy-the-Kid” wafting through my head.
I’m still not sure about “yourclassical.org.” I’ll miss my daily dose of “Hilda-of-Binghamton” (Hildegard von Bingen); plus Stravinsky, et al; which I haven’t heard much on classical.org.
But too many promos, plus an entire Saturday afternoon lost to screaming overweight blondes jumping 250 feet off castle parapets into roiling ocean below, hand-in-hand with yowling lust-crazed tenors.
Murders, stabbings, shootings! Do normal people sing at each other?
No hawking for money yet on “yourclassical.org.” (Fingers crossed.)
And sadly at classical.org I don’t get local content. Nor do I get “Exploring-Music,” a replay of Carl Hass’ “Adventures in Good Music,” which got me into Ravel, Debussy, and Vivaldi.
“1812 overture” began my preference for classical-music. But Bach at Houghton left 1812 in the dust.
Houghton also had a fabulous pipe-organ essentially aimed at Bach; 3,153 pipes, the Mighty Holtkamp.
“They let that pipe-organ fall into disrepair, and they ain’t gettin’ another red cent!”
And so WXXI-FM recedes into my filmy past.
It was just background music.

The eyes have it

—“You have the eyes,” I said to a lady in my supermarket.
We were in the Canandaigua Weggers — where else? I never can get outta that supermarket without striking sparks with some pretty lady.
“Why thank you!” she said to me smiling.
We were all wearing masks, but her eyes were smiling.
She’d been waiting down an aisle for shoppers to clear, and I knocked a dust-pan off a hook.
“I’ll get it,” someone shouted. But I leaned down and got it myself.
She kept gazing at me with her gorgeous eyes.
And clearly she was smiling; her eyes sparkled.
Finally traffic cleared, and I continued into her aisle.
“DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! Don’t be scared. She’s gonna like you saying something.”
“You have the eyes,” I told her. “Just incredible! Most don’t have ‘em, but you were blessed.”
“I’m an eye-man,” I would tell her. “Many of my men friends tell me I have it all wrong. What I should notice are women’s sexual attributes.
Nope! ‘The eyes are the window to the soul,’ a lady friend once told me.”
“If any guy told me I had pretty eyes, I’d get out my MACE.”
No ladies have yet, and I’ve told many they have pretty eyes — but only if they do.
“No pretty lady will ever make eyes with you!” Yet so many have.
The difference, if any, is I’m no longer scared to tell a lady she has pretty eyes. No wipeouts yet, and it makes us both feel good.

• “All I need is one of your smiles, Sunshine of your eyes, oh, me, oh, my…..” —Scotch and Soda, The Kingston Trio, 1958.

“Pigtail-girl” again

—“You are who I hoped you might be,” I said to the girl I met last weekend as “Pigtail-girl.”
She turned and smiled at me.
“Happy to see ya!” I said to her.
Say it! Notice her! Don’t be afraid. She’ll probably be glad ya did.
We were at Mighty Weggers in Canandaigua, and I was walking out.
But I noticed who I thought might be “Pigtail-girl,” so I turned and walked toward her halfway across the store.
She’s a Wegmans employee = produce department.
“I recognize you, and you recognize me. Hooray-hooray! Happy to see ya!”
“No pretty girl will smile at you, Bobby!” Yet there she was smiling at me.
I coulda walked out avoiding her, but I went after her smile instead.
We all were wearing masks, but her eyes told me. They twinkled!
I managed to shop that Wegmans without striking sparks with a pretty lady.
But there was “Pigtail-girl,” so I pursued her smile.
And I got it! = WOW!
I am so glad I didn’t just walk out.
Both she and I made each other happy!

• RE: “Pigtail-girl……” —Big sturdy girl with long dirty-blonde hair, previously weaved into pigtails. Not that attractive, and it looked like she’d take my head off, but she didn’t. Instead she smiled at me last weekend. I am so happy I said something to her = gotta have faith. Women like being noticed, even by a geezer.
• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua I use often.

Chick-magnet

Killian, my four-legged chick-magnet. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“How come you always wanna get an Irish-Setter?” My niece’s boyfriend asked. “Maybe you should get a smaller, less active dog.”
“Because Irish-Setters are chick-magnets,” I said.
“You wanna real chick-magnet?” he exclaimed. “How about one of those new mid-engine Corvettes?”
“Why should I shell out 80,000-100,000 smackaroos for something that attracts chicks I wouldn’t touch with a 10 foot pole?”
“Vroom-vroom!” he said.
I thought about it later.
—A) I am a retired bus-driver. I drive my car like I used to drive bus.
I don’t just charge into an intersection when the light changes. My following-distances are far greater than needed.
My situational-awareness degraded with age, but I still concentrate very hard. I can’t have the radio on.
My driving is not Corvette level, or Porsche, or Lamborghini.
—B) I don’t think the chickees a ‘Vette would attract would be as immensely interesting as those my four-legged chick-magnet attracted.
I lost that chick-magnet to cancer six months ago. He’d drag me into meeting some gorgeous chickee, then slam into her and start nuzzling.
“Oh what a pretty dog. Can I pet ‘im?”
Here I am, yet again, talking to another gorgeous chickee!
I don’t think the ‘Vette chickees would smile like those my dog attracted. I’d get the Cheshire-Cat smile.
The ladies my dog attracted actually loved my dog. They weren’t attracted by what a megabuck Corvette might symbolize = a gigantic bank-balance.
I’d walk my dog out Canandaigua’s City-Pier, and there would be old gray-head sunning himself in his red C-5 Corvette, the “shampoo-bottle,” a car-guy friend of mine calls ‘em.
Too much fiberglass, all voluptuous curves. Similar to the busty slatterns SuckerBird wants me to “friend.”
I’d say hello to him — he works out at Canandaigua’s YMCA like me.
Then I’d continue out the pier, stopping for numerous chickees wanting to pet my dog.
Do they stop for gray-head?
I could purchase the new mid engine ‘Vette, but I don’t wanna. I prefer the chickees my dog attracted over the opportunists a megabuck Corvette might attract.

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

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that over 15 years ago.
• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

Six targets

Westbound double-stack roars through Fostoria. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

—This photo was taken eleven years ago.
My wife and I (she was still alive then) drove to Altoona to do a train-chase with my Altoona railfan friend, Phil Faudi (“FOW-dee,” as in “wow”).
It had snowed heavily, but driving down was easy. It was mostly expressway back then, but a lot wasn’t.
Pavement was wet, but clear. 3-4 foot snow-berms lined the highway.
In Altoona we headed west up Allegheny Mountain, headed toward a trackside bed-and-breakfast in Gallitzin (“Guh-LIT-zin”) atop Allegheny Mountain.
The snow-berms got much deeper as we headed up the mountain. Road-side the berms were 6-8 feet high.
The Mighty Curve was snowed in, but looked possible.
Hip-deep into the snow-berm. I gave up. Horseshoe Curve was impossible.
We continued up to Gallitzin, which was being cleared by front-end loaders and dump-trucks.
Streets to our bed-and-breakfast were 6-10 foot channels through the snow. Streets were clear, but you only drove in the streets.
When Phil arrived the next day we wondered how we could chase trains in snow so deep.
“I got a couple ideas,” Phil said.
One was Fostoria, location of this photo. Fostoria is the location of that fabulous signal-bridge pictured.
It controls the mainline (Tracks Two and One at left) plus an adjacent siding-track at right (Track Three).
Each track is signaled both ways, rendering a total of six of the old PRR target-signals.
Light was weak, I had to Photoshop© this photo hard to get a usable calendar picture.
Mainly “brightening.”
Still it’s marginal. Shutter speed was down to 1/125th. I shoulda cranked up the ISO (sensitivity).
Below 1/200th you’re asking for trouble. If the train is fast enough, the front of the locomotive blurs.
It’s not too bad, but not as sharp as I'd like. Back then my knowledge of camera operation wasn’t what it is now.
I let the camera work for me. If I set shutter-priority at 1/400th or less, it’ll take the aperture-setting down into “not-enough-light.”
My brother’s camera autos everything, but with marginal light, his shutter-speed will slow enough to blur the locomotive.
So I can control shutter-speed, but I have to pay attention to “not-enough-light.”
The locomotive headlight can also throw off the automatic light-metering. My brother and I both have that problem.
When I took this photo, technica like that wasn’t being factored in yet.
So essentially this photo is a shaddup-and-shoot.
Conditions were horrible, but I got a picture, and Photoshop© saved it.
And it looks like a Union Pacific unit is in the lash-up. Or maybe it’s ex Union Pacific. Norfolk Southern is rebuilding old Union Pacific road-units at its Juniata shops (not “Juanita”).

• “Juanita” is my all-knowing mother’s pronunciation of “Juniata.” I have a train video that makes the same mistake.
• My beloved wife, who accompanied me on every train-chase, and there were many, died two years later (2012).

“I like the bubble”

—“Yes, Mrs. ******, we are indeed living in a bubble.”
I kept thinking that to myself as I motored home from Rochester after an eat-out with my niece, et al.
My trip home became a downer.
Our eat-out wasn’t a downer, but driving home I felt old and out of it, like I no longer could cope with life as it had become.
My niece’s boyfriend suggested the reason I was getting deluged with unknown hotties as “friend” requests was because I researched ‘em.
“Every time you do anything on your phone, ‘pyooter, etc. Facebook and Google track your every move.”
“He must like cleavage. He’s researching Truck-stop candy. Send him more boobies!”
Two more this morning — I zapped ‘em both. “Friend” requests deleted. No research.
The “bubble” bit goes back two years. I was traveling by Amtrak back from Fort Lauderdale, FL, where I visited my other niece.
I was on the last leg of my long train trip: Albany to Rochester NY.
In order to stave off sheer boredom, I fell into texting my YMCA aquacise-instructor back home. Like me she also has an iPhone.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; yada-yada-yada-yada-yada.
At one point I mentioned that compared to Fort Lauderdale, Canandaigua, where were we live, was a bubble.
“I like the bubble,” she texted back.
Both she and I live in rural settings, although I’ve never seen her house.
I’m on 4.7 acres, partly wooded, in a house my wife and I designed.
Coming home for me is pushing madness aside — the madness real-world existence has become.
That aquacise-instructor has probably long forgotten that text-exchange, while unfortunately I haven’t.
Driving back home from Rochester, leaving behind its flashing lights and racket, is like returning to “the bubble.”
“Google knows where your phone is,” I said once to my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
“They know my phone is in the locker room, and yours is in the office. They may even be miking us.”
She laughed.
“What I always went by,” I said to my niece’s boyfriend; “is whether a white antenna-festooned Econoline showed up in the pasture across the road; flat-topped thugs inside warily eyeing me through long binoculars.”
Not yet anyway!
But I worry our bubble will soon get burst.

---

—Despite occasional depression, I hafta remember it’s just a mood-swing; a chemical imbalance in my fetid brain, mayhap?
Too many joyous encounters with ladies have occurred. 70+ years late my dreadful childhood is being reversed.
I strike up a conversation with “Pigtail-girl,” and she smiles at me.