Pitched battle

—“One of these days I gotta tell ya about the pitched battle that went on in my head before I bought that sympathy card.”
I would say that to ***** and/or ******, my two lifeguard friends at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
Both are female, and ***** is impressive for age-65.
******, age-58, is my easier friend, and also doesn’t look her age.
****** always smiles at me, and is happy to see me. With ***** I feel like I’m overreaching = too impressive for a lifelong scumbag.
*****’s mother died not long ago, so I wanted to tell ***** I was thinking about her. We seem to be friends.
On one side of my head was Satan, represented by ******, exhorting me to buy the card.
“Your giving that card to ***** will make her happy!”
On other side of my head were the sanctimonious Bible-thumpers of my hoary childhood.
“You give ***** that card, and she’ll think yer hittin’ on her. Evil intent, I tell ya! Yer heart is filled with LUST!”
“Thankfully,” I’d say to *****/******; “I had enough pleasant experiences with women, including you, that I don’t listen to those prudes anymore.”
I bought the card, and I gave it to *****, which made her very happy.
Not only was I telling her I cared about her; she also could celebrate my triumph over the self-righteous zealots.
It seems ***** might have joined ****** in my ongoing struggle against the Bible-thumpers.

The tables are turned

—“Are you blocking me?” I asked my aquacise-instructor, pertaining to my inability to copy her into a text I sent to another.
Suddenly the tables were turned. No longer was I a whimpering-wuss unable to be definitive with an attractive lady.
Think about this readers. (“Hand me that-there remote Luke!”)
Suddenly she worries I think she’s blocking me; that I blurted it out reflected I didn’t care that much.
The other night I Facebook “messaged” her about something she posted to her Facebook “timeline.”
I don’t contact her much anymore, but we still are Facebook “friends.”
I suggested I coulda face-to-faced my comment instead, but it appeared she was mad at me.
Here we are again readers: I put her on the defensive again.
“I'm not mad at you!” she fired back.
Now the other side:
I tell my pretty jogger friend on Lehigh Valley RailTrail “I am so glad I said something to you!”
Some time ago I struck up a conversation with her, and she was thrilled.
A guy wanted to talk with her, but he wasn’t hitting on her.
The other day I met her again, and “I hike this rail-trail because I might meet you!”
What’s happening here readers? (“Uh-ohhh!”)
How did the whimpering-wuss get so assertive?
And I bet my pretty jogger friend is thrilled I tell her I like meeting her. (“She’s faking it!”)
That’s telling her flat-out I really like her. I won’t go into why, except to say it’s her smile.
(“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)
She’s also a girl (“GASP”).
Tell a girl I really like her, tell an attractive female to ease up? No way José!
I’d be afraid to offend.
Now I don’t care anymore. I’ve learned face-to-face is usually pleasant.
If it bombs, try someone else.
Pretty girls especially. They’re the ones that hafta constantly defend themselves against loathsome lotharios.
Be the dude they can talk to without fear.
“YIPPEE! A guy who wants to talk with me, but he’s not after me.”
I’ve had it happen.

• Her smile tells me she likes me; and my history tells me “no pretty girl will ever like you Bobby.”

Paradigm shift

—“You are so much fun to talk to,” said the wife of my mower-man.
We had just burned 15-20 minutes of continuous yammering, and I was walking out of their shop.
They had spring-serviced my giant zero-turn, so I was paying my bill.
I would correct what she said to “you have become so much fun to talk to.”
I didn’t used to be that way. For over 70 years I pretty much kept to myself.
Long ago I was convinced no one would wanna talk to me.
Raised by Bible-beaters, including a sanctimonious, overly-judgmental, Sunday-School superintendent neighbor who convinced me all males, including me at age-five, were EVIL and disgusting.
My parents heartily agreed, since I was already in deepest doo-doo for being unable to worship my holier-than-thou father.
“Rebellious!” they declared.
“Shy,” my brother says.
“Yeah,” I say. “No one will talk to you, Bobby! So keep to yourself!”
Now, 70 years late, and nine years after my beloved wife died, I find the Bible-beaters were the ones who were WRONG.
Since my wife died, I got loose-as-a-goose.
My silly dog, a chick-magnet, got me used to talking with pretty girls.
And I discovered what a joy it is to strike up a conversation with anyone, especially females.
I told mower-man’s wife I hiked Lehigh Valley RailTrail that morning, and met my newfound lady-friend (“friend who happens to be female”).
That girl was an upper; I was somewhat depressed before her.
Even two years ago I wouldna mentioned my rail-trail friend to mower-man’s wife. Mentioning a pleasant female encounter to another female seemed unfair to me.
But she was happy I met my rail-trail friend.
“I like seeing you smile,” she kept saying.
“I live alone, my wife died nine years ago, no dog anymore. Sometimes I get depressed.
That rail-trail girl lifted my spirits.”
“I like seeing you smile,” she said again.
“Aww man,” I thought to myself regarding mower-man’s wife; “I’m no good talking to women. In fact I’m no good talking to anyone.”
Not anymore!
People wanna talk! Even with someone like me who once thought no one would wanna talk to me.
Strike up a conversation, and they won’t shaddup.
“We could talk ‘til Kingdom-Come, but I gotta buy groceries!”
Yr Fthfl Srvnt has had so many pleasant conversations I forgot the Bible-thumpers.
“Go to Hell, Bobby! Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”
—And some day I might take that rail-trail girl out to dinner, mainly because we can talk.
It ain’t lust — other than that she’s attractive. (“GASP!”)
It’s her smile, as always. (“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)

• My “zero-turn” is my 48-inch riding-mower; “zero-turn” because it’s a special design with separate drives to each drive-wheel, so it can be spun on a dime. “Zero-turns” are becoming the norm, because they cut mowing time compared to a lawn-tractor, which has to be set up for each mowing-pass. —That mower came from that shop.

“It was meant to be”

—So said my pretty little jogger friend the other morning along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
I’m heading back toward my car, I hear footsteps behind me, she jogs past, then stops and turns toward me, smiling, eyes sparkling. (“Broken-record alert!”)
“Oh my goodness,” I say.
“We meet again,” she says.
“Fifth or sixth time?” I ask.
“Can I just say one little thing?” I asked. (Permission readers…..)
“You were thrilled I struck up a conversation that first time we met. And I was thrilled myself that doing that went over as well as it did. I was surprised.
And one more thing,” I asked.
“This morning was hard getting going,” I said. “My wife died nine years ago, I don’t have my dog anymore, I live alone, so sometimes I feel very depressed.
Then I come out here and hike this rail-trail and I meet you.
Why do I always hike this rail-trail?” I said. “In hopes of meeting you.”
“Well,” I thought to myself later; “my dog’s ashes are along this rail-trail too.
Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, nose-to-the-ground, furiously barking into the woods. ‘Critters beware!’”
“That is so sweet!” she cooed. (Same response every time.)
“What kind of dog was he, and what was his name?” she asked.
“Killian, as in Killian Irish-red,” (say it twice); “an Irish-Setter.“
“Awwww,” again.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada-yada-yada”……
At least five minutes of continuous face-to-face yammering.
But I like hearing her pretty voice.
“High five,” she exclaimed, as she readied to continue. (She wanted to touch me: “GASP!”)
Yr Fthfl Srvnt is reconsidering what makes a girl attractive.
I’m beginning to think it’s just that the girl likes me.
The fact my wife liked me is what attracted me to her.
She was plain at first, but flowered into this extraordinary person I could talk to. Philosophy, meaning-of-life, obscure concepts, they all were in there. And somehow or other I got ‘em all going.
We’d complete each other’s sentences, or “I was just thinking the same thing!”
The other day I hiked all the way around Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool to say goodbye to one of my new lifeguard friends.
“Hi Bob,” she smiled, eyes sparkling. (“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)
I think I made her happy; she radiated happiness. (“She was faking it!”)
Ergo: she likes me. It’s not lust — are you kidding? 77 years old, 40-50 pounds overweight, flabby, and way over-the-hill, although I don’t remember a hill. I’m old enough to be her grandfather!
I’m beginning to think what matters is that the girl likes me. It’s happened all-too-many times already, and every time it does I am smitten.
“No pretty girl will like you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!” (“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)
My jogger-friend seems to like me. (“Never in a million years!”)

The learning curve

—Over the last 8-10 months of learning how to deal with women, Yr Fthfl Srvnt has noticed a few things.
Although they may only apply to the type of women I prefer: no smokers, no drinkers, no gamblers, no sluts or slatterns, no facial steel, no hair dyed green, no multi-tattooed Harley-mamas with acres of body-art.
Only the classy ones; ladies as pure as I am.
(“Balderdash!”)
And fortunately I befriended a few.
My niece’s boyfriend suggested if I really wanted to attract ladies, I should get a new Corvette.
NOPE! 100,000 smackeroos for something that attracts ladies I don’t like?
NOPE again!
Maybe a new open-roof sports-car, but I prefer All-Wheel-Drive.
I need All-Wheel-Drive to chase trains; I’m a railfan.
I can imagine even classy ladies enjoying top-down motoring.
Open-roof, wind-in-the-hair, reach for the sky: FREEDOM!
A widow friend of mine only buys convertibles. She took me along once on errands: top-down.
That was her Buick, and the first top-down convertible I ever rode in was a white 1956 Buick.
Her Buick became possessed of numerous software glitches, so she traded for another top-down convertible; this time an Audi — same color as her Buick: also white.
There’s something to be said for attracting ladies with a top-down convertible. But to me there’s gotta be more to that lady then her being attracted that way.
That lady has to be attracted to me (“Never happen!”), plus she also has to have what matters: what’s between the ears.
I used to say my beloved wife, who I lost nine years ago to cancer, was smarter than me.
I know I’m pretty smart (“Again, balderdash!”)
But I always felt like my wife was smarter than I was.
As a result of my childhood, my experience with women was/is zilch!
“What about your wife?” people ask.
“Special case,” I always say.
Hopefully I can explain that someday, but the thing to say now is I was attracted to her at first only because she was attracted to me.
We both were royally messed up. With her it was her mother, and with me it was both parents at first, but my mother got better as I got older.
I’ve always been attracted to ladies, so now that my wife is gone, I no longer hafta avoid hurting her feelings; she was rather fragile.
I can be attracted to ladies with abandon.
So how do I attract these fabulously desirable females? I.e. not turn ‘em off!
From experience:
—1) Forget telling her point-blank you find her attractive.
Inference dudes; tell her indirectly = infer it.
Maybe sluts want point-blank, but This Kid prefers class.
The mere fact I wanted to strike up a conversation with that lady tells her she attracted me.
“I see your dog is taking you for a walk,” or “I remember you; you look familiar!”
I’ve used those opening lines hundreds of times; and they usually work.
If they don’t, too bad for that girl. I coulda charmed her!
(“No way José!”)
—2) Be careful what you say to that girl. Don’t say something utterly stupid.
A while ago I commented to my lifeguard friend “I was thinking about you last night.”
She walked away in disgust; I thought I’d lost her forever.
I’m bridging the boy/girl gap; ya don’t say something like that to a classy lady.
It wasn’t evil, just poorly worded.
Perhaps because I didn’t throw up my hands shouting “No more women for this dude!”
Instead, what can I do to win my friend back? I reworded my comment into something that wouldn’t turn her off.
My experience with women is nil; but I won her back!
—3) If the girl starts talking to you, LET HER!
Don’t interrupt, don’t cut her off. I may not understand what she’s telling me, but I don’t beg clarification. That’s interrupting.
Women love talking; the simple exchange of emotions.
The fact some woman talks to me tells me I attract her.
(“She’s being sociable!”)
The fact I listen to her tells her she attracts me.
One of my widow friends told me what she dislikes most about talking with men is how they try to take over a conversation.
Even if our talking is just pointless yammering; I like hearing that lady’s pretty voice.
She’s telling me thereby that she likes talking to me.
As you all know, at a very early age I was convinced that such a thing would never happen: no girl would ever wanna talk with me.
Yet my lifeguard friend, among so many others, all of them female, never tell me to buzz off.
They never walk away; but I had to learn how to keep them from walking away.

Girls-girls-girls-girls-girls

—70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt is discovering the wondrous joy of interacting with females.
Or more precisely: the fact women are attracted to me.
(“Impossible, and you know it! I would be SO GLAD to tell ya!”)
—The first thing I do when I enter Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool area is walk over and say hello to my lifeguard friend, a female, impressive for age-65.
—I go to my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls where I hope *****, head-honcho, is there. She jumps up to greet me and we begin talking = we enjoy each other.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada;” which translates to “I like you, and you like me!”
(“Never in a million years!”)
—I blow 10 minutes before leaving that YMCA swimming-pool so I can say goodbye to another one of my pretty lifeguard friends.
“Hello Bob,” she coos; then she smiles and her eyes sparkle. Again: “I like you, and you like me!”
(“DREAMIN’!”)
I’ve yet to come up with words which adequately describe my utter disbelief that women would like me. “No female will ever like you, Bobby! You are EVIL and salacious!”
There has been a learning-curve.
Since I am so driven to want girls to like me, I take note what attracts ‘em, and what turns ‘em off.
Per my childhood, the idea of a girl liking me was totally beyond comprehension.
I couldn’t even imagine such a thing!
The thought of a girl liking me never even crossed my mind.
70+ years late Yrs Trly finds that was Bible-beater bunk.
A wonderful way to scare a 5-year-old little boy from ever interacting with females — plus give my sanctimonious, hyper-religious, Sunday-School superintendent neighbor a way of venting against her dashing husband who was probably fooling around.
The other day my current neighbor and I were talking. He mentioned he’s had it with women.
Off I went: “girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls! Oh how I love ‘em.”
I had to learn how to interact with ‘em. But now that I have, I’m having a wonderful time.
A while ago I met my 65 year old lifeguard friend, and noted how I had been thinking about her the night before. She walked away in disgust.
At this point I coulda thrown up my hands like my neighbor and said I’d had it with women: “never understand ‘em; fuggetaboudid!”
Instead I thought about what I could do to get my lifeguard friend back.
(“Your trouble is you think too much!”)
I decided to try what she did with me some time ago. I would be happy to see her. That other time she was happy to see me, despite my earlier inserting foot in mouth.
And how could I reword what turned her off? How about “I was thinking last night about something you said.”
IT WORKED! I got her back.
Unlike my father she didn’t keep score, and I think she liked I didn’t wanna lose her.
Another time I said to her “if I’m the least bit tentative or unconfident or devious, you’ll pick it up.
If I project I’m happy to see ya, you’ll pick that up too. It's infectious.”
“Well I'm glad you think about this stuff,” she said. She’s noticing I care about her.
I could let my all-knowing critics destroy my interaction with women.
(“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada!”)
The same sorry litany I been hearing ever since I was four years old: “Never in a million years will you befriend a female! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
If I’m happy to meet that lady — and I am — I’ll get a positive response. I almost always do.
That lady will smile at me and her eyes will twinkle. We enjoy each other, which leaves me smitten.
Suddenly my hoary childhood is reversed.

“Here we are yet again”

—“Can I just say one tiny little thing to you?” I asked my pretty jogger friend along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
She already had stopped and turned to smile at me, eyes flashing.
“I thought I’d never see you again in my entire life,” I said.
“Yet here we are again!” she smiled.
“Fourth or fifth time?” I asked.
“I’ve met many pretty ladies along this rail-trail, other trails too. I hoped me and that lady might meet again, and even pursued it. But we never do.”
“Yet here we are,” she said again.
What I didn't say — maybe next time — was “half the reason I hike this rail-trail is hoping I’d meet you again.
The other half is my dog’s ashes are up at that marker. I like to visit; he was a fabulous dog.”
Here we are again readers: bridging the dreaded boy/girl gap. (I'm a guy, and she’s a girl — and pretty too.)
I’m indirectly telling a girl I really like meeting her, plus I’m also indirectly telling her she’s pretty. It isn’t lust. It’s just talk.
The first time we met a few months ago, same rail-trail, with her jogging; I struck up a conversation as she approached, and she was thrilled.
“A guy wants to talk with me, instead of take me home as a trophy.
I hope we meet again,” she said.
I hoped we might too, but “that never happens.”
Yet “here we are again!”

• Notice my use of “one tiny little thing” and asking permission. Tricks of the trade, readers. Just diving into a topic with a lady never works. And they’ll listen to a “tiny little” topic. I’m giving her permission to say no. Push yourself on a lady, and she’ll walk away.

Flat-out through the flyover

—Perhaps five-six years into my 16&1/2 year career driving transit bus I had a morning Park-and-Ride out toward Avon.
Not all the way to Avon. Just short of it. I turned around in a plaza parking-lot at the intersection of Routes 15 and 5&20, the “White Horse.”
A full-scale statue of a white horse stood at the intersection.
It was early ‘80s, before we got our “bendables,” which had more passenger capacity.
I guess I was just an additional bus. A Park-and-Ride came in from Avon slightly before me.
He like me was driving a 400 series — less passengers than a bendable.
8-71 unturbocharged diesel V8 motor, with a three-speed over-the-road auto-tranny.
I guess they were pretty quick when we got ‘em, but they were starting to get woozy. The 400s arrived before I started bus-driving.
So I was taking some of the load off that first Avon Park-and-Ride.
I wasn’t in the timetable going out — he probably was.
What I did was deadhead out to the White Horse — no passengers — then pick up coming back toward Rochester.
As soon as I left “The Barns,” I would zoom down East Main Street to get onto the expressway toward Avon.
I-590, then I-390, then out 390 all the way to the Avon exit.
I-590 and I-390 have a massive interchange just south of Rochester. 390 goes to the west side of Rochester, and 590 to the east.
390 comes up from the south, and would go directly into Rochester, except Rochester residents in that area refused.
That interchange was massive. 590 to 390-south involves a high flyover over two levels of traffic: 390-north to 390-west, and also 390-west to 590.
From 590 I needed 390-south. Atop everything was that flyover.
I’d be driving in the dark. Up the flyover ramp from 590, then see if I could drive that flyover flat out: pedal-to-the-metal!
I always was tentative about it. It was the man’s equipment.
In the back of my head was Jack Garrity, Transit manager at that time, exhorting me to drive safe.
NO WAY am I takin’ the man’s equipment off that flyover.
Nine tons of steel crashing two levels below.
Sometimes it was icy, so I had to drive to gingerly.
Most of our 400s were weak by then, so with most I could do hammer-down.
But not 436.
That thing was a rocket.
I used to tell the bus-placer 436 was the one I’d steal. “By the time you guys noticed 436 was missing I’d be in North Carolina.”
No way was I drivin’ 436 flat-out through the flyover. We’da arced right off that flyover!
With passengers I wouldna tried flat-out even with our sickly 4s.
A 400 on the expressway was fun. Hammer-down, except that flyover was debatable.

• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars for a bus-ride to or from work in Rochester.
• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) through my area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where I live. It used to be the main road across Western New York before the Thruway.
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main Street in Rochester, large sheds for storing buses inside. An operations-administration building was attached. We bus-drivers always said we were working out of “the Barns.”
• “Transit” is Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove bus 16&1/2 years (1977-1993).

E-mail to ****

—My friend **** ******, a retired RTS bus-driver like me, read my “Say goodbye to *****” blog, and commented that proper etiquette was to say hello and goodbye to friends.
But to me saying hello and goodbye to an attractive female friend has a little more to it.
Ergo:
“If that cute young lifeguard had not waved at me excitedly earlier — the ‘happy to see ya’ wave — I probably woulda just walked out.
It looks like I oughta say goodbye to *****, and thereby let her know I like her. Not lust, just a girl I like as a person.
To do that:
-A) I hafta look inside the pool area to see if she’s there. My exit is the other direction. If I avoid her I save a minute.
NOPE! I prefer striking sparks with *****. I’ve happily struck sparks with females too many times.
-B) She’s in there, so walk all the way around the pool fully dressed (“CALL SECURITY!”) to her lifeguard stand — 50-75 yards. Maybe two minutes.
-C) Shoot the breeze with pretty *****. 4-5 minutes lost.
—Saying goodbye to ***** burns 5-10 minutes, but she smiles and her eyes sparkle. I made ***** happy — which makes me happy.
Of course that’s worth 5–10 minutes.
No way am I avoiding *****.
Go the extra mile. Her smiling tells me she likes me.”
(“DREAMIN’!”)
“No pretty ***** will like you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”

• “RTS” is Regional Transit Service, the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove bus 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). **** also drove RTS bus while I was there.

Say something to her

—Saturday morning: off to Mighty Weggers in Canandaigua to purchase groceries for the coming week.
I walk into the store, and there’s pretty ****** stocking raspberries. No pigtails, long blonde hair down.
I’d ask her where the pears were, and thereby say hello to her.
“It's only one ‘E’?” I shouted; “I thought I was two.” I was reading her name-tag.
I saw her again later.
“Don’t worry,” I said to her. “I’m not slingin’ your name all over the Internet.
I don’t want some creep stalking you!
I do your name as asterisks, but I was doing seven, and I guess it should be six.”
She smiled and her eyes sparkled, which is why I always say hello to her.
That Weggers is doing a “grocery-reset,” which is supermarket lingo for “moving everything.”
I ambled down a center-aisle, looking down the cross aisles.
Thankfully that Weggers is kind enough to put clerks out to tell you where things were moved to.
Here comes a pretty little girl in a yellow “helping-hands” tee-shirt.
Our eyes met, and “cooking-spray,” I asked.
She walked me to the aisle where cooking-spray now was, but I met her again later.
“Mustard,” I asked.
“Aisle 12a with the condiments,” she chirped.
I met her again later, but all I did was wave.
What I didn’t say is “I’m 77 years old, which qualifies me to tell you you’re a pretty girl.
That’s one of the perks of old age. I can tell you that without getting smacked.”
(“Just humor him! He’s a harmless geezer!”)
I didn’t say that to her, although the thought crossed my mind. (I’ve done it before.)
A pretty little thing, preferable to the Harley-mama in another “helping-hands” tee-shirt.
Now to “self check-out,” hoping to meet ******, another one of my Weggers friends who happens to be female.
No ******, but a fairly cute girl was standing in wait in front of her checkout lane.
“Well,” I said; “I don’t see my friend, so I guess it will be you.”
She began ringing up my groceries, but I noticed her name-tag had the same name as a girl I once knew.
Say something to her! By doing that you tell her you find her attractive. She’ll like that.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada,” followed by “I’m old enough to be your grandfather!
That other girl had a five-letter name; yours is only three letters. She also was a millennial, born in 2000.”
“Well I’m Gen-X,” she said.
“What’s ‘Gen-X’?” I asked.
“17 years old,” she said, smiling, pretty eyes twinkling. (We were still masked.)
“Go to Hell, Bobby! Do not pass Go, do not collect $200! Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”

• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.
• I used to call ****** “pigtail girl.” She’d have her long blonde hair braided into waist-length pigtails. I stopped, because we decided it was demeaning. —****** is a Wegmans produce clerk.

Say goodbye to *****

—Pool-time finished, Yrs Trly glanced into the swimming-pool area of Canandaigua’s YMCA before leaving the adjacent locker room.
I look to see if I should say goodbye to any of my lady friends.
SCOTCH THAT! “Friends who happen to be female.” “Lady-friends” sounds too much like “girlfriends.” “Girlfriends” has sexual import. (All we do is talk.)
I admit I prefer females. Designed in I guess, plus long ago I was convinced no female would ever have anything to do with me.
So I am smitten by ladies, although ladies seem friendlier.
Men might start hitting me with that macho crap. Ladies wanna talk! The simple exchange of mindless chatter.
By doing so we denote we attract each other.
“Goodie!” I said to myself. “That looks like *****. She knows me, and I know her. Plus earlier she waved excitedly at me: the ‘happy to see ya’ wave.
Ergo, “we can talk.”
So I ambled slowly around the pool, fully dressed: “CALL SECURITY!”
But it’s *****, and she knows me.
Locker room to lifeguard-stand is probably at least 50 yards — I coulda just left, but I had a hunch ***** would like me saying goodbye to her.
I thought she might like knowing I like her.
“Hi Bob,” she cooed.
Our eyes met, and she smiled at me.
There you have it readers: “No pretty ***** will smile at you!” And ***** just did!
“Sorry I’m late,” I said to her; “but I had to make sure you were who I thought you might be.”
“I didn’t understand a word you said,” ***** said. We were wearing masks.
I repeated what I said, except “I had to make sure you weren’t ******. You two look so much alike.
I make ****** nervous. With her I’m a lonely hot-to-trot widower, eager to FLIRT with every pretty young girl that comes along.
I have a hunch ****** has been hit on, and I wouldn’t do such a thing!”
“I'll hafta talk to her,” ***** would say.
“Don't try too hard,” I’d say. “******’s feeling at ease with me has to be her doing. I ain’t pushin’ her!”
We talked a little, then “have a pleasant weekend!” as I walked away.
That was *****. We talk, and I love that we do.
I coulda just walked out without meeting her. But her pretty eyes flash, and she smiles at me. I can’t resist: this is so contrary to how I was raised.
No way am I leavin’ that pool without saying goodbye to “friends who happen to be ladies.”
And I bet ***** is happy a dude likes her as a person, and will make the effort to tell her so.

“I think I made her happy”

—“Buy the card!” said the little voice in the back of my head.
That would be ******, my other lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
Although my Bible-beating father would stridently insist she was Satan.
“Don’t buy that card!” a second little voice would say. That would be the ghost of Hilda Q. Walton spinning in her grave.
“You give that card to *****, and she’ll think you’re coming-on to her.”
Fortunately I’ve had enough pleasant experiences with women, including *****, I don't listen to Hilda much anymore.
I bought the card and gave it to *****. It was a sympathy card. Her mother died.
Not much in it; just “thinking of you.”
Plus a little of myself: a quote from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, a legacy of “that funky little college just north of where you grew up.”
That would be Houghton of course. My lifeguard friend is Wellsville south of Houghton.
“***** told me you gave her a sympathy card! That’s the first thing she told me. She even showed me your card.”
That was ******, the one my father would insist was Satan.
“I think I made ***** happy,” I said. “And I almost didn’t buy the card. I shouldn’t think women would automatically be turned off.”
“You did make her happy,” ****** said.
“Boy I sure am glad I gave you that card,” I kept saying to *****.
“I almost didn’t buy it. I was afraid of being misperceived.”
***** bopped me over the head with her rescue-board. Then she dropped to her knees poolside to tell me something about relatives getting angry regarding her mother’s passing.
Engage what little experience I have interacting with women: she’s talking to you. LET HER! Don’t interrupt; don’t cut her off!
I coulda sought clarification, but let her talk!
***** switched to another topic.
Someone once told me what bereaved people need most is to talk about it. Beyond that, maybe I’m also making her feel better.
***** said something about hesitation regarding family crisis.
“Just buy the damn card!” I shouted. I did, and look what I got? A happy *****.
(“Impossible!”)
By buying her that card I told my lifeguard friend I cared about her — and she liked that.
This is entirely contrary to the way I was raised.

• The quote from The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám: “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on…” —I usually say that every time someone dies.

“New and exciting”

—One of my friends at Canandaigua's YMCA swimming-pool, who happens to be female, keeps badgering me to strike up conversations with men as well as women.
Like I’m biased towards women.
Well, sorta.
A designed-in trait I guess. I always been attracted to women.
Plus striking up conversations with women seems to always work. With men I might get that macho crap, or my head gets taken off! (It’s happened.)
What’s notable is that I am much more likely to strike up a conversation with anyone then I was just a few months ago.
Men, women, frumps, ugly persons, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West, et al.
The other day I hiked trails in a nearby park, and struck up conversations with anyone that came along, probably at least 20; maybe 30.
Male, female, groups, husband-and-wife: “I see your dog is taking you for a walk.”
OFF WE GO! “Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada!”
People wanna talk!
“Yippee! This dude wants to talk with me!”
I’m sure some think I’m weird, but all too many don’t.
There’s no telling what you might hear when you let someone start talking to you.
And perish-the-thought I often like what I hear.
Maybe two months ago it was exciting just to talk to a girl.
Then it became exciting to notice girls wanted to talk to me. (“Impossible!”)
Now it’s anyone — all are open-season.
There were only two people at that park the other day with whom I didn’t attempt to strike up a conversation. Both were girls, and both looked nasty.
I also can tell when someone would rather keep to themself. Let ‘em; try someone else!
It’s their loss; I coulda charmed ‘em! (“Never in a million years!”)
Wanting to strike up a conversation with someone tells that person you’re attracted to them.
That works like a charm, especially with a pretty girl. There’s nothing a pretty girl likes more than being able to talk with a guy without being hit on.
I’ve seen it myself; I’ve had way too much success.
I say something to a pretty girl, and she’s thrilled.“Yippee! This dude is talking with me!” (“She’s just being sociable! You are dreaming Bobby!”)
So I’m feeling like my pool friend is outta date.
After the childhood I had, the fact a pretty girl would wanna talk with me is mind-blowing — new and exciting.
(“Never! No pretty girl is gonna talk to you!”)
But I feel like it’s gone way beyond pretty girls.
I discovered it’s just too much fun striking up a conversation with anyone.
So I do it with anyone.“No one will talk with you Bobby,” is history.

No masks

—“Do I need my mask?”asked my contractor as he pulled his giant glitzwagen into my driveway.
It was a brand-new black Chevy four-door pick-up, long enough to need a tugboat to dock it at my supermarket — probably 20 feet or more.
Glittering chrome, plus extravagant paint-work bodyside to advertise his business.
A ’58 Buick pales by comparison.
“I forgot it,” I said, turning to go away back inside my house.
“Are you vaccinated?” he asked.
“Yep!” I said.
“So am I,” he said; “so we don’t need masks.”
This is the same contractor who installed my new metal roof. 14,000 smackaroos. I’m paying for his glitzwagen.
“How’s your new roof?” He asked.
“I called you back,” I thought to myself.
“What do you need now?” he asked.
We went downstairs into my basement.
“This window-well isn’t draining. It fills during a downpour, then leaks into my basement. This drywall is ruined, and so too is the insulation behind it.”
He suggested a clear plastic dome-cover over the window-well to keep the rain out.
We went outside, and then he went back to his glitzwagen to prepare an estimate.
750 buckaroos!
“DO IT!” I screamed. “I was expecting 89 bazilyun dollars with an excavator!
And I’m sitting on ‘sinking-sand.’ You’d be digging to kingdom-come.
Plus all my utilities come in next to that window.”
$750 is peanuts for him, but I just threw $14,000 at him.
We’ve become a team. I make him happy, so he wants to make me happy.
His glitzwagen needed a bath. And no masks.

• My ’79 Ford E250 van was 18 feet long. It needed two moves to park it at my supermarket.
• You have to have been raised by hyper-religious zealots to understand “sinking-sand.”

Mano-a-mano with Transit minions

—Toward the end of my 16&1/2 year career of driving transit bus with Regional Transit Service……
I had a late-afternoon Park-and-Ride out to Hamlin (NY).
I always had a 300 “Bendable,” and maybe 35-40 pleasant regulars.
I picked up at Midtown Plaza bus-terminal, and then drove west on expressway. I didn’t start discharging passengers until Spencerport, west of Rochester.
Spencerport, Brockport, Hilton, and finally Hamlin.
A country bus-ride with good clientele, as opposed to inner-city thugs and rip-off artists.
I usually had a few left at Hamlin, maybe the same six I had when I drove the morning Park-and-Ride from Hamlin earlier in my career.
They all knew me as “a good one.” Always on time, never absent, and I warned riders if I was gonna be away.
And I wanna get them people wherever they’re goin’ no matter what. I ain’t stiffin’ my passengers. I rode bus myself once.
One afternoon I had 306 bus. I was returning from Hamlin, not deadhead, but I rarely got anyone.
Cruising along a marked rural two-lane, 50-60 mph.
Suddenly a dark Plymouth Omni pulled out in front of me.
I hit the brake-pedal — NUTHIN!
I pushed harder; again NUTHIN!
I floored the brake-pedal; a full 100-pound brake-application.
306 began to slow. I missed the Omni, but it was close!
I still was on the highway, not off the road, but at least five seconds had passed since I first hit that brake-pedal!
I was so flabbergasted I decided to inform the Mechanical-Department before going home.
Mechanical-Department offices were one floor above the Overhaul-Shop.
“You gotta do something about that 306 bus,” I told ‘em. “I almost creamed a four-wheeler. It wouldn’t stop!”
“Who are you?” minion asked, glancing up from his donut. “You’re just an ‘operator’” (bus driver).
“So I cream the four-wheeler, and you fire my ass!”
“You took out an unsafe bus,” minion said, scattering crumbs.
“If I refuse a bus I found unsafe, you call me on-the-carpet for refusing the junk you assigned me!
I try to inform you 306 is unsafe, and you pull rank on me!”
Again: “Who are you?
That thing will lock up everything. We road-tested it on Mustard Street.”
“Sure,” I said; “five seconds after I hit the brake-pedal. I cover a lotta ground in five seconds!
I’m the dude that picks up the passengers that pay your salary!
If the bus causes an accident, you just fire the driver!”
306 was fixed, but I had to endure noisy management posturing.

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove bus 16&1/2 years (1977-1993).
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars for a bus-ride to or from work in Rochester.
• My use of the word “ass….” —I normally avoid words like this — decorum and taste. But this is exactly what I said. Such words were part of Transit’s lexicon.

DO IT!

—One of my three friends at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool, all of whom happen to be female (“GASP”), takes me to task for striking up conversations with women.
I should be as eager to strike up conversations with men, as if my preferring women indicates sexual compulsion.
Sorta, but men are more likely to bomb, whereas women always succeed.
I rendered my example of how a gentleman about took my head off in my supermarket parking-lot when I tried to strike up a conversation.
Or how it’s always the wife who talks to me, if I try to strike up a conversation with a couple.
Or how the wife wouldn’t re-join her husband, because she preferred talking with me.
“And if it’s a dude with a girl: don't even try!
I don't know as my friend’s criticism applies any more, since it’s gotten so I strike up conversations with just about anybody: men, women, frumps, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West, et al.
The other day I had to go to a supermarket other than the one I usually use, which is in nearby Canandaigua.
I needed my mega-buck whole-bean-coffee, which I ran my Canandaigua supermarket out of.
I went to a new supermarket up in Henrietta, the one I call “The Palace.” It has a spired clock-tower, parapets; everything but a moat.
Amazingly it even sells groceries.
Here comes a frumpy woman in a sweatshirt that says “cancer sucks!”
“It sure does,” I said, striking up a conversation, even with a frump.
“I lost my wife to cancer!” I shouted. “BEST friend I ever had!”
“I’m sorry,” she cooed.
I met her again in a different aisle.
“There’s that sweatshirt again,” I shouted.
She stopped, and we started talking: “the reason I wear this sweatshirt is because I treated cancer patients years ago. Then I switched to women with breast-cancer.”
I choked up a little at “breast-cancer.”
“I lost my wife to breast cancer,” I said. “That was nine years ago, and I still can’t get over it.”
DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! Say something! Men, women, frumps, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West, et al.
People love to talk; especially women.
It doesn’t matter who any more; I strike up conversations much more frequently than I did even a few months ago.
I do that and I get a frump wishing she could allay my pain.

• At least 15-20 strike-ups today at Boughton Park. “Here they come:” “Say something!” (Only one girl avoided; she looked nasty.)

Artiks

2105, my all-time favorite ride at RTS. A Park-and-Ride from Fairport Baptist Home, through Fairport, then “ER” (East Rochester), with a civil and friendly clientele. 309 is a M-A-N artik (articulated), slow, but they rode way better than our lumber-wagons. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew. I’ve started many blogs with this photograph.)

—Six or seven years after I started driving RTS bus, we got our first “bendables,” our 300-series M-A-N artiks.
We bus-drivers had to train to drive these things, but after that I jumped right in.
For winter I picked a run whose first “half,” 2105, used an artik.
Out to Fairport Baptist Home, probably dead-head (no passengers), then in over our 2100 line.
Since an artik could carry more passengers, 2105 did the equivalent of two separate bus-trips — one from ER, and the second from Fairport.
Our ER passengers were angry because they no longer were the earlier time.
The two separate buses started about the same time, so 2105 covered ER later, since it had to cover Fairport first.
The idea was only one driver to cover two bus-trips. Them ER passengers could just go to Hell, as long as Transit management continued to get their bloated paychecks.
I think a 300 could carry 60; but I averaged about 35.
Our mechanics hated the 300s, since they had metric fittings requiring new wrenches, etc.
Bus-drivers were also leery of the 300s. Not only were they bog-slow, they liked to get stuck on icy pavement.
Our lumber-wagons would go through 18 inches of snow, but not a 300.
The trailer also steered. You had to be careful on corners, lest the trailer sideswipe a car next to you. If it did you didn’t know about it until your contact pulled you over blocks later.
I liked driving the 300s. Excellent clientele, usually rural folk. And Park-and-Rides often had expressway: PEDAL-TO-THE-METAL, and head for the passing lane!
65 mph was top-speed for a 300, but they would do it.
There were things you kept in mind driving a 300:
—When the traffic light for the street you were crossing changed to yellow was when you hit the accelerator. Your traffic light might go back to red before you cleared the intersection. They were that slow.
—For 2105 I asked the morning trainout man, Greenlea, to give me a 300 with chains. Only three 300s had ‘em; chains that dropped under the drive-wheels.
I had a hill in an apartment complex that was never treated when it snowed. I almost didn’t make that hill once.
—You also had to be aware of pavement that could get the center-hinge pogoing. You had to cross just so, and slowly!
—The 300s were extremely heavy.
I remember once aiming my 300 straight into a 10-foot snowbank. Snow everywhere, but we plowed right through. Never even got the front wheels off the pavement.
Them 300s were my favorite ride.
But I will never forget the first time I drove one — that was 2105.
Inbound in Fairport is a 90-degree corner with its apex right to the corner.
And of course a streetlight pole was right at that apex, waiting for you to clobber it.
Getting a 40 foot lumber-wagon around that corner took gigundo swing. Clear into the opposing lane, then back up traffic around the corner.
“33-foot wheelbase,” I told some dude once. “It’s not a snake!”
300s were 60 feet long, yet “here comes that corner!
How’m I gonna get this sucker around that corner?” I swung almost onto the opposing shoulder!
Easy as pie! A 300 was “bendable.”
We just “snaked” around that corner.

• 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.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• The M-A-N artiks were German, but assembled in NC.
• “Lumber-wagons” were our regular 40 foot city buses. They rode like lumber-wagons.
• A “half” is one-half of a daily work assignment; usually comprised of two “halves.” Some runs had three “halves.” (Go figure!)

Go figure!

—“Any chance I could ask you one tiny question?” I said to my aquacise-instructor. “It will only take a second.”
I got a look of frenzied exasperation, followed by “you only have a second!” She was leaving.
Per usual, one second turned into at least 60 seconds, if not more. Questions, explanations, follow-up: like “I didn’t know that!”
“I just need to know if you changed phone-numbers. My attempting to copy you into a text I sent to someone else kept bombing.
I had to text that lady separately, and that worked. But texting you didn’t.”
Per usual, even after our talking concluded, minutes added to her attempting to leave. She scurried furiously, and what I thought might be five minutes became about 15 or more.
Then as she finally left, she met me poolside to say goodbye.
“Go figure!” I might scream. She could only spare a second, then she stopped to say goodbye to me.
At this point I could throw my hands up and shout “Women! I'll never understand ‘em! Why bother?”
I can’t do that. I have too many lady-friends, and I enjoy having them.
Lemme correct that, since “lady-friends” seems to have sexual connotation similar to “girlfriends.”
“OOO-LA-LA!”
How about “friends who happen to be ladies?”
I admit a slightly perverse aspect to my having friends who happen to be ladies.
They are women after all. But sex is out of the question!
It’s just that I love talking with ladies. They wanna talk, and they don’t hit me with that male macho crap.
And of course talking with ladies reverses my childhood — the old “No pretty lady will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
Can I accommodate unfathomable female behavior?
Of course I can. I thoroughly enjoy my friends who happen to be ladies.
But it’s hard to reconcile her stopping to say goodbye with “you only have a second!”

“Here she comes!”

—“Did you wanna speak to ***** again?” asked *****’s assistant from inside my pharmacy.
“I have one more thing to ask her,” I said.
GOODIE! Here she comes! Bouncy-bouncy!
We’re both probably thinking the same thing = “we’re gonna talk!”
Here comes *****, who I hafta force myself to not call “pretty *****.”
Calling her that would be flirtatious.
She’s not gorgeous, she’s married, and I’m old enough to be her father.
But she’s pretty enough to have been intimidating when I first met her: “no way will I ever become friends with *****.”
She’s also a tiny little thing, but has incredible moxie.
It’s her pharmacy, just in-store in a supermarket, but she’s head honcho.
***** is turning out to be much more pleasant than I ever expected.
I first encountered ***** in a big-box pharmacy across the street from that supermarket.
She always looked mad; I don’t think I ever saw her smile.
Once she was assigned to give me a tetanus shot: “Uh-oh! Here comes angry *****. Gotta be on my best behavior!”
She’s not angry anymore; now I see “smiling *****!”
I realized I wasn’t seeing “angry *****” across the street; I was seeing “up-the-wall *****.”
Now that she’s on her own I see happy *****.
Which makes me happy too. What a joy seeing a happy girl!
She and her husband have two very young children.
Their little boy, currently age-6, is apparently a serious railfan.
I found this out because every year I give ***** one of my train-calendars, which she passes along to her little boy.
He’s thrilled with that calendar, and takes it to bed with him. He also has many of my train photos plastered all over his bedroom walls.
I still have many of my previous train-calendars on hand, so I went through ‘em so I could pass along previous calendars to her little boy, via *****.
I hadn’t seen ***** for a couple weeks — often it’s just her assistants or her husband.
Finally, the other day: *****. Hooray-hooray; “happy to see ya!”
***** is probably my favorite lady-friend; but mainly because we talk — and ***** loves talking.
“Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk!” And I love talking too.
Two years ago she gave me a flu shot in her new pharmacy.
Shot finished, I thought she’d wanna leave immediately to go back to work.
Nope; she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. She wanted to talk!
I was dumbfounded: a pretty girl wants to talk to me? This is not the way I was raised.
Apparently I’m a rare bird; unlike most men I really enjoy women chattering with me.
It’s probably due to my childhood; that long ago I was told no attractive lady would ever talk to me.
“We could talk forever,” ***** once said to me.
“Yes we probably could,” I realized later.
“Boy I sure am glad I saw ***** today,” I thought to myself as I motored home.
I needed a pretty-lady fix, and ***** was perfect.
We talked and talked and talked some more. As follows:

“You said something about the DEC.”
(Department of Environmental Conservation, a state-of-NY bureaucracy).
“Is that along 5&20 west of I-390?”
“Left side.”
“Right side for me; I was driving bus in from the White Horse. It was a nice ride; a country bus-route. I passed that DEC coming in.
I have another question if you have time.”
(She stood there waiting — she didn’t walk away.)
(“DREAMIN’!”)
“You also said something about owning a farm. Does that make you a farm-girl?”
“Nope!”
“So is ***** (her husband) a farm boy?”
“Through and through! Lotsa soy-beans.”
“Corn?”
“Yep!”
“Any animals?”
“No animals; no horses, no cows, no goats, nothing. I'm not a horse-person.”
“How many acres?”
She rolled her pretty eyes skyward, trying to figger the math. “About 1,500,” she said.
“Holy mackerel!” I exclaimed.

Pointless yammering, but it sure is fun.
It disproves “No pretty ***** will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”

• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) through my area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where I live. It used to be the main road across Western New York before the Thruway.
• Interstate-390.
• 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. 5&20 was part of a Park-and-Ride route in from Avon, NY.
• The “White Horse” was where I turned my bus around to come back in. That is the intersection of 5&20 and Route 15. I didn’t go as far west as Avon. A full-scale statue of a white horse is at that intersection.

“Lady-friends” redefined

—The other day one of my three so-called “lady-friends” at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool……
“Lady-friends” only in that they’re friends I can talk to who happen to be female. They’re not sexual triumphs, or lust targets……
All of whom seem will be helping an aging recluse emerge from his shell of self-loathing and confinement.
My friend seemed to take me to task for my being more inclined to strike up conversations with women than with men.
I wondered if she’d been kicking this around in her pretty head since we discussed it weeks ago.
I repeated what I said back then, that men were more likely to bomb. Women always succeed, and much to my surprise.
70+ years ago I was led to believe no woman would ever associate with me.
I repeated my example about some gentleman in my supermarket parking-lot taking my head off when I attempted to strike up a conversation.
As I see it the fact I prefer women is perceived as lust!
Not exactly! Although they are women after all.
“No female will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and deceitful!”
70 years late I discover that was BALONEY!
I shoulda disregarded it, but couldn’t because my hyper-religious parents heartily agreed. I was rebellious and Of-the-Devil because I couldn't worship my holier-than-thou father.
That’s a wonderful thing to tell a five-year-old little boy.
“So yes,” I would say to my pool friend. “I really enjoy that women wanna talk with me. It reverses my hoary past.
Indeed it is new and exciting, but it’s not lust.
Long ago I was convinced no female would ever talk with me, and now so many do. I encourage it!”
Yrs Trly strikes up conversations way more than I ever did before. Do it! Do it! Do it! Say something to ‘em. People wanna talk. Men, women, frumps, ugly persons.
I remember years ago talking with an aging lady who looked like the Wicked-Witch-of-the-West.
Most amazing are the pretty girls. Previously I was scared. “She won’t wanna talk with me; she’s gorgeous and I am nothing.”
“YIPPEE; a guy who wants to talk, and he’s not trying to snag me as a trophy.”
I’ve had it happen.

Lady-Friends

—“Lady-Friends” defined per The Keed: Talk not sex.
It’s becoming apparent saying lady-friends are the solution to life’s myriad problems is being misinterpreted.
I admit a tiny perverse element to my enjoyment of lady-friends. They are girls after all — the ones I can sexually enjoy. (“GASP!”)
That misses my point: I celebrate the fact I can interact with women at all.
At age-four or five I was convinced no female would ever associate with me.
This was my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor whose husband was probably fooling around.
Had my parents come to my defense, that neighbor woulda crashed mightily in flames. But my parents were also hyper-religious. I was already in trouble for being unable to worship my holier-than-thou father, who was also distant and unapproachable.
I was declared “rebellious!” So much for the self-worth of a little boy.
Enough about my childhood; you’ve heard it 89 bazilyun times.
70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt finds THEY were the evil ones. Marked-for-life by sanctimonious Bible-beaters.
And much to my pleasant surprise, I find women attracted to me. (“Impossible!”)
My hairdresser rightly described it. Eager to convince a little boy there was no way in a million years he could befriend an attractive female. And thereby scare him away from women.
They succeeded, but after 70+ years of silent self-loathing, I find people attracted to me, including girls. (“GASP!”)
I guess I should stop saying lady-friends are the key to happiness and fulfillment. Stop commenting about my making so many lady-friends.
Procreating the species is not what I’m about. With me it’s the joy of discovering I can interact with women.

I ain’t switchin’!

—Canandaigua’s YMCA has at least three entrances, maybe four.
My use of that YMCA goes back to before my wife died, and that was nine years ago.
Back then was before that YMCA expanded into a large abandoned Post-Office facility next-door.
So my wife and I probably used what used to be the main entrance then, the one facing out front.
That entrance was since converted into a semi-locked fire-exit.
Out back is the rear entrance. It’s locked but would unlock with your YMCA key-tag.
There also is parking back there, so I switched to out back. When or how I don’t remember.
Then I was advised to switch to aquatic balance-training in that YMCA’s swimming-pool.
I previously worked out in their exercise-gym — their so-called “Wellness-Center.” It has exercise machines and weight training.
With expansion into that abandoned Post-Office facility, that YMCA gained a new main entrance and lobby. It’s adjacent to a new swimming-pool.
A previous swimming-pool was retired and abandoned. The new pool is in a different location.
That new main entrance is on a side-street. It has a giant staircase I call “Jacob’s-Ladder.”
I used to be able to climb that staircase two steps at a time, but no longer. I still can climb it one step at a time. I’m not using the adjacent geezer-ramp yet.
With COVID-19, the rear entrance was decommissioned. In fact the entire YMCA was closed for months.
It reopened in August (I think), but per COVID-19 you hafta sign-up in advance to attend, then members check in with a temperature-check in the lobby.
The rear entrance could only be used if you called the lobby on your phone. Someone would come and let you in.
Use of that YMCA is way down. Prior to COVID-19 we averaged 20-25 per class in aquatic balance-training.
Now we’re down to three or four for one 45-minute class per week. It used to be two classes per week.
As more people get vaccinated against COVID-19, protocols at that YMCA are being eased. I still sign up for that swimming-pool in advance.
That YMCA will go back to key-tag checkin, although they’ll still wanna take your temperature.
Supposedly key-tag checkin will enable YMCA members to go back to using that back door. Which means I could go back to using that rear parking-lot and rear door.
But I don’t know that I wanna.
I’ve gotten used to using “Jacob’s-Ladder,” and parking my car out front.
By doing so I see if my lifeguard friend’s car is in the parking-lot. If it is:“GOODIE! She’s here, and I LIKE IT! We can talk!”
70 years late I’m talking to a female. (“Gasp!) And not only that, she’s an attractive female. (“Double-gasp!”)
“No pretty female will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are disgusting and Of-the-Devil!”
I ain’t switchin’!

• The story of Jacob’s Ladder refers to the vivid, prophetic dream in which Jacob sees a ladder stretching from Heaven to earth. The dream not only represented the connection between God and man; it also affirmed Jacob as the father of God’s chosen people, the Israelites. (Genesis 28:12, King James Version).
• My wife told me she once heard a Bible-beater tell her: “If the King James Version was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me!”

Mighty Weggers

—Nearly 55 years ago Yr Fthfl Srvnt received his BA, then returned home to the same sorry litany of angry put-downs and sanctimonious badmouthing he left behind for college.
Despite being a misfit, an agnostic among zealots, my college, Houghton (“HO-tin;” as in “hoe,” not “how” or “who”), in Western NY, was the first hyper-religious institution to not automatically adjudge me rebellious and Of-the-Devil.
It was my professors, adult authority-figures who wanted me in their classes.
“That Hughes kid can think. He might say something that makes me think.”
My bereavement-counselor tells me Houghton was my first step away from my horrible childhood.
After college returning home was extremely depressing.
College had been fun. My father was angry as Hell, because Houghton hadn’t “straightened me out.”
After a month I wanted out.
My mother was distraught. It was the equivalent of running away.
My father cosigned to buy me a car: $600 for a used ’61 Corvair Monza coupe with PowerGlide.
I loaded my meager belongings in it and headed north.
I never could pay the $600, which my father complained about until he died. Despite my giving thousands to my younger siblings to help them with college expenses.
North to Rochester to hook up with my wife-to-be.
She began Library-Science at Geneseo State College. She’d been in my class at Houghton.
The first night I had to sleep in my Corvair — impossible!
The next day we motored up to Rochester to get myself living-quarters, a $10-a-week sleeping room. (That may have been $10-a-month.)
I would eat in restaurants until my money gave out.
My sleeping room was at 136 Chili Avenue, just west of where Rochester’s W. Main St. ends.
I had kitchen privileges, but rarely used ‘em. It was too much trouble.
West Main ends just west of Bull’s-Head, splitting into Chili and West Avenues.
On West Avenue were two side-by-side supermarkets, a Weggers and a Star Market.
Weggers was more amenable. I went there to buy Campbell’s canned beef soup and rolled chocolate cake.
I’d take both to my sleeping room, and heat the soup in a small pitcher with a coffee-coil.
That was supper when I didn’t eat out.
It was a meager start for leaving madness behind.
No way was I going home. Have my father celebrate return of his Prodigal-Son? The fact I failed?
No way José!
It’s been Weggers ever since.
For a long time it was East Ave. Wegmans. That was when we lived in our tiny house on Winton Road in Rochester.
We could walk to it.
After we moved out to West Bloomfield, I used the Pittsford-Plaza Wegmans coming home from work.
That store has since been rebuilt into what I call “the-jewel-the-crown.”
Some of it has two stories, and ya need a powered cart to shop it. Its parking lot is so big they need a valet service.
I haven’t been in a Weggers yet that didn’t have a G-gauge model train running over the cheese-bar.
“BAMP-BAMP-BA-BAMP!” (The grade-crossing horn signal.)
East Ave. Wegmans has also been rebuilt — a gigantic superstore I’ve never been to.
The Henrietta Wegmans was also rebuilt into what I call “the Palace.” Clocktower, parapets, glitz everywhere. All it needs is a moat, and perhaps a carousel.
“What if all I need is bread?”
Wegmans expanded all over the northeast, complements of Danny Wegman, Ferrari-driving son of Robert Wegman.
(I met Danny once.)
Robert used to be incensed Danny wanted to put in “Market Cafés” (eating parlors).
“We’re a grocery, Danny!”
Nevertheless, “good call Danny!”
Perhaps another Weggers paradigm is “just spend the money. It comes back in buckets.”
“There goes another Weggers truck!”
My first stop driving back from chasing trains in Altoona is the Williamsport Weggers. It’s always packed with thunder-thighed Harley-mamas in short-shorts.
A couple years ago I returned to my south-Jersey roots. There in the vast abandoned parking-lot of the defunct Garden State Park horse-racing track was the Cherry Hill Wegmans.
Wegmans goes after suburban markets, or the rich wannabees.
I tell a girl with whom I graduated high school (1962) to try the new Weggers not far from her home in southeastern PA.
I keep telling my brother in northern DE that Weggers is coming.
So Sunday-Sunday-Sunday! Off to the Canandaigua Weggers to buy groceries for the coming week.
Mainly bananas. Weggers are pretty good. They’re not used as baseball bats.
“Yo Matt; lob me that there peach so I can bat it outta the store with this here banana!”
And maybe I’ll meet *******, a pretty lady-friend who stocks produce at that supermarket.
Plus ******, another lady friend who often works self check-out.
Danny deserves that Ferrari.

• “Chy-lye;” all “eye.”
• “Parable of the Prodigal Son:” Luke 15:11–32 King James Version. (My father was a Bible-beater.)
• No lady friends at Weggers yesterday.

Tricks-of-the-trade

—“I hope someday I can tell you why I always say hello to you.”
I would say that to pretty ******* at my supermarket, who I no longer call “pigtail-girl.”
We decided that’s demeaning.
******* is a supermarket employee; she stocks produce.
Notice what I’m doing here readers: I asked her permission instead of suddenly talking to her.
By doing that, she’s more likely to wanna hear my story; plus I set her up.
Do that with my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, and suddenly it’s drop everything! She wants to hear my story, and she wants to hear it right now.
“When I first said anything to you a couple weeks ago, it was sheer impulse.
I was walking right by you, and no pigtails.
So I said something — blurted it out — fully expecting you might take my head off, or tell me to get lost!
But no, you turned and smiled at me.
WOW!
I gotta try that again; and I did.
You turned around and smiled at me again.
So again: WOW! I gotta try that again.
Third time: you smiled at me again.
How many times so far? Probably at least ten.
Every time I say hello you smile at me!
You’re doing the exact same thing my friend **** does up at Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department.
She’s a receptionist, and she checked me in at first.
That stopped, and check-in became earlier with someone else.
So I started waving at **** as I walked into Physical-Therapy.
I quickly noticed that every time I waved at her, she’d smile at me.
So it became law: wave at **** without fail.
I don't want her thinking I’m avoiding her.
So there you have it *******: the reason why I always say hello to you without fail. I don’t want you thinking I’m avoiding you!
And if you want me to stop, just tell me.”
(I bet she won’t.)
(She’ll want you to stop.)

Talking with women is such fun!

—I think my lifeguard-friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool liked hearing I always look for her car when I pull into the parking lot.
If her car is there, as it has been for weeks: “YIPPEE, she’s here!”
That means “YIPPEE, we can talk!”
That means I’m talking with a female, a girl. (“Gasp!”)
And I think she enjoys talking with me. (“Impossible!”)
I probably enjoy talking with her more than I should.
Together we counter “No pretty lady will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
A legacy of my childhood; 70+ years marked-for-life.
If my parents had come to my defense, that angry Bible-beater woulda crashed in flames.
But my parents were Bible-beaters too. I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father, so I was “rebellious.”
So my experience with women is nil.
I think my lifeguard friend may be cutting me slack. I had a long-ago deal with another lifeguard friend that she not give up on me. She hasn’t.
On the other hand I noticed if I strike up a conversation, add respect and decorum, ladies like it. (“Never in a million years!”)
And I like that they like that.
My lifeguard friend isn’t the only one.
If I patronize my pharmacy, my lady friend there, head-honcho of that pharmacy, hops from her workstation so we can talk.
“We could talk forever,” she tells me. She loves talking with me, and I love talking with her.
The other day my lifeguard friend’s Subaru wasn’t in the parking lot.
“I got a new car,” she told me.
She didn’t walk away, or tell me to get lost. She showed me her new car so I could look for it next time.
Little-by-little The Keed learns how to engage and please women, casting off the albatross I carried 70+ years.
Talking with women is such fun!

• Lotta red text here. Most is my critics a-bellowing.

She waved

—The other day my nurse-practitioner neurologist, who I visit every six months pursuant to my ongoing struggle with dreadful balance……
Suggested I discontinue aquatic balance-training in favor of my dry-land physical-therapy.
I currently do both.
“And walk away from my lady-friends at that swimming-pool?” I screamed. “No way José!”
At this point my nurse-practitioner neurologist, a girl, rendered her wisened chuckle.
“A sex-crazed geezer, eh?”
Sex at my age? “What you been smokin’ boy?”
My interest in lady-friends is hardly driven by sex. Maybe somewhat — they are women after all.
To me it’s reversing my childhood. Convinced at an early age no pretty lady would ever have anything to do with me.
That would be my sanctimonious neighbor Sunday-School superintendent, whose dashing husband was probably fooling around.
My parents, Bible-beaters like that Sunday-School superintendent, heartily agreed. I already was in deepest doo-doo for not being able to worship my holier-than-thou father — “rebellious I tell ya!”
So yesterday (Friday, May 7th) I again visited that swimming pool — at Canandaigua’s YMCA.
Not my organized aquatic balance-training class, but on-my-own.
Plus meet my lady-friends. My favorite lifeguard friend at that pool is not there on Fridays. But others might be.
Just sloshing around in that pool is beneficial.
My only “lady-friend” was *****, a new lifeguard, and she’s only a “maybe.”
***** is young and cute. She seemed to want me to say hello the other day.
So I tried a little harder the next time I saw her: let her know I like her.
My all-knowing brother in Massachusetts loudly declares pretty girls are a dime-a-dozen.
Thank goodness they are. If ***** bombs, I’ll try someone else. I usually succeed.
Let ***** conclude I’m not lusting after her. Talking yes, sex no!
In other words, let ***** attain “at ease” with me.
No pushiness on my part.
If I can’t have her feel comfortable, try someone else!
So last time I avoided *****, thinking I would only respond if she wanted me to.
NOTHING!
Yesterday she seemed more at ease.
There she was striding poolside to go on duty, so I kept looking to see if it was *****. Her name was on the bulletin board, and I was in the pool.
She noticed I was looking at her, so she waved.
Hooray-hooray! More comfortable mayhap? I hope so!
If ***** bombs, try someone else!
Lady-friends are a dime-a-dozen; I make lady-friends like crazy!
Women love talking, and I encourage it.
I learned how to get ‘em started: strike up a conversation with a lady, and off-we-go!
“The only way you can reverse your childhood,” my bereavement-counselor says; “is to make as many lady-friends as you can.”
That bereavement-counselor seems to be the only one who understands my attraction to lady-friends.

• Even at age 77, overweight, flaccid, and way over the hill (although I don't remember a hill), I have lady-friends galore, probably because I encourage them to talk with me.

It’s just talking

—Critics complain about my so-called “girly” blogs.
That I shouldn’t be so blown away by my incredible success with women.
“They’re faking it!” my critics say. “They’re just being sociable.”
To which I say (“awful temerity, unmitigated gall, and horrific audacity”) if they’re “just faking it,” they’re really good at it.
“We could talk forever,” says my lady-friend at my pharmacy.
She’s head-honcho of that pharmacy, and she’s fairly pretty — pretty enough to intimidate me just a few months ago.
As soon as I appear, she jumps up from her workstation so we can talk.
Her quickness is hardly sexual. I seriously doubt I could sexually attract a girl when I’m age-77, overweight, outta shape, and hardly can walk.
Enter my cousin **** in NC: “none of that matters! What women want most is a guy who will talk with them.”
Add respect, and treat ‘em like real persons.
Plus let ‘em talk to you. I.e: don’t butt in, and don’t cut ‘em off!
A lady-friend tells me how she hates talking with men because they try to take over a conversation.
This Kid doesn’t; I let ‘em talk, and thereby attract lady friends galore.
Over the past six or seven months, Yrs Trly discovered ways to get ladies to start talking with me — like striking up a conversation.
WOMEN WANNA TALK!
The one who ends a conversation with a lady is usually me. Let ‘em start talking with me and they won’t stop.
“We could talk forever, and it sure would be fun, but I gotta buy groceries.”
Apparently striking up a conversation is fairly rare.
This Kid does it a lot: “Here she comes, now say something to her!”
With men I may get shut down, but with women it always works!
If the man is with a woman, I get lunched.
I’m hiking Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and here comes a cute young jogger.
“DO IT DO IT! DO IT! Say something to her!”
She was thrilled: “Yippee, a guy who wants to talk with me, and he’s not hitting on me!”
“I hope we meet again,” she says. —Three times so far.
My so-called “girly” blogs are not about sexual triumph.
They celebrate the fact I can even interact with women at all.
I have this horrible childhood, whereby no female would ever have anything to do with me.
By encouraging them to talk with me I attract lady-friends like crazy.
I have my doubts about “HUMOR HIM; he’s just an old geezer.”
Not when I attract so many lady friends.
And it’s only because I encourage ‘em to talk with me.

Backhanded desire to meet again

—My most recent fantastic encounter with a female was backhandedly telling a lady-friend I looked forward to meeting her.
I did that by telling her I always looked for her car when I pulled into our parking lot.
This would be *****, my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
And perish-the-thought I think she liked hearing that.
I admit it was LUST years ago. (GASP!)
She’s not gorgeous but she is impressive.
When I began aquatic balance training and first saw her on her lifeguard stand: “she’s the pretty one!”
Never in a million years could I become friends with *****. A “looker” = too much for this kid.
But then she said hello to me by name out of the clear blue sky. She was probably just being sociable, but I blew that all wrong.
Somehow or other, despite my many flubs, and almost losing her twice, we became friends.
And it seems we’re way beyond lust.
What I like most about her is WE CAN TALK!
She’s not my wife, who died nine years ago.
But I throw concepts at ***** I used to throw at my wife.
There’s still a tiny perverse element to our relationship: the fact she’s female and I’m male. (GASP!)
Together we counter “No pretty lady will talk to you, Bobby! Your heart is full of evil intent!”
This seeing if her car was there has been floating around in the back of my head for some time.
I’ve always looked: “GOODY! She’s here!”
I never told her that, because it’s rather flirtatious.
But the other day her light blue Subaru Outback wasn’t there.
“New car,” she told me.
“So what do I look for now?” I asked her.
(There it is again readers: I’m backhandedly telling her I really like meeting her. What would my wife think about my newfound ability to do that with a pretty lady? In fact, what would my wife think of *****?)
We looked out the window into the parking-lot.
“See that dark-gray Toyota RAV4 over there parked next to that tree?”
“I’ll hafta check it out,” I said.
She didn’t walk away, she didn’t tell me to buzz off; she made sure I could look for her new car.
Sorry, I’m always amazed I can do something like this. This was not the way I was raised: “No pretty ***** will associate with you, Bobby!”

Chrome overload

Chrome overload!

—In late 1957, age-13, shortly before my family moved from south Jersey to northern DE……
I and a few of my eighth-grade railfan friends peddled our bicycles to where the Pennsylvania Railroad ducks under Haddon Ave. west of Haddonfield.
The line, from north Philly over the Delaware River on Delair Bridge, came south to junction with the old Camden & Atlantic Railroad, long ago taken over by Pennsy.
Camden & Atlantic went from ferry slips in Camden to Atlantic City, and is why Atlantic City did as well as it did. Philadelphians would ferry to Camden, then railroad to Atlantic City.
Pennsy’s line to Delair Bridge was to circumvent those ferries, and railroad freight to south Jersey also had to be ferried.
Supposedly the line was to continue south of Camden & Atlantic to another Pennsy line into southern NJ.
But it was never built, which was just as well, because freight migrated to trucking.
With the current surfeit of highways, built and maintained by gumint, railroading only makes sense over 400-500 miles, or with long heavy loads.
Freight may travel 50-100 miles in south Jersey, and the only shipper requiring heavy coal-trains is a power-plant near Atlantic City.
Pennsy’s old Camden & Atlantic still exists, but it’s no longer Pennsy. Railroading in south Jersey is done mostly by small independent short-lines.
Right next to the Haddon Ave. overpass back then was a Buick dealer.
Late 1957 was when Detroit introduced its 1958 models, so parked outside under tarps were new 1958 Buicks.
They were hidden, but here was my chance to see the new 1958 Buick.
Buick styling was failing. It reached its zenith in the 1955 model-year. The ’54 looked pretty good too, as did the ’56. The first top-down convertible I rode in was a white 1956 Buick.
Prior to 1954, Buicks looked like bloated douche-bags. GM styling was goofy in the early ‘50s. Olds looked pretty bad too.
After 1956 Buick styling tanked. Stylists ladled acres of glittering chrome on their cars, so their cars were more glitz-wagons than actual cars.
“Well, maybe for 1958 automotive styling would improve!”
But then I lifted the car-cover on a 1958 Buick in that Haddon Ave. Buick dealer.
GACK!
There was that dreadful waffle-iron grille.
Fully uncovered the 1958 Buick is the most gauche car of all time.
Glittering chrome everywhere.
Not long after our visit to that overpass my family moved. Who knows if my railfan friends are still alive?
And automotive styling took off in a worse direction. It didn’t start getting things right until the early ‘60s.
I always say the worst-looking automobile of all time was the 1959 Oldsmobile.
But saying that compares to “the greatest rock-’n’-roll song of all time is….”
“Are you crazy?” “What you been smokin’ boy?”
Someone once told me the ugliest automobile of all time was Pontiac’s Aztek.
To my mind Toyota’s most recent Prius is dreadful; a Mohawk haircut disguised as a car.
I suppose which automobile is ugly depends on what was extant while you were growing up.
For me, the 1958 Buick was a styling disaster.
A ’58 Buick was featured in my most recent issue of Hemmings Classic Car magazine.
Again GACK!
And I just looked at a Google StreetView of that railroad overpass, which is still there (rebuilt of course).
But the Buick dealer is gone.

Lawd-a-mighty!

—Yrs Trly is navigating his so-called “wussy-cart” through the aisles at his supermarket.
I see an attractive lady ahead, 90-100 pounds or so, who looked familiar, so I turned toward her.
Our eyes met a second, we didn’t say anything, then we continued shopping.
I met her a second time: “The reason I keep looking at you is you look like someone I used to see up at the YMCA,” I said.
“I haven’t gone there since the pandemic began,” she said.
“Maybe,” I thought to myself. We continued shopping.
I saw her a third time, so I turned toward her.
“I used to work out in the Exercise-Gym,” I said.
“I used to do the ellipticals,” she said.
“So you are who I thought you might be,” I said. “Glad I said something.
I had to switch to the pool,” I said. “My balance is terrible.”
“So is mine,” she said. “I don’t like getting old.”
“I don’t like it either!” I exclaimed.
Her eyes said 50+ or so — although who knows? My lifeguard friend at that YMCA is 65 years old. She doesn’t look that old on her lifeguard stand.
We departed after a minute or so, but then we crossed paths a fourth time.
This time it was her talking first: “they’re always changing things in this store,” she said.
“And this was the store I knew,” I said.
She gently caressed my forearm.
Lawd-a-mighty! She’s at ease with me. A girl I always wanted to talk to, but who seemed self-absorbed and outta reach!
“No girl will have anything to do with you, Bobby! Your heart is full of lust!
EVIL and disgusting I tell ya!”
What a pleasant surprise! A female is comfortable with me. (“Impossible!”)
She liked that I recognized her, and told her so.
Maybe someday we’ll meet again, and enjoy each other’s company.
Those Bible-beaters who marked-me-for-life rotate wildly in their coffins; 14,000 rpm, enough to power FL south of Orlando.

• A “wussy-cart” is one of those small shopping carts about one-third the size of the average grocery-cart, which is as big as a Buick. So named by my brother in northern DE when they first came into use maybe 20 years ago.
• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start tearing itself apart at 7-8,000 (if it gets there).

A stupid meaningless job that paid pretty well

—“You have a college degree, and you’re driving bus?” A passenger might exclaim.
“What was your major?” They’d ask.
“Bus-driving,” I always answered.
Enter Bob Newhart’s “School for bus-drivers skit.”
When I graduated college in August 1966, I had no idea what to do with my life.
College — using my brain — had been fun, but I was tired of it. “Navel-picking,” I called it.
(August because I had to make up two courses.)
My original intent to teach high-school history fell apart with my first attempt at student teaching.
My mentor teacher was an authoritarian who declared the hyper-intelligent girl in his class needed a good spanking.
Bleeding-heart liberial that I am (GASP), I felt she just needed someone to care about her, take her seriously, challenge her. My militarist mentor quashed me.
So much for teaching. If this was how I was supposed to be, I wasn’t interested.
After college I worked at a bank as a management-trainee. Me management? Kee-RASH! I was cut loose after three years.
I also tried to freelance auto-racing photography. I sold a few photos to national magazines, but essentially lost money.
I also wrote motorsport coverage for a small weekly Rochester newspaper. But that was only summer work.
My wife and I existed on her income while I mucked about.
Seven years, and during that time we bought a small house in Rochester — essentially based on my wife’s income.
I also began interviewing for work as a writer; public relations I guess. “Failed writer,” my Facebook says.
Next to our house was a neighbor who drove bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS).
They needed bus-drivers, so I decided I’d try it.
It would be temporary while I looked for a writing job. But it paid fairly well, and had full bennies.
Looking for a writing job fell away, plus there was the challenge of learning how to safely operate large equipment.
16&1/2 years I did it, until my stroke ended it in late 1993.
I was tiring of it. To some extent it was our clientele, who could be rancorous and cantankerous.
When we moved out of Rochester to our new home in West Bloomfield, we no longer were five minutes from “the Barns.”
I no longer could work the kind of work I did before, which essentially was the rush-hours and/or schoolwork.
I had to switch to regular city runs, and reset my working hours to about 6 a.m. through 2 p.m.
(My final run was 5 a.m. until 1 p.m.; a straight-eight on a killer city line = stop at every stop; change the destination-sign on the fly!)
And regular city-runs didn’t get cut for school closings or holidays; plus I was paid less.
Bus-driving was turning into a drag.
By then I had driven every experimental — nothing was left but daily drudgery.
Socializing with my regulars was also out, since after the childhood I had I was no good at socializing.
“We got a good one,” my regulars always said. I didn’t play the superiority card. I’d ridden bus myself.
“I need somebody riding shotgun, so I don’t miss anyone,” I’d say on my first trip in from the boonies.
I also warned my riders when I went on vacation. “I know you’re out there, but my replacement won’t! Wear a light-colored jacket, and show up earlier than you do for me.”
But I was tiring of it. City bus-driving wasn’t country, what I gravitated to as I advanced up the seniority list.
So my stroke was sort of a blessing. It suddenly ended my bus-driving.
But I always say RTS paid for the house I live in. Plus I still have all those bennies.

• “Skit” is a YouTube link.
• I been told the correct CONSERVATIVE spelling of “liberal” is “liberial.”
• 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.
• For you RTS junkies, my neighbor was Kathy Young. Her boyfriend was Dave Farrell, also an RTS bus-driver. (Kathy was eventually fired after an accident. RTS fired bus drivers willy-nilly, but Kathy was a loose cannon.) —And it was the 800 line.
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, large sheds for storing buses inside. An operations/administration building was attached. We bus-drivers always said we were working out of “the Barns.”
• I made many friends at RTS; most of whom Hillary-Dillery would call “deplorable.”

I prefer women

—“You should be as eager to strike up conversations with men as you are with women!”
So said my aquacise-instructor at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
She’s the cute little pixie with whom I made so many mistakes, worst being to think she was interested in me.
“I try,” I said; “and usually my attempts bomb.”
I got a look of utter befuddlement, like my response wasn’t what she expected.
—I hiked Lehigh Valley RailTrail a few weeks ago, and a couple approached.
I struck up a conversation with both, but the one who responded was the wife. (HELLO!)
With hubby I got “the look,” which says “what’s she talking to him for?”
—A few weeks ago I told a joke to a girl and her boss at Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department. The girl was my therapist.
She laughed up a storm.
Her boss got upset. I, instead of him, had made the girl laugh, and that’s not allowed.
—A while ago I struck up a conversation with an older gentleman in my supermarket parking lot.
He took my head off!
WOMEN DON’T DO THAT!
—A long time ago I checked out a restored 440 Six Pack Plymouth Roadrunner after it rumbled into my gas-station.
“I thought it might be a Hemi,” I said; “but I see it’s not!”
“575 horsepower!” the male driver bellowed.
Macho posturing alert! I walked away.
So I prefer striking up conversations with women.
“DO IT!” the little voice says in the back of my head.
“It always works!”
(The Bible-beaters in my childhood insisted that voice was Satan.)
So yesterday (Saturday, May 1st) Lehigh Valley RailTrail again.
Here comes another couple, so “I see your dog is taking you for a walk.”
“Yes,” the wife responded per usual; “and he’s been such a good boy.”
Both stopped, but then the husband continued ahead.
But not the wife. She wanted to talk.
After a slight pause: “I come here to visit my dog’s ashes,” I said. “They’re up by that mile-marker.
We hiked this trail hundreds of times,” I said.
“Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, nose to the ground. Frenzied barking into the woods: ‘critters beware!’
Always hunting!” I said.
“What kind of dog was he?” she asked.
“Irish-Setter,” I said. “Wildest craziest monkey I ever had.”
“What was his name?”
“‘Killian,’ as in Killian Irish-red.” (Say it twice!)
By now hubby was well over 100 yards ahead — the length of a football field.
He called his wife, but she wanted to keep talking.
“You’re probably too old for a puppy,” she said to me. “We’re both in our 70s.”
“Well I’m 77,” I said.
“I’m 74,” she smiled.
On-and-on we went.
Here we go readers: WOMEN LOVE TALKING! Especially with a guy not hot to procreate the species.
Her husband gave up and continued walking.
I hope I didn’t muck up their marriage.
“This guy is really interesting!” I could see it in her eyes.
And it was only talking to each other.
And apparently, unlike most men, I encourage women to talk with me.
The one who ends conversations with women is usually me. “We could talk forever, but errands await!”
The fact I wanna talk to a woman tells her she attracted me — which makes her feel good about herself.

• Hemi.