Lori-Anne peaches

—“You are my second friend-contact at this store today,” I said to ****** at my supermarket’s self check-out.
“Number-one was ******, I said.
“******,” ****** said. “Your favorite Wegmans employee.”
“She is not!” I snapped.
“You know who my favorite employee is at this store?” I said.
“It’s you!” I said, pointing at her.
She blushed and bopped me.
Readers, I think she actually believed what I said.
“With you I’m at ease. I have to be careful with ****** lest I not be perceived a lonely hot-to-trot widower.
****** looks young, like she’s probably not married yet.
My wife died over nine years ago, so now you stand in for her.
You’re someone I can talk to.
And you’ll notice I mentioned my wife’s passing without crying,” at which point I started crying as always.
I think ****** understood: “this guy really cared about his wife.”
“My wife was flat incredible,” I whimpered.
“44&1/2 years she put up with me, although her mother messed her up almost as bad as me.
So my wife could forgive my madness. Her mother was a pill.”
“Lori-Anne peaches?” I exclaimed.
“So take ‘em back,” ****** said.
“Are you sure?” I said.
****** canceled my Lori-Anne peaches.
“Too mushy!” I said.
“Sounds like you’re an authority on peaches,” ****** said.
No Lori-Anne peaches for this kid!

Gone with the Wind

—“Another Scarlett” I said to a girl with hair dyed so red it normally woulda turned me off.
I was entering my Honeoye Falls supermarket and there she was checking out the lost-dog notices, etc. That supermarket has a community bulletin-board.
What did I just do readers? Just by saying something I told that girl I liked what I saw.
Our eyes met, and hers twinkled.
(“LUKE!”)
She liked that I liked her smile.
Her over-dyed hair went background, and we began talking.
“GOODIE; he likes talking with me.”
Her smile was fantastic.
“Scarlett O’Hara,” I said. “But I can’t remember the name of the movie.”
She took out her SmartPhone and Googled Scarlett O’Hara. She wasn’t turning me off.
“Gone with the Wind,” she said.
“That’s it!” I cried. “Scarlett with two ‘T’s’.
I had a dog named Scarlett; and one of the lifeguards at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool is named Scarlett,” I said.
“Her red hair is real, and my dog was an Irish Setter.
I always wonder why I never get smacked.
The other day it was an overly exposed teenager whose father never appeared to send me packing.
I’d made it a point to look only at her eyes instead of down her top.
That girl in my supermarket wanted to talk.
These extraordinary female encounters pile up.
I still can visualize all the sparkling eyes.

• I coulda gone behind that bare-skinned teenager, but there wasn't enough room.

Back to the reality I prefer

—“You smile at me, and I hafta say hello to you.”
She giggled; she liked that I liked what I saw.
She was probably 16 or 17, and had rode bicycle along Lehigh Valley RailTrail, probably with her parents.
We were in the parking-lot next to the youth baseball fields. Many games were going on, and she was watching.
I’d hiked the rail-trail, and was headed for the porta-johns.
Cutie-pie — she wasn’t that cute — was wearing a bare-shouldered open tank-top that displayed a lotta cleavage.
What attracted me were her eyes. She looked right at me as I passed.
“Houston, we have eye-contact!”
Would that all male/female relationships worked that way. What matters is eye-contact, not sexual attributes.
I hafta hope what made her giggle was that I liked the eye-contact a lot more than what I coulda seen.
I’d made it a point to look only into her eyes, and not down the front of her top.
Amazingly there was no fatherly input; I thought later I mighta got slugged.
Although her father might weigh in later regarding what she wears.
I coulda gone behind her, but there wasn’t room.
“I hafta say something,” I said to another lady as I continued across the parking-lot.
“Normally I don’t say anything to anyone; normally I keep to myself. But I think I see real gray hair.”
She smiled gigantically: the gigantic “this guy noticed, and he likes what he sees.”
“My baby sister in VA is letting her hair go gray,” I said. “She brags ‘it’s the coming thing’.”
“Well, we ladies have to keep ourselves gorgeous,” she said.
“Gray is gorgeous,” I said, pointing to my head.
BAM! Another gigantic smile.
“I have it too,” I said as I walked away.
“Have a nice day!” she smiled again.
“Glad I said something,” I thought to myself.
Welcome home dude! Back to a reality much more pleasant than years ago.
Back from Altoony chasing trains with my brother.
I like doing it; I’m a railfan.
But he repeats the same sorry litany I endured all my life.
And now 70 years late I leave it behind.
I’ve made so many successful eye-contacts, I no longer avoid people, especially females. (“GASP!”)
“This guy actually likes women, and for the right reasons: talk, talk, talk, talkity, talk!”
I’ll not let some nattering-nabob-of-negativism dissuade me from striking up conversations with females = enjoying females.
Too many successes.

• “Houston, we have eye-contact” repeats “Houston, Tranquility Base here, the Eagle has landed:” July 20, 1969, first time humans were on the Moon.
• Both of these incidents are repeats of things I’ve done before. What matters is now I am much more inclined to strike up conversations, especially with females. This is the reality I’ve finally begun to enjoy 70 years late = a reality not distorted by Bible-beaters. (“GASP AGAIN!”)

It keeps happening

—“I’m guessing the reason you just waved at me was because I said hello to you the other day down at Wegmans.”
I said that to a cute mother rescuing her children from Canandaigua’s YMCA “child-watch.”
“Yep!” she smiled.
I recognized her bare-shouldered top even under her sweater. (“GASP!”)
Like most mothers her age she was a little heavy in her hips and legs.
But she was cute and her smile was ravishing.
I get to notice such things; it’s one of the perks of geezerdom.
Outside she told me she was headed for the bank. We spoke a little more about that.
Readers, I woulda never said anything to her five years ago. I woulda walked DIRECTLY outta that YMCA, then down the steps. The mere fact I noticed her woulda been DISGUSTING.
Things are so different since my wife died.
I strike up conversations with women willy-nilly.
By so doing I tell that lady she attracted me.
Which — perish-the-thought — she likes.
I pretty much kept to myself before my wife died. I didn’t wanna hurt her feelings; she’d feel threatened.
Beyond that I had no confidence.
A female strike sparks with a lifelong scum-bag? “No female will have anything to do with you Bobby!”
Now I’m headed straight for Hell, merrily striking sparks with all my “friends who happen to be female.”
She turns toward me, our eyes meet, and she smiles at me.
“Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Fiery furnace for you Bobby!”
My childhood is being flip-flopped.
It keeps happening and happening and happening.

I don’t wanna lose her

—“Now you're flirting with me,” my jogger-friend said the other day along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
“I am not!” I blurted.
Trap alert!
How do I get her to not think I’m coming on to her, yet I still think she’s pretty?
I’d noted my silly dog, who I lost to canine cancer last August, made it possible for me to strike up a conversation with my jogger friend. He got me used to talking with (ahem) “pretty girls.”
I’d walk the dog in a park in Canandaigua, and he’d lean into a pretty girl wanting to be petted.
“Oh what a friendly dog! Can I pet him?”
Here I am talking with yet another pretty girl — the kind I used to be scared-to-death of.
It’s my childhood of course: “No pretty girl will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
That’s the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, my sanctimonious Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM.
70+ years late, thanks to my four-legged chick magnet, I’m able to talk with pretty girls.
My jogger friend told me her name was A*****, same as my number-two lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
She’s also one “L,” same as my other A*****.
True, I inferred my jogger friend was pretty.
A similar indirect inference worked on my number-one YMCA lifeguard friend: “No pretty lady will ever talk to you,” and she said hello to me by name.
That was years ago, and she seemed to like it; she wasn’t suspicious.
(“She was cutting you slack!”)
I wasn’t coming on to her, but I inferred she’s “attractive.”
So how do I not lose this jogger friend? How do I tell her I like her, but I’m not coming on to her?
My number-two lifeguard friend is my go-to person for motherly advice. I don’t wanna lose her either.
Although I’ll probably run it past my number-one lifeguard friend too. I think I can, and I’ll probably encounter her first.
I been on-my-own since my wife died over nine years ago. I have no desire to remarry.
Although I enjoy talking with girls: girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls; oh how I love ‘em.
Every girl I befriend reverses my hoary childhood.
What I really enjoy is talking with them — they are so much fun to talk to.
“This conversation is turning into more fun than I ever expected,” a lady tells me.
“We could talk forever,” another lady tells me.
“You are so much fun to talk to,” a woman laughs.
“I hope we meet again,” my jogger friend said months ago.
My number-one lifeguard friend suggested I keep my mouth shut — let it slide — pretend I never goofed up.
A stellar suggestion, since it’s the same thing I did with her perhaps three months ago.
I’d firmly inserted my foot in my mouth, but I got her back, much to my utter amazement.
Unlike my father, that lifeguard doesn’t keep score.
I’m hoping my jogger friend doesn’t keep score either — I don’t wanna lose her.

• Yes, she was cutting me slack. She knows I mean well, but have little experience dealing with women.

I think I made her happy

—A friend, a fellow transit bus-driver, retired like me from Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester NY……
Noted my frequent mention of the attire of “pretty-girl,” the attractive 21-year-old “main-squeeze” of my niece’s 40-year-old ex-husband.
I said that “pretty-girl’s” attire was meant to project her as eye-candy, a deeply-cut dress, and her obvious lack of a bra.
I noticed of course; I’m a guy, and I’m attracted to girls. (“GASP!”)
But what really attracted me was her smile. It was ravishing, her eyes too, and even her eyebrows.
(“Change the channel Luke!”)
If I may say so, I think my liking her made her smile even harder.
“YIPPEE! A guy likes me as a person instead of as eye-candy.”
I was more attracted to her smile than her cleavage.
Her dress was marginal. A dishrag sorta. All it had was a deeply-cut front. It was kind of frumpy.
Facially she’s a stunner. Outta shape but a joy to talk to.
She smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled. I think she liked that I paid little attention to her sexiness.
We were at the delayed wedding-celebration of my brother’s only son.
He married a few months ago during the pandemic, but it was only a civil ceremony. It wasn’t the full-blown wedding-celebration most weddings are.
I was the only one of my remaining siblings to come. I’m first-born of seven; me at age-77, then three youngsters remain. (My brother is one of them.)
Home to near Boston is a seven-hour drive.
I thought I could do it, since the car I have now, a 2017 Ford Escape, is much easier to drive than what I had previously: a 2012 Ford Escape.
My brother got me the new Escape. Since he retired from power-generation, he went into business with a friend flipping cars.
They purchase used cars from auctions, etc. then groom them for resale. My new Escape is a lease-return.
I hafta be careful to not let it go above 90 mph on interstates.
And most of the trip to my brother’s home is expressway.
Can you say “cop-bait?” At least it’s not red.
I traded him my old Escape, plus gave him 1,000 buckaroos. We figger the transaction saved me about $1,000.
I wondered why my niece’s ex, and his eye-candy girlfriend, were even there.
A wonderful opportunity for my niece’s ex to display his sexual prowess.
Show up at this shindig with his overly exposed eye-candy.
Except eye-candy seemed more attracted to me — perhaps the father-figure she never had.
And then she pleasantly discovered that over the past few months I’ve gotten very good talking with women. (“Impossible!”)
WOMEN LOVE TALKING!
So let ‘em; encourage ‘em. Don’t interrupt, don’t cut ‘em off, don’t even ask for clarification — that can wait.
A female talking with you is precious. That means she wants to talk with you.
Don’t try to take over the conversation.
Preparing to eat, eye-candy and loverboy came to sit at my table.
Then eye-candy sat right next to me.
Then when an opening occurred she struck up a conversation with me on-her-own. Usually it’s me.
Plus the one she’s talking to is the one who got so good talking with women. (“No way José!”)
We began talking with each other.
The usual mindless chatter: I get to hear her pretty voice, and she doesn’t hafta defend herself.
She quickly noticed I was more interested in face-to-face eye-contact, than glancing down the front of her dress.
“YIPPEE!” she might think to herself. “A guy who actually likes me as a person instead of a sex-object.”
At age-21 she’s not suspicious of all men yet.
Talk, talk, talk, talkity, talk!
I almost lost her once.
Primary rule regarding complementing an attractive girl: don’t be direct; inference only!
Mayhap she also noticed I didn’t wanna lose her.
Our yammering drifted to the death of my wife. Per usual I started crying.
“I wish I could find a guy who cared about me as much as this guy cared about his wife.”
She tried to console me, gently stroking my shoulders.
Enter loverboy: “Gotta get hottie-girl away from this guy. She’s too attracted to him!”
Uhm HELLO! I’m 77 years old: way over the hill, although I don’t remember a hill.
I’d only be the approving father-figure she perhaps never had.
Since my beloved wife died, I’ve encountered many women, some of whom became friends.
I strike sparks with a few of those “friends who happen to be female.” We enjoy each other’s company.
It’s hardly sexual or even romantic. It’s more just talking with each other, swapping emotions back-and-forth.
Enjoying each other’s company.
They are females of course; and I like females: it’s a designed-in trait.
Every once in a while I run across a female who could use my liking her.
I look at those photo-booth pictures I put on this blog-site before, and there’s eye-candy at my side smiling extravagantly.
She looks happy: “Goodie, a guy who actually likes me as a person. He likes me. I can tell.
With him I’m not eye-candy.”
I think I made her happy; I see it in her smile, which I’ll probably never see again in my entire life.

• 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.

Loose as a goose

—“This is turning into a really fun conversation,” my female contact said. She was laughing and smiling profusely!
“Of course it is,” I thought to myself. “I start talking with a female and we strike sparks.
“You are so much fun to talk to,” a lady once told me.
“We could talk forever!” another said.
“I hope we meet again,” another once told me.
(“Baloney!”)
I was at my supermarket self check-out. A lady was talking to the male self check-out aide, and she was wearing a Finger Lakes Dentistry uniform.
Our eyes met, and “Tell me everything,” I said to her. “I’m looking for a dentist here in town. I gotta drive a half-hour just to go to the dentist. That’s a pain in the neck!”
I did it again readers. The mere fact I said something to her told her she attracted me. (“Toss me that remote Luke!”)
“We’re right on Main Street,” she said. “Do you know where the old Pizza Hut was?”
“Are you kidding?” I shouted. “My wife and I never ate out. We made our pizza ourselves!”
“Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada!”
I’d finished self check-out, but we were talking — and laughing.
A pretty lady once told me what women love most is laughing.
“You guys got a website?” I asked.
“I’ll give you my card,” the lady said. Her name was *******.
“You call this number, and those ladies will tell you if your insurance qualifies.
And they better be friendly, because I’m the Human-Resources manager.”
“Can I talk dirty to ‘em?” I asked.
We laughed.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I drove city bus in Rochester so I know all the lingo.
Regional Transit,” I said; “where every paragraph, every sentence, every phrase, and every word was modified with the F-bomb.”
She laughed; she wasn’t offended.
I had a guy take umbrage at mere mention of “F-bomb.” I didn’t actually use the word.
“I am so glad I said something to you,” I said to her. “I usually don’t.
And I made ya laugh — nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!”
She then helped this old geezer pack his groceries.

• 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.

Fish for the eye-contact

—1) Yrs Trly is ambling the parking-lot adjacent to the Honeoye Falls-Lima-Mendon youth-baseball fields.
I’m walking toward where I get on Lehigh Valley RailTrail; what once was Lehigh Valley Railroad’s Buffalo Extension.
The railroad is gone, but its grade remains as a rail-trail.
It goes through woods where I hike it. Plus my dog’s ashes are along that rail-trail, which we hiked many times.
As a railroad it was very well engineered, but it never made much sense. It’s out in the sticks — not much lineside freight traffic.
It was just another option across New York State from Buffalo to New York City.
A fairly attractive young girl approaches from the other direction. I look for the eye-contact I previously avoided.
Our eyes met, and she smiled at me.
As she passed I turned and said “you smile at me, and I gotta say hello.”
BINGO! What did I just do readers? (“Change the channel Luke!”)
I told her, by inference of course, I liked what I saw.
She loved it! She smiled harder and blushed. She didn’t smack me.
Call that a FLIRT if you want. It wasn’t “how ‘bout it honey?”
—2) I exit my supermarket in Canandaigua.
A pretty young girl is lunging toward me. We’ll crash if we don’t go around each other.
Our eyes meet, and she smiles at me.
“You gotta stop that smiling,” I tell her. “That smiling is dangerous.”
She smiled so hard she lit up the store.
Another FLIRT readers: I liked what I saw.
And I didn’t get smacked.
—3) I’m at a wedding celebration in Massachusetts.
The 21-year-old eye-candy of my niece’s 40-year-old ex comes to my table, and sits right next to me.
When an opening occurs she starts talking to me.
She notices I’m more attracted to her eyes and smile than her obvious lack of a bra.
With the smile she had, she didn’t need to be a loose woman.
(Her smile was ravishing.)
We talked and talked and talked some more; the usual pointless yammering — me basking in her smile, and she liking that I liked her as a person.
Finally ex got her away from me; I’m old enough to be her grandfather.
I wonder if she enjoys being perceived as eye-candy.
—4) I start in on Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and here comes a pretty young jogger.
“Now say something to her!” the little voice in my head exclaims.
The zealots would tell me that’s Satan.
I spoke to her; and she was thrilled. A guy struck up a conversation with her, and he wasn’t trying to snag her as a trophy.
“I am so glad I said something to you,” I told her. “I almost didn’t.”
“I’m glad ya did too,” she said.
“Striking up a conversation always works,” I exclaimed.
“I hope we meet again,” she said.
4-5 times since, and every time we met again, she smiled at me.
So what’s my conclusion here readers?
My critics tell me my lady-friends are “just being sociable!”.
The same sorry litany I’ve heard since age-5: “No attractive female will have anything to do with you, Bobby!”
If I were to let those naysayers degrade my approach to women I wouldn’t have any fun.
A woman’s pleasure in meeting me will be a reflection of my joy in meeting her.
I see it all the time.
If I’m the least bit tentative or apprehensive, she picks that up.
I hafta assume females enjoy meeting me.
If I were to believe what my critics tell me, that women didn’t enjoy meeting me — that would reflect.
So go ahead; fish for the eye-contact, or say something.
It usually gets a positive response.

• RE: “Lady-friends……” —WOOPS! “Friends who happens to be female.”

Lucky for her

—The most plausible explanation regarding why “pretty-girl” seemed attracted to me is.…
She needed a father-figure.
I’m 77 years old, and my balance is so bad I have to go out of my way to keep from falling. I walk like a little old man.
She needed a pants-wearer to increase her self-worth.
Along comes some 40-year-old dude who lusts after her, which she perceives as increasing her self-worth.
Except it’s only lust-based. What’s beyond her sexuality doesn’t interest him — or does it?
I’d like to think my liking of girls is more than lust. (“Get ready zealots!”)
I was married 44&1/2 years to a lady who was extraordinary.
I told her what I liked most about her was what she had between her ears.
Meaning-of-life, figures-of-speech, obscure concepts, philosophy, etc. We could talk about anything.
We’d finish each other’s sentences, or “I was just thinking the same thing.”
She was rangy, and not overly endowed. I had to convince her she could be pretty. “You get rid of them glasses, and let your hair grow, and you’ll look a lot prettier.”
Her mother raised her to feel inferior.
“I had the perfect husband picked out for you, but you had to go your own way. I don't know what you see in him? GUILTY!”
(I could tell stories about her mother.)
So now that my wife is gone, I perceive all female contacts as real people.
My wife died of cancer nine years ago, and I been on my own ever since.
I’m not interested in remarrying; I feel like I’m never gonna find anyone as extraordinary as my wife.
So here came “pretty-girl” with lover-boy (my niece’s ex-husband) at my brother’s wedding-celebration for his son.
She notices me, a creaky old geezer, that I may be the father-figure she never had.
—A) They sat at my table;
—B) She sat right next to me; and
—C) She struck up a conversation with me herself. (Usually it’s me.)
She thereby met a fabulous father-figure, a guy not drooling with lust, but who liked her as a person.
A “liberal.” (“GASP!”)
(I been told the correct CONSERVATIVE spelling is “L-I-B-E-R-I-A-L.”)
We began talking, just she and me.
She noticed my fervent eye-contact, that I wasn’t ogling down the front of her flimsy dress.
“Goodie,” she thinks to herself; “a dude who likes me, instead of perceiving me as another notch on his bed-post.” (“You think too much!”)
All I know is it seemed her reaction to me reflected a deep void in her personality: that she lacked a male or father who liked her personally.
Lover-boy wasn’t filling that void; he was just lusting after her.
Her attraction to me seemed rather strong; like I was radiating that I liked her as a person instead of as a sexual conquest.
I was radiating the approval she needed, and she seemed to need it strongly.
I was making her happy; her smile was ravishing.
Thank goodness she’s only 21: too young to become jaded or suspicious of all males.
And thank goodness I’m learning 70 years late that all women are not suspect.
I’ve met and encountered a few negatives, but I still am not jaded or suspicious of all women; and doubt I ever will be.
Now I hafta hope that poor girl someday meets a guy like me who likes like her as who she is, because I’ll probably never see her again in my entire life.
I had her smiling profusely; like I apparently filled her void.
Lucky for her: she met a father-figure who made her happy, and really happy, not just lust.
(“DREAMIN’!”)

Smiling all the way!

—“You been talking to *****,” I said to ******, my number-two lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
She’s number-two only because ***** has always been number-one. ***** said hello to me by name years ago, before I struck up a conversation with ******.
That first conversation with ****** was my own doing. I’d got to where I could talk to a pretty lady, and ****** is attractive even though she was 55 or 56 back then. ****** is now 58.
***** is now 65, and was back from vacation in Alaska with her husband.
I asked if she saw anything.
“Birthing moose and antelope,” she said.
(“Meese?” I asked. Nope; that was Edwin Meese III, Attorney General during the Reagan administration.)
I noted how I practiced socializing at my brother’s wedding-celebration south of Boston, such that if ***** asked how I was, I would say: “fine thank you; and how are you?”
Normal people socialize that way, but not this kid. No one taught me how to socialize. I’m the product of overly-judgmental hyper-zealots. —I was “rebellious” and “Of-the-Devil.”
So when ****** said “hi Bob; how are you?
Now you’re supposed to say……”
“Fine thank you,” I said; “and how are you? And it sounds like you been talking to *****.”
“I have!” she said.
Both ***** and ****** seem to have joined to drag me into the real world.
Where normal people, like my numerous lady-friends (WOOPS! “Friends who happen to be female”) don’t automatically deduce me EVIL and disgusting!)
***** stayed with me ever since she first said hello, despite my many foul-ups and faux pas. She’s female (“GASP!”), and rather impressive for her age.
Shortly after ***** said hello to me, when I struck up that conversation with ******, ****** promised to not give up on me despite my total inexperience with women and socializing.
She hasn’t. She’s always happy to see me, and usually says hello first.
Thankfully I never did anything stupid with ******; although once maybe, but I apologized the next time I saw her: (“I don’t want you thinking you’re chopped liver”).
With ***** I thought I lost her with two dreadful mistakes. Poor wording last time.
But I won her back. Unlike my father, ***** doesn’t keep score.
So here we are, much to the angry chagrin of the Bible-thumpers.
Still friends with both ****** and ***** — ladies (“GASP!”)
“Go to Hell, Bobby! Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”
(Smiling all the way!)

Eye Candy

—“No wonder ‘pretty girl’ seemed attracted to me,” I kept saying.
Her boyfriend thinks of her as eye-candy, but to me she’s a real person.
“Eye-candy” is my cleaning-lady’s assessment of the relationship between “pretty-girl” and her boyfriend.
“They’ll never marry,” my cleaning-lady said.
“Boyfriend,” my niece’s ex, is age-40. “Pretty-girl” is 21.
At age-21 she won’t know much.
“I don’t know what she sees in him,” my brother’s wife kept commenting.
“I hope he’s not taking advantage of her,” I said.
—A) She sat at my table.
—B) She sat right next to me.
—C) She started our conversation herself.
Usually it’s me who strikes up conversations, and usually I get a positive response. (“Oh sure!”)
Then my cleaning-lady suggested another factor which might explain “pretty girl’s” attraction to a 77-year-old geezer who hardly can stand.
“Maybe she’s looking for a father-figure; like maybe she comes from a home where her father disappeared.”
I know from experience I strike sparks with females pretty well: “you are so much fun to talk with;” “we could talk forever;” “I hope we meet again;” “you are so sweet.”(“DREAMIN‘!”)
I learned how to do it: I ascertained what works and what doesn’t.
So once “pretty girl” and I began talking with each other, she became drawn to me. (“Never in a million years!”)
This is what usually happens.
“YIPPEE; a guy is talking with me as if he takes me seriously, i.e. he wants to hear what I say.
He’s not trying to snag me as a trophy.
He doesn’t butt in or interrupt. He lets me talk; he encourages me.”
So I hope I left my mark, and it looked like I mighta, considering her ravishing smile.
My mark being that I liked her as a person, despite her loose-fitting dress, and obvious lack of a bra.
Nice to notice, but what I really enjoyed was talking with her. I was oblivious to her sex-appeal.
I think she noticed: I wasn’t lusting after her; I just enjoyed talking with her.
I’m not sure she enjoys her role as “Eye-Candy;” she’s too young.
“She didn’t need to dress like that,” I kept saying to my cleaning-lady.
“Not with the smile she had!”
So now I hafta hope she meets some guy who likes her as a person much as I did — since I probably will never see her again in my entire life.
And she was pretty; not physically in good shape, but pretty in her face.
She was a joy to talk with. And I think she noticed I liked talking with her — such things radiate.
With me she wasn’t “Eye-Candy.”
If a girl as pretty and attractive as her wants to strike up a conversation with me, I damn well better respond positively.
And thanks to that silly dog I previously had, I’m no longer scared of pretty girls. I.e. I no longer listen to the sanctimonious zealots who would tell me “No pretty girl will ever talk with you, Bobby!”

• I could picture “pretty girl” again, but promised I wouldn’t.

Tri-Chevy

Long ago lust of The Keed: a ’55 convertible. (Photo by Jeff Koch.)

—Featuring these cars on the cover of my Hemmings Classic-Car magazine is like putting a Corvette on the cover of Car-and-Driver magazine.
Sell more magazines!
Some pimply teenager peruses the magazine display in my supermarket and snags the new Car-and-Driver magazine.
Some aging geezer, probably a ‘boomer, peruses that same magazine display, sees these Tri-Chevys on the cover of the newest Classic-Car magazine, and deposits it in his wussy-cart.
It was late 1954.
I was 10 years old.
My lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool hadn’t been born yet; not until 1955.
She’s now 65 years old, but doesn’t look it.
That means the ’55 Chevy is also 65 years old.
Sorry she’s always on my mind, as are many others.
It’s like my interest in automobiles is waining because of my joy interacting with females. (“GASP!”)
I’m still a railfan, but that’s being overshadowed by my interest in females. (“DOUBLE-GASP!”)
Eons ago I was told no attractive female would ever have anything to do with me.
You all know of my dreadful childhood; no need to repeat.
Yrs Trly was lucky to witness one of the most extraordinarily successful remarketings of all time — changing stodgy Chevrolet from basic transportation to an attractive performance car.
We won World War II, so now we could go bonkers.
The ’55 Chevy was all new. “Longer, lower, and wider;” the siren-song of ‘50s auto-junkies.
Prior to 1955, Chevrolets were turkeys; bloated wimp-machines with boat-anchor six-cylinder engines.
Ford had a better handle on it. Its Flat-Head V8 was 1932, but at least it was a V8.
Marketing mavens at General Motors decided even Chevrolet needed a V8 to succeed postwar.
First attempts were to design a V8 as stodgy as the StoveBolt six. Slightly more modern, but still conservative.
Enter Ed Cole.
He convinced GM to market a revolutionary V8: a single thin-wall block casting, with a light-weight valve-train using ball-stud rockers instead of rocker-shafts.
Incredible pressure was applied: design an all-new motor at the drop of a hat. Apparently engineers were motivated.
It was the kind of incredible engineering leap America could be proud of. They produced a prolific revver, the V8 that put Old Henry’s Flat-Head out to pasture.
The ’55-’57 Chevys are not styling triumphs.
I used to lust after a ’55, but I look at ‘em now and the back-end is weak.
The only thing attractive about a ’55 Chevy was that egg-crate grille, inspired by Ferrari.
Remove the trim and the car looks stupid. That wraparound windshield is even more stupid.
Okay, it’s overblown GM styling of the middle ‘50s. Remove the trim, and you have an ersatz Buick.
But underneath was that fantastic high revving motor.
Suddenly Chevrolet was no longer a bloated douche-bag. Hot-rodders everywhere were attracted to that motor.
Lever it into anything and suddenly you had a hot-rod. Even the wonkily-styled Tri-Chevys were attractive.
Harrison Ford drives a hot-rodded ’55 in American Graffiti.
“You ain’t gettin’ no ’57 Chevy!” the father of a bus-driver friend told me once. “You’d beat that thing to death; you’d blow the motor!”
Another retired bus-driver friend tells me his favorite all-time ride was his ’57 Chevy.
My wife-to-be dated the guy her mother wanted her to marry, but he scared her to death demonstrating the 100-mph potential of his ’57 Chevy. (Never again for that dude.)

A step back; a ’56. (A Google-image, photographer unknown.)

—For 1956 Chevrolet decided that beautiful Ferrari-inspired egg-crate grille was toast.
It was still the same basic car, but had a full-width grille that might look better on a truck.
But it’s the same motor; which later became known as the “SmallBlock,” since Chevrolet begin marketing bigger V8s.
The SmallBlock also responded very well to backyard hot-rodding.
Enter Zora Arkus-Duntov, a hot-rodder enamored of Chevrolet’s SmallBlock.
He already had marketed an after-market hemispherical cylinder-head for Old Henry’s Flat-Head, so now he wanted to mate the SmallBlock to Chevrolet’s new Corvette wannabee sportscar.
He succeeded. I think the first V8 ‘Vettes were 1955, although I’m not expert on ‘Vette history.
I’ve seen one, but it was experimental. It may have been the first — it resides in Penn Yan (NY) I think.
Arkus-Duntov became heavily involved in Corvette engineering, and is said to be “the father of the Corvette.”
After 1955 the Corvette body was heavily restyled, but the chassis was pretty much the same as it had been = little more than a modified Chevrolet sedan chassis.
It wasn’t much of a sports car; it handled poorly.
But I still had that fabulous motor.
Chevy’s SmallBlock in a Model-T chassis with a solid rear axle.
About all you could do was drag-race it.
For 1963 Chevrolet and Arkus-Duntov got serious.
The ‘Vette was completely reengineered with an independent-rear-suspension (IRS), the siren-song of sports car junkies at that time.
That IRS was rather crude, but Corvette used it for years.
Corvette also became too civilized, sort of a two seater Caprice.
But it still had that fabulous Ed Cole motor.
Arkus-Duntov began installing Chevy’s Big-Block motor, in order to succeed in the horsepower race.
That Big-Block is heavy. That’s putting a lotta additional weight on the front end.
The ‘Vette is better with the lighter SmallBlock.

The Cadillac wannabee, a ’57. (Photo by Jeff Koch.)

—And now the icon of icons; the most desired classic car of all time.
A ’57 Chevy convertible. These things are selling for well over 100,000 buckaroos for a well-restored example.
The styling is terrible: fins, the dreaded GM bump, that silly wraparound windshield. That front end is a feeble attempt to market a mini-Cadillac. Making it look like a Caddy supposedly made it desirable.
It didn’t work; Ford out-sold Chevrolet in the 1957 model year, first time in eons.
What makes these things desirable, is that fabulous Ed Cole motor; perhaps the most incredible engineering leap this country ever made.
And it was made by stodgy old General Motors.
Cole went on to become president of GM, many V8 motors followed the lead of his SmallBlock, and even Ford developed what could be called a “small-block.”
All through high-school and college Yr Fthfl Srvnt lusted after a Tri-Chevy, although what I wanted was a ’55 210 hardtop; four-on-the-floor, 283 SmallBlock, then 327 during college.
While in college my father purchased a 1957 Belair stationwagon; 283 Power-Pak V8 with four-barrel carburetor and dual exhausts.
The first non-turkey car my father ever bought; also our first V8.
Even the V8 motor in the new Corvette is essentially based on that 65 year old SmallBlock — same bore-centers anyway.
Years ago my brother and I were driving back from chasing trains on Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor. His little boy, a railfan like me, was with us.
“Hey dad,” he said; “look at the antique car.”
“If that thing is an antique,” I shouted; “then so am I!” (’57 Belair two-door hardtop.)
65 years ago Chevy’s image was changed from stodgy to pedal-to-the-metal.
77 years old, and my lust for motoring performance has wained. Here I am on an interstate good for 100 mph stopped in a traffic-jam. All I can do is fiddle the radio knobs.
Look out for self-driving automobiles launching into adjacent cornfields, or some busty divorcee fingering Facebook on her iPhone.

Mitchell’s ’55 210 hardtop, 283, four-on-the-floor. (Long ago photo by BobbaLew.)

• A “wussy-cart” is one of those new small grocery carts that came into use maybe 20 years ago. A regular shopping cart is as big as a Buick. So named by my brother in Delaware.
• “Old Henry” is Henry Ford.
• Chevrolet’s overhead-valve inline “Stovebolt-six” was introduced in the 1929 model-year at 194+ cubic inches. It continued production for years, upgraded to four main bearings (from three) for the 1937 model-year. In 1950 the Stovebolt was upsized to 235.5 cubic inches (from 216), and later upgrades included full-pressure lubrication and hydraulic (as opposed to mechanical) valve-tappets. The Stovebolt was produced clear through the 1963 model-year, but replaced with a new seven main-bearing inline-six engine in the 1964 model-year. The Stovebolt was also known as “the cast-iron wonder;” called the “Stovebolt” because various bolts could be replaced by stuff from the corner hardware.
• The “GM bump” is a styling fillip used by General Motors during the mid-‘50s. It was a small dip in the side-window bottom, which imitated the beginning of a rear fender.
• Mitchell’s ’55 210 was probably a six in-line three-on-the-tree at first. He converted it to 283, four-on-the-floor. He traded it for a 1958 Corvette; a dreadful mistake. He was the son of the owner of Mitchell’s Department store in Fairfax shopping center, just south/west (whatever my all-knowing brother loudly insists) of where our family lived in northern DE.

The end of the masks

—“*****,” I said to my lady-friend who heads my pharmacy.
(WOOPS! “Friend who happens to be female.”)
“You’re not wearing your mask.”
“Don't need to,” she chirped. “I’m fully vaccinated.”
“Does that mean I can ditch this thing?” I asked. I was still wearing my mask.
I ripped it off.
“Hooray hooray!” Face-to-face with ***** at last. Finally I get to see the real *****.
“At Weggers they can’t ditch their masks until July 4th,” I said.
“Yeah,” she complained. “What’s gonna happen between now and July 4th?”
“Why the entire state of Californy is gonna slide into the Mighty Abyss,” I said.
That’s a line stolen from one of my train videos.
Behind the train is the intersection of Interstate-15 with Highway 138 up to Cajon Pass.
That intersection will be improved, the announcer says, “unless California slides into the Mighty Abyss first.
Best line in the entire video.
But it sure is great to fully face-to-face with ***** again.
I missed her smile.
Thank goodness ***** isn’t an anti-vaxxer.

• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries.
• “Cajon” is pronounced “Kuh-HONE,” (not “Cajun”). It’s the mountain pass between the Los Angeles basin and the Mojave Desert, which is at a higher elevation. Yr Fthfl Srvnt has been to that pass; Cajon is one of the railfan pilgrimage stops.

Smiling all the way

—“If I took the advice of all you nattering nabobs of negativism,” I would say to my brother..…
“I wouldn’t be having as much fun as I’m having with girls.” (“GASP!”)
It’s the same sorry litany I been hearing since age-5! “No attractive female will have anything to do with you!”
My brother and I will chase and photograph trains in Altoona, PA, the end of this month.
There’s a fair chance he’ll have read my blogs about “pretty girl,” and how me and she seemed to strike sparks.
Out of 40-50 tables under that wedding tent, she sat at my table.
She also sat right next to me, not across.
Then it was her striking up a conversation; entirely unexpected after my childhood.
Okay, she was (“just socializing.”)
But what I saw was what I’ve seen many times: “this guy is really interesting!”
What that is, of course, is I let her talk to me. I encourage it. I don’t cut her off or butt in.
We swap stories. We talk like two friendly females.
Mindless chattering. The simple exchange of emotions back-and-forth.
“Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada.”
I get to enjoy her pretty voice, and she gets to enjoy some dude liking her, but he isn’t hitting on her.
I think of numerous examples; I’ll render two:
—1) I’m hiking Ontario Pathways years ago in Canandaigua with the dog I had back then.
Along comes a pretty lady also walking her dog.
We stop and begin talking.
She mentions she’s native of Bergen, NY.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s near Niagara Escarpment.”
She lights up, smiling.
“This guy knows what the escarpment is. This guy is really interesting!”
At least 20 minutes of meaningless chatter: Niagara Escarpment, “Lucy” the Margate elephant, etc. (Her dog’s name was “Lucy.”)
Our dogs were going nuts. They wanted to keep hunting.
She smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled.
She clearly enjoyed that I loved talking with her. Her smile lit up the woods.
“This guy likes me; I can tell!”
She kept rearranging her loose-fitting blouse. It kept flopping open, exposing what little cleavage she had. She was extremely flat-chested.
I didn’t care; her smile was ravishing.
Finally we parted, her saying she wouldn’t talk to me if we met again.
By now she was embarrassed we’d had so much fun just talking it wasn’t fair to her husband, who wasn’t there.
We met again later, and she stopped a few seconds to talk.
—2) I was hiking Lehigh Valley RailTrail alone. By now my dog was gone.
A lady was resting on a rock with her bicycle next to where I turn back.
I think she waited before leaving to see if I’d say anything to her; maybe 15 minutes.
We struck up a conversation when I arrived. It was based on her SmartPhone, which was Samsung I think. (Not after what them clowns did to Pearl Harbor!)
I offhandedly mentioned I’m a retired RTS bus-driver, so she launched into how she rode bus across Rochester as a teenager to “Our Lady of Mercy” high-school.
“I drove Mercy,” I said to her. “I mighta had you as a passenger!”
By now she was smiling broadly; I can still picture her.
“This guy is really interesting, and I think he likes me!”
She looked early 40s, but her smile was lighting up the area, which is open where I turn back.
So “pretty girl” enjoys talking with me.
Not unexpected. We talk and talk and talk some more.
Her boyfriend drags her off to get her away from me.
If I let them naysayers — nattering nabobs of negativism — dissuade my joy in interacting with females….
I can’t do it!
“Go to Hell, Bobby! Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”
(Smiling all the way.)

• RE: “Nattering nabobs of negativism.” Click the link, readers. That’s Spiro Agnew, Vice-president for Richard Nixon. I used “nattering nabobs of negativism” incorrectly. Spiro was referring to the media. I refer to my critics.
• It’s “Ber-jen.”
• 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.

Eye-contact

—“Our eyes met.” I noticed I always say that about meeting a female.
A while ago my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool mentioned my eye-contact seemed much stronger.
Years ago there wasn’t any.
Now I fish for it.
It’s a way of inadvertently telling that female she attracted me.
No lust; no evil intent.
I’ve yet to get smacked. 99% of the time our eyes meeting never bombs.
I’m telling that female I’d like to talk to her, although I ask first: “can I ask you a question?”
Never push yourself on a female. Asking first always get a positive response.
I put that female on notice: now she wants to hear what I say.
Things are much different since my wife died. Before I avoided people.
I also deduced a few tricks about talking with females.
For one thing, if a female starts talking to you, Let ‘er!
A lady is talking to you = she wants to.
Don’t interrupt; don’t even ask for clarification. I can usually get that later.
Most women aren’t assertive like men. If someone tries to take over a conversation, the lady will duck.
Interrupting is trying to take over the conversation.
Let her talk. Her talking to me is precious.
I get to hear her pretty voice, and she gets to interact with a dude not hitting on her.
“You are so compliant!” my lifeguard friend once told me.
“I’m a Liberal (“GASP!”), so I don’t push myself on you,” I thought to myself later.
If I did, that lifeguard and I wouldn’t be friends.
“I got a story if you wanna hear it.”
She wants to hear my story.
Eye-contact tells that female I wanna talk with her — and women love to talk.
Often it’s pointless yammering; the simple exchange of emotions back and forth.
DO IT!
“Can I say something to you?” and off we go.
I just told that female she attracted me.
She’ll wanna talk.

• My beloved wife died of cancer over nine years ago.

Last time

Last time readers, I promise. “Pretty-girl” to my left, happy R***** to my right. (Photo-booth photo.)

—A) Of all the 40-50 tables under our wedding celebration tent she sat at my table.
—B) Instead of sitting across from me, she sat right next to me.
Readers, I’m not used to this. A pretty girl wants to hang out with me? (“She was being sociable!”)
—C) An opening occurs, and she snags it. She wanted to talk with me.
Again readers: I’m not used to this.
A pretty young girl striking up a conversation with a lifelong scumbag?
She’s only 21: not enough experience with men to become jaded about all males.
She’s outta shape, but her smile is ravishing. Her eyes sparkle. (“Change the channel Luke!”)
Even her eyebrows are pretty. I noticed and WOW!
I admit I radiate attraction to a girl. (“BALONEY!”)
Apparently I also radiate desire to talk, and women love talking.
Talk free of lust, and treating her as a desirable real person.
I started crying talking about my wife’s death.
She tried to console me. Here she was stroking a 77-year-old geezer who hardly can stand.
Her boyfriend, age 40, my niece’s ex, wanted to get her away from me. They moved to another table.
So why was I so smitten with this girl?
Probably because she was the first pretty girl to openly like me. (“She was socializing!”)
I’ve had it happen before, but not so strongly.
—A) She picked my table.
—B) She sat right next to me.
—C) The one who struck up our conversation was her.

“Inferred” seems to always work

—Yrs Trly is walking across a parking-lot.
An attractive girl is coming the other way.
Our eyes meet, and she smiles at me. I admit I did look her way; I didn’t avoid her.
I stop and say “if you’re gonna smile at me, I hafta say hello.”
She smiles harder.
What did I just do readers? (“Get ready Luke!”)
I inferred I liked what I saw, and she ate that up. (“She was being sociable!”)
I’ve had it happen.
I didn’t say “how about it honey,” or grab her privates. I’m not #45.
I admit she wasn’t some slovenly Harley-momma that would turn me off.
She was a girl (“GASP!”), and I like girls — designed in I guess.
—I walk out of my supermarket aimed for a head-on into a pretty girl if we don’t go around each other.
Our eyes meet and she smiles at me.
“You gotta cut that out,” I say to her. “That smiling is dangerous.”
BOOM! She smiles so hard she lights up the entire store.
I did it again readers. I Inferred I liked what I saw; and she was cute.
—I’m at a wedding celebration in Massachusetts.
A young pretty-girl sits right next to me, to bask in the pleasure of a 77-year-old geezer liking her as a person.
She’s the girlfriend of my niece’s ex-husband.
Her frumpy dress is loose-fitting; she needs to button the front.
Ex desires to display his sexual prowess, that he won a pretty young girl, and got her into a loose-fitting, overly revealing dress.
That girl and I struck up a conversation, and it was her doing, not me.
I almost think she mighta sat next to me for that reason.
We talk and talk and talk and talk; thoroughly enjoying each other.
I start crying when I mention losing my wife.
She tries to console me, and loverboy decides he’s gotta get his honey away from me; I’m a threat.
They move to another table.
Her smile was fabulous; her cleavage only a pleasant distraction.
Fabulous eyes and eyebrows too. They made her bare skin secondary.
“I really like you,” I radiate.
“Let’s talk,” pointless yammering, but “let’s enjoy each other.”
The mere fact I wanna talk infers I’m attracted to her.
That’s an inferred “like;” not an el-cheapo Facebook “like.”
She’s not the only one of course.
Treat a woman as a real person, and I attract ‘em like flies.
Just striking up a conversation tells a girl she attracted me.
“You gotta stop that smiling!”
She lights up the store!”

Not jaded yet

There she is again: “pretty-girl” at my left, and my niece “R******” at my right. “Will you please button that dress? With a smile like that, you don’t need to be a loose woman.” (In the photo-booth.)

—Yrs Trly wonders why I keep being drawn to that picture of “pretty-girl.”
She kept being attracted to me, or so it seemed. (“Impossible!”)
I have this crazy notion that maybe the reason they switched to a different table was so my niece’s ex-husband could get “pretty-girl” away from me.
(“DREAMIN’!”)
Over and over again I look at that picture. I even have it on my kitchen-wall to remind myself I’m still in the real world — post stroke and after my beloved wife died.
I keep other things on my kitchen-wall related to females I know.
My sense of reality was utterly destroyed with my stroke and my wife dying.
I admit I enjoy the cleavage, although there isn’t much.
It’s a designed-in trait: I’m a guy and she’s a girl.
She’s not Stormy Daniels, but she’s not flat.
But every time I look at that picture I think to myself “Will you please button that dress! You don’t have to be a slut. Your smile is fantastic; eyes too. You’re a joy to face-to-face!”
I sure hope my niece’s ex isn’t treating her like a dishrag. She’s only 21, and he’s 40.
I’d like to think he takes good care of her, but I worry about that dress.
It was rather frumpy, like all it was designed to do was be revealing.
So ex shows up at our shindig with his scantily-clad trophy-girl to demonstrate his sexual prowess.
Yet trophy-girl seems attracted to a 77-year-old geezer who hardly can stand.
What I can do is talk, and let her talk.
I radiate I really enjoy talking with her, which she perceives as I’m attracted to her.
I am, and she likes that.
She sat right next to me, an opening occurred, and she snagged it. It wasn’t me.
I mentioned the loss of my wife, and started crying as I always do.
She tried to console me: how ‘bout that Mr. ex?
Trophy-girl is stroking a 77-year-old geezer who can hardly stand.
I keep mentioning to my Bereavment-Counselor, and many others, that 70 years late I’m finally discovering the absolute and incredible JOY of interacting with women.
“You’re not late,” that counselor says. “This was the perfect time for you.”
Thinking about this (“get ready with the remote Luke!”), I’m so far along in years I doubt I can become jaded about women.
I’m having so much fun with women I doubt I could ever become jaded at all.
Not long ago a neighbor cut down a dead tree for me, and we got to talking about women.
“I’ve had it with women,” he said. “Never understand ‘em; they drive me crazy.”
“Not this kid,” I said.
“Girls-girls-girls-girls-girls; oh how I love ‘em.”
And here comes “pretty girl,” smiling and eyes flashing, eager to strike sparks with me.
Here we go! “Talk, talk, talk, talkity, talk!”
Pointless yammering, but I get to hear her pretty voice, and she gets to have a dude talking with her.
My brother near Boston collects Harley Davidson motorcycles.
I collect “friends who happen to be female.”
If it’s Monday it will be *****. If it’s Tuesday it will be ******. If it’s Wednesday it will be either of two lifeguard friends.
If it’s Thursday, Saturday or Sunday I chance meeting my pretty jogger friend again along Lehigh Valley RailTrail. Friday may be another lifeguard friend. And Saturday or Sunday may be two or three “friends who happen to be female” at my supermarket — plus the innumerable pretty strangers with whom I may strike up conversations.
And last weekend it was “pretty-girl” in Massachusetts, who I probably will never see again in my entire life. What a shame!

• There was at least one other “pretty girl” at this wedding shindig, a “looker” with very shapely legs. She knew what she had, so she flaunted ‘em on the dance-floor; tossing aside her split skirt. Nice to ogle, but I preferred my 21 year old “pretty girl.” After all it was she that struck up our conversation. Most women there were overweight.
• Would that I could give the names of each weekday friend. The Internet is loaded with loathsome lotharios, and I don’t want my “friends who happen to be female” being stalked. I’ll spill the first letters: Monday is “E,” Tuesday is “A,” my three Canandaigua YMCA lifeguard friends are “C” and “A” on Wednesday, and “J” on Friday. My three supermarket friends are “C,” “M,” and “N.” I don’t know the names of my jogger friend or “pretty-girl.” And Tuesday it looked like pretty A***** wanted to talk, and I couldn’t. (“She was just socializing!”)

“Gloster”

—“Can I ask you something?” I asked the lady sitting in a black top-down Porsche Spyder parked next to my car.
“Sure,” she said, smiling.
We were parked underneath the shade-trees next to the youth-baseball Porta-Johns.
That parking lot is where I get on Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
“I’m intrigued by your license plate. I’m from south Jersey originally, where G-L-O-U-C-E-S-T-E-R is pronounced the way you spelled it.
“Actually it’s Gloucester, Massachusetts,” she said. “But that’s how we pronounce it.”
Conversation begun: “Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada.”
Smile after smile after smile after smile after smile.
“Goodie! This guy is talking to me.”
“My name is *****,” she said.
“You can call me BobbaLew, or Bob if you wish.”
“Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada.”
Wherein Yr Fthfl Srvnt discovers the incredible JOY of just talking with people.
I notice the license plate; I turn towards the car; a lady is in the car.
Say something to her! Don’t be afraid.
I’m not afraid anymore. I strike up conversations willy-nilly. They never backfire.
“No one will talk to you” recedes into my filmy past.

“The real thing”

—“I hafta say something,” I said to a lady with long flowing silver hair.
We were in my supermarket.
She turned toward me, our eyes met, and “the real thing,” I said, pointing to her hair.
Now what did I just do here, readers? (“Get ready with that there remote Luke!”)
I inferred she was attractive, that her hair attracted me.
And I didn't get smacked.
“Prematurely gray,” she said. “Started going gray in my 20s.”
Conversation started: Here we go!
“That means I may be older than you,” I said. “I’m 77.”
“Well I’m 61,” she said.
My aquacise-instructor came to mind. She’s also 61, but I think she dyes her hair.
“My baby-sister is going gray, and she treats that like a mantra.
“Going gray is the coming thing,” she says.
“And she doesn’t like ‘baby-sister’ either, but we’re 17 years apart. I’m first and she’s last. I brought her home from the hospital; my mother too.”
On and on we went: “Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada!”
Everyone loves talking; especially women.
So say something to her: “he’s talking to me! Yippee!”
I hoped we’d meet again later. But we didn’t.
I woulda said “Boy am I glad I said something to you. I usually keep to myself.”
I bet she goes home and tells her husband.
(“Some aging geezer tried to get friendly with me!”)

Two incidents

My niece R***** is to my right; R*****’s ex’s new “main-squeeze” is to my left. Would that Yrs Trly could crank a smile like these two! (In the photo-booth.)

—Incident number-one:
“When you told me that pretty girl a-hangin’ with R*****’s ex was only 21, and R*****’s ex was 40,” I said to my brother’s wife; “I thought -A) that dude is a-robbin’ the cradle, and -B) I’m old enough to be her grandfather!”
“I don’t know what she sees in him!” my brother’s wife exclaimed. “He sure made R***** feel inferior.”
“Maybe they can talk,” I said. “Talk is very important, and many men refuse.”
I was south of Boston, attending the wedding celebration of my brother’s son who was married a few months ago during the pandemic.
We had the celebration outside in my brother’s giant backyard. I think it will last too, since my brother’s son married a smiler.
We ate outside under a large tent.
I sat at a table, and here comes ex’s new “main-squeeze” to sit right beside me, with ex the other side of her.
“Did she intend this?” I thought to myself. (“DREAMIN’!”)
Perhaps she deduced I’m a talker, and also I’m attracted to her. That stuff radiates.
No conversation until the famblee-dog appeared.
“Oh,” I said; “the famblee-dog, who wants me to pet her. She decided I’m a dog-person.”
“I’m a dog-person too,” pretty girl chirped, turning toward me smiling, pretty eyes flashing. (“Kick the phonograph, Luke!”)
Off we went: “Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada!”
The old waazoo: pointless yammering; I like hearing her pretty voice, and “YIPPEE, a guy who finds me attractive, and likes talking with girls! Plus he’s not hitting on me.”
Yrs Trly comes along, attracted to her as much as I hope R*****’s ex is.
Now what? A second dude who also finds her attractive and wants to talk with her.
Is the poor girl getting a dude who likes her as a person?
She’s very cute, but sad-to-say, she’s not as attractive as my 65-year-old lifeguard friend.
Wrinkly knees, and wrinkles up-close-and-personal. But on her lifeguard stand she looks middle 40s.
What attracts me are: -A) she’s in shape. She swims laps and runs.
Main-squeeze is very pretty in her face, pretty eyes and eyebrows, and a gorgeous smile. But beyond that she’s not in shape.
Another friend might complain I’m judging a girl by salacious parameters.
I disagree!
What attract me are the smile and the eyes (“Here we go again!”), not sexual attributes.
Smiling and flashing eyes are only occasional with that lifeguard, but when I get ‘em I am smitten!
Also: -B) we can talk. Somehow we became comfortable talking.
She’s also someone I already know. I know what works, and also what won’t.
I think she likes knowing I’d rather not lose her.
With pretty girl I had to be more careful.
I made her nervous once; I could see it in her facial expression.
We got past that, perhaps because she could see I didn’t wanna lose her.
We talked about losing my wife, and per usual I started crying. “I wish some dude cared about me as much as this dude cared about his wife.”
She tried to console me, but eventually she and R*****’s ex moved to another table.
I saw both her and ex a few more times after that, and spoke to her once at a table behind me.
Her response was flat, but by then I was more interested in talking to ex.
I started walking out, but then saw them both at a table outside the party.
Two years ago I wouldna done this, but I turned toward them both.
She saw me coming, and looked happy to see me coming.
“Not you this time,” I said to her. “This time *****” (ex).
Let him know I value his friendship as much as hers. I.e. I’m not trying to cut past him.
“Are you by any chance computer savvy?” I asked.
“Meh!” he gesticulated.
“What if I wanna view American Graffiti in entirety on my computer screen. That sounds like download it somehow, but I don't know how anything works.
I’m probably one of the oldest people at this party, and most of those here are 30-40 years younger than I am.
I need explanation.”
“Your best bet,” he said; “is Amazon.”
Pretty girl unholstered her SmartPhone and fired up American Graffiti via Amazon.
“Four dollars to rent, or eight dollars to purchase.”
Being the skinflint all Hugheses are “I prefer four dollars to rent.”
We talked quite a bit more concerning how things worked, and noted I had to watch the entire flique in 24 hours if I rented.
No way José! “Ten minutes here, 20 minutes there, another 10 minutes, then 30 minutes. I’ll be doing good if I can watch the whole movie in less than two weeks!”
I saw ***** again later: “I sure appreciate your letting me pick your brain. I’da rented that sucker eons ago, but never knew how anything worked.
I think for eight bucks I’ll just buy it. Eight bucks is peanuts.”
I saw pretty girl one more time and waved at her faintly. Let her know I’m not avoiding her.
Then into the garage to go into the house for bed. But to do so I had to pass the photo-booth.
A photo-booth had been set up in my brother’s garage to take digital pictures of those who attended.
I avoided it for some time, but to go into the house I had to pass it in the garage.
“Here for a photo-booth picture?” the lady asked.
I was set to defer, but R***** and pretty girl were nearby, so the photo-booth lady wanted to get us all together for a picture.
So here came pretty girl one more time so the old geezer could wrap his flaccid arms around two pretty ladies.
“Are you sure?” I asked pretty girl.
Our bodies merged, and I did something the Bible-beaters would never approve: I touched two pretty girls (“GASP”); headed DIRECTLY for Hell, smiling all the way.
(Photo above.)

—Incident number-two:
“So what are you trying to tell me R*****?”
We were in my brother’s kitchen after the party, and R***** is my brother’s only daughter.
“I'm trying to get you to stay an extra day,” R***** said.
The last time I saw her was depressing. She was overweight and looked awful.
Readers, I just exercised the most important facet of Dale Carnegie’s “How to Win Friends and Influence People.”
SAY THE PERSON’S NAME!
Which tells R***** I thought enough of her to address her by name — that’s how she perceived it.
“Uncle Bobby likes me! He likes what he sees!”
I make her feel good by just saying her name. Two years ago I never woulda done such a thing, but I discovered it works; i.e. it’s worth doing!
“I can't stay an extra day!” I said. “I have an appointment on Monday.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But it’s TeleMed. You could do it from here.”
“I thought about that,” I said. “That counselor and I both have iPhones, so we do our appointments FaceTime.
Beyond that,” I said; “I’m also outta pills. I don’t have any for Monday.”
She kept badgering me.
Dare I say it? I think she wanted me to stay around to keep making her happy.
“I'll tell you what the real problem is,” I said. “It’s girls; girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls; oh how I love ‘em.
They’re so much fun to talk with, and I love talking with ‘em.
I have so many pleasant lady friends — ‘friends who happen to be female’ — and I wanna get back to ‘em.
We talk and talk and talk and talk and talk, and enjoy each other’s company.”
“Why girls?” She asked.
“Because many years ago, at age-5, I was convinced no girl would ever have anything to do with me.”
“That’s insane!” she said. “Who convinced you of that?”
“My hyper-religious parents and my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor,” I said.
Here I'm the famblee punching-bag.
It’s like every famblee needs a punching-bag, and I’m it: the same sorry litany I been hearing since I was five years old.
If it’s just you and me; we enjoy each other — talking.
I think it’s ‘No pretty lady will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!’ Versus ‘Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada.’
‘You are so much fun to talk to;’ ‘we could talk forever;’ ‘I hope we meet again;’ ‘you are so sweet.’” (“All balderdash!”)
I was making R***** happy. I liked what I saw, and she picked that up.
There's nothing I like more than making a girl happy — I never even imagined it.
Too bad I couldn’t stay one more day: I like making R***** happy.
I also wish I coulda hung around an extra day for pretty girl. That shindig will probably be the last time I ever see her in my entire life.

• I have a print-out of that picture I used. I think I will cut it out and paste it on my kitchen-wall to remind myself this really happened. After a stroke and my wife dying my sense of reality got obliterated. I have other things on my kitchen-wall to remind me I’m still in the real world. “Pretty girl” is also very pleasant to look at. It’s her smile.

Major triumph

—“How do I say this?” I said to my aquacise-instructor, warning her in advance I might say something hurtful.
(She’s a-burnin’ me up with them eyes; very intense.)
“**** ********* and I were talking about you this morning: how you and I seem to be at loggerheads.
‘Not mad at you,’ you said.
To which I say ‘prove it.’ You’re more curt with me, and more abrupt.”
“Don’t forget,” **** said. “If you’re standoffish with her, she’ll be standoffish with you.
The way she reacts to you is a reflection.”
“Precisely,” I thought to myself. “Score one for ******!”
Not long ago I said the same thing to my lifeguard friend at that swimming pool.
“If I’m the least bit tentative, or apprehensive, or scared, you’ll pick that up as my avoiding you.”
“If I project joy at meeting you, you’ll probably also be happy to meet me.
“We project to each other, so if I’m negatory, I’ll get what I perceive as standoffishness.”
“My entire perception of women is distorted. I told that to ***** once.”
“By your childhood?” that aquacise-instructor said.
“Your mother, and also your father?” which tells me she’d been thinking about it.
“And also my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor whose husband was probably fooling around.
The one who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were scum.
Had my parents come to my defense, that neighbor woulda crashed in flames.
But they heartily AGREED! I was unable to worship my holier-than-thou father, so was therefore rebellious.
That’s a wonderful way to mark a little boy for life.”
“I'm glad you’re learning,” she said.
“Seventy years late!” I exclaimed.
Enter another of my “friends who happen to be female.”
I’ll slightly reword what she once told me:
“Just because a lady cares about you, doesn’t mean she’s interested in you.”
I substituted “cares about” in place of “smiles at.”
I tapped my aquacise-instructor on her arm as I walked out.
That spooked her, but she quickly realized I was expressing my own concern about her.
Score one for **********!
Later I hiked around that swimming-pool to say a few words to my second lifeguard friend.
“I just wanted to tell you about the pitched-battle that occurred in my head when I found that perfect sympathy card.
Here I am in Mighty Weggers, and I find this fabulous sympathy card.
On one side of my head were the forces of EVIL, Satan, represented by you.”
“Oh no ya don’t!” my lifeguard friend wailed.
“Don’t forget,” I told my lifeguard friend. “You were the one who wanted me to buy that card, so to the zealots you were a tool of Satan.
‘If you give that card to *****,’ you told me; ‘you’ll make her very happy.’
On the other side,” I told my friend; “were the sanctimonious, overly judgmental hyper-zealots, the Bible-beaters.
‘If you give that card to *****,’ they’d bellow; ‘she’ll think you’re hitting on her.’”
“She won’t!” My friend exclaimed. “It made her very happy.”
“Thankfully,” I told my friend; “I already cultivated many more female friendships then I ever expected. Including you. So I don’t pay attention to the those hyper-zealots anymore.
So I bought the card, and gave it to *****.”
“And made her very happy,” my friend told me.
“Probably for two reasons,” I said:
“—1) I told her I cared about her, and
—2) I successfully beat back the Bible-thumpers.”
“Exactly,” my second lifeguard friend said.“
Go to Hell, Bobby! Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”
Eye-contact with my second lifeguard friend is zilch.
But that’s okay because she’s my best pool-talker.
Eye-contact with my first lifeguard friend is occasional, and she’s also not an easy smiler. When I get either it’s smashing.
That first lifeguard friend is outta town, and hopefully I’ll regal her with that Satan story. I bet I get a chuckle, and I like getting that chuckle.
That aquacise-instructor is an easy smiler, and heavy with the eye-contact, but she’s also the one I made all the mistakes with.
I sure am glad I bought that card — I really like making ***** happy.
“I admit it’s partly sexual: she’s a girl, and I’m a guy. (“GASP!”)
More important is that as a little boy I was convinced that never in a million years would I make a female happy.
So when I do, it’s immensely thrilling. I love making ***** happy, probably more than I should.
Telling a girl (“GASP!”) I care about her is a major triumph.

Born in the wrong century

—“My Internet is via my iPhone,” I kept saying.
Every morning the first thing I do after getting up is fire up this laptop.
FireFox, my Internet browser, is still on. As is Apple’s Safari. Although I use FireFox, much to Apple’s angry chagrin. They keep exhorting me to default to Safari: no way José!
(I only use Safari for Facebook, since Facebook doesn’t seem to like FireFox.)
I fire up three websites, two of which are streamers.
First I fire up https://www.yourclassical.org/, my source for background music.
They have 13 audio streams, and the one I usually fire up first is “favorites” since it’s an alarm clock.
Bach, Beethoven, Mendelsohn, Brahms, Stravinsky, Saint-Saëns, Copeland, et al; all warhorses.
Later I switch to “chamber music;” it’s more placid = background music.
I no longer listen to WXXI-FM, the public-radio classical music station out of Rochester.
I got sick of opera and begathons. Plus there are other programs on WXXI I can’t stand.
Then I fire up my blog-edit link, to see if anyone hit my most recent post overnight.
I don’t actually Facebook or e-mail my blog-links until the next day, to see if anyone hit direct.
Usually there’s one direct hit; it’s probably my friend in California. Her reader.
I never know who my hitters are, just that my blog was hit.
There’s one other person I know savvy enough to hit direct, so I’m hoping for two hits. (She’s a one of my favorite “friends who happen to be female:” “GASP!”)
My third FireFox fire-up is my RailStream video-streamer from Cresson, PA. I can watch Norfolk Southern trains passing through Cresson.
That’s the railroad my brother and I always photograph. RailStream has many other railfan video-streams, but the one I watch is Cresson.
I glanced at this laptop later, and its display had gone dark.
Nothing new. The only thing that keeps my display awake is streaming video.
I probably left it on BlogSpot or “classical.org" by mistake. I hafta leave it on RailStream.
I switched to RailStream and dead. I did a RailStream refresh.
Minutes passed. “Have I lost my Internet again?” Time to reboot my router.
I pulled my router-plug, and a message appeared saying “an Internet hotspot is available:” my iPhone.
At incredible risk, I decided to “join.”
Clueless as usual; no idea what is going on.
I could use explanation, but “your trouble is you think too much!”
My brother in Massachusetts will badmouth Apple — that I should switch to Windoze.
He also will badmouth me as stupid and rebellious. An aging, outta-touch geezer unwilling to kowtow to his incredible all-knowing wisdom.
The tiny Wi-Fi icon on this laptop also changed: no longer was it the fan thingy. Now it was some chain-link thing.
Suddenly everything was back: RailStream, classical.org, and BlogSpot.
I refreshed all to see if I had Internet. Without Internet they won’t refresh.
All did, and my router was still unplugged.
My Internet was coming from that iPhone hotspot.
Born in the wrong century! (And using a MAC “GASP!”)

• “Windoze” is Microsoft “Windows.” It used to be slower than MAC, but seems to have caught up.

My calendar for June 2021

#4001, one of the two Blue-Noses, is part of the lash-up on 22W. (Photo by Jack Hughes.)

—The June 2021 entry in my annual train-calendar is #4001, one of the Norfolk Southern’s two Blue-Noses. The other is #4000.
Norfolk Southern, together with outside sources, is rebuilding many of its aging General-Electric Dash-940Cs, converting them to AC traction.
4000 and 4001 were first, modified by General-Electric and American Motive Power.
Unlike a car or a truck, the gigantic diesel engine in a diesel-electric locomotive doesn’t actually power the railroad wheels.
That engine powers a large generator (alternator?) that generates electricity for motors that power each wheel set.
This is how trolleys worked, except their electricity came from overhead trolley wire, generated elsewhere. A diesel-electric locomotive generates its traction-motor electricity right on the locomotive.
Electric traction has always been appealing. Drive torque is constant. In a side-rod steam-locomotive it comes in pulses that can break adhesion to the rail-head (slippage).
For a while railroads considered electric traction, with the electricity generated elsewhere then delivered by overhead trolley wire.
Some railroads partially converted to electric traction via overhead wire, Pennsy for example.
Electric traction also was much cleaner than steam locomotion. Long tunnels were electrified to get smoky steamers out.
Overhead trolley-wire needs constant maintenance. Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor, mostly the old Pennsy mainline from Washington DC to New York City, is still electrified, as is Amtrak from Philadelphia to Harrisburg PA. That line is also ex-Pennsy.
But most of the old Pennsy electrification that’s not Amtrak was de-energized and wire removed.
Diesel-electric locomotives came into common use after about 1940.
They were called “trolley motors” at first, because like trolleys they use electric traction-motors down at the drive wheels.
But unlike trolleys, diesel-electric locomotives generate their electricity on board.
Most diesel locomotives have four or six wheel-sets on two trucks, eight or twelve wheels total. The wheels are solidly mounted on common axles, two per axle (each side), and they don't differentiate. (Which is why you hear squealing when a train negotiates a curve.)
Like trolleys, diesels used direct-current traction-motors, and remained DC for eons.
Pennsy was AC (alternating current), but only because AC transmitted better over long distances.
Diesel-electrics got more powerful as time passed, even with DC traction-motors. Engine power increased, and traction-motors were improved so they could deliver more power to the rail-head.
Locomotive manufacturers experimented with AC traction-motors. It was found that AC traction could better drag long heavy trains.
Railroads began ordering locomotives with AC traction-motors. And now Norfolk Southern is converting its aging General-Electric Dash 9-40Cs to AC traction-motors.
The “Blue-Noses” were first, plus a few more also with the flame-paint. Now more are converted and even more are scheduled.
Perhaps Norfolk Southern’s best move was getting Pennsy’s old Juniata Shops: a huge complex capable of building complete locomotives.
I toured that facility once, shortly after the Conrail break up, and it was mind-boggling.
Locomotive parts everywhere, plus complete diesel motors ready for installation.
In another gigantic room were locomotive truck after locomotive truck after locomotive truck. Plus overhead cranes on rails to move things. Complete locomotives suspended mid-air, 15 to 25 feet above the floor.
The “Blue-Noses” are only a variation. I’ve also seen yellow plus green. But most Norfolk Southern locomotives are black.

• Conrail was formed after most of this nation’s northeastern railroading tanked, mainly Penn-Central. (Penn Central was merger of the Pennsylvania railroad and New York Central.) Conrail was originally set up by the gumint, but eventually privatized as it succeeded. It was broken up in 1999, much of it sold to CSX Transportation, but a lot to Norfolk Southern.
• It’s pronounced “June-eee-AT-uh;” my mother pronounced it “Juanita,” as does one of my train videos.