Still a “Crusty Curmudgeon”

Anyone who follows this here blog knows yrs trly just attained the ripe old age of 70, February 5th, 2014.
That means I have attained “old fartdom,” as defined pertaining to men my age.
Namely, 60-to-69 is “crusty curmudgeon,” 70-to-79 is “old fart,” and anything beyond 80 is “geezer.”
But there’s just one problem. As I see it, I don’t feel or act like an “old fart.” I still act like a crusty curmudgeon.
Yesterday (Monday, February 17th, 2014) I had to visit my dentist, my dental hygienist for a teeth-cleaning.
Fortunately I managed to not upset anyone, but I felt like I might.
“How are you?” my hygienist bubbled.
“Well, sore from staggering my dog through 18-inch deep snow,” I said.
Comments like that don’t register with someone in their late 20s or early 30s. The mere act of walking doesn’t cause aches and pains.
I let it go. No sense upsetting someone with things they can’t comprehend.
Most of the people I meet are younger than me, so they don’t understand where I’m at.
They think since I appear all right, I’m just like them.
But I’m not.
The game is to not let this upset anyone, that is, not be a crusty curmudgeon.
After the dentist I drove to a nearby natural-food store to order cereal.
I no longer can get it through Amazon, so back to the natural-food store.
“Actually,” I said; “I can still get from Amazon, but they want an arm-and-a-leg. So you guys win!”
Still a crusty curmudgeon; diplomacy and tact are for old farts.
Order complete, I checked out what little I had, two candybars.
“Miss anything?” the young clerk asked.
“Well, if you have it,” I said;” I could use a case of Glendale Farms Organic Grape-Juice.”
“We no longer carry it,” the girl said. “But we do have various other grape-juices.”
I cut her off! “No thanks; I’ll just buy it at the supermarket,” I snapped.
Diplomacy and tact are for old farts.

“This is the fourth card”

I am currently without a computer-printer, so I set about ordering another printer online from the Epson site.
My failed printer is an Epson Stylus Photo 1280. It’s at least 10 years old.
I keyed in the entire order, including my credit-card. It didn’t crunch. My credit-card wouldn’t crunch.
I tried again; again failure.
I called Epson. Try ordering by phone.
We set up the complete order, and again my credit-card wouldn’t crunch.
“Use another card,” they suggested.
“I can’t,” I said. “This is the only credit-card I have.” Silly me, only one credit-card to keep track of. Un-American, I tell ya!
I called my bank, the 800-number on the back of my credit-card.
I explained the problem to “Credit-Card Services,” and they determined the account was blocked. I was referred to Security.
“There is a suspicious charge,” they said. “It’s not much, from Evergreen Motel for $7.40.”
“I never heard of Evergreen Motel,” I said.
“Okay, what this is is someone trying your account to see if it works. Someone has your credit-card information.”
SLAM! Account closed!
“We’ll send you a new card with a new number. You’ll get it tomorrow.
Any more questions, Mr. Hughes?”
“Yeah , how do you guys find this stuff? This is the third time. I’ve had that account since 1969, and this is my fourth card. The third card was about three years ago, and the second maybe three years before that.”
“Well, that’s what we’re here for. We monitor your account. The suspicious charge wasn’t actually initiated by Evergreen Motel. That’s what flagged it.”
“I haven’t had to eat anything yet, and one charge was over $1,000!”
“You won’t. You’re never liable for fraudulent charges. These criminals are savvy, but we find ‘em.”

• “Mr. Hughes” is me, Bob Hughes, Bobbalew.

Belt flying off

(Photo by BobbaLew.)

“67 years old and had a stroke, but I’m gonna fix that little dear,” I said.
Our fantabulous Country-Clipper zero-turn lawnmower has a long pulley-belt to drive its three cutting-rotor blades.
The belt was being thrown every time I engaged it.
A “zero-turn” lawnmower is 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 in half compared to a lawn-tractor, which has to be set up for each mowing-pass.
The long rotor-belt goes from the back of the mower, where the motor is, to the cutting-deck up front, 48 inches wide.
It’s a big heavy mower, around 700 pounds. I dare not get it stuck.
But I’m mowing at least two acres, perhaps three; and it makes short work of it.
The engine is a giant “professional” Briggs & Stratton, only one cylinder, but overhead-valve, 540 cubic-centimeters of displacement, and rated at 20 horsepower.
The long rotor-belt had obviously stretched over two mowing seasons.
The belt is driven by a magnetic pulley on the motor, much like automobile air-conditioning.
Energize the magnetic pulley, and the cutting-blades start rotating.
Except that belt had stretched enough to make it loose enough to throw off every time I energized the drive-pulley.
Yesterday (Sunday, August 28, 2011) I had a segment of lawn to mow.
I paddled the Country-Clipper out to that segment, and energized the drive-pulley.
ZIP! Off the rotor-belt went.
Not the first time......
I shut off, then got down to make sure everything was routed right, rerouted the belt, started it, and re-energized the pulley.
ZIP! Off it flipped again.
“Oh for crying out loud,” I said.
Shut off again, check the belt routing, restart, and re-energize the pulley again.
ZIP!
“Oh I give up! I guess I’m not mowing this part today.”
I returned the mower to our shed, actually to the driveway to back it in.
But then I noticed a lever that tightened the pulley had multiple mounting holes. One looked like it might pull the pulley tighter.
30 minutes and counting; but if I can get the little dear to work, mowing is about a half-hour.
So I took it all apart, and reassembled to the other mounting-hole.
Check the belt routing, restart, and re-energize the pulley again.
ZIP!
It looked like the alternative mounting-hole wasn’t pulling the pulley any tighter, but I did notice a second hole on the lever for a pin that engaged the pulley-spring.
It would pull the pulley tighter.
45 minutes and counting.
I took all that apart and remounted the spring-pin in the hole that would pull the pulley tighter.
Doing so required two attempts; the lever conflicted with the spring.
But it all stayed together; the belt stayed on the pulley.
VIOLA! I could mow the lawn.
It took almost an hour, but I got the little dear running.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. I’m age 67.

The Keed always knows where he’s goin’

Yesterday (Tuesday, October 6, 2009) we had a doctor’s appointment at Strong Hospital.
9:30 a.m., which means drive NASCAR rush-hour.
Do battle with the stolid burghers rushing headlong to get to the office coffee machine first, so they can lean on it while yammering ceaselessly to those arriving later, whilst glomming donuts.
Stand back, everyone. Reading the Wall Street Journal or jabbering on their cellphone or texting Facebook®.
But don’t get in their way. The speedlimit ain’t fast enough on I-390; and if a traffic-light turns red, they run it.
As we used to say at Transit: “expect anything!”
“Blue-H,” my wife says, as we amble back to the hospital parking-garage.
“What?” I ask.
“‘Blue-H’ is where we’re parked.”
“I have no idea what ‘Blue-H’ means,” I say; “but I can find my car.”
All it is is the reverse of how I came in, which I took note of.
Parked four lanes over on the inside, cut through at the crossover, and walked off the Second Floor.”
Up two flights, up the ramp, cut through at the crossover, and BINGO! There it is!
I reprised our trip again today, but an 11:45 a.m. appointment.
After NASCAR rush-hour, but I was followed closely by a tiny red Chevrolet HHR, headlights on, its driver doing his best Glowering Intimidator impression, climbing all over my rear bumper.
He tried desperately to pass a few times, but was frustrated in his efforts by oncoming traffic — leading him to rage maniacally and thump his steering-wheel with his fist.
After the appointment we went to the Sears at Eastview; mainly to return a Lands End purchase.
“I could use a bathroom,” I said to a clerk unable to come up with a bagger attachment for my lawnmower.
“Take this aisle down to washing-machines and dryers, turn right up to Lands End, then right again past the jewelry. The Rest Rooms are right next to the Optical Department.”
“Huh?” I thought. Felt like I was talking to a robot.
I set out in search of the elusive Rest Rooms; turned right at the mysterious places indicated, and WOOPS! There’s the Optical Department.
Later follow-up today at Strong; back to Radiology.
Third visit to the dreaded parking-garage.
Exit Green Elevators in Strong Hospital, and look around.
“I recognize that ramp.” Off we go toward it. —Right decision, of course.
Back to parking-garage afterward; off at Third Floor, up the ramp, and cross over to the next ramp up on the outside of the building.
No idea where I parked, or inside or out.
We cut across, and HELLO! There it is! Right in front of us!
No GPS, no horn-trigger, no Google-maps, nuthin’.
“Get outta here with them directions! I don’t need no directions.”
The Keed always knows where he’s a-goin’.

• “The Keed” is of course me; “BobbaLew.”
• “We” is me and my wife of almost 42 years — it was her appointment.
• “Strong Hospital” is a large hospital in the south of Rochester.
• “I-390” is Interstate-390, the main expressway into Rochester from the south. —We travel I-390 to get to Strong Hospital.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service. Never knew the streets I was on, but knew the route. —Driving bus was challenging; people were always cutting you off.
• A “Glowering Intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.
• “Eastview” is a large shopping-mall southeast of Rochester.

“The trouble with Obama is.......”

Yesterday (Wednesday, September 23, 2009) my wife of nearly 42 years made one of her cogent observations she’s want to make.
Which is why I married her.
She’s like my long-lost cousin Judy, who could carry on an intellectually stimulating conversation.
“The trouble with Barack Obama,” my wife said; “is that he’s too reasonable. He’s always appealing to reason.”
“Yeah,” I shouted. “And that’s the bane of all rational people, especially with fear-mongers like Rush Limbaugh, goosesteeping Annie, and Sarah Palin roiling the populace.”
“Reason doesn’t cut it any more,” she said. “He needs to appeal to emotion.”
“And the el-cheapo, ad-hominem pot-shot,” I added. “Just like Rush Limbaugh. It’s called ‘scoring points.’” (“Gotcha!”)
The other day I happened to be trying to find photo-storage for this here blog, and a previous coworker suggested Kodak EasyShare.
“FREE, with minimal annual purchase,” it said.
“WHAT?” I cried. “Find the logic in that!” I shouted.
Is this the future? ....What things are coming to?
How about “after minimal annual purchase.”
What they meant, I’m sure; but they ain’t hornswoggling this kid with logic like that.
So much for EasyShare — I looked elsewhere.
I suppose that makes me a jerk.

• “Goosesteeping Annie” is of course Ann Coulter.

“Ya drive like a senior-citizen!”

So here I am quietly navigating the Bathtub toward Frank Baker Park in Canandaigua, a park our new dog has never been to yet.
Baker Park, a big park, is nearly completely fenced, so we used to take Killian there and let him run loose.
But there were gaps and small openings in the fence, so letting Killian run loose was nerve-wracking — although he, of course, was thrilled.
Killian would find the flaws and leave the park if he saw a critter to chase.
Irish-Setters are very independent; especially Killian.
Our trip was combined with the usual surfeit of errands, one of which was to dump mail in the drive-by mailboxes at the Bloomfield Post Office.
So here at am in the center of Bloomfield stopped east on 5&20 about to turn left (north) onto South Ave.
It’s the main intersection in town; and a motorbike is approaching west at the speed-limit, which is 35.
He’s about 200 yards away.
I’ve been in his shoes, but can imagine the following exchange with the Bluster-Boy.
“What are ya waiting for?” he bellows.
“So I don’t scare that motorbiker to death.”
“Ya drive like a senior-citizen! Why can’tcha just cut the guy off?”
“Because I been in his shoes. I don’t want to scare him to death. Waiting five more seconds ain’t that much.”
“I would.”
Yeah. This is the same guy that had me broadsiding a semi, and then would noisily claim the semi was at fault for being there.

The “Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub.

“Killian” was our previous dog; a rescue Irish-Setter. He had lymphatic cancer, and didn’t survive. —He was over 10; we never knew his birthdate.

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

The “Bluster-Boy” is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say.

RE: “Ya drive like a senior-citizen!” —I’m 64.

RE: “This is the same guy that had me broadsiding a semi.......” —In Altoona, Pennsylvania he was riding shotgun, and wanted me to change lanes across a single white dividing-line into a passing semi. “I would,” he said.