Rained out

“It looks like we might get rained out.” I said that to my silly dog as we started toward Rochester.
Today, Saturday August 17th, was our annual Transit retirees picnic at Ellison Park east of Rochester.
I’m sure constant-readers know of my 16&1/2 year career driving transit-bus for Regional Transit Service. If not, see footnote below.
It was a stupid, meaningless job for a college-graduate who can recite Shakespeare’s 116th Sonnet almost entirely. But it paid well, so I stayed with it. —I always say it paid for our (my) house, which I now fully own.
It was dry when we started, but a dark horizon-filling cloud was approaching from the west. It started raining as we neared Rochester, then began pouring on the I-590 expressway.
It was coming down in buckets as we drove into Ellison. I circled the parking-lot, and “Guess we gotta give up!”
I never got out of my car.
For me to attend that picnic, it has to be not raining. The picnic is in a lodge, but I can’t go in, since I have my dog with me.
Registration and signup (?) is more-or-less outside. They were under a roof. But I’d hafta trudge a downpour to get to it.
“Gotta go home,” I said to my dog. “We can’t have fun if it’s pouring.”
Ellison is a wonderful place to hike your dog: smells and critters galore.
I never fit well at Transit. I’m not loud, and I don’t modify all spoken phrases with the F-bomb.
My bus-driving ended with my stroke almost 26 years ago. I feel like I’m no longer a bus-driver. In fact, I’m no longer that person.
My stroke occurred at a lucky time. I had no idea how I’d do 14 more years.
My stroke led me to the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper. Fulfillment for a word-guy.
But I don’t regret Transit. I made many friends, and it gave me the ability to finally shut down my overly-judgmental father.
As I motored home the downpour stopped. It poured later here at home.
I always feel out-of-it at these Transit retiree functions. But “so much for our annual Transit retirees picnic; we coulda had a good time.”

• 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 13 years ago.
• Click that “116th Sonnet” link, readers. It’s an audio-clip.
• RE: “our (my) house......” —I live alone (with my dog) in the house my wife and I designed over 30 years ago. A contractor built it for us. My beloved wife died over seven years ago.
• At Transit I was a union-employee. Amalgamated Transit Union (ATU) Local 282.
• Transit retirees call themselves “the Alumni.” It’s an official club sanctioned by ATU Local 282.

“Fat Lotta Help!”

Most of the “Transients” at this get-together. (Father *******, nattily dressed, is front-and-center.) (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Yrs Trly is very good friends with retired Regional Transit bus-driver *** ********.
Since retirement *** has organized get-togethers of retired Transit employees, mostly bus-drivers, but also management — management that weren’t jerks.
“Transients” is an appellation given us by the guy who daycares my dog while I attend these get-togethers.
He’s a mocker like me, and we worked together at the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua after my stroke. He as an editor, me as anything-and-everything, sort of an editorial-assistant.
My job-description there was “typist;” but I never typed anything. I suspect they didn’t wanna call me “Editorial-Assistant,” afraid I’d ask for more pay. I doubt it; it was the BEST job I ever had. They can take credit for my excellent recovery from a stroke.
With me it was Word® tricks, computer-stuff. I retired doing their website.
Usually these get-togethers were at eating establishments, buffets and restaurants. Those who showed were among those invited; although *** invited all he could.
Things were falling apart. I’d been to get-togethers of only two others beside me.
Most retirees drove bus far longer than me. 16&1/2 years for me; many 30 or more. My bus-driving ended October 26th, 1993 with my stroke. Many of my friends drove much longer than I did.
It was a stupid, meaningless job, although I enjoyed the challenge of learning how to drive large equipment.
Plus the pay was pretty good. —It paid for my (our) house.
Among RTS management were jerks, all too happy to pull rank on drivers.
Beyond that was our clientele — I always picked country runs to avoid city-folk.
We drivers had an unspoken rule: DON’T GET SHOT! Be difficult and yer pushing your luck.
I once had a senior clobber me over the head with her umbrella when I asked for senior-citizen ID. (That was the last time I asked.)
Once at a party, Roadeo volunteers (ambulance auxiliaries, whatever) asked how we did it.
“Only three things matter in this job,” I said. Suddenly you could hear a pin drop. “They are -1) show up, -2) don’t hit anything, and -3) keep yer hands outta the farebox.”
A management-minion quietly observed “Ya know Bob, I think yer right.”
Senior-citizen ID was a rule I regularly disregarded. But management wished other drivers were like me — I never caused them grief.
I always reported for work, never late, drove cautiously with 100% concentration, and never stole from the company. Even some in management were fired because of that.
I offered to help ***. He e-mailed retirees as well as phonecalls. I would assemble a gigantic group e-mail list, then send the e-mail myself, so he didn’t hafta do it.
Getting Transit retirees to attend anything seems like pulling teeth. Beyond that, none of our group look at e-mail like ***, me, and a few others.
“Fat lotta help I was,” I told ***. “All I did was assemble that e-mail list. You still had to make phonecalls.” —Phonecalls are difficult for me due to slight aphasia, a stroke-effect.
We tried to arrange a similar get-together last March at Cartwright’s Pancake House. We had only four, but Cartwright’s is 65-75 miles from Rochester.
*** suggested another get-together, but this time in Rochester.
We’d gather at “Nick’s, a restaurant in Sea Breeze up near Lake Ontario. It’s across from Sea Breeze Amusement Park.
I arrived earlier than most, greeted by a torrent of F-bombs from another retired bus-driver.
That’s okay with me, since that’s how we talked at Transit. I had to consciously reduce my F-bomb usage when I began at the Messenger after my stroke.
Usually I feel out-of-it at these shindigs, but not this time. I suppose because most of my retiree friends are somewhat like me.
I happen to have a college degree, but so does another — in fact, he graduated Notre Dame.
That other guy is rather religious, but also is a bleeding-heart Liberal like.
“Them kids from those Projects are gettin’ to school. I ain’t stickin’ ‘em. I’ll stop if he’s chasin’ me. Education might be his only way out.”
(Transit had to contract to bus kids to a school on Rochester’s outskirts. The students came from all over the city. School-trips were often hooked with additional bus-trips needed during rush-hour.
Father ******** is the hyper-religious one. He also is the Notre Dame graduate.
But he better not judge children. —I’ll butt right in.
“Your kid is goin’ through that B-17 on my nickel!”
There were at least 12 people, one being management.
“You were the best radio-controller there was,” an ex-driver said to the management guy.
(The radio-staff were called “controllers.”)
“No need for brownie-points,” another ex-driver remarked.
“Bob, will you please smile?” Father ******** said.
I bared my teeth, what I usually do when so requested.
This shindig was the same day that nut shot Congressmen in that baseball-practice near Washington DC.
Most bewailed the violence.
“How come mayonnaise is on my sandwich?” a patron asks the pimply clerk at a local Mickey D’s.
BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!
Father ******** also decried the gun-violence. “This country is so divided we feel justified killing our opponents.”
I pretty much kept to myself. (“Bob, what aren’t you smiling?”) Verbal discourse is difficult for me; it’s my aphasia.
I often get made fun of because I’m a mite slow getting words out or making sense of things.
I can still sling words extremely well; those guys will read this blog.
I suppose I could hide = not attend these get-togethers. I do partly because my wife died, so I’m told I should socialize.
I also attend because they’re pretty good friends.

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus from 1977 to 1993. My stroke ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
• RE: “my (our) house......” —My wife (now gone) and I designed our house — a contractor built it.
• “Bob” is of course me, Bob Hughes, “BobbaLew.”
• Mickey D’s is McDonald's.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.

Tiny gathering of eagles

“This is new.” (Photo by Ron Palermo.)

“This is new,” said one of my retired bus-driver friends, as we began the long walkway down to world-famous Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn.
The walkway had been covered to keep waiting patrons out of the weather.
Sometimes the standees go clear up the walkway to the large parking-lot.
The other day (3/29/17) a small contingent of retired bus-drivers gathered at Maple Tree Inn for all-you-can-eat pancakes.
It’s an annual affair, but this year there were only four of us.
In past years there have been as many as 20.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) yer Fthfl Srvnt drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
In past years this get-together was organized by retired bus-driver Ron Palermo.
Maple Tree Inn is only open during maple sugaring season, perhaps two months.
It does a lot of business; I heard over a million dollars per year.
It’s way out in the middle of nowhere, in deepest, darkest Allegany county, probably NY’s poorest county.
(And that’s how its spelled, dear readers; not “Allegheny.”)
It’s at least an hour south of Rochester, up on the east side of vast Genesee (“jen-uh-SEE”) Valley, our nation’s first breadbasket.
Genesee River flows north across the state to empty into Lake Ontario at Rochester.
Cartwright’s has a giant stand of sugar-maples (the “sugar-bush”), all tapped for sap.
Below the restaurant in the basement is a giant stainless-steel vat for boiling sap into syrup.
Sap is drained from the maples into four-wheel-drive Army surplus water-tankers for carting to the vat (the “sugar-shack”).
Often gigantic tour-buses are in the parking-lot. The place is famous. Seniors come during sap season to pig out on all-you-can-eat pancakes slathered with REAL maple-syrup.
Non of that el-cheapo corn-syrup stuff, but look out for wheeled walkers with oxygen-tanks, often piloted by angry geezers.
I offered to help Ron this year, since I am fairly savvy with a computer. I would construct an e-mail list.
Trouble is, I had a stroke, so have difficulty making telephone calls.
And most don’t fiddle their e-mail like Ron or me.
Ron still had to make a slew of phonecalls.
Four people = sort of a waste; other than I always like going there.
It’s probably too far out.

Pig-Out!

Chomp-chomp-chomp! (Photo by Ron Palermo.)

Yrs Trly attended another gathering of the so-called “Transients.”
“Transients” is what the guy who daycares my dog calls us retirees of Regional Transit Service.
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 stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
Despite there being a fair likelihood I’ll be interpreted as negative about these get-togethers, I’ll say I always feel a bit out-of-it.
“That because you’re not the bus-driver type?” my doggie-daycare friend asks. “Not macho hard-driving?”
To my mind, one couldn’t be “hard-driving” and succeed as a bus-driver. Be that you’ll likely get fired.
You had to be meticulous and conscientious. Loose cannons got mugged or they had accidents. They didn’t last.
My wife used to say I was perfect for the job. Cantankerous yet meticulous, and smart enough to use guile-and-cunning to get away with quite a bit yet avoid mugging.
The “Transients” are not an official organization. We’re just people that worked at Transit during the ‘80s and ‘90s and beyond, and share the common experience of having worked there.
It was a difficult job. We were driving rattle-traps on streets amidst driving insanity: “oh look Dora, a bus. PULL OUT, PULL OUT!”
And I gotta stop nine tons of hurtling steel without tossing my passengers out of their seats.
We were also negotiating an upper management that was difficult. We were always at war with them, and they with us.
There also was our clientele, which could be threatening. The idea was to not get mugged, or worse yet shot.
95 percent of those you carried were okay, but there were always the others.
I could tell stories.
I had one run I hated because I feared a passenger. I couldn’t refuse him — I had to pick him up.
I suppose if I felt threatened I could pass him up, but I loathed doing that, having once been a bus-passenger myself.
Plus he’d probably blow me in, and management, safely sheltered in their Administration-building, could fire me.
The Transients is comprised of both retired bus-drivers and management, although lower-level management, those that parried street madness.
I brought along my camera, but never took anything. (I’m using another guy’s picture.)
It would have been just another photograph of us Transients pigging out in a buffet.
I’ve done it before, “Gathering of Eagles.”
HO-HUM! Sit quietly and listen to others jawing.
It’s somewhat pleasant. Occasionally I interject remarks about our shared experiences.
Time passed.
I was eating nowhere near as much as my old cohorts.
For me it was just baked-beans, a slice of pizza, and macaroni-and-cheese.
The guy across from me had a gigantic plate of food. Chicken-legs and mashed potatoes and stuffing. He ate a lot, but a lot went uneaten.
Not this kid! My mother survived the Depression. Little children are starving in China. Clean your plate!
Would I continue to attend these gigs?
More than likely!
I’m out-of-it, but in my humble opinion all of us were.
It seems like all of us were social outcasts, the losers of society.
My 12th-grade Social-StudIes teacher told me I’d never amount to anything; my sixth-grade teacher bemoaned so much wasted potential.
So I became a bus-driver. It was supposed to be temporary, but I did it 16&1/2 years.
And it paid for this here house I’m in.
And left me with old coworkers I consider friends.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.

Social-gathering of the ”Transients”

Retired road-supervisor Gary Coleman (“COAL-min”) walks down toward Maple-Tree.

The other day (Tuesday, March 19th, 2013) was the annual all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast at Cartwright’s Maple-Tree Inn in faraway Allegany County south of Rochester, N.Y.
And that’s “gany,” not “gheny,” as it’s usually spelled.
My friend who daycares my dog calls us “the Transients,” retirees of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, N.Y.
Regional Transit (RTS), a public employer, is the supplier of transit bus-service for the Rochester-area. For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for RTS. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
It was an okay job, except I was tiring of it. It paid fairly well, but the thought of another 14 years was depressing.
Transit was difficult. Not only was the clientele dangerous, but my employer seemed rife with mismanagement.
We hourly Transit employees, bus-drivers and mechanics, were unionized (Gasp), always at loggerheads with Transit management.
Both parties seemed involved. Management could be jerks, but so too could our union.
The acrimony was deep and never-ending.
Union employees seemed to be always trying to pull a fast-one, plus management was always obtuse. —Like their whole idea seemed just to collect another bloated paycheck.
The relationship was always adversarial, as if bus-passengers were lucky to get any service at all.
Having used bus-transit once myself, I was always looking out for my passengers. That is, nothing was gonna get in the way of transporting them from Point-A to Point-B, neither union or management.
But this had to balance against the reality of bus-service; that just because a bus appeared it wasn’t gonna magically take you home. Try to tell some angry vagrant you had others waiting along the route you were supposed to follow.
I have thousands of bus-stories I could relate, and many of them include bus-passengers demanding the moon.
We Transients are “ad hoc,” not an official organization.
We include both union and management employees, both retired bus-drivers and retired operating managers.
Our group seems to be getting smaller. One has died, but we had nine this time, four more than last time, I think.
But two of those nine weren’t Transit retirees. (They were relatives, which is fine. It’s a social gathering, not official.)
This was my fourth or fifth pancake-breakfast, my first since my wife died.
The first I attended had 20 or more, and my second had about that.
At least one has since died, and those attending were from all over Western New York.
Of the seven retirees, only a few are from Rochester. Many of us live in the rural outback. I live in West Bloomfield, about 20 miles south of Rochester, and two others live about 25-30 miles east of Rochester.
Dave Brown, a retired manager, lives in Webster, about 10-15 miles east of Rochester. For him, Maple-Tree was about 80 miles south. For me it’s 50 miles. For those in Rochester it’s 70-75 miles.
Maple-Tree Inn is hardly a franchise restaurant. It’s not a steakhouse or pasta emporium, or a fast-food joint.
In fact, it looks like it was built by the owners. Fittings are kind of spartan.
Maple-Tree is only open during the maple-sugaring season.
It sits amidst a giant sugar-bush. Most of the trees are tapped with plumbing for sap running to a central collection-tank.
I remember a few years ago watching a large four-wheel-drive tanker-truck driving out of the bush.
The sap collected gets boiled down into 100% pure maple-syrup.
That’s Maple-Tree’s selling-point. All-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes served with fresh 100% pure maple-syrup.
The Transients pig out. I ate six, a record for me. I’ve seen others eat 14.
Maple-Tree is world-famous, despite its being out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere.
People from Europe have patronized. Luxury tour-buses of creaky oldsters are in the parking lot. Inside you have to dodge wheelchairs and walkers.
Maple-Tree is just south of Short-Tract. Does Andrew Cuomo, Governor of New York, know where Short-Tract is?
Short-Tract is hardly anything. Many of what few houses remain are abandoned and falling apart. Blink and you’ll miss it!
Maple-Tree and Short-Tract are up on the east side of the vast Genesee Valley.
The Genesee Valley was the first breadbasket of the nation. Wheat would get grown therein, then shipped up to Rochester — there was a canal — for milling and/or transshipment east on the Erie Canal.
After Maple-Tree I had to go down into the small rural village of Fillmore, down the hill from Short-Tract, to buy gasoline.
Fillmore is next to the Genesee river.
Fillmore is the next village north of Houghton (“HO-tin;” not “how” or “who”) home of Houghton College, where my wife and I attended college in the middle ‘60s.
I used to hitchhike up to Fillmore.
I left Fillmore north on State Route 19A, the road to Portageville and Letchworth Park. We hung out at Letchworth often as Houghton students.
Traveling north I passed the road to Wiscoy Creek; it’s signed.
It started me crying.
My wife-to-be (at that time) was the one that introduced me to Wiscoy Creek; I never knew it existed.
At that time the creek was dammed, probably an old electric power dam. An eight-foot wooden aqueduct-tube ran all the way from the dam down alongside the creek.
The creekbed was wooded, and the pipe leaked. Towering geysers of water sprayed out of the tube.
What a place that was; and my wife-to-be can take credit for pointing me to it.
We’d walk atop the leaking pipe all the way up to the dam, which was maybe 20 feet high.
I tried to find Wiscoy Creek again not too long ago, with my wife along — she was alive then — but no sign of it. No dam, no pipe, nothing. I don’t even know if I took the right road in.

• A “road-supervisor” was an official of the company that rode around in a supervisor-car, supervised bus-drivers, and settled arguments with bus-passengers. They also attended bus accidents.
• The “Genesee Valley” (“jen-uh-SEE”) contains the Genesee River, a fairly large river that runs south-to-north across Western New York, runs through Rochester, including over falls, and empties into Lake Ontario. The valley is fertile and broad.
• “Houghton College,” in western New York, is from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I graduated a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college. (My wife also graduated there, same class as me.)

Rat-race

Gathering of Iggles. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The other day (Wednesday, October 17, 2012, six-month anniversary of my wife’s death) turned into one of those incredible rat-races where I drive all over the area performing errands.
I covered at least 80 miles, probably more. —I don’t keep track.
-First: was to nearby Canandaigua to leave my dog with doggie-daycare; a trip of 14 miles.
I daycare my dog while working out at the Canandaigua YMCA, but this wasn’t to work out.
It was to attend a Transit retirees meeting mentioned later.
-Second: Was all the way into Rochester (NY) to attend a meeting of the dreaded “Alumni,” retirees of Regional Transit Service, a trip of about 20 miles. —It even included the New York state Thruway; 20 cents toll.
-Third: Since the trip took way less time than expected, I decided to hit a Goodyear tire store, where I’d planned to visit after the Alumni-meeting.
Could they spin-balance the wheels/tires while I waited? The tires are Goodyear, eligible for lifetime spin-balance and rotation.
I’d had them spun-balanced by my car-dealer, but they hammered slightly at 50 mph plus.
I was hoping Goodyear could do a better job.
They scheduled me at 11 a.m., which turned my attendance at the Alumni-meeting into a surgical-strike. That began at 10 a.m.
-Fourth: Since I was still early, I decided to deposit a letter in the auto drop-box outside the Post-Office in my old neighborhood in Rochester.
We used to live on the east side of Rochester, and the Transit-retirees meeting was out in the suburbs east of Rochester.
A detour of perhaps three-five miles.
-Fifth: Was the Alumni meeting itself.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees of Regional Transit Service in Rochester.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS — “Transit”), a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
While a bus-driver there I belonged to the Rochester Division of the Amalgamated Transit Union (ATU), Local 282. ATU is nationwide.
The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit upper-management retirees ran roughshod over union retirees — a continuation of the bad vibes at Transit, management versus union.
Transit had a club for long-time employees, and I was in it. It was called the “15/25-year Club;” I guess at first the “25-year Club.” But they lowered the employment requirement, and renamed it “15/25-year Club.” The employment requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years.
My employ there ended in 1993 with my stroke (disability retirement); and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then.
The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
It’s an Amalgamated Transit Union functionary. It isn’t just a social club.
It has bylaws, officers, and an Executive Board.
In many ways it’s just like our union-local, except it entertains issues of interest to retirees; like Medicare, healthcare, and diabetes and Alzheimer’s.
“Dreaded” because all my siblings are flagrantly anti-union, like the proper way for hourlies to parry the massive management juggernaut is one employee at a time; in which case that single employee gets trampled because he’s not presenting a united front with power equal to management.
The proletariate’s attempt to exact a living wage from bloated management fat-cats is what’s wrong with this country.
The meeting was at a restaurant, the idea being to eat a breakfast before the meeting.
I ordered only two pancakes, probably the smallest order.
Everyone else was ordering something with eggs, bacon/sausage or ham, toast, and hash-browns.
I can’t eat that much.
Breakfast consumed by 10:35 or so, the meeting began.
But quickly it was 10:45 and I had to leave.
The meeting had hardly begun, but there was no scheduled speaker — there usually is.
My doggie-daycare guy thought we’d swap war-stories, but that’s not what happens.
“The Alumni” is an organization of Transit-retirees affiliated with the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union (ATU). Its intent is to consider official business of Transit-retirees, like healthcare and dental care. —Not just swap war-stories.
-Sixth: Back to Goodyear, about four miles, a trip of perhaps six-seven minutes.
Wait 35-40 minutes in the lobby while they do the spin-balance.
-Seventh: Off to Lori’s Natural Foods, about 10 miles away, to purchase a case of organic grape-juice.
I’d rather get that, since I can buy by the case, although it’s probably overpriced. Lori’s is.
-Eighth: Drive down to MarketPlace supermarket in Honeoye Falls (“HONE-eee-oye;” as in “boy”). about 15 miles south, to purchase groceries I can only buy at MarketPlace.
-Ninth: Back east to Canandaigua to pick up my dog, perhaps 18-19 miles.
But Canandaigua also has a Mazda-dealer, and I need to look at the new CX-5 sport-utility to see if it’s dog-friendly.
I currently have two cars, a 2003 Honda CR-V sport-utility, and a 2005 all-wheel-drive Toyota Sienna van.
Having two cars since my wife died seems silly, and only my van is dog-friendly.
My dog is fairly large, two-and-a-half to three feet tall.
I need a roof high enough so the dog can stand, and preferably on a flat floor.
I also need to fill the gap behind the front seats, the “dog-swallowing gap.”
My CR-V fills that gap, but the rear seats fold forward and block the door-opening.
The rear seats in my van also fold forward, but the van is big enough they don’t block the entrance.
I don’t need something as large as a van.
Plus a sport-utility is the ultimate train-chaser.
I’m a railfan and have been since age-2 (I’m 68).
A sport-utility’s all-wheel-drive can negotiate difficult roads (like dirt). It’s not a jeep, but I’m not that adventurous.
Two years ago I negotiated a dirt-track my guide’s car wouldn’t have done. Although it might have, but it probably would have bottomed on the crown. It was a farm-tractor trail.
I was gonna delay looking at the CX-5, but -a) since I was in Canandaigua, and -b) my dog was in doggie-daycare, I thought I’d look.
The salesman was helpful; he wasn’t put off by my need for a dog-friendly car — as many are.
But why is it every car-salesman personally owns and operates the car I’m looking at?
Is the CX-5 interesting? Sort of; more interesting than the new CR-V.
Its floor folds flat — the new CR-V doesn’t — and the rear seatbacks flopped forward cover the dog-swallowing gap.
The CX-5 is not that attractive, but my 2003 CR-V wasn’t either. —Yet I like it. It’s a pleasant ride, and an incredible train-chaser. The only problem is it isn’t dog-friendly.
-Tenth: Mazda finished, it was back to doggie-daycare to finally pick up my dog.
She was at doggie-daycare almost five hours.
While I zig-zagged all over the planet.
That’s about an hour longer than when I work out at the YMCA.
-Eleventh: Home via the gas-station. The CR-V needed gas. —About a half-mile detour.
Total time doing errands, about six hours. Maybe a hundred miles.
—Was it worth it for Goodyear to spin-balance my wheels/tires?
YES. Back to long over-the-road trips. (I avoided a long road-trip to Altoona, PA because of that slight hammering.)

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. Like me she was 68. I miss her dearly.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is our sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s our third rescue.)
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.)
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• Honeoye Falls is a small village about five miles west of where I live. It’s south of Rochester on Honeoye Creek. A dam was put in long ago to power a mill. The creek originally went over a waterfall in the village.

A record

Altogether only eight attendees. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Yesterday (Thursday, May 31, 2012) was a record get-together of retirees from Regional Transit service.
“Record” in that it was the fewest that ever attended, only eight.
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 its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
Attending were Ron Palermo, the organizer, Gary and Mary Coleman (“COAL-min”), myself, Paul Zachmeyer, Dave Brown, Tim Quinlan, and Dick Mackey.
In fact, I think Timmy is still working as a radio-dispatcher (“controller”) at Transit.
Brownie was middle-management, a “dispatcher” of bus-drivers. He handed out work. Brownie was at first a bus-driver, and then a road-supervisor. He also did radio before retiring at age-71.
A “road-supervisor” was an official of the company that rode around in a supervisor-car, supervised bus-drivers, and settled arguments with bus-passengers. They also attended bus accidents.
Gary was also a bus-driver at first, but then became a road-supervisor. He also worked radio before multiple strokes felled him.
Myself was only a bus-driver. I felt that was the best job at Transit. I was pretty much on-my-own, free of office politics.
The main problem was our clientele, which could be ornery and dangerous.
The other problem was wars with management, who could be jerks.
Palermo is another retired bus-driver. He organizes these get-togethers.
Last March we held our annual sojourn to Cartwright’s Pancake House.
Cartwright’s is a maple-syrup operation. Their pancake house is only open during the maple-sugaring season.
Their marketing angle is all-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes served with real maple-syrup.
They’re out in the middle of nowhere, but attract patrons from all over the planet.
Yesterday’s get-together was at Hibachi and Sushi Supreme buffet just south of Rochester, N.Y.
It was also the first get-together I attended since my wife died.
Paul Zachmeyer didn’t know, and was surprised.
Others did, including Timmy, who I send these blogs to.
Most were saddened by my condition; sort of a wreck.
I find I have to attend these gigs to occupy myself, to avoid getting depressed.
It’s also good company; our group were good workers.
Even those from management that attend aren’t jerks.
And the hourlies (bus-drivers and mechanics) could be jerks too.
I had to leave before the others, although they had finished.
I had 89 bazilyun other errands I had to do.
It took me the rest of the day.

Pilgrimage to Cartwright’s

Gathering of Eagles. (Photo by Gary Coleman.)

The other day (Thursday, March 29, 2012) was the annual foray of a group of Regional Transit operations retirees to Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn out in the middle of nowhere in the eastern hills of the Genesee valley (“jen-uh-SEE”).
Maple Tree Inn is only open during maple-syrup season; that is, when sap is running in their giant stand of sugar-maples, middle February through April.
Cartwright’s is a maple sugaring operation.
They boil the sap down into maple-syrup, and then serve it with all-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes they make in their restaurant-kitchen.
That’s all they serve, all-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes with maple-syrup, plus ham and/or sausage. Plus coffee of course. They’re not a normal restaurant.
The vast Genesee valley in western New York was the first breadbasket of the nation.
Wheat was grown in the valley and then shipped north on the long-abandoned Genesee Valley Canal to Rochester, NY, where it was -a) milled into wheat-flour, and/or -b) shipped east on the Erie Canal.
The Genesee valley has the Genesee River flowing through it, running south-to-north across Western New York, and it empties into Lake Ontario just north of Rochester.
The river flowed over falls in Rochester that could be harnessed for water-power. Rochester was first known as the ”flour city,” water-powered wheat milling. (Now it’s called the “Flower City,” since it became a rose-cultivation center.)
The Erie Canal also went through, so wheat and/or milled flour could be shipped east.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
It was an interesting job at first, mastering the safe operation of large vehicles.
But I was tiring of it, especially our clientele, who could be abusive.
Most weren’t, but the job was becoming boring. I had tried just about everything.
I dreaded I had about 14 more years to go, but my stroke ended it suddenly.
My stroke was a godsend of sorts, since it directed me to the Messenger newspaper in nearby Canandaigua, the best job I ever had.
And it seemed upper management at Transit wanted no connection whatsoever with what we bus-drivers were doing.
It seemed all they wanted was to collect their bloated paychecks for driving a desk.
Often we’d get buses with failed air-conditioning, but the air-conditioning always worked in the Administration-Building.
If it wasn’t, it was fixed right away.
Plus we bus-drivers were a pack of ne’er-do-wells, unionized (gasp).
There were cheats and liars among us, but management acted like we all were.
Our relationship was always adversarial.
There was a pecking-order at the Messenger too, but the relationship with upper-management was not adversarial.
The Messenger was a happy ship. We low-line employees were valued.
Then too perhaps it was what we were doing.
At the Messenger mental input was required to put out a newspaper, whereas at Transit we were just driving buses and parrying the clientele.
Then too it might have been our pay-rate.
My income at Transit was fairly substantial, due mainly to our bus-union.
At the Messenger my pay was peanuts, perhaps partly because I was stroke disabled.
But mainly we weren’t unionized.
Stories were bandied about among us Transit retirees about some of the insanity rained down upon us by Transit management.
Like the time a bus-driver got off his bus to use the restroom in a nearby supermarket.
His bus was shut down and safely secured in the plaza parking-lot, at the layover-point where it was supposed to be. —He had called in his departure to bus-radio.
While he was in the store, some granny lost it and slid her car into the parked bus.
Management, in its infinite wisdom, decided this was his fault, and fired him.
(It was his bus, so he was obviously responsible.)
The bus-union had to jump through hoops to get his job back.
The driver was put on probation.
Um, the bus was shut down and safely secured where it was supposed to be, and he was inside the store.
Yet some granny lost it, so that’s his fault.
But it was his bus, and he had rocked the boat. So fire him!
A second story was my own recounting involving a schoolbus.
The schoolbus stopped and then restarted, clipping a car on the crossroad, which was through.
Probably due to a blind spot.
“It that had been a Transit bus,” I said; “that driver would have been fired right there!”
“If that schoolbus had been on the through road,” another driver commented; “and tee-boned the miscreant car, even though the schoolbus had the right-of-way, Transit would have fired the bus-driver.”
“That’s true,” I thought to myself.
You always had to allow for the NASCAR wannabees and ignorant grannies to avoid accidents.
“Oh look, Dora. A bus! Pull out; pull out! Heaven forbid we get caught behind a smelly old slowpoke.”
It seemed Transit management immediately assumed bus-drivers were at fault, no matter what.
If anything happened it was rocking their boat, which apparently was just to collect their bloated pay, and glom free donuts jawing at the water-cooler.
Rocking the boat equals blame the bus-driver.
I got called on the carpet myself for various insanities.
And I was one of their favorites; I always showed up on time, and rarely took time off.
They even fired a driver for not showing up while he was on vacation.
Our union was always parrying madness.
So we gathered the other morning after 9 a.m. in a plaza parking-lot, south of Rochester.
We then set out on the long 40-50 mile journey to Maple Tree Inn, about an hour.
I did not make the drive myself, unlike last year and perhaps the year before.
It seems I’ve been to this shindig at least four times, the first time driven to it.
But the roads are familiar to me.
Maple Tree Inn is just southeast of the tiny rural town of Short Tract, and I know the way to Short Tract.
It’s up the side of the Genesee valley from Houghton (“HO-tin;” not “who” or “how”), where I attended college.
Houghton College is also out in the middle of nowhere — a tiny island of suburbia out in the outback. Houghton used to be called Jockey Street, and was along the Genesee Valley Canal.
It was a den of iniquity, drinking and fighting and prostitution.
People used to race their horses up the main drag; hence the name “Jockey Street.”
Christian zealot Willard Houghton arrived and set out to clean up the town.
A seminary was founded therein, which later became a college.
I would make the drive with Vinny Arena (“uh-REE-nuh”), a retired bus-driver who started shortly after me, and drove bus 27 years before being disqualified due to a medical problem.
This was because I knew the way, and Vinny didn’t; so Vinny could drive there in his own car (he had to go somewhere else after the shindig).
Vinny recounted his failure of his first bus-driving test with the state, a story I’ve heard before.
He also explained his massive weight-loss. Vinny was once 20 pounds shy of 300 pounds.
Like me, Vinny works out at the YMCA, but not the same YMCA as me.
Vinny is now down to 189, and looks skinny.
Like me, he’s 68; but if he keeps pumping that treadmill he’ll last a while.
There were 12 of us at this shindig, two of whom were lower management; not high-and-mighty.
The rest were mostly retired bus-drivers.
One of the managers was Gary Coleman (“COAL-min”), who once was a road-supervisor and also worked bus-radio.
A road-supervisor supervised bus-drivers from a company car, and settled arguments with passengers.
The other was Dave Brown, who had also been a road-supervisor. He also worked the radio, and dispatched bus-drivers from the Dispatch Office.
Both Brownie and Coleman started as bus-drivers.
I rode back with Ron Palermo (“puh-LAIR-mo;” as in “Moe”), the retired bus-driver who organizes these shindigs.
Three were missing, Norb Dynski, a retired bus-driver who has been to these shindigs before.
Also Gary Colvin (“COAL-vin”) and Tony Coia (“KOY-yuh”). They always battled each other to see who could eat the most all-you-can-eat pancakes.
The only number I remember is Colvin eating 14.
I ate four, my limit, with two sausage-patties.
I also took pictures, but Coleman did better.
Also missing was Art Dana (“DAY-nuh”), a retired bus-driver who died a while ago at age-69.

• “Gary Coleman” is a Transit retiree. He’s not in the picture because he was the photographer.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles away. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.
• RE: “Unionized (gasp)......” —All my siblings are flagrantly anti-union.
• “Houghton College” is from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I graduated a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit.

Racino

Yesterday (Tuesday, October 18, 2011) retirees from Regional Transit Service held a buffet brunch at Finger-Lakes Racino.
A “Racino” is a combination horse race track and casino; in this case at the old Finger Lakes horse race track.
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 its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. (I retired from bus-driving; medical disability.)
A bunch of Transit retirees get together every couple months for brunch.
We’re both management and hourlies — management in operations, not crystal-palace management.
It’s a chance to swap our incredible stories of all the craziness we endured.
Plus a chance to see how everyone is.
“What an experience,” I said, after I walked in.
The racket was deafening!
89 bazilyun slot-machines were all ringing loudly at fever pitch.
How could anybody get pleasure out of such din?
You had to watch where you walked, lest you crash into a glowering Granny aiming her wheeled-walker at a slot-machine.
You also had to watch where you stepped, lest you dislodge an oxygen-rig.
Seems patrons were tottering in their 70s, yet racino employees were spry in their 20s.
I encountered Gary Colvin (“COAL-vin”), a retired bus-driver like me.
Also a champion of sheer silliness, like me.
Gary had brought along his wife Dorothy, who worked in the crystal-palace at Transit, but not hoity-toity.
“What now?” I asked.
“First we sign you up for a game-card,” Colvin said; “to get a two-dollar discount on your meal.”
“Game card for what?” I shouted.
“A card for the casino.”
“I ain’t into gamblin’,” I said. “I ain’t emptyin’ my wallet to keep this place glitzy!”
“Ya don’t need to gamble,” Gary said. “All it is is sign up.”
We got referred to a sign-up counter.
“I need to scan your driver’s license,” the clerk said.
“I get this from the TSA every time I fly,” I said. “A 67-year-old terrorist; a threat to all good burghers.
“Do you want your card on a bungie-cord?”
“The card goes through our shredder,” I thought. “The bungie goes to the landfill.”
“Do you want to receive e-mail promotions?”
“NO!” I said. I trash enough e-mail as it is.
I was also issued a $10 coupon, and here things get very wonky.
For me it was the same as being given a $10 bill; both the $10 bill and the coupon work in a slot-machine, but the coupon not in the real world.
Next was to redeem the coupon into cash, since I’d never use it. If I had, I suppose it would record my winnings, which I could redeem.
So my intent was to redeem the coupon before it could be vaporized by a slot-machine, and I was told I could.
A third retired bus-driver named Ed Pollet (“pahl-it;” as in “ah”) joined us, and inserted my coupon in a slot-machine.
It spit it right back out.
“Needs the yellow stripe,” he said.
“WHAAAA.......?”
“I guess we gotta redeem it at the cage,” he said — a single human in a teller-cage for redeeming your winnings.
“No ya don’t,” said a clerk.
“Just take it over to that machine, and it will redeem it for you.”
“Aha!” I said. Just like a parking-garage, except this time its spits out money instead of needing it.
We inserted the coupon. Boink! It spit it right back out.
The yellow stripe bit again.
We got in line at “the cage.”
Reminded me of my local supermarket; five teller-windows, but only one open, with a big line.
Pollet disappeared. Another retired bus-driver, Ken Rossi (“Ross-eee”) appeared.
“Tell ya what,” Colvin said. “I’ll give yaz both $10 each for your coupons, soz ya won’t hafta stand in line.”
Seemed fair to me (us), the same even exchange I was gonna do with the cage-clerk (perhaps).
But I’m told it wasn’t, that I was inadvertently ripping Gary off.
I suppose due to my trading an unsure thing for a sure thing.
We walked to the buffet, finally out of earshot of all those blaring slot-machines.
Next was purchase a buffet ticket.
With my game-card (which I’ll never use) I get a $2 discount, plus Gary gave me $10 for my coupon.
Things get wonky here too.
My e-mail said the buffet cost $15.95, less two bucks, equals $13.95 each.
The clerk rang up $13.95, less two bucks, equals $11.95, less Gary’s ten bucks equals $1.95 for the buffet.
(I’m told I didn’t include the sales-tax, but the buffet-ticket was shredded — $2.85 total.)
WHATEVER!
The buffet was extensive. It better be, those slots were cleanin’ out all them Seniors.
No macaroni-and-cheese though, what I usually eat at these buffet-gigs.
I filled my plate with baked beans (obviously canned) and some kind of gigantic pasta filled with melted mozzarella.
Also a piece of grilled and seasoned tilapia; I can eat that.
Gary, sitting next to me, finished his plate and grabbed a a small plastic cup filled with chocolate custard.
“What’s that?!” I cried.
Everyone started giggling.
“I’ll tell ya what it looks like,” I said.
“Ummmm, taste good?”
“Looks like you’re here a lot,” said Rossi to Gary.
“Only occasionally,” Gary said.

Gathering of Iggles II

(Visible left-to-right) Ron Palermo, Vern Smith, Dave Brown, and Tony Coia (“KOY-yuh”). (Visible in foreground, backs facing the camera) Jim Douty (“DOW-dee;” as in “wow”) and Joe Libonati (“lib-uh-NOTT-eee”). —All are ex bus-drivers, except Smith (ex mechanic) and Brownie (retired management). (To the right of Libonati is not a Transit retiree.) (Photo by BobbaLew.)

(“Iggles” equals “Eagles” — in Philadelphia the Eagles football team is known as the “Iggles.”)
The other day (Thursday, March 31, 2011) was our annual outback pancake breakfast of Transit retirees at Maple Tree Inn in the wilds of Allegany county (and that’s how the county spells it).
Maple Tree Inn is extremely rural, and is only open a few weeks a year, when sap is running in their sugar-bush of maple trees.
Maple Tree Inn attracts patrons worldwide. You get a breakfast of all-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes, with real maple syrup from their sugar-bush.
Although many of their clientele are broken old codgers pushing walkers, in wheelchairs, and with oxygen-pacs.
Their parking-lot is often crammed, usually with luxury tour-buses disgorging creaky seniors from retirement-centers.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS, “Transit”) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
I liked it at first — it was only supposed to be a temporary job.
What I liked about it most was the joy of successfully operating large highway equipment without drama, buses.
Most weighed nine tons, and were 40 feet long.
They kept giving me every experimental bus, because I would write up a gigantic evaluation.
I also could arrange my hours to advantage.
There was also the deal Transit did a lot of school-work.
Transit carried a lot of school-students; they operated like regular city buses, picking up students at regular bus-stops.
So if school was closed you were off.
Yet you were guaranteed eight hours of pay per day.
So you could potentially get a full week’s pay for only driving a half-week’s worth of work.
But I was tiring of it.
Our clientele could be dangerous and frightening — you were always parrying thugs.
I had to tilt toward suburban Park-and-Rides to avoid the madness of downtown bus operation.
And when we moved out of Rochester, to here in West Bloomfield, I was no longer five minutes from the Barns.
I could no longer work the type of work I had been doing, which required closeness to the Barns.
Our move meant switching to regular city bus-runs, with no time off for school off.
And less pay. Working just the rush-hours required overtime. The runs I had been doing had been rush-hour.
Our retiree group is not union or official; it includes both hourly and management.
But not upper management, those in the Administration Building, the so-called “Crystal Tower.”
The management in our group are from Operations, the lower-level grunts that helped get the buses over the road.
Most were ex bus-drivers themselves, and knew what we drivers were up against.
Upper management was more detached — they were driving desks.
And collecting their bloated paychecks.
Buses might break down, or lose their air-conditioning; but that didn’t matter as much as that paycheck.
The Crystal Tower and Operations were separate worlds. —And never the twain should meet!
“So how did it go?” my wife asked when I returned home about 3:15 p.m.
(My wife did not accompany us — sadly, she’s never been to Maple Tree Inn.)
“I ate a record six pancakes,” I said; “but I feel like I’ve driven to Altoona (‘al-TUNE-uh;’ as in the name ‘Al’).”
Altoona is the location of Horseshoe Curve (the “Mighty Curve”), west of town, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to.
The railroad was looped around a valley to climb the mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. I am a railfan, and have been since age-two (I’m 67). The viewing-area is smack in the apex of the Curve; and trains are willy-nilly. Up-close-and-personal. —I’ve been there hundreds of times, since it’s only about five hours away.
This of course begs the question of why I’m so burned out after driving maybe four-five hours.
Others my age can drive over eight hours.
Probably from concentrating so hard.
Driving bus made you that way; it was the only way to avoid crack-ups.
“Oh Dora, look, look, a bus! PULL-OUT! PULL-OUT!”
Suddenly I’m supposed to stop nine tons of hurtling steel on a dime, yet not throw any of my passengers out of their seats.
We were always trying to predict what the other guy might do.
“Ever get the idea, Hughsey, all we were doing was cutting slack?” said my friend Art Dana (“day-nuh”), since deceased, also a retired bus-driver.
“Back off for the NASCAR wannabees, plus the utterly clueless idiots.”
(Art was the retired bus-driver from RTS with fairly severe Parkinson's disease. Art's wife was gone, so he lived with his sister in Pittsford. He was 69. Art and I had similar interests, hot-rod cars and trains.)
Last year I ate four pancakes, the first time two — but I had eaten breakfast that time. (I think I have done this gig four times.)
I learned to not eat breakfast before one of these pancake gigs.
Plus the pancakes are very light and thin.
I’ve eaten pancakes where they were so leaden and greasy I could only manage one.
Another (official) Transit retiree organization holds quarterly meetings at a restaurant.
I abstained from eating breakfast at home, so I could order pancakes and sausage there.
But their pancakes were so leaden and uncooked, NEVER AGAIN!
Four Maple Tree Inn pancakes equal three Perkins or IHOP pancakes.
Four was probably enough, but a little skimpy. So I had six.
Plus two sausage patties.
But that’s not what I’m used to eating — cereal. At the YMCA Exercise-Gym yesterday (Friday, April 1, 2011), working out, I felt out-of-gas.
I had arranged to pick up my friend Gary Coleman (“coal-min”), a retired road-supervisor and ex bus-driver, who usually rides with another retired bus-driver who had to bail because of a medical appointment.
Coleman had two strokes, which retired him from Transit.
He has recovered fairly well, but not as well as me. —He can’t drive.
Coleman really likes doing these shindigs — he’s often the arranger and notifier.
I didn’t want him to miss out because he didn’t have a ride.
“Road-supervisors” were management that supervised bus-drivers, investigated accidents, and intervened in passenger disputes.
I guess Coleman was okay; I never interacted with him.
Coleman had driven bus, so he knew what we bus-drivers were up against.
Coleman lives way out in the country in an adjacent county, even more rural than me.
He lives with his wife and father-in-law. His wife still drives bus for RTS.
My getting him involved a long drive of two legs.
First was to nearby Canandaigua (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”), where I’d intersect the highway he lived on.
“Canandaigua” is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away; 25 minutes.
My route to Canandaigua is indirect to avoid a speed-trap in nearby Bloomfield village.
I have been nailed so many times by that speed-trap, I decided to go to Canandaigua in a roundabout way and avoid it.
All it is is a downhill out of Bloomfield village on which your car will speed up if you’re not paying attention.
And Smokey is there taking radar pictures. A toll-taker.
If all I’m doing is driving to Canandaigua, the trip is easy.
But as the first leg of a trip it’s grating.
The second leg was from Canandaigua up to Gary’s place, north of Palmyra, NY; about 35 minutes.
I was to call Gary when leaving, but got voicemail. Gary’s cellphone had performed a hairball.
Gary called me back, but by then I was driving; and I don’t do anything with my phone while driving. It’s a distraction. (It’s also against the law in NY.)
After picking up Gary, we drove about 40-45 minutes to our group’s assembly point in Henrietta, a suburb south of Rochester.
We arrived early, and not many showed up.
Then about an hour down to Maple Tree.
I pretty much knew the way — I’d been there before, and it’s near where I went to college.
But we drove in caravan; a conga-line of three vehicles: Palermo in the lead, followed by Vern Smith, who had never been there, in his huge Ford van, and then us.
I was driving our 2005 Toyota Sienna van, which could carry four more if we needed it. But it was just Gary and me.
Others had driven there themselves; there were nine of us total.
Smallest contingent ever; last year was about 25.
Other times were 20 or more.
All we needed was a single circular table.
Then began about two hours of socializing over pancakes.
Much of the talk was about trains.
Vern is a railfan, and so is Brownie.
And Gary is pretty much. His father worked for the Lehigh-Valley railroad.
Around-and-around we went about various railroads throughout the area, and “what was that abandoned railway-bed we crossed coming down into Nunda (“none-DAY”)?” asked Vern.
“Why that was the Pennsy Rochester branch, Rochester to Olean, NY, (“OLE-eee-anne;” as in the name “Anne”) built on the towpath of the old Genesee Valley Canal,” I said.
My college was nearby, and the Pennsy Rochester branch also went through my college town; the railroad was abandoned in 1963, my freshman year.
The Genesee river valley was the nation’s first breadbasket, and a canal was built up to the Erie Canal in Rochester to deliver wheat — the Genesee Valley Canal.
The “Genesee River” (“jen-uh-SEE”) is a fairly large river that runs south-to-north across Western New York, runs through Rochester, including over falls, and empties into Lake Ontario. The falls could be harnessed for water-power to mill wheat. At first Rochester was called “the Flour City” (now it’s “Flower City”).
The railroad was not Pennsy at first; but later Pennsy merged it.
Socializing over, it was back home — to Rochester and then out to Gary’s.
Down into Nunda, up over the hill, and then down into Mt. Morris.
(I should probably pronounce “Nunda” again. Hillary Clinton blew it as our NY senator; it’s “none-DAY.”)
We went our separate ways, Libonati to see the far-out land his friend would build a house on, Vern over to Groveland, and Palermo just flat disappeared.
I was just Gary and me, again.
We retraced our route out, first Nunda, and then Mt. Morris, where we’d pick up Interstate-390 toward Rochester.
In Mt. Morris we encountered a scrawny teen dressed as the Statue-of-Liberty; flowing green gown, and pea-green spikes emanating from his head.
He was advertising a tax-service — I’m told Liberty Tax Service — prancin’-and-dancin’ and jukin’ and jivin’ all over the corner with his iPod.
I considered stopping to take his picture — I could have videoed him with my DroidX.
But all I did was exclaim “Marcy, it’s everywhere!”
I had to explain Marcy the Gary.
“Marcy” is my number-one Ne’er-do-Well — she was the first I was e-mailing stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. —At one time she asked how I managed to dredge up so much insane material to write up, and I responded “Marcy, it’s everywhere!”
Through Mt. Morris we named every railroad, abandoned and active.
“That’s the old Pennsy,” I said, pointing to a dusty trail.
“And this used to be the Lackawanna main to Buffalo (“lack-uh-WAN-uh;” as in “wand”), I said. “It used to go down to Dansville, and eventually Hoboken for New York City.
Now it’s Genesee & Wyoming. In fact, they built a branch off it up to that new salt-mine,” I added. “That’s new railroad over there.”
Back on Interstate-390, I was low on gas.
We got off on what I thought was Route 15 up to East Avon (“ah-vahn;” as in “ah” and “wand” — not the cosmetic)
But it wasn’t.
It went up to Geneseo (“jen-uh-SEE-oh”), an old college town.
I haven’t been though Geneseo recently, and it’s much more built up than it was even a few years ago.
I kept looking for the white-horse statue that would signify East Avon, but came upon “entering Geneseo” signs.
I lost my bearings; or as Gary kept saying, “we were misplaced.”
Highways through and around Geneseo have always been undecipherable; we had to do at least two flip-flops.
Finally I was on a road I knew.
Gary called his wife, whose father grew up near Geneseo.
We got on Route 39, and were to continue on Route 39.
I didn’t know route-numbers, but 39 went through Geneseo proper — and farther west, it seemed.
Gary wanted me to turn where Route 39 turns, but I went straight.
“This road goes back to I-390,” I said.
Gary saw the I-390 sign too.
Back on interstate-390: “Now I gotta get to Route 441.
We had driven to the Henrietta meeting-point on Route 31; 441 is the road into Rochester Gary’s wife takes to get to work at Transit.
441 goes into Rochester (more-or-less), while 31 goes south of Rochester.
“That power-line is on the old Peanut right-of-way,” I said. “And on the other side of this valley is the abandoned right-of-way of the Lehigh Valley mainline to Buffalo — probably the best railroad across lower New York ever built; two tracks, good for 60-70 mph cruising.”
Finally Rochester, I-390 to I-590, then Interstate-490 east to Route 441.
“441 is Penfield Road, right?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“I know Penfield Road.”
441 starts as limited-access, more-or-less, except it has intersections at grade, and traffic-lights.
Then it merges into the old Penfield Road, and enters the village of Penfield, which is east of Rochester.
Penfield Road is west-east, four lanes through Penfield.
It remains four lanes quite a way.
I was in the right-most lane.
All-of-a-sudden my lane disappeared; no warning signs, or I didn’t see them.
“Thanks for telling me!” I shouted.
“Sorry,” Gary said.
“Not you,” I said; “the lack of signage.”
By now 441 was out in the country; no more four lanes.
Finally Route 21, the road Gary lives on.
We turned south, and Gary called his wife.
“We’re about to turn in,” he said.
In his driveway, and there was his wife Mary standing outside in an RTS blue bus-driver uniform.
“How long has it been since I’ve worn that monkey-suit?” I thought to myself.

• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, somewhat from downtown. The Barns were large sheds the buses were parked inside. Regional Transit’s operations were conducted in buildings adjacent to the Barns. (We Transit-employees always said we worked outta “the Barns.”)
• “Hughsey” is me, Bob Hughes, “BobbaLew.”
• “IHOP” is International House of Pancakes.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. Adjacent is the rural town of East Bloomfield, and the village of Bloomfield is within it.
• “Genesee & Wyoming” is a shortline railroad that acquired many properties throughout the Lower 48. Genesee & Wyoming was at first a local shortline owned and operated by the salt-mine company in Western NY; it served mainly those salt-mines. The old Delaware, Lackawanna & Western (DL&W; the “Lackawanna”) main to Buffalo was one of G&W’s earliest acquisitions. The DL&W past Dansville was abandoned, as was much of it toward Hoboken.
• The main intersection in East Avon has a full-size white-horse statue on one corner.
• The “Peanut Line” is the original independently-built Canandaigua & Niagara Falls Railroad, eventually merged into New York Central Railroad. It was called a “peanut” by a New York Central executive because it was so tiny compared to NYC’s mainline. It is now entirely abandoned, although a short stub out of Canandaigua remained in service into the ‘70s.