Forbidden fruit

—Sixty-plus years after first being attracted to women, Yr Fthfl Srvnt finds himself attracted to women for pretty much the same reasons as long ago.
The attraction is partly sexual of course, but mainly it’s because women are forbidden fruit.
Long ago my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, convinced me no female would ever have anything to do with me.
I shouldn’t even try; females were verboten! Any interest I had in women was EVIL and salacious!
Things are much different since my wife died. Suddenly “forbidden fruit” wants to associate with me.
It’s thanks to my dog, who I lost last August. He got me used to interacting with pretty girls: “oh what a pretty dog! Can I pet him?”
Also, by “thinking too much” (“hand me the remote, Luke….”) I ascertained what works to engage pretty girls, and what doesn’t.
“I know you!” the opening line I’ve used hundreds of times. That tells the girl I wanna interact with her; and just talk, not sexually.
“You look familiar!” She smiles, and off we go!
Pointless yammering. “I wanna hear your voice, and you want me to be attracted to you.”
“YIPPEE! He wants to talk to me!”
The first girls to attract me, sixty-plus years ago, were ******* ******* and **** *******. (I remember their names.)
******* was a cute little sexpot, the daughter of an Air Force man who never was home.
She lived in a large dingy apartment-complex, and would sun herself in the courtyard in a strapless bathing suit (GASP).
She was fully aware of her sexual attractiveness, and drove all the little boys crazy, including me.
I’d ride my clunky bicycle over to those apartments so I could ride around looking for her.
I’m sure she was aware I was doing that, as was her cohort, who wasn’t as attractive.
Too bad I wasn’t who I am now. I woulda struck up a conversation.
Women love to talk, and I’m no longer scared of sexpot cutie-pies.
If anything, that cutie-pie appreciates that some innocent dude like me just wants to talk. I experience it like crazy!
My other female desire was **** *******, not a cute little sexpot, but attractive enough.
She lived in a tract-house, part of a new development north of the main drag. (We lived south.)
She was Jewish; my mother woulda been appalled.
I’d ride bicycle up there so I could watch her house. I hoped I’d see her. (They had a mega-finned ’56 Packard.)
One time she followed me down a street, hoping to talk to me, mayhap.
I was terrified! The idea of an attractive girl wanting to talk with me was utterly beyond comprehension.
I ran away! “No pretty girl will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and filled with lust!”
So girls have always been “forbidden;” frightening even.
UNTIL RECENTLY!
I think of an incident that occurred just the other day. An example of the many fabulous female encounters I experienced since my wife died.
A couple weeks ago I struck up a conversation with a fairly attractive new lifeguard at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
A week later she showed up again, and kept glancing at me.
She wasn’t making eyes, but I realized she wanted me to talk to her again.
Let her know she still attracted me; tell her by just wanting to talk to her a little.
Finally, “I know you!” She turned and smiled. I’d made her happy.
Every time I rethink these pleasant encounters I choke up.
“No female etc. etc.” But it keeps happening!
Would that 65 years ago I’d been who I am now.
******* woulda been worth a trial conversation, and I woulda let **** catch up.
The whole idea of an attractive girl wanting to associate with me was beyond imagining back then.
Not anymore! I strike up conversations with pretty girls willy-nilly!

• I do aquatic balance training in Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, currently one class per week — 45 minutes — less than usual due to COVID-19.
• During the ‘30s, Packard marketed some of the greatest automobiles of all time. Sadly, Packard never got around to manufacturing an el-cheapo entry-level automobile like the Big Three. By the 1950s, Packard was failing. Merged with Studebaker in 1954, S-P failed in the ‘60s. It stopped manufacturing automobiles in America in 1962; and lasted in Canada through 1966. The final Packards we’re essentially rebodied Studebakers.

“We could talk forever”

—This here blog is becoming catharsis for Yr Fthfl Srvnt.
My reader-count declines. 20-25 a while ago, then maybe 15, then ten or so, now maybe six.
Readers tire of my continually celebratin’ my mind-blowing successes with women.
Which after my childhood I never considered.
“No female will ever have anything to do with you, Bobby! You are despicable!”
All my life I paid for Faire Hilda’s husband fooling around. She became a self-righteous prude. Eager to tell little Bobby next-door, who was already an overly weak pushover, that all males, including him at age 5, were evil scumbags.
Had my hyper-religious Bible-thumping parents come to my defense, Faire Hilda woulda crashed mightily in flames. But I was “rebellious” for being unable to worship my holier-than-thou father, worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
Tomorrow (Monday, April 12th), if it’s not pouring rain, I will hike my 2.8 miles on Lehigh Valley RailTrail, chancing a pleasant encounter with a pretty lady.
Strike up a conversation, and they wanna talk.
After that rail-trail I will visit my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls, where I chance meeting pretty *****, who I will probably discontinue calling “pretty *****.”
“Pretty *****” is flirtatious (EVIL; gasp)! ***** has become much more than someone I could “lust after.”
She became a girl I enjoy talking with, who also happens to be pretty.
This wasn’t what I expected. She seemed aloof and distant at first.
But that was when she worked at a big-box pharmacy across the street.
What a waste! Degreed as a pharmacist, but used as a clerk.
Now she’s head-honcho of her own pharmacy. She’s much happier, I see it, I like it, and I tell her!
I also discovered she’s not aloof and distant.
Two years ago she gave me a flu vaccination, and we began talking afterward.
“Don’t you wanna leave?” I kept thinking to myself. (That’s Hilda!)
“NOPE!” She wanted to talk.
Finally, “back to work; sigh……”
And of course it’s just pointless yammering; she likes that I want her to talk to me, and I like hearing her pretty voice.
I admit a perverse and pernicious factor in our relationship. She’s a girl, and she’s also pretty. She counters “No pretty lady will ever talk to you!”
Of course ***** is one of many. I’ve noticed (“CHANGE THE CHANNEL! He’s a-doin’ that there thinkin’ again!”) women love talking, especially the pretty girls.
“YIPPEE, a guy not hitting on me, nor trying to snag me as a trophy-girl.” Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk!
I will give ***** a pile of my old train-calendars I was going to toss.
“I can think of two railfans who’d want those old calendars, and one is only six years old.
“I favor the six-year-old!” I’d tell her. Her son is age-6, and takes my most recent train-calendar to bed with him.
“I was age-6 once, and I know what it means to have an adult other than your parents care about you.
In fact, I’m not sure even my own parents cared about me, but that’s another story,” I’d tell her.
“A long and sorry story; you don’t wanna hear it!
Let’s just talk,” I’d say to her.
She’d smile, and off we’d go.
“You know what woulda happened if you vaccinated me against COVID-19?” I’d say to her. “We woulda talked and talked and talked and talked while customers piled up.”
“We could talk forever,” she once told me.
“We probably could,” I thought to myself later.
Per my critics, if she’s faking it, she’s awfully good at it.

• For preverts among my readers, ***** is a tiny little thing. Not gorgeous, but pretty enough to have been intimidating. What I like is that she is such fun to talk with.

Beating down the ghost of Hilda Q.

—As in Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, who along with my Bible-beating parents, convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM!
Actually, my parents weren’t denigrating my maleness. They declared me EVIL and rebellious because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
The past week was a downer regarding my lady-friends. It gives my critics the opportunity to loudly proclaim “no pretty lady will have anything to do with you!”
—On Monday, I had no reason to go to my pharmacy, where I normally would meet pretty *****.
No chance to say hello, after which she bounces out of her workstation to come talk with me.
—On Tuesday I discovered astonishingly-pretty ******, one of the “temperature ladies” per COVID-19 outside Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department, was married. She seemed too young.
That scotched entertaining her with “the speech:” “yer gonna to get married someday; whatever ya do marry somebody who can make ya laugh. My wife always told me the reason we lasted 44&1/2 years was because I could make her laugh.”
—Wednesday would be my aquatic balance-training class at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool.
There I would meet *****, my pretty lifeguard friend, to whom I love talking.
She’d gone to Floridy with her husband.
She’s rather impressive, so I wonder why she even associates with me.
I do have other lady friends there, but I like talking with *****. She reminds of my wife. She isn’t my wife; she’s an entirely different person, but the brains are there.
Plus she seems to like talking to me, and of course talking is all we ever do.
Sometimes she smiles at me, and when she does WOW!
—On Thursday I’d hike Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and chance meeting my pretty young jogger friend with whom I once struck up a conversation, and we thoroughly enjoyed each other.
We’ve met two or three times since, and it’s always thrilling.
No rail-trail; it was raining.
—So Friday, one last chance to strike sparks with a lady friend; after four consecutive days of nuthin’.
Friday fell flat too, except my aquacise-instructor seemed to wanna talk with me.
Friday is another visit to that YMCA swimming-pool, but no aquacise class. This would just be “water-walking,” slosh around in that pool with self-directed attempts at in-pool exercise.
Just sloshing around in that pool is work.
“DREAMIN’!” my critics would scream. “No cute aquacise-instructor will wanna talk to you, Bobby! You are ONE PATHETIC LOSER!”
I entered the pool area wanting to talk to that aquacise-instructor’s sidekick, a retiree who once did aquatic therapy in that pool.
Now she volunteers, helping the aquacise-instructor.
“I can’t talk right now,” my aquacise-instructor said to me. She was otherwise occupied.
“No problem,” I would say. “I was aimed at your sidekick.”
Sidekick and I began talking, and soon sidekick dragged the aquacise-instructor into our discussion.
But we drifted apart, since I already had said most of what I planned to say.
Later that aquacise-instructor pulled me aside, apologizing for not talking to me earlier. I think she wanted to talk with me.
I was so flummoxed I ducked. A cutie wants to talk to me? “NO WAY JOSÉ!” my critics would bellow.
I worry about faltering self-confidence, the ghost of Hilda Q. Walton haunting me.
I notice increasing hesitance to take the risks I earlier took with other pretty ladies.
A week or two ago I said something my YMCA lifeguard-friend about how if I was the least bit hesitant or tentative (scared) about meeting her, she would pick up on that, and probably be less responsive to my saying hello to her. (She might think I was avoiding her.)
She looked befuddled at first, like “what’s he telling me that for?”
But then she seemed to crunch it.
REALLY? That’s the sorta thing I would say to my wife.
Eyes-eyes-eyes-eyes-eyes at my supermarket, but I’m afraid of telling a lady she has pretty eyes. I did it a few weeks ago.
“Take the risk!” my bereavement-counselor advises. “If you succeed, that counters your childhood. If you fail, try someone else.”
It ain’t easy beating down Hilda and my parents after what they did to me. Self-worth destroyed!
I also have the problem of not feeling like I’m in the real world. Reality nearly disappeared after my wife died; also after my stroke.
I keep two small reminders in my kitchen.
First is something posted long ago by that aquacise-instructor to her Facebook: something about “absent friend.”
I keep it to remind myself that aquacise-instructor does indeed exist. She’s not a figment of my imagination, which my critics claim is “twisted.”
Second is a small thank-you note given me by that lifeguard friend last year, after I gave her an extra train-calendar for her railfan friend in FL.
I keep it for the same reason: to remind myself she exists.
It’s like half the reason I continue that aquatic balance-training is to reacquaint myself with reality; prove to myself I am indeed in the real world.
I look pool-ward, and there’s ***** up on her lifeguard-stand waving at me.
I walk into the pool area, and there's Mrs. ******, smiling with sparkling eyes.
Maybe I should go to my pharmacy for a pretty-***** fix.
Or risk female encounters at my supermarket.
I haven’t been smacked yet!

• My brother and I photograph trains down near Altoona PA, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern. Every year I take 13 of our 89 bazilyun photographs to assemble into a calendar — I do it with Shutterfly. I give those calendars as Christmas presents.

On *****

It's apparent my continuous talking about Hilda Q. Walton is driving people crazy! Guilty-as-charged. This will be my last.
It's just that finding out 70+ years late that Hilda and my parents were WRONG is so surprising and amazing I talk about it too much. I can talk to pretty girls! Spin on Hilda baby!

—For 16&1/2 years Yr Fthfl Srvnt drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the provider of transit bus service in Rochester (NY) and environs.
It was supposed to be temporary until I found employ as a writer: public relations, etc. But it paid well and was pleasant to start, mainly learning to drive large vehicles.
My stroke 26+ years ago ended it, but I was tiring of it.
My final run, which had me pulling out at 5:05 AM, had me getting up at 3 AM, and going to bed by 8:30 the night before.
The biggest problem was our clientele, which had me picking country runs.
City runs could get you mugged, or even shot. One of our drivers was run over by her bus and killed.
During those 16&1/2 years I made many friends, and most were bus drivers.
But a few weren’t. One was ***** ****, head of what that time was called “Human Relations.” Now it’s called “People Department” — I stifle a giggle.
Back then “Human Relations” was on the first-floor of the Administration Building — we called it “the Crystal Palace.”
Now the first-floor looks like a prison entrance. It’s set up to keep the public at bay.
I remember ***** telling me about some angry drunk staggering in to threaten all-and-sundry.
To her that was terrifying, but “*****, those are the people we parry every day!”
I remember some passenger incensed Motor-Vehicle took his license away for drunk driving . He had to use the bus — GASP!
Finally, I got mad. “People like you are the ones that kill motorcyclists, and I’m a motorcyclist.”
For whatever reason that shut him up — no pity from this kid!
Yesterday's wake-up dream was about ***** ****, who of course I hadn’t seen in 26-27 years.
I attended a Transit retiree function, I think it was a Christmas-luncheon, and ***** **** was there.
“Are you ***** ****?” I asked.
“Yes,” she smiled.
It was the same smile my aquacise-instructor rendered years ago, that I blew all outta proportion.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!” the notorious Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious Sunday-school superintendent neighbor, who convinced me all males, including me at age 5, were scum.
Had my parents come to my defense, Hilda woulda crashed in flames. But they heartily agreed. To them I was “rebellious” for being unable to worship my holier-than-thou father.
A wonderful thing to tell a five-year-old little boy = marked-for-life.
I also had a coach advising me to be more forthcoming.
“Don’t listen to ******,” my bereavement-counselor told me. “You’ll make many more lady friends just being yourself.”
And I have, but sadly that aquacise-instructor was the first pretty lady to smile at me in my entire life. (70 years late.)
I’ve experienced many more pretty-lady smiles since, some way more extraordinary than that aquacise-instructor, whose smile seems kinda sad.
So there’s ***** smiling at me, and the worst thing a pretty lady can do is smile at me — it indicates she enjoys my company. (Utterly impossible to Hilda.)
***** isn’t gorgeous, but she also isn’t gross = thunder-thighs, insanely fat, a slovenly Harley-Mama.
**** was her last name years ago, although I think she married and changed to her husband’s last-name, or **** was her husband’s last-name and they divorced.
Whatever, she was smiling at me; which makes her “cute.” Same with my aquacise-instructor.
I’ve since learned to not be so smitten by a female smile.
And also that Hilda and my parents were WRONG!

• I always say Hilda and my parents spin in their graves, 14,000 RPM, about what a recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might get; enough to power FL south of Orlando.
• 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 almost 15 years ago.
• As a result of my wife dying eight years ago, I see a bereavement-counselor once a month.

Spin on Hilda-baby!

—“Boy I sure am glad you didn’t quit!”
I said that to the pretty new hire at my doggy-daycare kennel who’s only 19 years old.
She smiled.
There you have it, readers. I did it again. Said something that made a pretty girl smile, setting Hilda and my parents spinning in their graves.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL SMILE AT YOU!” That’s Hilda Q. Walton, who I need not explain. (Click the link if you need explanation.)
Hilda and my parents were hyper-religious zealots who convinced me I was disgusting.
That girl and I talked a long time about my dog, recently crippled by a torn ACL.
“I don’t wanna lose that dog,” I kept telling her.
“I don’t want you to lose that dog either,” she’d say.
“Neatest Irish-Setter I ever owned; completely wacko.
“And also a ham,” she added.
Finally, after 20 minutes or so, I stopped. We couldn’t talk forever. And unlike what I expected, it was me stopping us, not her.
“What does that cutie-pie see in him?” people ask.
“Let ‘er talk,” I answer. “Tell me about it.” “Keep going.”
I walked around to get in my car, and she opened the door into the kennel.
As she entered, “Boy am I glad you didn’t quit!”
We talked earlier about my not seeing her a while, which had me worried.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
“But you won’t work here forever. Your whole life is ahead of you, and mine is almost done. About all I can do is make sure you think you’re worth listening to.”
(And not be a creep about it.)
And it’s so much fun. Make ‘em feel good. “I like you; tell me more!”
Enter Hilda, stage right: “Go to Hell Bobby. Do not collect $200 dollars; go directly to Hell!”

Hilda and my parents spin again in their graves

—Tuesday (June 16th), after completing my grocery-shopping at the Canandaigua Wegmans……
…..I returned to my doggy daycare kennel to retrieve my silly monster.
After getting him in my car with noisy histrionics — he’s lame…
…..another lady arrived to pick up her dog. That kennel is closed. But they daycare my dog, among others. They love my dog.
“I tell people I’m 28, but I'm actually 64,” she said.
If I’d thought of it I’da sung her the same Beatles song I sung to a lifeguard-friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool, where I do aquatic balance training.
She’s also 64. “Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I’m 64.”
My lifeguard friend doesn’t look 64. I'm sure she dyes her hair. If she didn’t it would be silver like my friend at the kennel.
I started backing out. That lady was watching. She was too far away to tell if our eyes met, but she was looking for a wave.
Do it! Things are much different since my wife died. Give her a wave, she’ll like it.
10 years ago I wouldna done that. I was DISGUSTING to Hilda Walton, and my parents. (Click the link if you don’t understand.)
SCUM to Hilda. “Rebellious” to my hyper-religious parents, because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
(Hilda was my Sunday-school superintendent neighbor. I bet her husband was fooling around.)
Things are much different since my wife died. I gained so many pretty lady-friends, I’m much more confident talking to a lady. I wouldna done it before, but now I can.
I’m sure this makes all the zealots in my childhood mad as Hell. But I’m having fun.
Give her a wave, and she did love it. (She was hoping I would; a huge smile.)
G-head; make her happy! Nothing makes a woman happier than some dude noticing her.

• “G-head” is how my Down-Syndrome brother used to say “go-ahead.” He died at age-14 in 1968.

Smiling is contagious

—“Don’t stop!” I shouted to a pretty lady who had just jogged past us (me and Killian) on Lehigh Valley rail trail.
She screeched to a halt, turned toward me, and smiled gigantically — a smile that lit up the woods.
Boy am I glad I said something!
Obviously she was thrilled I noticed, and I wasn’t a creep about it.
Yada-yada-yada-yada. “I used to run,” I told her. “It’s probably why I can still walk this monster at age 76.”
“Well keep at it!” she shouted, smiling.
I hafta get used to this. Things are much different since my wife died. Killian is part of it (“oh what a pretty dog”). Plus a wife who liked me 44&1/2 years, despite how messed up and difficult I was.
“She made who you became possible,” my counselor tells me. “You were very lucky.”
10 years ago I wouldna said anything to that lady.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU!” That’s Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious neighbor Sunday-School superintendent, who convinced me all males, including me at age 5, were SCUM. (Her husband was probably fooling around.)
Had not my parents, also hyper religious, heartily agreed, Faire Hilda woulda crashed in flames. With them I was “rebellious” for being unable to worship my holier-than-thou father.
Lehigh Valley rail-trail is on Lehigh Valley Railroad’s old Buffalo extension opened in 1892. It was abandoned, and a small segment was converted to a rail-trail. Much of that rail-trail is in neighboring Monroe County, and the part we hike goes through woods.
“The wooded cathedral,” I call it.
And unlike a city park, I encounter few people. With social-distancing, that’s advantageous.
Bicyclists, solitary hikers, people being walked by their dogs, families with baby trikes, and the occasional jogger.
And boy am I glad I said something to her. Her smile was incredible.
Go ahead! Strike up a conversation! I’m likely to hit pay-dirt. If I don’t, it’s no longer my fault.

• My current dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-Setter.” He’s eleven, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. A “rescue Irish-Setter” is usually an Irish-Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. Or perhaps its owner died. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.

“That’s Killian’s dad!”

—Two or three weeks ago I was headed to my boarding kennel to drop off my dog (“Killian”) so I could go to the grocery store.
The kennel’s two co-owners, one cute but both great fun to talk to, were headed out for a coffee.
They were driving out as I came down the highway.
All-of-a-sudden: SCREECH! Then reverse.
I imagine the conversation: “STOP! That’s Killian’s dad. Lemme out!”
As I pulled in the cute one, not driving, jumped out of the car.
I'm not used to this. A pretty girl wants to talk to me? (Drop everything!)
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. She convinced me all men, including me at age 5, were SCUM. Her husband was probably fooling around.
Had my hyper-religious parents not agreed, Hilda, my neighbor Sunday-school superintendent, woulda crashed in flames. Hilda was also hyper-religious.
A lot has changed since my wife died, and Killian is part of it: “oh what a pretty dog,” followed by “here I am talking to a pretty girl.”
I could imagine the cute one wants to not lose my business. But I think there’s more to it than that. I also make her laugh = feel good.
A lady-friend once told me “get the endorphins flowing,” i.e. make ‘em laugh.
Last August a really pretty girl told me what women love most is laughing.
“Drop everything! Lemme out!”

“Is this who I think it might be?”

—I asked that to a pretty young mother who looked like my aquacise-instructor’s daughter.
We were in the back hallway of the Canandaigua YMCA. I was leaving after our aquatic balance-training class.
Mother was shepherding her little boy who looked like my aquacise-instructor’s new grandson.
“Is this ******?” I asked.
“No; his name is ????????. (I don’t remember.)
I only mention this because 10 years ago I wouldna said anything. “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” That was Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM. (Her husband was probably fooling around.)
Had my parents, also hyper-religious, come to my defense, Hilda woulda crashed in flames. But they heartily agreed: I was disgusting and rebellious because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
A lot has changed since my wife died eight years ago.
Part of it is my dog, a gorgeous Irish-Setter. “Oh, what a pretty dog!” So begins another conversation with a smashingly beautiful girl.
My age helps, I guess. At age-76 I’m harmless.
So the pretty girls are piling up, the ones I was scared of over 70 years.
Last August a really pretty girl told me what women love most is laughing. And I make ‘em laugh. 10 years ago I would have avoided that pretty girl, but I’ve had so many successful conversations I’m no longer scared.
Usually the one striking up a conversation is me. (“Oh, a talker, eh?” They love it — I’ve had it happen. [A post-office clerk talked my ear off.])
Here we are, the infamous Hilda Q. Walton again. “Just get over it!” friends tell me. “Hilda and your parents are all dead.”
“Easier said than done,” I say. “I been carrying that albatross over 70 years, and now, at long last, I can talk to pretty girls.
Hilda and my parents spin in their graves, 14,000 RPM, enough to power FL south of Orlando.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hour classes per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• My current dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s eleven, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. Or perhaps its owner died. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.
• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start tearing itself apart at 8,000 (if it gets there).

She would have pushed you off by now

The other day my bereavement-counselor, who spends more time dealing with my tortured childhood than the death of my wife, made an interesting comment:
“If you’ve been friends with ****** **** more than two years” — “Nine-ten months since our dog-walks,” I corrected — “she would have cut you off by now.
But she hasn’t, which tells me she doesn’t think you’re as bad as you think you are.
I detect the ‘Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations,’ which I thought we got past.”
“Uhm,” I said; “despite all the dumb, stupid things I did trying to be forthcoming? The Facebook messages, the blizzard of texts, etc?”
“She backed away,” my counselor added; “but she hasn’t pushed you away.”
“She never set boundaries,” I said. “Most others have.
And I kept it up, as if I had any idea what I was doing, after 44&1/2 years married to one who liked me from the get-go.
****** ****, et al, counter Hilda. ‘No pretty girl will talk to you,’ yet many do.
Here I am 70 years late finding Faire Hilda and my parents were WRONG.”
“And you get to live with how they left you,” my counselor added.
“Who I think of is *****, a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool, where ****** **** is my aquatic balance-training instructor.
At age-63, ***** is what we dudes call “a looker.” Up-close-and-personal I see the crows-feet and wrinkles, but on her lifeguard-stand she’s in her 40s.
Months ago she said hello to me by name in passing, and despite my upbringing I got up the nerve to say hello back later.
Why in Hell’s name would she ever be interested in me? At age-75 I’m hardly Adonis. Apparently I’m interesting to talk to: “funny, and not boring as Hell,” I’m told.
And despite my many foulups ***** kept talking to me.
***** set boundaries, but she wasn’t blunt about it. She mentioned her husband in passing, but we kept on being friends. I walk into that pool, and here comes *****!
Others set boundaries too. With pretty *****, who heads my pharmacy, I actually met her husband. ******’s husband was walking behind her in my supermarket. (****** is another lifeguard.) She also mentioned him in passing.
I e-mailed another lady, and she responded mentioning her husband. That gets the onus off me; we can be friends unencumbered by all that silly boy/girl stuff.
But ****** **** never set boundaries. I wondered if her husband existed. I also wondered why I was getting away with what I was doing.
I inundated her with all-too-many texts, yet she responded to quite a few. I since cut way back, but she still often responds. I feel like I exploded in her face, yet she still hasn’t pushed me off.
We’re worlds apart. She’s absolute class, yet I’m the antithesis of class.”
“That’s what you think,” said my counselor. “If you were as awful as you think, she would have pushed you off by now.”

Two successful female brain-picks in one day

That’s AMAZING for a graduate of the “Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations.”
I imagine my constant-readers know all about the “Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations;” so I’ll just footnote it.
My first brain-pick was ****** ******, once an editor at the Mighty Mezz. She now directs Public Relations at Finger Lakes Community College, hired away from the Messenger by my old Messenger Executive Editor, who went to FLCC after the newspaper changed owners. That guy died of a heart-attack, so ****** replaced him.
I e-mailed ****** about passive-voice, which she abhors, as do I.
We’d met at Mighty Weggers, and discussed passive-voice.
I thought it was use of “has been” instead of “was.” But she said something about removal of the subject, and how Academia, overly guilty of that, drives her up-the-wall.
I never heard of that, so requested explanation.
“If my husband tells me the dishes weren’t done, I wonder if the dishes were supposed to do themselves. I asked him to do the dishes, but he’s not telling me he didn’t do them.”
“That’s passive-voice,” she said; subject deleted. “The one who didn’t do the dishes was my husband, but that wasn’t what he told me.”
Finally, passive-voice explained, or so it seemed.
And by a female of all things. Yrs Trly is used to getting shot down. If I make any contact with the opposite sex, I’m automatically on-the-make.
My other brain-pick was ****** **** ******, my aquatic balance-training instructor at the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool.
I tried non swimming-pool therapy at a nearby hospital, and they suggested a few things I wanted to discuss with ****** ****.
****** **** is a water-therapy instructor, and usually has clients.
“I’m available if you are,” I said to her after our class. (She leads the class.)
Yada-yada-yada. “What about this?” then “What about this?”
The way that non-pool therapy told me to get out of a chair, for example, didn’t contradict, but I was doing it wrong on both counts.
That I was able to pick her brain 5-10 minutes is amazing. —A) She usually can’t spare the time, and —B) I made too many mistakes with her, many at the behest of a boy/girl coach I don’t listen to any more.
Not too long ago a nurse for my semiannual physical asked if I developed any new allergies since my last physical.
“Yeah,” I said. “Ladies.”
“You better be glad I’m not giving you a shot!” she shouted.
I felt bad.
Like it or not I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, and much as I came to enjoy female companionship, it’s apparent any contact by me, a male (gasp!), makes them justifiably wary. “He’s on-the-make!”
Perhaps it’s because I’m a widower, presumably looking for someone to do my laundry, dishwasher, cook, etc, all of which I do myself. As I’ve done since my wife died seven years ago.
“Just be yourself,” my counselor advises. I guess “being myself” is to not suggest to a lady-friend. So far I’ve suggested four different widows join our weekly bereavement eat-out. Only one didn’t crash. One crashed three times.
Now word is getting around among those ladies I suggested. If I suggest, I’m on-the-make! If they suggest it’s okay.

---

The whole point of this blog is my surprise that a lady would respond to me. That’s Hilda: “No pretty girl will talk to you!”
The other day a lady-friend walked up behind me and called my name. I was speechless. I have to tell her to please bear with me; I’m a Hilda Walton grad.
Another lady-friend tells me I should get used to such contacts — that women love talking so me. “You’re funny, and not boring as Hell.”
“Or so it seemed” reflects my continuing confusion regarding passive-voice. I can’t get *******’s definition to jive with the “has-been” versus “was” of another editor friend.
So what does one do? Can you say “Google?”
“Passive voice produces a sentence in which the subject receives an action. In contrast, active voice produces a sentence in which the subject performs an action.” (That’s at https://www.hamilton.edu/academics/centers/writing/seven-sins-of-writing/1 .
*******’s explanation is the dishes did not receive washing; namely her husband didn’t perform the dishwashing, and he avoided saying so by using passive-voice.

• Hilda Q. Walton was my immediate neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. Like my parents she was hyper-religious. She convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were despicable; “No pretty girl will talk to you!” Her husband was probably playing around. My parents heartily agreed, since I was already rebellious for not worshiping my holier-than-thou father.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 13 years ago. Best job I ever had. I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern. (I had a heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well. That defect was repaired.)
• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.

Never-again

“Bob, that was the opportunity of a lifetime; you shoulda asked her to dinner!”
That was my good friend ******, who I eat out with most every week. ****** is a widow who like me lost her beloved, she six years ago, me approaching seven.
A third person had been joining us, but he fell or had a stroke, whatever, and had to be hospitalized. This most recent eat-out was the first time he rejoined us; his wife died too.
“Not this kid!” I shouted. “I’ve mucked up enough already. I ain’t pressurin’ that lady — she’s got enough worries as it is.
I already took yer advice once and crashed mightily in flames — NEVER AGAIN!” I said.
“Yer being ridiculous!” ****** said.
I was detailing my delivery of gift-seeds from the Red Cross to a lady-friend at the Canandaigua YMCA. It went over way better than expected. Which is interesting, since that morning I was scared to death to say anything to her or anyone else.
Some days my parents and Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor are ascendent; like how will I have enough nerve to say anything as promised?
That Sunday-School Superintendent is the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, who I’ve blogged many times. My parents were Bible-beating Baptists who agreed I was despicable.
“What yer seeing here is a compulsion left behind by my wife = ‘Don’t throw away seeds.’ So what do I do with these seeds? I can’t throw ‘em out. Maybe I’ll give ‘em to ****** ****; she’s not writing a blog every 10 seconds.”
And so I gave her the seeds.
She loved it, or so it seemed. She offered her hand, and we held hands at least 10-15 seconds.
“Yer just friends, right?” ****** said.
“Correct,” I said; “but doing so is always freighted with all that silly boy-girl stuff I’m never any good at.”
“It is not,” ****** shouted.
“I’m not you, and neither is that lady,” I said. “Never-again do I take yer advice for this boy-girl stuff.
Being myself doesn’t crash in flames. If she wants me to pay more attention, she’ll let me know. I ain’t pursuin’ that lady.”

Incredible daring

“I have a modest proposal,” I said Saturday, February 9th, to an aging widow in the YMCA swimming-pool.
Just after Christmas I struck up a conversation with this lady; her husband died 26 years ago.
“Uh-ohhh,” she said, smiling.
“You are a widow, and I’m a widower. I eat out most every week with another widow named ***** (‘Flowers by *****’). You may wish to join us. We all pay separately for our meals; there used to be three of us, but now it’s just me and *****. The other guy fell and was hospitalized. He also may have had a stroke, and can’t drive.
And if it’s hard for you to get around, I’ll pick you up.”
WOW! Did you read that? An act of incredible daring from a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, whereby any contact by a male toward a female is automatically EVIL.
“No women will ever wanna talk to you!” Hilda told me. My Bible-beating parents heartily agreed. I was already rebellious and of-the-Devil because I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
I was about 4 or 5 at the time.
“No,” she said. “I have a car. What day do you eat out?”
“Usually Tuesday,” I said; “but sometimes Wednesday. ***** sets the date.”
“Sometimes I have grandchildren to baby-sit,” she said. But she seemed interested.
I texted *****. But the main thing is my doing this took nerve. Faire Hilda and my parents marked me for life. I also had a wife who actually liked me, making it possible for me to avoid women 44&1/2 years.
Since she died I find to my surprise that women beside my wife like me too = that Hilda and my parents were full-of-it.
Doing this wasn’t that hard. I did it before, so had practice. It’s a shame my wife can’t experience the person I became. Had she not died, I probably would still be as antisocial as I was while married.

“You think too much”

“It’s all in your head!” said my good friend ******. We were eating out, as we often do.
“I’ve thought that myself,” I said.
****** is a widow. Like me she lost her beloved, six years ago for her; almost seven for me.
“Yer problem is you think too much,” she added.
Agreed, but I’ve heard it before.
Sadly I think there’s a reason. Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. (No need to explain that to constant readers.)
Early in my childhood Hilda convinced me all men, including me, were scum. My Bible-beating parents heartily agreed. (No need to explain that either.)
“No woman will ever wanna talk to you!”
When that happens, as it has with increasing frequency, I wonder why.
“Are they lonely?” “Do they need companionship?”
WHOA, dude! What about friendship?
Since my wife died I discovered I enjoy conversation with women, and they seem to enjoy conversation with me. While married I avoided contact with other females, who I was scared of anyway. I already had a female who liked me.
Marked for life by Hilda, et al, I wondered why any lady would enjoy my company. Hilda led to many muck-ups. There also is my lack of female contact over 70 years. Anything that happens with females I over-analyze, which leads to wonky conclusions.
“Is she lonely?”
Get real dude! “It’s all in your head! Yer blowing ordinary behavior way outta proportion. Especially with ladies —that’s Hilda.”
The other day I experienced the REAL ****** ****, as opposed to “the ****** **** in my head,” who never gets mad at me, and is predictable.
Made-up conversation pales versus real conversation.
She started mocking the fact I walk my silly dog in the Polar Vortex — only short; I worry about frozen tootsies.
Then she began parrying my snide remarks. If I wonder why this is happening that’s Hilda.
I prefer the REAL ****** ****, et al. And that’s all I’m doing = mere friendship.
Only per Hilda does friendship with ladies become suspect. (And evil.)
Hilda’s legacy is hard to reverse — my lady-friends are flip-flopping it.
Hilda and my parents spin in their graves; 14,000 rpm. Enough to power FL south of Orlando.

• My wife of over 44&1/2 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.

****-****-****

For the past couple weeks Yr Fthfl Srvnt has been carrying on a Facebook exchange with a long-lost cousin in NC.
This cousin is one of five “extraordinaries,” although I’m beginning to think only five is not enough.
Her father would be in their kitchen pounding the table with a pot, attempting to bring order into a giant family pow-wow. My cousin and I would be in her living room quietly discussing philosophy amidst the maelstrom of yelling.
“I wanna marry someone like my cousin ****!” I’d say. And amazingly I did. My wife was one of the “extraordinaries,” and now she’s gone, a victim of cancer.
Fond memories, of course. Her younger brother, last of my uncle’s children, and I were lobbing water-balloons into passing cars from the attic of their house in Lansdowne (PA).
We landed one in the back seat of a top-down Buick convertible. It’s angry owner stopped to pound the front-door of my uncle’s house. My uncle sent him packing. That uncle was first-born, also an all-knowing, knower-of-all-things. That Buick owner was no match for my uncle.
Years have passed since that pow-wow, which was in the early ‘60s. I was probably a high-school junior or senior — I began college in late 1962.
As a result of that pow-wow, one of an aunt’s two children was placed in our family. That aunt was committed to an insane-asylum after her husband bled to death in an at-home accident.
Placement was because my mother started crying amidst this pow-wow. That gathering was also where another aunt challenged the knower-of-all-things about his coat-hangers.
“Hey ****,” she asked; “how come all yer coat-hangers face the same way?”
“In case of fire,” he bellowed.
“Yer makin’ it awful easy for burglars,” my aunt snapped.
How can I forget this stuff!
Amidst the bedlam my cousin and I were calmly discussing Kierkegaard, Hegel, and Sartre.
“I wanna marry someone like my cousin ****,” I’d say. And I did, despite my torturous childhood.
I was convinced at an early age no woman would have anything to do with me; that I was rebellious and of-the-Devil. That was my hyper-religious parents and Hilda Q. Walton, my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School superintendent, also hyper-religious.

• My brother is also an all-knowing, knower-of-all-things. A wonderful opportunity to point out his blunders. Assertiveness and volume don’t make him right. We have a good time photographing trains. “Hey Jack; where we goin’?” “Main Street bridge in Gallitzin.” “We are not!” I shout. “Are too; Main Street bridge next to Tunnel Inn.” “WRONG-O, dude. Tunnel Inn is at 720 Jackson Street. Yer headed for Jackson Street bridge.”

Fight it!

“Fight it!” says my bereavement counselor.
“Every time you start feeling guilty because you like some lady-friend enjoying your company, step aside and remind yourself “that’s Hilda!”
As you all know Yr Fthfl Srvnt is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. Hilda was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. She convinced me all men, including me, were disgusting and evil. I was about 5 or 6.
“No girl will ever like you!”
Her husband, a hot-shot RCA engineer, was probably playing around.
My Bible-beating parents were enthusiastic accomplices. I was already rebellious and of-the-Devil because I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of Jesus’ right hand. My mother mellowed as I got older, but not my father.
My bereavement counselor is supposedly helping me through the death of my wife. But we spend a lot of time discussing my childhood.
That counselor made an excellent observation: “Your wife filled a gigantic void. She liked you. Now that she’s gone you grieve that as well as her death.”
Just recently I returned to my childhood home in south Jersey. It was extremely depressing. In 1992 I made a similar trip by motorcycle. It too was extremely depressing. I cried in a diner — recalling I never had loving parents.
My siblings will dispute that, claiming I’m rebellious of course. I’m also the first-born.
A constant-reader will question dredging up my childhood again. But my counselor observed “Your wife liked you, and that offset your horrible childhood. You don’t have that any more.”
I guess I’m “fighting it.” I’m having more success with ladies than I ever expected, even the pretty ones.
Faire Hilda is spinning in her grave: 14,000 rpm, enough to power south FL.
But she and my parents marked me for life; you don’t flip-flop such a childhood.

• “Q” stands for Quincy, Hilda’s maiden-name.
• RCA is Radio Corporation of America, defunct.

So be it!

Yr Fthfl Srvnt is pulling the plug.
It’s somewhat the fault of my lady-friend, but mainly me, compliments of Hilda Q. Walton.
Depressing as Hell!
Hilda is founder of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. Together with my Bible-beating parents, Hilda convinced me all men, including me, were despicable. I was about 5.
My parents heartily agreed. I was already rebellious and of-the-Devil because I couldn’t worship my father. Hilda’s husband, a hotshot engineer for RCA, was probably frogging around.
Together with my parents Faire Hilda helped found the church our family attended.
“No pretty girl will ever wanna meet you!”
I also was happily married 44&1/2 years to a girl who claimed she liked me. It seemed she did. Add that to Hilda’s input, and I been cut off from females about 70 years.
This “lady-friend” is one of the few I befriended after my wife died. A few months ago she wanted to meet my new dog. She has a dog herself, so suggested we walk our dogs at a nearby park.
So began three consecutive weekends walking our dogs at that park. As far as I know she’s married — it sounds like she is — but no sign of her husband ever.
That had me worried. My hairdresser suggested she was lonely. “I don’t think so,” I said. To me, this lady is class.
I decided maybe I should be more forthcoming = a mistake! With Hilda every male/female relationship has evil connotation. Merely enjoying one’s company was suspect. Throw in my being cut off from females since childhood, and I’m likely to blow it.
This lady and I have a professional relationship. So I have her phone-number, and it happens to be her personal iPhone.
So began a torrent of texts, many “forthcoming,” many which I regret, but texts can’t be retracted.
I don’t have phone-numbers of other ladies I befriended. Which is fortunate, since it keeps me from being “forthcoming.”
One lady was a pleasant surprise. She said hello to me out of the clear blue sky, so I set about cranking enough nerve to say hello back. Not easy for a Hilda grad.
I’m glad I did. Our friendship blossomed despite my numerous faux pas — all a result of being cut off from females so long.
And fortunately I don’t have her phone-number, so can’t goof up like I did with this other lady.
“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on...” quoting the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.
Tragic! And I blame Faire Hilda more than anything.
A constant-reader will criticize my dredging up Hilda again — by doing so I return to negative perception of my childhood.
I’m fighting Hilda and my parents, and am surprised at the success I’ve had. Then too the person I am now is no longer who I was earlier.
With luck this lady never knew this was going on — I hope she doesn’t.

• Hilda Q. Walton was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. “Q” stands for Quincy, her maiden-name.
• RCA is Radio Corporation of America, defunct.

YOWZUH!

“Are you still making those train-calendars?”
A pretty clerk at the Victor Post-Office asked me that.
YOWZUH! She recognizes me from long ago, and even remembers I did train-calendars.
Flowing red hair — dyed, but not bad — and smashing to look at; probably in her 40s.
I went to the Victor Post-Office to pick up a large carton that couldn’t be delivered because I hadn’t plowed my driveway after a gigundo snowstorm.
I went there after a doctor physical.
Years ago that clerk worked at the West Bloomfield Post-Office. They have a copy of my annual train-calendar, and it’s their office calendar. Every time I visited I told this pretty clerk all about that month’s picture. She always was interested. —I was flirting, I suppose. She loved it.
For example:
“That train looks like it’s coming toward you. Actually it’s going away. The two locomotives are pushers; they are on the rear of the train pushing it uphill. My brother and I call that a ‘cheat-shot.’ The train looks like it’s coming, but actually it’s going away.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well now ya do.”
Many are bored when I explain train-photography, but not this girl. I think her name is “Janeen,” but that’s too far back. There she was, smiling broadly. I was dumbfounded.
Mrs. Walton, who I’ve blogged many times, is spinning in her grave. 14,000 rpm; harnessed she could power south FL.
As I’ve said before Mrs. Walton was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. Together with my Bible-beating parents she convinced me all men, including me, were SCUM!
“No pretty girl will ever wanna talk to you,” she’d declare.
My beloved wife died over six years ago. Since then I’m discovering Mrs. Walton and my parents were full of it.
Many girls love talking to me; contrary to what I expected. 70 years late I’m discovering this. Herewith the Post-Office clerk; it wasn’t me that started the conversation; it was her.
I planned to note she looked familiar, but she beat me.
Mrs. Walton is spinning in her grave. And I’m smitten. That pretty lady remembered me, and even my train-calendars. “This guy does train-calendars,” she told a coworker. “And they’re fabulous.”
Any pretty lady that recognizes me and my calendars gets a calendar of her own. She’s reversing Mrs. Walton.

Hilda Q. Walton

Erlton Community Baptist Church. (The Sunday-School addition is on the other side.) (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)


—Now that 14 blogs have been categorized “Hilda Q. Walton” it’s time to explain Faire Hilda.
As I’ve said many times, Hilda was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent during my early childhood.
Hilda and my hyper-religious father were instrumental bringing Erlton Community Baptist Church into being. Erlton in south Jersey was a suburb of Philadelphia where I lived as a child.
I’m sure others were involved. A dilapidated old chapel was rehabbed in the late ‘40s. In 1948 or ’49 that building was moved to a new location in Erlton. A major highway was temporarily closed, then the chapel raised on blocking so a basement could be built. The sanctuary was extended. Three side-windows became five.
When finished a cornerstone was laid by the church’s young pastor my father heartily approved. For a couple years my father was a deacon. But that pastor moved on in 1956 or ’57. He was replaced by a pastor my father didn’t like.
My father left in a rage. No one was listening to him.
The sticking-point was that new pastor wanted to end Sunday evening services, which few attended. We started attending evening services at a far-away church. My sister and I felt out-of-it — me scared.
That only lasted a few months. My father found a new job near Wilmington DE. We moved, my father researching a church holy enough for him.
That was Immanuel Baptist Church in downtown Wilmington. That was while I was still around. After I graduated college, they moved to a new church when Immanuel’s pastor began speaking-in-tongues. (By then I was out on my own.)
Erlton Community Baptist Church survives. Before we moved Mrs. Walton convinced church-members a Sunday-School addition was needed: a gigantic two-story brick edifice that could pass as a school.
It opened in 1955 or ’56, early enough for Mrs. Walton to serenade we youngsters about the evils of demon alcohol. —That it would rot our brains, which I guess it does if you guzzle enough.
Hilda was married to Stephen Walton, Sr., a hot-shot engineer with RCA (Radio Corporation of America). He smoked Lucky-Strike cigarettes. Perhaps he was playing around, which might explain why Hilda so hated men. How she managed two legitimate sons I’ll never know.
My parents made me easy pickings for Hilda. They continually badmouthed me as rebellious because I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
So Faire Hilda convinced me that like all men I was disgusting.
I remember dressing up as Elvis Presley for Halloween. Hilda angrily told me Elvis was “the bane of western civilization.” (How can I forget that, readers?)
In 1992 I rode motorcycle to south Jersey to reconnect my childhood. I was living in Rochester (NY) by then. Hilda, age 80, was still at 627 Jefferson in Erlton, next to our old house at 625. Her husband was long-gone.
Mrs. Walton drove me to Erlton Community Baptist Church, where she was still a member, but mad at the youngsters who no longer let her run things.
She still had a key to her beloved Sunday-School addition, but she poo-pooed everything we saw. We accessed a dusty alcove where my Down syndrome brother’s dedication was still on the wall. I doubt anyone knows who “Timmy” is.
Hilda marked me for life. Constant-readers know that. Every time I befriend a female, which is fairly often, Hilda spins in her grave. 14,000 rpm. Harness her and my parents and they could power south FL.

• “Q” stands for “Quincy,” although I’m told it also stands for “Q-lip” — something to do with The Three Stooges.

“Friends, no bennies”

“What, pray tell, are ‘bennies?’” I asked ******, my widow-friend with whom I eat out often.
She, like me, lost her beloved marriage-mate; she five years ago, me six.
We were discussing my adventures with women.
“Yer problem is you overthink everything,” she said.
“Not exactly,” I thought. “It’s the fact I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of ‘Gender’ Relations.” No longer is it “Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations.” “Gender” is my doggy-daycare guy, who I once worked with at the Canandaigua Messenger newspaper. “Gender” is more precise, “Sexual” misses the mark.
“Sex,” ****** declared. “‘Bennies’ are sex. We’re too old for sex.” ****** is 64, I’m 10 years ahead of her.
“I hafta talk to you,” I said recently to *****-the-lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool where I do balance-training.
One could say ***** is one of my female adventures. A few months ago she said hello to me by name. Contrary to my upbringing I decided I should be able to say hello back, which I did later.
I’m awfully glad I did, an act of incredible derring-do for a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. There were others earlier, but 10 years ago I would have avoided *****.
Another female adventure is my aquacise instructor. “Hot!” my widow friend said.
“Nope!” I shouted. My widow-friend dialed back to “cute.”
“I’ll tell you why,” I said. “It’s that smile in her Facebook profile-picture. And that’s coming from one who badmouths yer online suitors telling you they like yer smile.
I wish I could smile like that. That aquacise instructor probably had a pleasant childhood. I didn’t.”
I’ve only done one Facebook “like” over 10 years. And it’s probably the only “like” I’ll ever do. I have little time for Facebook. I “liked” that picture.
Fortunately I don’t have *****-the-lifeguard’s phone-number. I do have my aquacise instructor’s phone-number; she gave me her business-card. That phone-number is her personal iPhone.
Not having *****’s phone-number saved me from deluging her with the torrent of texts I hurled at my aquacise instructor.
Texts can’t be retracted. I wish I could have retracted many. They were prompted by not knowing what was going on after walking my dog with that aquacise instructor three times in quick succession.
This is the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, combined with being happily-married 44&1/2 years. I have no experience dealing with females.
“Friends,” my widow-friend observed. “That’s all it was. She enjoyed yer company.”
That’s not how it is with Faire Hilda. All males are disgusting, prone to EVIL = attracted to women not approved by Hilda.
As I’ve said before, Hilda was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent. Together with my Bible-beating parents she convinced me I too was disgusting. (I was about five.)
I carried that albatross 70+ years. Combine that with being married 44&1/2 years to a female who actually liked me, and I usually goof up with women.
Despite that women keep talking to me. I’m easy to talk to, and harmless.
My widow-friend and I are miles apart, yet she keeps eating out with me.
And *****-the-lifeguard keeps talking to me, and now I’m getting eye-contact. I wasn’t at first, and I flubbed innumerable times.
My aquacise instructor and I are also far apart, yet she keeps smiling at me despite my deluge of texts, plus a Facebook message I call “the proposition.”
“Oh Hughes, will you get over it?” says my doggy daycare friend. “Hilda and yer parents are all dead.”
I can’t just flip-flop my past. My counselor agrees. She’s supposed to be my bereavement counselor, but all we talk about is my childhood.