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

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.

Guilty-as-Charged

Anyone reading this blog knows Yrs Trly is doing aquatic balance-training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool. You also know my beloved wife of 44&1/2 years died over six years ago.
I am a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my Sunday-School superintendent and next-door neighbor growing up. Together with my Bible-thumping parents she convinced me at an early age all pants-wearers, including me, were despicable scum.
I was maybe five or six. My parents also convinced me I was rebellious and stupid. I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
Various encounters occurred since my wife died, all of which would have Faire Hilda and my parents spinning in their graves. 14,000 rpm; enough to power the entirety of south FL.
Such encounters could be avoided while my wife was alive. She liked me, so I could avoid females.
Now that my wife is gone I find females are attracted to me — some anyway. “What, pray tell, does she ever see in him? All men are disgusting.”
My biggest balance problem seems to be standing on one foot. I have trouble standing on both feet. My quad strength seems to have disappeared — quads being the muscles in front of your thighs. I’m almost 75.
They pull your leg forward walking, stepping down or climbing, and lifting out of or descending into a chair. Although in the YMCA’s swimming-pool we are walking against water resistance.
Developing quad strength seems to only offset part of my problem, although it may help.
The YMCA’s pool has two lifeguards on duty. One is sometimes *****; I don’t know her last name. She’s attractive for age 62. Up-close-and-personal I see the crow’s-feet, but on her lifeguard-stand she looks 40-ish.
Months ago she said hello to me in passing, so I decided I should have enough nerve to say hello back. There were others before her, but I’m Faire Hilda’s legacy.
Ten years ago I would have walked away scared — my wife liked me. I turned instead toward *****’s lifeguard-stand.
“Did you say hello to me a while ago?”
“Yes I did.”
“I’m late, but hello back.”
Boy am I glad I did that, an act of incredible derring-do for a Hilda Walton graduate. I’ve mucked up plenty since, but she seems to wanna keep talking. She lives with her mother, or both parents perhaps. She’s also happily married as far as I know.
But yada-yada-yada anyway, despite my being no good at it. My wife liked me, so I could avoid talking to females the whole time we were married.
***** convinced her mother to try our aquatic balance training. ***** would help her mother by participating in our class.
A while ago ***** told me she was from Wellsville (NY), 20-30 miles south of my college.
“Okay, correctly pronounce ‘S-c-i-o,’” I said.
“Sy-oh,” she said. (It’s not “Ski-oh.”)
“Now, ‘C-a-n-e-a-d-e-a.’” She got it. ***** was clearly Wellsville.
When I found it was *****’s mother, I asked her mother the same questions.
“I heard the news mispronounce it as ‘Ski-oh,’” she declared.
“And I once heard them say ‘Nun-duh,’” I said. (“Nunda” is correctly pronounced “None-DAY.”)
“Know where Short Tract is?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “That pancake house is in Short Tract.”
(Neither of us knew the name of that pancake house.)
“Anyone who knows where Short Tract is, is worth talking to,” I said. “I bet Gov. Cuomo never heard of Short Tract.”
***** joined our class to help her mother, but seemed to be laughing more at my bumbling ineptitude — which I liked. “You’re totally out-of-character,” I said to ***** as we passed. To me she’s a lifeguard.
We formed a large circle with participants numbered “one” and “two;” I was a “one” and ***** a “two.” We “ones” marched clockwise dosey-doeing the counter-clockwise marching “twos,” shaking hands while passing.
Here comes *****! She grabbed my hand, and gave me a gigantic yank.
“WOW,” I thought. She’s playing with me.
Beyond that staying on my feet during a big yank in that pool is only something I wish I could do.
Guilty-as-Charged! She was playing with me, and I liked it.
By now Faire Hilda and my parents were up to 25,000 rpm, enough to power FL south of Orlando.
Another big yank.
I cornered ***** after class. “You can do that all you want! I really like it. Let’s do it again!” Another big yank.
We did it at least three more times.
“I wish we could do this a lot,” I said. “This is better than my dog pulling me through the park. If I got so I could keep my feet during a big yank in this pool, I might eventually be able to do that big step no hands into that kiddie-pool, or sit down onto a bench no hands without dropping into the seat.
More importantly I’m awful glad I got up the nerve to return *****’s hello. All the nattering-nabobs-of-negativism are weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth.

• “My college” is Houghton College in western New York, 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.
• A single ***** yank would not be as beneficial as someone towing me around that pool = continuous yanking.

Wars?

“Bob, can you unhitch that separator so we can switch to two lap-lanes?”
It was *****-the-lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool asking me to help move a lane separator.
“Really?” I thought. I turned toward the pool edge.
I was in the pool, and suddenly ******-****, my aquatic therapy instructor, was leaping ahead of me.
“I’ll get it,” she said. “You can join the class.”
******-**** is trying to keep ***** from being friendly?
Dream-on, Hughes. Yer wishful thinkin’ is leadin’ you astray.
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent growing up. Together with my Bible-beating parents she convinced me I was of-the-Devil and disgusting.
“No pretty girl will ever wanna talk to you!”
Both ***** and ******-**** are interesting, both happily married, yet neither compare to my wife.
***** is managerial, and I drove city bus. We’d be at each other’s throats in no time. ******-**** is a wonderful lady, a “liberal” like me, although she probably wouldn’t approve the label. But we’re miles apart.
Since my wife died six years ago I discovered Mrs. Walton and my parents were full-of-it. They ruined me for 65-70 years.
My wife actually liked me. She was the first female who did. That made it possible for me to avoid females. I was scared anyway.
***** was watershed. She said hello to me in passing, so I decided I should be able to get up the nerve to say hello back. Instead of walking away as I woulda done 10 years ago, I walked over and said hello.
I’m awfully glad I did. It seemed to go over well. Faire Hilda was spinning in her grave.
******-**** and I have been working together over a year. I got a new dog, and ******-**** wanted to meet my dog. Three times so far, and I always hope she shows again.
I discovered women seem to find me attractive. Not physically (are you kidding?), but easy to talk to. No macho posturing, plus I’m funny (so I’m told). I’m also old enough to be harmless, not a “dirty old man.”
So contrary to how I was brought up, I find myself attracting females. Hilda and my parents are spinning in their graves.
Was ******-**** trying to shut down *****? I don’t think so. But contrary to Faire Hilda’s angry disbelief I find I hafta allow for that.

• RE: “Two lap-lanes.....” —Part of the swimming pool gets configured for lap-swimming. Each lap-lane is defined by a floating “separator” chain. I think each lap is 50 yards. The Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool is mind-boggling.
• 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 13 years ago.

You wanna listen to this?

“You wanna keep listening to this?” I kept asking a lady I didn’t know. She met me earlier at Kershaw Park north of Canandaigua lake. I was walking my dog.
We met again. It wasn’t the supermarket, so we weren’t blocking aisles.
Somehow we started talking about my dreadful childhood. “Are you sure you wanna keep hearing this?” I asked. “This is long ago. It’s a sob-story.”
“It’s interesting,” she said; “but you can stop if you want.
If yer south Jersey how did you end up here.”
“Chasing my wife-to-be I guess. But that was Rochester at first.”
“Why Rochester?”
“Escaping my hyper-religious parents,” I said.
“That’s interesting. My parents were extremely Catholic,” she noted. “You Catholic too?”
“Nope,” I said. “My parents were tub-thumping, Bible-beating Baptists. My father was incensed I couldn’t worship him as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
That made me rebellious and of-the-Devil. And above all stupid. As if I could lead a rebellion. That’s Patrick Henry.”
Yada-yada-yada-yada. Also the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent. All men, including me, were disgusting.
Mix that with overly judgmental parents, and imagine what that does to a callow five-year-old.
“My mother later became depressed my father was turning me away. I had to split. Run away from home, I guess.”
“So now you seem okay.”
“Sorta. You don’t just flip-flop a childhood like that.
The fact I’m even talking to you has Faire Hilda and my parents spinning in their graves!”
And much to my father’s angry chagrin I didn’t return the Prodigal Son. (“Slay the fatted calf,” etc. —What, pray tell, does the fatted calf think?)

Chick magnet

(Sorry readers. I can’t put a picture on here due to insanity from PhotoBucket, my usual image-source. I’m trying to set up my own domain to escape PhotoBucket.)

“You keep looking at my dog like that, and I just might hafta come up there.”
Three pretty ladies were on the outside deck of a restaurant near Kershaw Park at the north end of Canandaigua lake. They were having beer after yoga, and I was walking Killian in the park. Killian is my new rescue Irish Setter.
“Go ahead,” the prettiest one said. She was the one doing all the looking.
“Oh, what a pretty dog,” one cooed.
Years ago I woulda kept walking, a legacy of Hilda Walton, my next-door neighbor during childhood, and also my Sunday-School Superintendent. No girl would ever wanna talk to me, especially not the pretty ones. That is, ones I deduced as pretty. “Pretty” to Hilda were prim-and-proper, knees covered, etc.
“Killian is a chick-magnet!” a friend declared.
That friend is another who lost her long-time marriage-mate. She’s a widow; her husband died five years ago, my wife six years ago.
Actually there are three of us, and we eat out one night per week. But one, a widower, fell sitting-down at a car-show, and broke vertebrae. He was hospitalized, so it was just me and my widow friend.
Occasionally I walk Killian with my aquacise instructor — she brings her dog. Even though we’re very different, I always hope she comes.
But I realized walking with her diverts all the ladies me and Killian attract. Killian is gorgeous, and also an Irish Setter = rare. I think ladies also wanna meet someone whacko enough to take on a lunging monster.
“You don’t see men wanting to pet your dog,” my widow-friend observed. “Some do,” I noted; “but many avoid me.”
“Dogs and babies,” my widow-friend said. “My husband called ‘em ‘chick magnets.’”
“Walks with Killian at Kershaw are turning my life around,” I added; “and 70+ years late! Faire Hilda is spinning in her grave.
And it’s like I don’t need Killian. Just say it, even to the pretty ones. If that turns them off, that’s their loss.
It’s too bad my wife can’t experience the person I am now.”
“And if she hadn’t died, you’d still be the same jerk you were before,” my friend commented.

• 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.

Another Kershaw foray

(Sorry readers. I can’t put the picture on here due to insanity from PhotoBucket, my usual image-source. I’m trying to set up my own domain to escape PhotoBucket.)

“You keep looking at my dog, and I might have to come up there,” I shouted.
I was at Canandaigua’s Kershaw Park for my weekly dog walk with Killian. We were passing “The Twisted Rail,” the old Muar House at the north end of the lake.
“Sure,” they said. I slowly walked up the long handicap ramp toward them, Killian leading.
“Oh, what a pretty dog,” they said. “We’re here for our weekly yoga and beer. There’s the yoga-pad.”
I looked over the railing and there indeed was the rolled-up yoga-pad.
“I just took a picture from that fishing-dock across the outlet, and you were in it. I just wanna make sure it’s okay with you before I text it to my friend in VA, who lives up here, and occasionally walks her dog with me.”
“As long as she doesn’t fly it all over Facebook.”
“That’s why I asked. She won’t; and I protect my ladies. I was like that when I drove RTS bus. Nobody messes with my ladies.
“Thanks for asking,” one said. “Many don’t.”
“Sniff-snort!” Nuzzle-nuzzle. “You’re forgetting me!”
“Along those lines, what if I blog this? I’d lede with that picture. I don’t know that this is blog-material, but I know how things are. The muse never shuts up.”
“All they’re gonna see is my back,” the pretty one said. “So it’s okay with me.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Blog it, blog it, blog it,” said pretty one.
“What makes it blogable,” I said; “is three meet-and-greets within my first five minutes of getting here. And many more thereafter, including you guys.”
Before my wife died, and I wouldna said anything — I’d have walked past.
Hilda Q. Walton, my next-door neighbor during childhood, also my Sunday-School Superintendent, is spinning in her grave. Along with my parents, also hyper-religious like Hilda. Faire Hilda convinced me all men, including me, were evil.
I don’t need to go into that again; I’ve already blogged it too many times.
Kershaw Park is reversing my dreadful childhood; 65+ years late. My silly Killian gives me an opening, but I get by without Killian.

• My new dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s nine, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, a very lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. (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.
• 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 12 years ago.
• “Q” stands for “Quincy,” although I’ve also been told it stands for “qulip;” something to do with The Three Stooges.

Yet another female friend

Yrs Fthfl Srvnt seems to have garnered another attractive female friend. Perhaps more my age, not 62 or younger.
“I was hoping I might meet you here again. I regret spilling all over you the other day.”
She smiled. I wasn’t playing the macho male card, which I’m never any good at anyway. Ladies seem to love that.
“Prostate removed, stroke, etc. Perhaps because of my stroke I say things I later regret.”
Smiling again. They love it, or so it seems. And it’s true; it’s not a snow-job.
I also find it pleasant I can do this. I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, whereby all men, including me, are “despicable scum” (her words).
No pretty girl will ever wanna talk to me.
Hilda was my neighbor during childhood, and also my Sunday-School Superintendent.
My parents, Bible-beating zealots like Hilda, heartily agreed. I was rebellious because I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
Imagine what this does to a callow six-year-old. Hilda also told me Elvis Presley was “the bane of western civilization.”
The fact my wife actually liked me, not who she thought I could be, continued reversal of my childhood. —My college started it. But my wife liking me allowed me to avoid attractive women.
With my wife gone — she died of cancer six years ago — I find faire Hilda and my parents were full-of-it.
“I may be mistaken, but I got the impression you worked here once.”
“I did,” she exclaimed. “Years ago I helped ******** in the old pool. But when Silver Sneakers came they wanted certification, and I wasn’t certified.”
“The fact I thought you worked here was why I hit you with all that garbage,” I commented.
“No need to apologize,” she smiled. “I’m a nutritionist.”
Nutritionists entertain stories of prostate removal?
No matter; I seem to have gained the friendship of another pretty lady. Hilda and my father are spinning in their graves! My mother became depressed because I’d left.
NO WAY was I gonna return the prodigal son.

• “Q” stands for “Quincy.”
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• My prostate was removed as cancerous over two years ago.
• RE: “Old pool” and “********.......” ******** is a retired aquacise instructor. She still helps, perhaps as a volunteer. When I first joined the Canandaigua YMCA it had a swimming-pool next to its basketball-gym. Things were rebuilt, including a new swimming-pool. I never used the “old pool,” but now do aquatic balance-training in the new pool.
• “Silver Sneakers” is an exercise program for senior citizens. My YMCA membership is “Silver Sneakers,” but paid by my health insurance.

Huggy-poo

“You know I’m no good at this huggy-poo stuff.”
I said that to ******, a friend at Honeoye Falls Goodwill. ****** is always thrilled when I show up with Killian, my new rescue Irish Setter.
I took Killian to a nearby park, and had an errand in Honeoye Falls.
“Nothing to give you this time, unfortunately. All I have is my dog.” I let Killian out of my car after a torrent of noisy barking.
Here goes. “I promised myself I would at least try.”
Only one arm so far — next time we try both.
Fear of sexual harassment charges, perception of being deduced a creepy old geezer.
It’s my history: graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. No female would ever wanna be hugged by me.
Hilda was my Sunday-School Superintendent, and my neighbor during childhood. My parents, heavily into Bible-beating like Hilda, agreed I was disgusting. My father was mad I couldn’t worship him as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
“Oh Hughes, will you get over it!” shouts **** ********, who I years ago worked with at the Mighty Mezz. “Hilda is dead-and-gone.”
14,000 rpm in her grave. Harness her and my parents and they could power the entirety of south FL.
Ya don’t just “get over it.” Marked for life from an early age.
What would my deceased wife think? A little jealous probably, but also relieved I was learning Faire Hilda was full-of-it.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 12 years ago.

“Why is it.....

....ladies are so much more fun to talk to?”
I said that to the girl returning my dog from doggy daycare.
“I’m down at the gas-station, and RUMPITA-RUMPITA-RUMPITA-RUMPITA! An orange Plymouth RoadRunner drives in.” Plymouths are no longer made.
I had just got out of my car, so I walked toward the RoadRunner.
“I heard ya comin’ in. I thought it might be a Hemi.”
“440” it said on the hood-bulge. Not a Hemi. “But a 440 is impressive,” I said.
“575 horsepower,” the owner bragged.
With that I walked away.
Ladies are more interesting. No posturing or gamesmanship.
I say something, and the dude wants to score points. Ladies don’t seem to do that, or so I’m finding out now that my wife died. Ladies smile and laugh at my jokes.
I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my neighbor during childhood, and also my Sunday-School Superintendent.
To pass muster with Hilda girls had to be prim and proper, knees covered. In other words boring.
All men, including me, were “despicable scum” (her words). My parents, Bible-beating zealots just like Hilda, heartily agreed. Imagine what that does to a callow six-year-old.
My whole time growing up I got this. Happily married 44+ years I could avoid it. My wife actually liked me.
How Hilda bore two sons with a smoker of Lucky-Strike cigarettes I’ll never know.
And some of the girls I jaw with are “lookers.” I never expected such. That’s Hilda’s legacy.
So 60 years late I’m finding ladies are interesting. And they seem to find me interesting.
Faire Hilda is spinning in her grave. My parents probably are too.

• A “Hemi” has hemispherical combustion-chambers, which make it breathe extremely well. “Hemis” could be very powerful. There have been three Hemis. First was 1951 through ’58; second was hemispherical heads on the large Chrysler V8 during the ‘60s. At 426 cubic inches they were extremely powerful; eventually outlawed by NASCAR. The third Hemi is recent, and I don’t know if it’s actually hemispherical combustion-chambers. I may just be Chrysler cashing in on the Hemi reputation.
• The “Q” stands for “Quincy.”

I woulda walked away

I’m sorry I keep harping on this. I can talk to pretty girls. It’s AMAZING!
I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, whereby as a callow youth I was convinced I was “despicable scum.” Hilda was my next-door neighbor during childhood, and my Sunday-School Superintendent.
To her all pants-wearers, including me, were disgusting. I was told no female would ever wanna talk to me. My parents, Bible-beating zealots like Hilda, heartily agreed.
I was walking my dog this morning at Kershaw Park north of Canandaigua Lake. He dragged me onto a pier, and it has handrails, which I want having questionable balance.
“Oh, I didn’t see you here,” I said to a pretty young girl on the pier. Not long ago I would have walked away. She had been running, and was taking a breather.
“Oh, what a pretty dog,” she said. Killian, my rescue Irish Setter, was copping a nuzzle.
Discussion ensued. Faire Hilda is spinning in her grave. My parents too, probably; although my mother became depressed I was estranged.
44&1/2 years I was married to the best friend I ever had. The fact she actually liked me meant I could avoid attractive ladies. Now that she’s gone I find pretty ladies attracted to me.
“I am 74, ya know,” I said.
“Ya don’t look it,” she said.
“Oh stop!” I said.
“Do you walk every day?”
“As much as I can. That’s why I got this dog. He’s a divorce-victim. Poor guy had to give up his dog, and I got him.”
Again, Faire Hilda is spinning in her grave. 14,000 rpm! Harness her and my parents and they could power all of south Floridy.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.

Wooziness

“I already chop my 100 mg pills in half to get my Atenolol dosage,” I said to *****, my pretty pharmacist. “What do you think about quarterin’ ‘em?”
What I haven’t said is my Sunday-School Superintendent, also my neighbor when I was a child, is spinning in her grave. So too are my parents, although it’s more my Sunday-School Superintendent.
“No pretty girl is ever gonna talk to you. You like all men are SCUM!”
That was 60 years ago. And now, finally, I find I can talk to pretty *****. And she seems to like it, always smiling at me. Others staff that pharmacy, but it’s always ***** coming to process my order. She always moves first.
This began a few months ago. I got up the nerve to tell her she seemed happier in her new pharmacy. She used to work at a Rite-Aid across the street. I needed a Tetanus-shot: “Uh-oh, here comes angry *****. Gotta be on my best behavior.”
“I’m sorry!” she cried.
“Thinking later, I realized it wasn’t angry ***** I was seeing. It was up-the-wall *****. Here, in yer new digs, I get smiling *****.”
She loved it, smiling broadly. My Sunday-School Superintendent is up to 14,000 rpm, as are my parents. Harness ‘em and south Florida could go green.
“I’m hoping you can tell me about Atenolol side-effects,” I said to her yesterday. “Dizziness, drowsiness,” she said. “How about wooziness?” I asked. “I feel woozy every morning when I get up. Plus my balance is questionable. I do aquatic-therapy balance-training in the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool, and it’s better than it was. But I feel like I’m beating my head against the wall.”
A couple weeks ago a nurse from my health-insurance came for an in-home health assessment. She noted that as someone like me gets old (“older,” she insisted), the ability to flush Atenolol out of my body degrades. So the dosage of my prescription may be too high.
“Oh yeah?” I commented. “I’ll run that past my doctor.”
That pharmacy, ***** perhaps, texted me they had a renewal of my Atenolol.
So I asked pretty ***** about it when I went to pick up the prescription. We’re gonna try quartering the pills.
Plus it seems I’ve gained ***** as a friend. My Sunday-School Superintendent is spinning in her grave! (Gasp!)
Used to be I dared not talk to a pretty girl — plus I had a wife that liked me.
Now, 60 years late, wife gone, I’m finding that was bunk.

• My neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent was Hilda Q. Walton — “Q” for Quincy.
• RE: “Try it......” —Quarter pills yes, but blood-pressure continues to be monitored every day as it’s been for years.

Make ‘em laugh

“Oh goodie!” bubbled *****, my pretty young pharmacist. “Your calendar; I was hoping we’d get one. I look forward to it.”
Every year Yrs Trly has Shutterfly make a calendar of train photos my brother and I took near Altoona, PA. I send ‘em as Christmas presents, although I was delayed this year by printing issues.
Almost $3,000 for 65 calendars. “Holy moly!” said another girl.
“Don’t forget I really love doin’ ‘em.”
I am a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my Sunday-School Superintendent, also my next door neighbor.
In concert with my parents she convinced me as a child all pants-wearers, including me, were scum. That no girl would ever wanna talk to me.
As a result I was always intimidated, especially by pretty girls.
My wife offset that by actually liking me. My wife liking me made it possible for me to avoid talking to girls.
Now with my wife gone I’m discovering girls seem to enjoy my talking to them.
“Ya wanna hear a story?” I asked *****. “Got a minute?”
“Sure,” ***** smiled.
“04T, east on Two, 242, CLEAR!”
I had to explain everything, and even then I’m sure she didn’t follow.
But she loved it. I was talking to her.
Mrs. Walton is now up to 14,000 rpm. “She won’t wanna talk to you.
But there she is, a pretty girl, smiling broadly.
***** wasn’t the first calendar I handed out. I delivered another to the nearby kennel where I occasionally daycared my dog before I put her to sleep. There I met ******, a co-owner of the kennel.
“Yippee, the calendar. We got a space for it.
“Wanna hear a story?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“04T, east on Two, 242, CLEAR!”
Again, no idea what I was talking about, but she was thrilled.
“Wanna hear another?” I asked.
“Sure,” she giggled.
This story was totally unrelated to chasing trains, but I had her holding her head in laughter.
Now Mrs. Walton is up to 20,000 rpm. She could power a town.
I keep discovering girls love my makin’ ‘em laugh, even when my stories aren’t that funny — even the pretty ones I previously avoided.
In other words, Mrs. Walton and my parents were full-of-it!
“Wanna hear a story?”
“Sure!”

• My 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.

14,000 rpm

“If I make ya laugh, do I get a freebie?” I asked the receptionist at my cardiologist.
I was on my way out — “see me again in a couple years.” I figgered they might need a copay on top of the 89 bazilyun dollars my medical insurance pays that cardiologist to shake my hand.
A while ago I did an Erie Canal cruise with fellow retired bus-drivers. When I returned to pick up my dog from doggy daycare, I said to the kennel co-owner “as you can see, the boat didn’t sink.”
Broke her up, then “No charge,” she said.
“Wait a minute!” I said. “Are you sure? Yer running a business here.”
“We like your dog, and you too,” she said.
Make ‘em laugh; collect freebie.
Not long ago an aunt died. She made 100, and I think half the reason she did was because she could laugh, especially at herself.
I.e. she didn’t take herself too seriously.
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my Sunday-School Superintendent growing up. She was also my next-door neighbor.
Together with my hyper-religious parents, she convinced me no female would want anything to do with me.
It’s taken 70+ years to reverse that, partly because my wife actually liked me, which allowed me to avoid women.
My wife died five years ago, so now I’m alone. And discovering women seem to enjoy my company = make ‘em laugh.
Perhaps two weeks ago I got up enough nerve to talk to a pretty lifeguard at the YMCA pool in Canandaigua. I do aquatic-therapy there for bad balance.
I heard her say “hello” today as she walked past. But I was distracted, and didn’t respond.
Okay, gotta make the effort: go over after aquacise and say hello back.
Hilda and my parents were ringing in my head: “She won’t wanna talk to you, lecher!”
I could sense them spinning in their graves.
Let ‘er rip! Hike all the way over there and ask if she tried to say hello.
14,000 rpm; Hilda and my parents are horrified. (Gasp!)
The lifeguard smiled. If I turned her off; it wasn’t my fault. She smiled instead, and we jawed a little.
Hilda and my parents were flat wrong!

• A good crotch-rocket motorcycle might get 14,000 rpm.
• 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 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that 12 years ago.
• “Q” stands for “Quincy,” her maiden-name.

“Before I go.......”

“Gotta do it,” I told myself as I climbed out of the pool at Canandaigua YMCA.
I just finished my hour-long aquacise class.
“Gotta walk all the way over and talk to that lifeguard. She seems to like it, and if that puts her off, it ain’t my fault.”
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my Sunday-School superintendent and next-door neighbor. She convinced me all pants-wearers, including me, were unworthy of female attention. That girls would avoid me like the plague.
My parents, as hyper-religious zealots, concurred.
My wife was inadvertently complicit in this. The fact she liked me made it possible for me to avoid females — she made other females unnecessary.
Now my wife is gone; she died over five years ago.
Way too late I’m discovering Mrs. Walton, and my parents, were flat wrong.
Every relation with females doesn’t automatically have sexual connotation.
A while ago I had a really pretty physical-therapist. Intimidated at first, I got so I could look at her. In my head Mrs. Walton was nattering me, but cutie was disproving her.
So on-and-on it’s gone. A couple weeks ago this lifeguard seemed to like I said hello to her.
So I walked over and started jawing. She smiled. Mrs. Walton is spinning in her grave — 14,000 rpm!

• “Q” stands for “Quincy.”