“Here she comes!”

—“Did you wanna speak to ***** again?” asked *****’s assistant from inside my pharmacy.
“I have one more thing to ask her,” I said.
GOODIE! Here she comes! Bouncy-bouncy!
We’re both probably thinking the same thing = “we’re gonna talk!”
Here comes *****, who I hafta force myself to not call “pretty *****.”
Calling her that would be flirtatious.
She’s not gorgeous, she’s married, and I’m old enough to be her father.
But she’s pretty enough to have been intimidating when I first met her: “no way will I ever become friends with *****.”
She’s also a tiny little thing, but has incredible moxie.
It’s her pharmacy, just in-store in a supermarket, but she’s head honcho.
***** is turning out to be much more pleasant than I ever expected.
I first encountered ***** in a big-box pharmacy across the street from that supermarket.
She always looked mad; I don’t think I ever saw her smile.
Once she was assigned to give me a tetanus shot: “Uh-oh! Here comes angry *****. Gotta be on my best behavior!”
She’s not angry anymore; now I see “smiling *****!”
I realized I wasn’t seeing “angry *****” across the street; I was seeing “up-the-wall *****.”
Now that she’s on her own I see happy *****.
Which makes me happy too. What a joy seeing a happy girl!
She and her husband have two very young children.
Their little boy, currently age-6, is apparently a serious railfan.
I found this out because every year I give ***** one of my train-calendars, which she passes along to her little boy.
He’s thrilled with that calendar, and takes it to bed with him. He also has many of my train photos plastered all over his bedroom walls.
I still have many of my previous train-calendars on hand, so I went through ‘em so I could pass along previous calendars to her little boy, via *****.
I hadn’t seen ***** for a couple weeks — often it’s just her assistants or her husband.
Finally, the other day: *****. Hooray-hooray; “happy to see ya!”
***** is probably my favorite lady-friend; but mainly because we talk — and ***** loves talking.
“Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk!” And I love talking too.
Two years ago she gave me a flu shot in her new pharmacy.
Shot finished, I thought she’d wanna leave immediately to go back to work.
Nope; she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. She wanted to talk!
I was dumbfounded: a pretty girl wants to talk to me? This is not the way I was raised.
Apparently I’m a rare bird; unlike most men I really enjoy women chattering with me.
It’s probably due to my childhood; that long ago I was told no attractive lady would ever talk to me.
“We could talk forever,” ***** once said to me.
“Yes we probably could,” I realized later.
“Boy I sure am glad I saw ***** today,” I thought to myself as I motored home.
I needed a pretty-lady fix, and ***** was perfect.
We talked and talked and talked some more. As follows:

“You said something about the DEC.”
(Department of Environmental Conservation, a state-of-NY bureaucracy).
“Is that along 5&20 west of I-390?”
“Left side.”
“Right side for me; I was driving bus in from the White Horse. It was a nice ride; a country bus-route. I passed that DEC coming in.
I have another question if you have time.”
(She stood there waiting — she didn’t walk away.)
(“DREAMIN’!”)
“You also said something about owning a farm. Does that make you a farm-girl?”
“Nope!”
“So is ***** (her husband) a farm boy?”
“Through and through! Lotsa soy-beans.”
“Corn?”
“Yep!”
“Any animals?”
“No animals; no horses, no cows, no goats, nothing. I'm not a horse-person.”
“How many acres?”
She rolled her pretty eyes skyward, trying to figger the math. “About 1,500,” she said.
“Holy mackerel!” I exclaimed.

Pointless yammering, but it sure is fun.
It disproves “No pretty ***** will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”

• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) through my area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where I live. It used to be the main road across Western New York before the Thruway.
• Interstate-390.
• 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. 5&20 was part of a Park-and-Ride route in from Avon, NY.
• The “White Horse” was where I turned my bus around to come back in. That is the intersection of 5&20 and Route 15. I didn’t go as far west as Avon. A full-scale statue of a white horse is at that intersection.

“Lady-friends” redefined

—The other day one of my three so-called “lady-friends” at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool……
“Lady-friends” only in that they’re friends I can talk to who happen to be female. They’re not sexual triumphs, or lust targets……
All of whom seem will be helping an aging recluse emerge from his shell of self-loathing and confinement.
My friend seemed to take me to task for my being more inclined to strike up conversations with women than with men.
I wondered if she’d been kicking this around in her pretty head since we discussed it weeks ago.
I repeated what I said back then, that men were more likely to bomb. Women always succeed, and much to my surprise.
70+ years ago I was led to believe no woman would ever associate with me.
I repeated my example about some gentleman in my supermarket parking-lot taking my head off when I attempted to strike up a conversation.
As I see it the fact I prefer women is perceived as lust!
Not exactly! Although they are women after all.
“No female will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and deceitful!”
70 years late I discover that was BALONEY!
I shoulda disregarded it, but couldn’t because my hyper-religious parents heartily agreed. I was rebellious and Of-the-Devil because I couldn't worship my holier-than-thou father.
That’s a wonderful thing to tell a five-year-old little boy.
“So yes,” I would say to my pool friend. “I really enjoy that women wanna talk with me. It reverses my hoary past.
Indeed it is new and exciting, but it’s not lust.
Long ago I was convinced no female would ever talk with me, and now so many do. I encourage it!”
Yrs Trly strikes up conversations way more than I ever did before. Do it! Do it! Do it! Say something to ‘em. People wanna talk. Men, women, frumps, ugly persons.
I remember years ago talking with an aging lady who looked like the Wicked-Witch-of-the-West.
Most amazing are the pretty girls. Previously I was scared. “She won’t wanna talk with me; she’s gorgeous and I am nothing.”
“YIPPEE; a guy who wants to talk, and he’s not trying to snag me as a trophy.”
I’ve had it happen.

Lady-Friends

—“Lady-Friends” defined per The Keed: Talk not sex.
It’s becoming apparent saying lady-friends are the solution to life’s myriad problems is being misinterpreted.
I admit a tiny perverse element to my enjoyment of lady-friends. They are girls after all — the ones I can sexually enjoy. (“GASP!”)
That misses my point: I celebrate the fact I can interact with women at all.
At age-four or five I was convinced no female would ever associate with me.
This was my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor whose husband was probably fooling around.
Had my parents come to my defense, that neighbor woulda crashed mightily in flames. But my parents were also hyper-religious. I was already in trouble for being unable to worship my holier-than-thou father, who was also distant and unapproachable.
I was declared “rebellious!” So much for the self-worth of a little boy.
Enough about my childhood; you’ve heard it 89 bazilyun times.
70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt finds THEY were the evil ones. Marked-for-life by sanctimonious Bible-beaters.
And much to my pleasant surprise, I find women attracted to me. (“Impossible!”)
My hairdresser rightly described it. Eager to convince a little boy there was no way in a million years he could befriend an attractive female. And thereby scare him away from women.
They succeeded, but after 70+ years of silent self-loathing, I find people attracted to me, including girls. (“GASP!”)
I guess I should stop saying lady-friends are the key to happiness and fulfillment. Stop commenting about my making so many lady-friends.
Procreating the species is not what I’m about. With me it’s the joy of discovering I can interact with women.

I ain’t switchin’!

—Canandaigua’s YMCA has at least three entrances, maybe four.
My use of that YMCA goes back to before my wife died, and that was nine years ago.
Back then was before that YMCA expanded into a large abandoned Post-Office facility next-door.
So my wife and I probably used what used to be the main entrance then, the one facing out front.
That entrance was since converted into a semi-locked fire-exit.
Out back is the rear entrance. It’s locked but would unlock with your YMCA key-tag.
There also is parking back there, so I switched to out back. When or how I don’t remember.
Then I was advised to switch to aquatic balance-training in that YMCA’s swimming-pool.
I previously worked out in their exercise-gym — their so-called “Wellness-Center.” It has exercise machines and weight training.
With expansion into that abandoned Post-Office facility, that YMCA gained a new main entrance and lobby. It’s adjacent to a new swimming-pool.
A previous swimming-pool was retired and abandoned. The new pool is in a different location.
That new main entrance is on a side-street. It has a giant staircase I call “Jacob’s-Ladder.”
I used to be able to climb that staircase two steps at a time, but no longer. I still can climb it one step at a time. I’m not using the adjacent geezer-ramp yet.
With COVID-19, the rear entrance was decommissioned. In fact the entire YMCA was closed for months.
It reopened in August (I think), but per COVID-19 you hafta sign-up in advance to attend, then members check in with a temperature-check in the lobby.
The rear entrance could only be used if you called the lobby on your phone. Someone would come and let you in.
Use of that YMCA is way down. Prior to COVID-19 we averaged 20-25 per class in aquatic balance-training.
Now we’re down to three or four for one 45-minute class per week. It used to be two classes per week.
As more people get vaccinated against COVID-19, protocols at that YMCA are being eased. I still sign up for that swimming-pool in advance.
That YMCA will go back to key-tag checkin, although they’ll still wanna take your temperature.
Supposedly key-tag checkin will enable YMCA members to go back to using that back door. Which means I could go back to using that rear parking-lot and rear door.
But I don’t know that I wanna.
I’ve gotten used to using “Jacob’s-Ladder,” and parking my car out front.
By doing so I see if my lifeguard friend’s car is in the parking-lot. If it is:“GOODIE! She’s here, and I LIKE IT! We can talk!”
70 years late I’m talking to a female. (“Gasp!) And not only that, she’s an attractive female. (“Double-gasp!”)
“No pretty female will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are disgusting and Of-the-Devil!”
I ain’t switchin’!

• The story of Jacob’s Ladder refers to the vivid, prophetic dream in which Jacob sees a ladder stretching from Heaven to earth. The dream not only represented the connection between God and man; it also affirmed Jacob as the father of God’s chosen people, the Israelites. (Genesis 28:12, King James Version).
• My wife told me she once heard a Bible-beater tell her: “If the King James Version was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me!”

She waved

—The other day my nurse-practitioner neurologist, who I visit every six months pursuant to my ongoing struggle with dreadful balance……
Suggested I discontinue aquatic balance-training in favor of my dry-land physical-therapy.
I currently do both.
“And walk away from my lady-friends at that swimming-pool?” I screamed. “No way José!”
At this point my nurse-practitioner neurologist, a girl, rendered her wisened chuckle.
“A sex-crazed geezer, eh?”
Sex at my age? “What you been smokin’ boy?”
My interest in lady-friends is hardly driven by sex. Maybe somewhat — they are women after all.
To me it’s reversing my childhood. Convinced at an early age no pretty lady would ever have anything to do with me.
That would be my sanctimonious neighbor Sunday-School superintendent, whose dashing husband was probably fooling around.
My parents, Bible-beaters like that Sunday-School superintendent, heartily agreed. I already was in deepest doo-doo for not being able to worship my holier-than-thou father — “rebellious I tell ya!”
So yesterday (Friday, May 7th) I again visited that swimming pool — at Canandaigua’s YMCA.
Not my organized aquatic balance-training class, but on-my-own.
Plus meet my lady-friends. My favorite lifeguard friend at that pool is not there on Fridays. But others might be.
Just sloshing around in that pool is beneficial.
My only “lady-friend” was *****, a new lifeguard, and she’s only a “maybe.”
***** is young and cute. She seemed to want me to say hello the other day.
So I tried a little harder the next time I saw her: let her know I like her.
My all-knowing brother in Massachusetts loudly declares pretty girls are a dime-a-dozen.
Thank goodness they are. If ***** bombs, I’ll try someone else. I usually succeed.
Let ***** conclude I’m not lusting after her. Talking yes, sex no!
In other words, let ***** attain “at ease” with me.
No pushiness on my part.
If I can’t have her feel comfortable, try someone else!
So last time I avoided *****, thinking I would only respond if she wanted me to.
NOTHING!
Yesterday she seemed more at ease.
There she was striding poolside to go on duty, so I kept looking to see if it was *****. Her name was on the bulletin board, and I was in the pool.
She noticed I was looking at her, so she waved.
Hooray-hooray! More comfortable mayhap? I hope so!
If ***** bombs, try someone else!
Lady-friends are a dime-a-dozen; I make lady-friends like crazy!
Women love talking, and I encourage it.
I learned how to get ‘em started: strike up a conversation with a lady, and off-we-go!
“The only way you can reverse your childhood,” my bereavement-counselor says; “is to make as many lady-friends as you can.”
That bereavement-counselor seems to be the only one who understands my attraction to lady-friends.

• Even at age 77, overweight, flaccid, and way over the hill (although I don't remember a hill), I have lady-friends galore, probably because I encourage them to talk with me.

It’s just talking

—Critics complain about my so-called “girly” blogs.
That I shouldn’t be so blown away by my incredible success with women.
“They’re faking it!” my critics say. “They’re just being sociable.”
To which I say (“awful temerity, unmitigated gall, and horrific audacity”) if they’re “just faking it,” they’re really good at it.
“We could talk forever,” says my lady-friend at my pharmacy.
She’s head-honcho of that pharmacy, and she’s fairly pretty — pretty enough to intimidate me just a few months ago.
As soon as I appear, she jumps up from her workstation so we can talk.
Her quickness is hardly sexual. I seriously doubt I could sexually attract a girl when I’m age-77, overweight, outta shape, and hardly can walk.
Enter my cousin **** in NC: “none of that matters! What women want most is a guy who will talk with them.”
Add respect, and treat ‘em like real persons.
Plus let ‘em talk to you. I.e: don’t butt in, and don’t cut ‘em off!
A lady-friend tells me how she hates talking with men because they try to take over a conversation.
This Kid doesn’t; I let ‘em talk, and thereby attract lady friends galore.
Over the past six or seven months, Yrs Trly discovered ways to get ladies to start talking with me — like striking up a conversation.
WOMEN WANNA TALK!
The one who ends a conversation with a lady is usually me. Let ‘em start talking with me and they won’t stop.
“We could talk forever, and it sure would be fun, but I gotta buy groceries.”
Apparently striking up a conversation is fairly rare.
This Kid does it a lot: “Here she comes, now say something to her!”
With men I may get shut down, but with women it always works!
If the man is with a woman, I get lunched.
I’m hiking Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and here comes a cute young jogger.
“DO IT DO IT! DO IT! Say something to her!”
She was thrilled: “Yippee, a guy who wants to talk with me, and he’s not hitting on me!”
“I hope we meet again,” she says. —Three times so far.
My so-called “girly” blogs are not about sexual triumph.
They celebrate the fact I can even interact with women at all.
I have this horrible childhood, whereby no female would ever have anything to do with me.
By encouraging them to talk with me I attract lady-friends like crazy.
I have my doubts about “HUMOR HIM; he’s just an old geezer.”
Not when I attract so many lady friends.
And it’s only because I encourage ‘em to talk with me.

She’s talking to me

—“Have a nice day!” chirped pretty ******* as I walked away from her to do grocery-shopping.
She’s not gorgeous, but she’s young and cute.
All I did was say hello to her, and the reason I do is because she always smiles at me.
She’s a big sturdy girl, whose smile makes her a pretty-little-thing.
Her voice sounded like she wanted to talk. But I ain’t pushin’ her hard. Let her feel at ease!
I managed all three of my lady-friends at that supermarket yesterday (Friday, April 30th), ******* being the first one. ******* is the cutie-pie.
“There are three I know in this supermarket, and you’re one of them,” I said to *******, who would be “Long-Tall-Sally,” except I don’t call her that to her face.
I think her height and skinniness embarrass her, and I refuse to hurt her feelings, bleeding-heart liberal that I am. (“GASP!”)
I used the restroom before my long drive home, and when I came back out, there was pretty ******* stocking asparagus or something.
She’s a store-employee in Produce.
“I wouldn’t bother you, but someone just told me you’re a twin,” I said to her.
“Yes I am,” she said smiling.
“We worked together here a while, but then my twin-sister quit.”
“She’s talking to me,” I thought to myself. “And freely; she’s at ease.”
“No pretty ******* will talk to you, Bobby! You are disgusting and sinful! Your heart is full of lust!”
Yet here I am talking to pretty *******, and it seems she wants me to.
Give a female a chance to talk, while not hitting on her, and she won’t walk away.
“Identical?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” ******* said. “We looked a lot alike, but my sister’s hair was darker.”
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada” until I finally left.
“Yes *******,” I thought to myself. “There are dudes out there who just wanna talk.”
Although I admit to a smidgen of perversity to our relationship: I’m a guy, and ******* is a pretty young girl.
We’re wearing masks, but her twinkling eyes are ravishing!
The purveyor of “No pretty ******* will talk to you……” spins in her casket.
14,000 rpm, enough to power FL south of Orlando.

• “Long-Tall-Sally” is a rock-’n’-roll song done during the 50s by Little Richard.
• 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).

Puh-leeze!

“AHEM!”¯

—“Mark, is there any way I can delete these buxom ‘friend-suggestions’ from my laptop Facebook?”
Thankfully, they’re not on my iPhone Facebook, not yet anyway.
Just the other day each “friend-suggestion” had an “X” which vaporized the “friend-suggestion.”
I’d see some chesty vixen in my “friend-suggestions.” “Oh for Heaven sake!” Followed by zapp! GONE!
Sanctity and order restored!
Last night no Xs on a deluge of scantily-clad hotties (pictured above).
“Now what?” I probably fired up a few sluts by mistake in my feeble attempts to delete.
“Goodie; that Hughes guy is firing up our slatterns.
We got one Mark!”
“Hit him with more. He’s a dirty-old-man!”
“Mark, you’re barking up the wrong tree” — although they’re probably fake accounts. “Friend” something that poisons my computer?
“No way José!”
I think of two of my actual lady-friends. Neither are well-endowed. Both are rather flat.
But when they smile at me I am smitten!
One is old enough to be a grandmother, but here she comes. She wants to talk with me, ergo she wants to hang out with me. (“She’s faking it!”)
The other is a tiny little thing. She probably weighs less than 100 pounds.
Two children so far. I’m always amazed, and I told her.
If either of these two smile at me, and their eyes tell me — we’re wearing masks — I am DONE!
That indicates they enjoy my company, which counters “No pretty lady will enjoy your company, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
That second lady-friend jumps away from her workstation, smiles, and comes to talk with me. (“NOPE!”)
Mark and his busty tarts get avoided.
Maybe if he lobbed smilers at me I’d be tempted.
But even they wouldn’t be my actual lady-friends, and I have quite a few.
And they’re all smilers. Many are flat as a board!

• “Mark” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.
• “Evil and disgusting” is a legacy of my childhood, convinced of that at age 5 by Bible-thumping zealots.
• “All I need is one of your smiles, Sunshine of your eyes, oh, me, oh, my…..” —Scotch and Soda, The Kingston Trio, 1958.

Here she comes again

—“It looks like she’s coming my way again,” I thought to myself at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
I was sitting on a bench poolside, early for my aquatic balance-training class.
“I hope so; it looks like she is.” She stopped, not right next to me, but close-enough. And she coulda gone elsewhere.
That would be *****, my pretty lifeguard friend, who my brother in Massachusetts now badmouths as a “looker;” since I had the awful temerity, unmitigated gall, and horrific audacity to describe ***** a “looker” for age-65.
“FLIRT” is another derogatory term my brother uses. My numerous lady friends are all “FLIRTS.”
“I don't know if you’re interested or not,” I said to *****; “but I decided last night all my dealings with women are severely distorted by my childhood.”
“We know all about it BobbaLew,” she said. “All of us in some way were affected negatively by our childhoods.”
“Tell me more,” I said. “Like how your father always said you were a handful to raise.”
“He always said that,” ***** said. “And I got tired of it.”
“Like that time I met your parents in my supermarket.
Your mother I recognized, since I always partnered with her in our aquatic balance-training class.
‘Well you can have her!’ your father snapped.”
“They always got along pretty good,” ***** said.
“Crackpots!” I exclaimed.
“During childhood,” I said; “I was convinced at age-5 no girl would ever have anything to do with me.
But now so many do, and it’s just talking. Strike up a conversation with a girl, devoid of hitting on ‘em, and they won’t leave. Especially the pretty ones.
Women love to talk, and I like talking with women.
I’m the product of overly-judgmental, hyper-religious Bible-beaters,” I told her.
(I won’t repeat her response — taste and decorum.)
***** is not the most talkative person in the world, but here she comes.
Often it’s me walking toward her, but just as often it’s her walking toward me.
Here I am poolside quietly waiting for my aquatic balance-training class to begin, and here comes *****!
It looks like she wants to talk — with me, the lifelong scumbag.
(“DREAMIN’!”)
How we ever got there after all the flubs I made with her I’ll never know.
But I sure like talking with *****.
I hope my liking that isn’t too distorted.

• Per Matthew 7-1 of the King James Version, Jesus said “Judge not, that ye be not judged…..” My Bible-beating parents woulda loudly adjudged me “rebellious” for even bringing that to their attention.
• As my wife told me: she once heard a Bible-beater exclaim “if the King James Version was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.”

The curse of Hilda Q. Walton

—Would that I could run a photo of my pharmacist lady-friend, but I dare not because I don’t want her being stalked by some drooling geezer.
She’s become a good friend, and sadly my reaction to her is vastly distorted by my hoary childhood.
I keep thinking of her as “pretty *****;” and I don’t wanna think of her as “pretty,” because to me that’s flirtatious.
The Internet has become a repository of vipers and loathsome lotharios. I don’t want such people stalking *****.
Our friendship is also surprising.
I first met ***** years ago when she was working at a big-box pharmacy across the street from where she is now.
At that time I always thought of her as “angry *****.”
She gave me a tetanus-shot once, and “uh-oh, here comes ‘angry *****;’ gotta be on my best behavior. She always looks mad as Hell.”
She apologized to me about that later, and I realized it wasn't “angry *****” I was seeing; it was “up-the-wall *****.”
Sorely misused by her bosses; degreed in pharmacy, but being used as a clerk.
Now that she came across the street to set up her own pharmacy, she became much friendlier.
I never saw ***** smile across the street, but now in her new pharmacy I see her smile.
It’s extremely pleasant, and I really like the new *****.
Totally unexpected.
We became friends largely because of her little boy, age-6, who apparently is a serious railfan.
I’d give ***** one of my annual train-calendars, and she’d pass it along to her little boy. He was so thrilled by it he’d take it to bed.
Now he has many of my train photographs plastered all over his bedroom wall.
I also loaned them a couple of my train DVDs, plus I e-mailed them a few YouTube train-video links.
(***** gave me her business card, which has her e-mail address on it.)
GOSH! A girl, and a pretty one too.
She contradicts “No pretty girl will befriend you, Bobby! You are EVIL and filled with lust!” I.e. the curse of Hilda Q. Walton.
*****’s willingness to talk with me — and her eagerness is extraordinary — is extremely pleasant.
She’s not gorgeous; she’s probably late 30s or early 40s. But not long ago she was pretty enough to intimidate me — and still is.
I have other lady friends, age-58 through age-65, who are still attractive.
But it’s mainly because I can talk to them; ***** too.
My being so smitten by ***** is a function of my hoary childhood. (“Thank you Hilda and my parents”)! Sanctimonious and overly-judgmental Bible-beaters all!
Yrs Trly worries about his reaction to *****. I worry I’ve lost it!
I’ll be meeting ***** again sometime, and I worry about making a fool of myself, e.g. depressed if ***** is a little standoffish.
I also worry about ***** perhaps being more forthcoming (“impossible”).
I already blew it with another lady-friend, and I don’t wanna do it again — nor lose her.
Overreaction dudes, all thanks to Hilda and my parents.

• “Hilda Q. Walton” in the headline is an active link.
• 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.

A new reality

—“Back to reality,” I used to say my wife, as we arrowed onto Interstate-99 out of Altoona headed home.
Back to the semi-depressing life we lived in western NY near Rochester. Where things often went wrong, and I’d feel I deserved it, reprehensible and disgusting that I perceived myself to be.
Rail-fanning Altoony was always fun, trains climbing Allegheny Mountain with incredible frequency, all “assaulting the heavens!”
“All American railfans, BY LAW, should be required to visit Horseshoe Curve.”
(The “Mighty Curve” is just west of Altoona.)
The allure of Altoony continued after my wife died, but so did “back to reality!”
Even recently, chasing and photographing trains with my brother, “back to reality” continued.
Last February I noticed a difference. Returning home no longer seemed so unpleasant.
I thought about it (“Uh-ohhh…….”), then realized the difference is lady-friends.
Nickel Plate 765 at 70 mph is thrilling, but so is my pharmacist lady-friend turning toward me smiling. She’s happy to see me. “We can talk.”
Back home to Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, there to be joyously greeted by my lifeguard friend(s), and my pixie aquacise-instructor with her smiling eyes.
There would be pretty ******* at my supermarket, who I no longer call “pigtail-girl,” since that’s demeaning.
She always smiles at me when I say hello, and that’s all I do. Although we talked a tiny bit more recently.
“Kyle, Kyle, crocodile,” the ear-worm ***** gave me the other day at that supermarket.
“Kyle” is her son.
Plus the pretty young jogger I chance meeting along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
Plus all the other girls with whom I strike up conversations.
And per my lifeguard friend, it’s not flirting.
But if I strike up a conversation that tells that girl I was attracted to her. “Goodie!” A guy I can talk to, and he’s not hitting on me.”
My all-knowing brother near Boston noisily disputes my joyous encounters with lady friends.
“DREAMIN’!” he bellows; as do my other critics.
So why is my leaving Altoona no longer “back to reality?”
Lady-friends, I realized.
Totally inconceivable a couple years ago.
But now so many joyous lady-friend encounters occur even my rail-fanning is becoming secondary.

• Another lady-friend (a critic) once told me what women love doing most is talking. My pharmacist lady-friend is very much a talker; and much to my surprise.

On hangin’ out with pretty ladies

—Yrs Trly has to get used to the idea a pretty lady may wanna hang out with me as much as I wanna hang out with her.
“No pretty lady will wanna hang out with you, Bobby! You are despicable!”
I noticed if I strike up a conversation with a pretty young girl, devoid of hitting on her, she likes that I was attracted by her enough to do that.
So now suppose (“Gimme that remote Luke! He’s a-doin’ that there thinkin’ again!”) I tell my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool I wanna tell her a tiny story.
I bet that pleases her — “he wants to tell me a story = I’m attractive!”
I’m making her feel good.
“Some day I got a tiny question for ya! It ain’t much. Not now, yer on duty!”
Readers, I just set her up. She wants to hear the question, and right now.
“Goodie! He wants to talk with me. Ergo, I’m attractive!”
Suddenly the girl wants to hang out with me. I just inferred she attracted me.
(“If any guy did that with me I’d call the Sheriff!”)
So of course my lifeguard friend came to my side — “that Hughes guy is fun to hang out with.” (“Impossible!”)
I have to get used to this readers. “No pretty lady will hang out with you” is in my past, but keeps holding me back.
After my childhood, it’s hard for me to imagine a pretty lady wanting to hang out with me.

It’s becoming second nature

—“Thompson-Health Physical-Therapy, ****** speaking, how may I help you?”
“******,” I said. “Someone I know,”I said.
“Hi Bob,” she said.
“Yes,” I thought to myself. “I know you, and you know me. I like it!”
****** could thereafter deliver her COVID-19 speech.
I was Bluetoothing from my car as I approached, and pretty ****** is one of the “temperature-ladies” per COVID-19. She takes your temperature with one of them infrared guns as you check in.
****** is astonishingly pretty, as is her sidekick, who has prettier eyes, but she’s not as overall pretty as ******.
****** is not gorgeous. “Gorgeous” are the smilers.
****** smiles at me occasionally, but she’s not lighting up the room. If she were to do that we would be in deep trouble.
I’m always a sucker for the room-lighters.
****** was setting up a wheelchair for someone as I came in.
“I checked in with her,” I said to her sidekick, pointing at ****** as she arrowed the wheelchair outside.
I noticed ****** as soon as Physical-Therapy restarted maybe eight months ago.
****** is extraordinarily pretty, and by then Yr Fthfl Srvnt wasn’t as scared of pretty girls as I was maybe two years ago.
So how do I befriend an extremely pretty girl?
By then I’d had numerous successes telling ladies they had pretty eyes. So I thought I’d try the “pretty-eye” bit on ******.
KEE-RASH! I made her nervous — I could see it. A “lonely hot-to-trot widower” eager to flirt with every pretty girl that comes along.
I backed away; no words exchanged for over a month. I figgered I lost her completely, but one day while entering ****** left her workstation to go out.
“Hey! Where ya goin’?” I asked. “You can’t leave! Who’m I supposed to talk to?”
Dare I say it? She melted! (“Impossible!”)
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
Apparently I said the right thing: “all is forgiven if we can talk.”
Leaving Physical-Therapy is via a side door, not the lobby. The parking-lot is separated from the lobby by huge glass window-wall.
One afternoon while heading to my car, I looked inside, and there were ****** and her sidekick sitting at their workstation.
I knocked on the glass, and ****** et al waved back excitedly.
“That Hughes guy is nuts, but he wants to say hello to us. Ergo we’re attractive!” (“DREAMIN’!”)
There have been numerous waving encounters since.
The other day I looked through the window-wall, and pretty ****** waved at me before I did anything.
Usually I hafta get ******’s attention first.
And pretty ****** is the one most likely to wave at me.
I hafta get used to this readers: “No pretty ****** will be your friend, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
Enter pretty ****** — and I thought I lost her forever.
I should take it for granted a girl and I are gonna enjoy talking with each other. It’s happened too many times.

• Anything red is my critics, except for “flirt,” which I always do you red.
• I’ve had critics get mad at me, if they find me pleasantly jawing with a lady friend. (“You don’t wanna talk to that guy!”)

Here she comes

—Here we go again readers! Another turgidly boring blog celebrating what to me is another fabulous female encounter…
Yet to the average person it’s just another normal contact between persons of the opposite sex.
“I have a tiny story if you wanna hear it,” I said to my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
That lifeguard friend is impressive, a “looker” for age 65.
I always feel like I overreached, that I’m unworthy.
She was flitting about performing lifeguard duties, mainly sanitizing per COVID-19.
I interrupted her once or twice, but she gave me the “wait” signal.
Flitting finished, here she came!
“WOW!” I’d think to myself. “A ‘looker’ wants to talk with me!”
Actually I take it in stride. I’m not so surprised any more.
My confidence increased with so many fabulous female encounters.
No matter! I can't help but like it. She’s happily smiling and eager to hear my story. (“Impossible!”)
She walks right up beside me, then waits to hear my story, looking right at me, still smiling.
You’ve heard this before, readers: “No ‘looker’ will wanna hear your story, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
That night I happened to eat-out with two fellow bereavers. Both are widows: one lost her husband ten years ago, the other eight years ago. My wife died nine years ago.
Both of these friends are critics, and have given up reading my multitudinous “girlie” blogs.
I sit quietly and let my friends chat. I occasionally say something, or they say something to me.
These eat-outs are pleasant, but I don’t say much.
Comments were made regarding the fact I celebrate my girl-encounters too much.
“Those blogs aren’t sex bragging!” I said.
“I celebrate that I can interact with women at all.”
When interacting with women occurs, which is often any more, I notice and usually end up blogging it.
So my lifeguard friend wants to hear my story. This is entirely contrary to my upbringing.
Free at last from the albatross that held me back over 70 years — terrified and unable to interact with women.
“You’re taking this too seriously” translates to “you think too much!”
“Get over it!” they all shout.
“It ain’t easy,” I say; “to reverse ‘marked-for-life’ over 70 years.”
Over 77 years I met thousands, but only two seem to understand my hoary childhood.
One is my aunt, 90 years old, who probably had it worse than me. Her mother, my grandmother, always told my aunt she was a mistake — never shoulda been born.
The other is my cousin, my father’s brother’s only child. ‘I don’t know how my father ended up being as decent as he was after the childhood he had.’
I can't just slam-dunk reverse ‘marked-for-life’,” I say.
Then “you need help!” one critic said.
“That would be my bereavement-counselor,” I said. “She’s my bereavement-counselor, but all we ever talk about is my dreadful childhood.
Her advice is not that I bow and scrape to my all-knowing critics.
Her advice is that I keep making friends (talking) with ladies, that by so doing I prove my badmouthers WRONG.
So here came my “looker” lifeguard friend, a girl (GASP!), and she wants to interact with me.
Sorry dudes; I really like it! It counteracts “No ‘looker’ will ever associate with you!”
The fact she’s impressive isn’t as mind-blowing as the fact she wants to associate with me.