John Delach

I am interrupting “Good Golly Miss Molly” so I can complete Tessie’s story. In the process, I decided to explain Mary Ann’s and my long association with dogs. We both grew up with canine companions. I had three different dogs in my youth and so did she.

My first dog was a black Cocker Spaniel named Sugar that arrived in a big wooden crate one Saturday morning. Two delivery men from Railroad Express Agency placed the crate on our kitchen floor. Before they could open it and let her out, Sugar, relieved herself. An enormous yellow lake spread across the kitchen floor until Mom, equipped with a mop and bucket, took control. Even as a kid, I wondered how long that poor creature had been holding onto her pee.

Mary Ann’s childhood pet was a wire-haired Terrier named, Mickey. Mary Ann was told that Mickey was originally destined for Mayor Robert Wagner’s wife, but her serious illness altered that dog’s destination. Mickey’s new destination became the Donlon family.

Growing up, I lived with two other dogs, neither that I loved. The first, another Cocker Spaniel, that I shared with my cousin, Pat, was named, Puffy, In spite of my objections, this name stuck. Puffy was an awful dog. She freely bit people without cause that led her being sent to that mythical farm where bad dogs and sick dogs supposedly go to spend the rest of their lives.

My last dog was Mindy, a Shetland Sheep Dog that my Aunt Helen and Uncle Dick gave me for my Fifteenth birthday. Seriously, what is one of the last things a teenager desires as a birthday present? A dog!

She already had a name when she came to me, Mindy. Mindy and I never got on. She hated Mary Ann when I got married and moved away, She grew old and sickly and Mom called me to take her to her vet to put her down, I took Mindy to their clinic. They took her away and I left. I will never forget the sadness I felt about leaving a family dog to die without being there to comfort her.     

A month after we were married in 1967, we decided to get a dog. We picked a pet store in Flushing, Queens, Al Mazor’s Puppy Land and bought a black spaniel mix with white markings for $19.95. We decided to call her Woofie. Talk about a basic first dog name, Woofie, was, indeed, terrible name.

She stayed with us for about 14 years that included two moves to Middle Village and Port Washington and the births of our two children. As she faded, we decided on a Golden Retriever for our next buddy. I wanted a male and a friend found our first Golden that we named Harry.

Harry had a square head and the darkest fur. I called him, “The Big Orange Dog.” He was one of our two best swimmers and he taught one of his successors, Bubba, how to swim and fetch tennis balls. Poor Harry, he suffered from arthritis later in life, but not when he was swimming. Fred joined Harry but Fred wasn’t cooked right and died when he was just three-years old. I believe Fred knew he didn’t have long to live and he ran with gusto like a star shooting across the sun. When he died, we added his photo to the ornament we placed on the top of our Christmas trees. We dedicated his ornament as the spirit of Christmas.

Bubba cane next, a good-looking Christmas puppy, He still had to grow into his black nose and his tongue that were too large. He did grow into his nose, but not his tongue. Naming him was not easy. Bubba competed with Jack and other names for about a month until we were reduced to calling him, Puppy Delach. Bubba had a good life but we lost him during the cancer years, (seven to nine). He woke up one morning at Little House in New Hampshire and fell over. We put him down at the veterinarian in Keene, NH.

The end of life for a dog always comes too soon, but sometimes with humor. We instructed the vet to have Bubba cremated so we could bury him outside Little House. When we returned to collect his remains, we discovered that he hadn’t been cremated and Bubba’s remains were still in the vet’s freezer. Finally, we were notified that he had been cremated and Bubba We picked up his remains in a fine wooden box that I placed under the front passenger seat of one of our GMC Yuckon’s – where I promptly forgot about it.

Months later at one of the NY Football Giants home game tailgates, I notice that Bubba was still under that seat. When no one was looking I put it on one of our tables. “Hey Michael,’ I said to my son, “Guess who came to today’s tailgate?”

Michael searched the tables, notice Bubba’s box and stated, “You are one sick dude, Pop.”          

(To be continued.)

On the Outside Looking In will not publish on May 22 and will return on May 29.

July 2002, Edited June 2021 and May 2024

Drinks in hand, Billy Mize and Leo Whalen stood together at the bar in the hospitality lounge of the Arrowwood Conference Center in Rye Brook, NY. As I entered the premises. Leo waved his green bottle of Heineken in my direction signaling me to join them. “Jonnie, let me buy you a drink.” Leo thundered as he looked to the bartender.

“Thanks, Leo,” I replied and asked the bartender for a Jameson on the rocks in a short glass. Billy was already enjoying his vodka on the rocks, and we toasted each other once my Irish whiskey arrived. “So, Billy, how was your flight from Mexico City?”

“Not bad, John. It seems it was only two or three months ago since we saw each other at last year’s managers meeting at the Breakers down in Boca Raton This place is  a dump in comparison!”

“Damn right, brother Billy,” I replied, “But then again times were considerably better for us and our company last year. That damn bond scandal combined with the melt down in the casualty insurance market has put us on our back foot. But, hell, we’ve survived and here we are. I am glad you had a good flight.”

We talked about Billy’s transfer from our Dallas office and how easily he and his wife assimilated Mexican culture and lifestyle. Billy’s wife is Puerto Rican, and he is a gregarious Texan who is fluent in Spanish. He then returned to the subject of his flight and said, “I did have a bit of problem getting through Customs at JFK.”

Seeing a curious look on my face, a look Billy understood about US citizens doing business in Mexico, he continued, “No, John, I did not carry drugs or more than $10,000 in cash. My problem was hauling the extraordinary and, in a way, the most ridiculous item I ever tried to check into the baggage compartment on an airplane.”

Leo chuckled, “I bet you did feel a bit foolish.”

I couldn’t ignore the tone of guilt in Leo’s throw out line.

I’ll admit, they had my attention as I had no idea where this story was going.  Billy explained,  “You see, John, the last time Leo visited our office in Mexico City, he remarked on how much he wanted a Mexican saddle for his wife.“

“Yes, ” Leo interrupted, “She was impressed by their craftsmanship and has always wanted one for her horses.”

Billy added, “Knowing that Leo lives less than an hour from here, I promised to bring a saddle with me. What I forgot was that I had to claim all my baggage before clearing Customs.

“That meant I had to remove all my stuff from the cart I was using and drag my bags, golf clubs and the saddle through the Customs area. Only when I cleared could I recruit a skycap help me carry them to the limo.”

With that, Jack Shea joined us, and Billy and Leo related the story a second time. Jack was skeptical and wanted to know where the saddle was. Billy replied: “Why, Jack, it’s in Leo’s room where I delivered it.”

“Let’s go see it then,” Jack insisted.

With that, we left the bar, crossed the lobby and walked across a glass-enclosed bridge that connected the hotel’s rooms with the conference center. Leo opened the door and led us into his room. Sure enough, on a chair sat the biggest saddle I have ever seen. Jet-black with silver studs, the seat had a shine that reflected the room. Everything about it was big from the horn to the stirrups. No wonder Billy had such a tough time hauling it  through customs!

However, even a big Mexican saddle is only a saddle and not exactly an object that requires lengthy analysis. As for me, my interest wandered back to getting another drink and I wasn’t alone.

We were just about to leave when a young man opened the door. Startled to see us, he said, “Excuse me, I am here to turn down the bed.”

Leo asked him to come in and as he entered, I noticed that the bathroom door, directly across from the saddle, was closed. As this innocent steward came up to me, I stopped him.

“Do you see that saddle?” He nodded, yes. “Good. Whatever you do, don’t open that door!”

The steward’s eyes popped out and he did a double take, his eyes traveling from me to the saddle to the bathroom door several times.

We left the room closing the door behind us starting to roll with laughter. Leo said, “John, you have one sick sense of humor.”

Perhaps, but one of my best capers of all times!

Note: No horses or stewards were hurt during this caper.   

When we lost our best friend, Max, our sixth Golden Retriever just after Memorial Day last spring. We mourned our old friend, who would have turned Thirteen on September 9, 2023. We had his older sister, our other best friend, Tessie, who was closing in on fourteen. Tessie had been our friend Ria’s seeing eye dog who we had adopted when she retired. We agreed that her needs had to come first especially if we decided to adopt a new dog,

And so, spring progressed into summer and summer into autumn as we hemmed and hawed while we considered different ways to adopt a new companion.

We had a couple of leads, a breeder of Labradors nearby in Pennsylvania, who donated their breeder females after their second litters. After careful consideration, no thank you, too many complications. Meanwhile, Tessie’s age began to catch up to her slowing her down and bringing on some problems that we coped with.

It was in September that Max’s old trainer, Marianne, told us about a retriever adoption group in the Metropolitan area that rescued mostly mixed-breed Labradors from a rescue facility in the South that they distributed by truck as far north as New York, New Jersey and Connecticut. They had a shipment coming north that week that included an eight-year-old black lab mix girl dog in need of a foster home. Marienne, (the trainer) assured us that the rescue group would gladly allow us to adopt her once the papers were prepared.

Her arrival was scheduled for the afternoon of Saturday September 30^th at a weekday commuter parking lot just off of the Thruway exit in Nanuet, NY. Needless to say, we arrived at an empty parking lot well over an hour too early. We grabbed a burger from Burger King as began our wait.

Other cars began to arrive, each with an expectant person or family. We had a “cheat sheet” on our soon-to-arrive new very best friend and here’s what we learned. Molly had lived in Louisianna near Shreveport. Her owner had recently died, and no one in the family wanted to adopt her. Instead, they surrendered her to the Longview Animal Care & Adoption Service Center in Texas.

Here is what her sheet informed us:

Good with kids: Yes.                      Car Rides: Loves them!

Housetrained: Yes.                         Dog parks: Excellent: (Lie: See with dogs.)

Easy on leash: Yes: (Lie)               Water: Loves!

Good with dogs: Yes: (Lie. At best: overenthusiastic)    Treats: Ummm, yes.

It was after four pm when this enormous tractor-trailer truck entered the parking lot. Slowly, as the monster came to a stop the dozen or so new owners and/or fosterers approached the rear doors of the trailer. The driver opened the doors a sheaf of papers in his free hand.

His name was, Eric, who owned and operated his truck on a regular bi-weekly run-down south where he collects a truck-load of rescue dogs. He transports them north making stops where he turns them over to their new owners and/or fosterers. Eric calls his transportation service: Mighty Mutts.

(We discovered that he has the support of small armies at each of his overnight stops who feed, walk and clean the dogs as well as giving them a dose of tender loving care.)

Eric pointed to Mary Ann first and asked, “Who are you picking up?”

“Molly,“ my wife replied. Eric stepped into the truck and quickly returned with a black dog pulling at her leash with all of her God given power. Eric told Mary Ann, as he handed her the leash: “Grab hold and brace yourself, she’s ready to bolt.”

Mary Ann held on, absorbed the shock of her new charge and led her to a grassy spot where Molly relieved herself before devouring a bowl of water. Finally, Mary Ann, opened the rear door of our SUV and Molly jumped in.

I tipped Eric and thanked him for all he did.

I aimed our Palisade southward toward the Mario Cuomo Bridge, through Westchester and The Bronx, crossed the Sound and drove to Port Washington,   Moll y’s new forever home.         (To be Contiued.)

        (On the Outside will not publish on May 1 and will return on May 8.)        

John Delach

April 2024

This Story is a product of the author’s imagination

Part One

As every fable begins: Once upon a time…

Once upon a time, my daughter informed me that New York State, with emphasis on New York City and its surrounding counties of Nassau, Suffolk, Westchester and Rockland, had been declared the epi-center for the Covid-19 Virus attack on America.  To protect the nation, the President of the United States, declared all interstate commerce in, out and through New York would be suspended until further notice. President Trump issued this Executive Order with the active agreement and support of the Governors of Connecticut, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Vermont, New Hampshire, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Florida.

President  Trump authorized each governor to activate their individual National Guard units, arm them and deploy them at all border crossings with New York.  They will have the power to explain to exiting New Yorkers that they had two choices: One: Turn around and go back home, or Two: Enter into being quarantined in tent cities for a minimum of two weeks or longer as the state should require. Failure to accept one or two would subject them to being forcibly removed, imprisoned or death. New Hampshire chose to eliminate the first two alternatives. Their message: Get the f*** out of here or Die. 

When Trump went on TV with a gaggle of governors, generals and medical experts we were understandably upset, but when Andrew Cuomo joined the mob on stage and signed on lock, stock and barrel, we knew we were up Shit’s Creek!

Cuomo had sold out his own people in a quid pro quo of receiving federal aid in unlimited amounts that supposedly saved the greater good. Point made; point taken. Still, in the process, he reduced the Big Apple and the Empire State to being the largest internment camp of all times. Judas sold out for thirty pieces of silver! Andrew sold out for respirators.

Damn, damn, damn. We had a plan! Hell, we’ve had that plan since 1984 when the Reagan / Gorbachev peace talks broke off and war seemed imminent. Not coincidentally, that was same year we purchased Little House, our camp somewhere in remote New Hampshire. Mary Ann loved the Granite State and called our camp, “Little House.” I loved the state’s motto: “Live Free or Die” or thought I did until the quarantine was declared.

Beth was 15 and Michael 13. We were both active; Mary Ann. a Fifth-grade teacher at PS 121 in South Ozone Park, Queens and me, a newly promoted Managing Director (MD) at Marsh & McLennan Inc. In a way being a MD elevated me to a similar status of being a made-man in the Mafia.

The original threat was nuclear war and we acted accordingly, constructing an underground shelter sophisticated enough and supplied to sustain us for a minimum of 36 months.

Time marches on. Being a made-man brought me enough wealth to forgo silly stuff like more upscale cars, Olympic size swimming pools, motorboats, wave runners, etc., etc. Instead, we invested in independent electric power, security and communications. As time went by, we actively developed our own alternatives for a personal, secure and closed electronic connection.

Trust me, James Bond would have been pleased with our arsenal.

 We did everything necessary to keep up as times as the world changed and became more and more unhinged. This led me, on several occasions, to wonder if I should put Operation Bug Out into motion to head north to our last redoubt?

September 11, 2001 tested our resolve. By then, both Beth and Mike were married. Mike and his wife, Jodie, already had two boys, Drew and Matt. Beth and Tom were close to having children. All of them save Jodie were in Manhattan when the towers came down. A terrible time for all of us, but survivable.

So was the great recession of 2009 and Super Storm Sandy in 2012. Both were trying, but not enough to pull the trigger.

Still, we changed and improved our personal fortress to address changing needs. We expanded living spaces to account for not only this photo in time but prepared to accommodate our grandchildren’s future married families. We established independent electric, internet and radio / TV sources making us independent of any grid.

We continually expanded our escape procedures, always with a “What if,” theme in mind.

And so, when Cuomo sold us out to Trump, we were ready to put Operation Bug Out into motion.    

(To be continued)      

Edited by John Delach

Number 510, last edited April 2024, originally edited in 2010                

This piece was written by a friend of mine, Brian Davidson. I edited it and thought up the title. His piece reflects the man he was. We lost Brian to cancer in 2016.

            George, the owner of the sporting goods store handed me my new annual Alaskan fishing license. “Where are you from?”

            “Houston,” I replied. “I got a job with a contractor to settle insurance claims so I’ll be up here for thirty-days at a time for six to nine months. I don’t read much, hate television and I don’t want to spend my free time in bars so I figured I’d try fishing”

            “Well, you picked a good time to start fishing for pink salmon. They start to run in May and you can fish as late as you like because it doesn’t get dark until about 2 a.m. I’ll help you pick out the kind of equipment and clothing you’re going to need.”

            George selected a rod and reel, a net, tackle box, wading boots, thermal socks, and long johns. “Why do I need thermal socks and long underwear in June?”

            “The water temperature in Prince William Sound does not get out of the thirties. You’ll be happy to be wearing them when you wade out into the sound. If you don’t have a sweater or light gloves, you should buy them too.”

            I figured he knew what he was talking about so I kept quiet as my pile kept rising on his counter. When he finished counting and totaling my purchases, he reached behind the counter, opened a wooden box and placed an odd-looking fishing lure in the palm of his hand. A big silver spoon with a big red plastic diamond shaped thingy glued to it, it looked like something that your grandmother used to wear on her chest to church on Sunday.

            “This is the best lure for catching pink salmon. It’s called it a pixie. If I were you, I’d guard it with my life. I’m running out of them and I don’t know when I’ll get new ones in stock.”

            I asked him how many I could have and he agreed to sell me six for six dollars each. I started asking him about places to fish, but he stopped me and called over an Eskimo guy hanging around the store. “Hey, Billy, come tell this guy where to fish.”

            Billy and I got to talking and he agreed to meet me the next night at a camp-ground located on the shoreline. We seemed to hit it off and became regular fishing buddies. Also, it didn’t take long for me to realize just how valuable Billy was to me. The first thing I noticed that night was that when I cast my pixie out into the water, it kept going down and down and down. I asked Billy what was going on.

            “After about ten feet, the bottom drops 500 to 600 feet. If you wander out too far and take the plunge, you’ll have about five minutes left to live.”

I became a good angler catching five to ten fish each night which I cut loose or gave to people staying in the camp-ground who gathered to watch the master fisherman. I usually traded the fish for a cold beer and a relaxing chat with these tourists and retirees in their trailers, campers and RVs. The fishing alleviated my boredom from the seemingly endless task of settling claims. I only regretted losing my pixies which made me feel badly as my supply dwindled.

            One night while fishing with Billy, I cast out my next to last pixie. It didn’t hit the water and my rod started to jerk away from me pulling skyward. “What the hell…,” I shouted as I looked up. To my astonishment, I realized that I had hooked a sea gull on its butt. People on the bank shouted at me to cut the line, but all I could think of was my six- dollar pixie attached to a bird that was maneuvering like an out-of-control kite. Up and down, it flew screeching like all hell as we continued our struggle. I had to let out line fearing that the tension would break it and the gull would make off with my pixie. Finally, it went straight up then came crashing down onto the bank to the oohs and ahs of the crowd who were watching the show.

            I ran out of the water, grabbed onto this pecking and clawing creature who continued to screech for its mother. In desperation, the gull threw up a regurgitated fish onto my boot, but I managed to get a firm grip on its mangy butt to retrieve my pixie. As I stood up, I heard loud and clear, “They’re not very good to eat.”

            Rather embarrassed, I yanked my pixie out of its butt, released the gull who flew away and gave each and every one of my admirers a very low bow.

John Delach

April 2024

Number 510

I awakened on Wednesday, March 27, 2024 to the news that earlier that morning, the MV Dali, a large container ship outbound from its terminal in Baltimore had struck the Francis Scott Keys Bridge. Seemingly, the force of the strike was sufficient to collapse the entire 1.6-mile-long main truss sections that spanned the channels leading into the port in a manner of seconds.

This catastrophe closed the port to all marine traffic and other maritime activity for the foreseeable future until the wreckage that once was the bridge and the damaged Dali could be   removed. The bridge, itself, can’t be rebuilt and must be replaced by a more modern and safer span than this 1974 relic.

The only good news – the death toll at this early hour was limited to four of the six workmen repairing the roadway.

 But that’s still a developing story for another time.

Today, I want to share with you a different ship versus bridge story. Soon after the disaster became a national headline that morning, I heard from two old business friends, Louise Varnas and Geoff Jones,  who took to the internet to share their recollections of this bizarre incident that we all remembered from 1977.

That bridge was named after Benjamin Harrison, a past Governor of Virginia and the father / grandfather of two Presidents. It was a vertical lift draw bridge that spanned the James River carrying vehicle traffic between Hopewell and Richmond, Virginia.

The ship was a war-built T-2 tanker, converted to a bulk carrier and renamed the Marine Floridian by its new owner, Maritime Transport Lines, or (MTL)  MTL was a client of Marsh & McLennan, our employer and Louise and I were familiar with their operations. Geoff worked for one of the insurers responsible for settling the loss.

The Marine Floridian finished unloading its cargo of chemicals into the tanks at the Allied Chemical Plant in Hopewell in the early morning of February 24, 1977. Fredrick Luke, the James River pilot boarded his charge on time and set sail down river about 6:30 am.

As the ship approached the bridge, the Floridian experienced steering malfunctions. Ultimately, the National Transportation Safety Board determined the cause was an electrical failure that led to a loss of power to the steering motor.

Mr. Lake, the pilot, radioed a Mayday, ordered the engine into reverse, dropped both anchors and alerted the bridge tender, Henry C. Frazier, that he had lost control of the ship.

Frazier’s station was on the top of one of the two towers that could lift and lower the main deck of the bridge. He realized that his best chance for survival was to stay at his station. He told the Coast Guard Board of Inquiry that he remained in the control house atop the north tower when the ship struck the bridge. “For a while, it looked like I was going to eat breakfast off the captain’s table.”

The out-of-control Marine Floridian missed the main channel and struck the bridge to the left of  the center. That section was high enough for the body of the bulk carrier to pass underneath until it reached the superstructure. At that point, the voyage of the Marine Floridian came to a halt, but not without a souvenir, a 241-foot section of the bridge that fell onto the main deck of the ship.

The vertical lift’s main section still remained in its open position, but precariously so. Frazier, the bridge tender, made it out of this office and away from the bridge. Lucky for him, as the following day, the central span and the entire northern tower dropped into the river.

Reconstruction of the bridge took 20 months and cost $9.5 million. The bridge reopened to traffic in the fall of 1978.

Someone out there whose identity has been lost to history, produced a tee-shirt that for a short while became a collector’s iitem:

The front and back had images of the Marine Floridian and the bridge:

On the front, it said: “I was there when the ship hit the bridge,

and on the back: “and when the bridge hit the ship.”  

Something went array with today’s piece that was to be called “The Super Mario Bridge.” Somehow the body of this piece merged with last week’s piece “The Cold War Re-visited” and I can’t retrieve it.

I regret this attack by gremlins and hope that I can shake this off and properly publish another piece next Wednesday.

John Delach

June, 2017: Number 186. Revised and edited: March 2024: Number 503

Thursday, June 8, 2017 found Bill Christman driving our rental car 33-miles south of Tucson on Interstate-19 to the exit for Green Valley. It’s hot, really hot as we drive west for a mile on a two-lane road before we reach our destination, the Titan Missile Museum, formerly Launch Complex 571-7.   A cyclone fence stretches from one side. In front of the fence is a small sign that says: “Watch for rattlesnakes. We’re not kidding!”

Behind the fence sits a concrete structure low to the ground, the welcome center for a de-commissioned and preserved Titan II missile silo, now a National Landmark.

Welcome back to the Cold War.

Captain Joe Scott, our guide is a retired air force officer who spent two years as the launch commander in just such a facility. He leads a party of ten, Bill and I, a family of five, mom, dad and three teenage girls, another couple and a single fellow with a Germanic accent, into the facility. We enter a twisting passageway to begin our descent fifty-three steps down a metal staircase.

If the site had been operational, we would have had to pass through four locked checkpoints to gain access. As it is, we pass through two massive blast doors to enter the control room. Everything about this facility is deadly serious. Scott explains how serious from the intricate steel rebar pattern used to strengthen the massive concrete floors, walls and overheads to the complex’s communications system that has four independent and redundant back-ups.

The design and engineering of this facility is based on one over-riding reason, protect the Titan II missile and the four-person launch crew from all but a direct hit from an incoming nuclear device. (As an un-nerving aside, Scott pronounces nuclear in the same manner that W does.)

Completely sealed off inside, the crew has enough food, water, power, clean air and a/c to function for 12 days. Massive springs and shock absorbers, flexible cables and hoses protect the missile and the launch instruments from a nuclear shock wave. Positive pressurization prevents contamination by fall out or  the use of poison gas..

The complex contains three separate chambers connected by tubes. The control center, the missile silo and the crew’s quarters. We only visit the first two but Scott explains the crew quarters are basic, a small kitchen, bunk beds and a toilet.  “The crews rotated every 24-hours so there wasn’t’ a lot of downtime. For the most part we didn’t cook as the kitchen had to be cleaned for the next crew. Instead, we subsisted on a diet of Coke and Twinkies.” 

Scott is matter-of-fact, friendly, open and knowledgeable. He leads us through an excellent presentation of the launch procedure while we stand around the control room. He reminds us that the crew (two officers and two enlisted) were in their early twenties or late teens. Crazy as it sounds, the fate of civilization could have rested in the hands of personnel who could not legally buy a beer!

Our guide selects two of the girls to play the roles of the commander and her executive officer (XO).He directs them to sit in the two oversized rolling office chairs each at her appropriate work station.  They are about six-feet apart with the sister playing commander perched before a console bursting with a plethora of 1950s and early 1960s technology. Phones featuring rotary dials, analogue displays, and black & white TV monitors.

Scott points to a large metal cabinet with all the drawers marked “empty.” He explains:    “Originally, these draws were filled with vacuum tubes that powered the internal guidance settings for the missile. The air force estimated these missiles would remain in service for about five years. They actually lasted 20. Tubes must be replaced at regular intervals but after ten years, manufacturing ceased.” Pointing to one panel in the cabinet where a display is located, he continues, “Fortunately, NASA, Boeing and MIT developed this digital guidance system that replaced all those tubes.”

He instructs the sisters to re-enact a missile launch. First, he has the commander find a series of six numbers from the orders which she instructs the XO to enter into a her console that releases the locks holding the missile in place. Then he instructs them to simultaneously turn their two keys on the commander’s count.

(The position of these two keys is deliberately placed about twelve feet from each other making a one-person launch impossible.)

A series of turns activates a green light on the commander’s console. Scott gives the command, “Push the launch button.”

Reality check: It takes less than two and a half minutes to launch!

Scott notes, “By the way, the air force thought it best that the crew had no knowledge of their missile’s target.”

Someone asks, “What was the crew to do next?”

“One and done. They had no further real orders.” Scott is not without a sense of humor. “Remember, we were basically big kids. One night, off duty, after a few beers, we concocted a ‘what if’ plan. We’d leave the complex, walk down to the interstate, use our side arms to hijack a vehicle, rob a bank, hook up with four hot girls and hightail it to Mexico.”

In case you are wondering, the missiles cannot be recalled. The time to target was a little more than a half-hour.

As I absorb this information, I think to myself: And now: “Let us pray.” 

March 2024: No. 502

This edited piece combines two pieces, Once Upon a Time in Middle Village  (No. 182) and Time and Again in Middle Village (No. 195) both written in 2017.

(All of these events happened between 1970 and 1977.)

 One hot, steamy Saturday morning found me vacuuming the orange shag-rug that covered our first-floor living room and dining room. Mary Ann had left me alone taking Beth and Michael with her. A fortuitous glance out of our front window revealed my cousin, Bob, exiting his car…a dream come true. At that time, Bob was a Seventies swinging single and it was within the bounds of reason to believe he’d fantasize knocking at a door answered by a bored housewife wearing only her panties and bra. Close but no cigar; In fact, I was the one smoking the cigar and dressed only in a tenement tee shirt and Jockey shorts. I didn’t even give him the chance to ring the bell … I threw open the front door, vacuum cleaner in hand, cigar in the other to exclaim: “What can I do for you good looking?”

We moved into 65-33 77 Place in February of 1970. Beth was born in 1969 and Mary Ann would soon become pregnant with Michael who would be born in April of 1971. The house was where my Aunt Helen had grown up. She had it renovated  with new appliances. She offered it to us a rental so low that the amount was almost a miracle.

A word about street addresses in Queens County. There is a code to them that is not readily apparent. 65-33 77 Pl. The 65 is the number of the closest cross-street. The 33 tells you that house is the thirty-third house on the block and 77 Place, Street, or Way is the actual location.     

My cousin Helen, her husband Don and their family lived four houses away from us in 65-25. In April 1972, they moved to Ramsey, NJ but first sold the place to her brother and his wife, Bill and Del, and their family.

Middle Village is a real community with its own character. We lived in pre-war attached houses,   18-feet wide, two-stories with a basement. The main floor, back to front began with a small foyer with a closet off the front door. An inner door opened into the living room that was the only room that took advantage of the full width of the house. On the extreme right of the living room was the staircase leading to the second floor. The dining room occupied about 2/3rds of the back of the house and the kitchen the other third. This made for a narrow kitchen only six-feet wide before being reduced by counters, sink, stove and refrigerator.

A second foyer in back of the kitchen led to a small back yard and a garage that opened to a common alley that ran the length of the block. The neighborhood children including our own kids loved to race their Big Wheels in this alley. The Big Wheel was a plastic tricycle built close to the ground with an enormous front wheel and two small trailing wheels. The kids could quickly get it up to speed, it was extremely stable and built for quick and rapid turns.  

Money was scarce in those days. One Sunday, I attended the 7:30 morning mass at St. Margaret’s, our local parish. A well-dressed couple sat in the pew behind me. They were both still dressed for last night’s activities in Manhattan and I had a distinct impression that these strangers were there because she insisted on attending morning mass. When the time came for the collection, he placed a $20 in the basket. Wow, I thought to myself, that’s more money than I can get my hands on until the banks re-open at nine tomorrow morning.

Fred and Huguette arrived from Viet Nam in 1975. They moved into 65-31, a heretofore vacant house right next to us. Fred first served in Viet Nam as an army electronics technician during the early days when the army was still advisers. After  completing his service he took a job with Decca and returned in country where he met and married Huguette. Fred was a pragmatist with a terrific sense of humor. One Saturday afternoon witnessed the two of us consciously deciding not to prevent an accident. It was one of those Saturdays between Thanksgiving and Christmas when the Long Island weather gods produce a mild day perfect for installing outdoor Christmas lights. We were both outside, each working on our own displays, when Bill came out lights, ladder and staple gun in hand. Bill erected his ladder, plugged his string in and climbed up to begin fixing it to the house.

“Should we tell him to unplug them first,” Fred asked?

“Naw”, I replied, “Let’s watch the show.”

Bill’s second or third staple hit the wire. Fred and I watched as the spark, shock and sound took him off the ladder and onto the grass. Unhurt but flustered, Bill didn’t appreciate our uncontrolled laugher and our now useless advice to unplug the lights first.           

One of our favorite Friday night activities was “stoop sitting” around the front walkway leading to the door. Bill and Del, Fred and Huguette and we Delaches lived within five attached houses of each other. We’d leave the widows fronting the street from our kids’ rooms open allowing these organic baby monitors to sound the alert by way of crying if one awoke.

The gals smoked cigarettes, guys cigars; we drank beer or wine and a few exotic drinks, mostly for the ladies like whiskey sours, sloe gin fizz or whatever else was trendy. Eventually, the need for pizza would strike our collective stomachs and a couple of the men would make a pizza run to Tudor Tavern Pizzeria on nearby Eliot Avenue and 80^th Street. The later it was, the better the pizza tasted.

Fred and Huguette lived right next door to my aunt’s house. That fist winter, Fred complained about the amount of his heating bills from The Brooklyn Union Gas Company. It cost him almost twice as much as we were paying. It seemed this disparity repeated itself every month. No matter where he set the thermostat, his bill was enormous. He even had the gas company check his system to no avail. One night I mentioned to Mary Ann how this was driving him crazy. “John’ it’s his wife’s doing. Huguette has no tolerance for the cold so as soon as Fred goes to work, she cranks up the heat to 90 degrees so she can wear summer day wear. She lowers it back to 65 about an hour before he comes home.”

“You’re kidding me! Oh boy, one of these days he’s going to explode once he figures that out. I don’t want to be around for that, but damned if I am going to tell him.

I can report that they are still married, so I have no idea how that was settled if at all.

By 1977 we were ready to buy the house, but Aunt Helen wouldn’t sell as she wished to keep her house in her immediate family. So we bought a house in Port Washington where we continue to live to this day.

Part of me still misses Middle Village.                                                                                                                                                                                             

The Supreme Court’s decision in Roe versus Wade on January 22, 1973 forced me to announce to my friends and family that I couldn’t accept abortions performed for convenience. Of course, I realized how unpopular my belief was so I explained to that this was my belief, and I would never try to stop someone from having an abortion. I simply ask others to accept my beliefs the same way as I accept theirs.

I also explained that rather than engage in discussions about abortions, I would avoid each and every one of these debates as they can be too emotional. In return, I would take on reporting the daily weather information from The New York Times. For any readers out there unfamiliar with the Times daily weather report, it is quite comprehensive.

My particular task would be to monitor the paper’s daily measure of our rainfall for the last 30 days and for the last year. I assumed responsibility to monitor shortfalls and report possible droughts.

Fortunately,  everybody accepted my wacky solution and so ended further debates of pro-life versus pro-choice.

Once I committed myself to belief in the right to life, I came to understand that I had to come to terms with death in combat and public executions. War turned out to be too big and too complicated to wrap my mind around and I finally decided to remove it from my consideration. I will admit that if I was forced to choose, I would lean on the side of becoming a conscientious objector, but I will never know if I would have had the courage of this conviction if push came to shove.

I also had a hard time coming to a meaningful conclusion for absolute prohibition of capital punishment. My problem was that to be meaningful, such a prohibition would have to include those who are so evil that to let them live would be repulsive. Thankfully, we rarely encounter people who are this vile and my epiphany didn’t arrive until Timothy J. McVey destroyed the Alfred P. Mirrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995.

April 19^th was a Wednesday and Mc Vey detonated his eight-hundred-pound ammonium nitrate / fuel oil bomb that he hid in  the cargo compartment of a rented Ryder truck that he had parked outside the north entrance to the building. The massive explosion destroyed the entire facade of the eight-story building and about a third of the interior killing 168 people including 19 children, most of them in a nursery pre-school located on the first floor.

McVey said this about his victims:

             To these people in Oklahoma who lost a loved one, I’m

             sorry but it happens every day. You’re not the first mother

             to lose a kid, or the first grandparent to lose a grandson or

             a granddaughter. It happens every day, somewhere in the

             world. I’m not going to go into that courtroom, curl into a

             fetal ball and cry just because the victims want me to do that.                  

.

In other words, His victims were merely collateral damage.

Of the children he had killed, McVey remarked: “I thought it was terrible that there were children in the building.”

Mc Vey was charged and convicted for killing eight federal agents who were on active duty that day. The penalty for killing each one of them was clearly death. Mc Vey was transferred to the federal death row at USP Terre Haute in Indiana where he was executed by lethal injection on June 11, 2001.

If you can, find the iconic photo by Charle Porter of a fireman gently cradling the body of a one-year-old child fatally wounded by Mc Veigh’s bomb. It sums up the results of Mc Vey’s despicable attack.   

Well, there you have it. I took a long time to straighten out my feelings and to make peace with my beliefs. Finally, I realized that my belief for life must prevail, even for Timothy Mc Vey. That photo will haunt me until the day I die,

Still, I choose to belief in life, so help me God.