John Delach

Last February 22, 2020, I turned 76 years old. Ten out of our family of 11, my wife and I, our son and daughter, their spouses and four of our five grandchildren gathered at the Bryant Park Grill to celebrate our family’s five birthdays that take place in January and February. We picked the Bryant Park Grill in Manhattan as it is one of our favorites. Only Number one Grandson, Drew, away at college at Miami of Ohio couldn’t be there, but, in a way, he was thanks to FaceTime.  

Little did we know that this festive event would be the swan song for everything that  everybody considered normal. Life as we knew it ended less than a month later.

Today the calendar reached February 22, 2021 making me 77 years old. Last Friday, my wife received her second dose of the Pfizer vaccine. I’m scheduled to receive my second dose this Sunday, the last day in February 2021.

President Joseph Biden used the occasion of my birthday to proclaim that February 22, 2021 witnessed the 500,000 death of an American to the COVID-19 virus.

When I was growing up, February 22 was a national holiday celebrating the birth of George Washington. Each year, I considered it my birth right to be off from school. It made me feel special.

Later, the holiday morphed into the generic “Presidents’ Day” celebrated on the third Monday in February. Fortunately for me, this infamnia against the father of our nation didn’t strike until after I came of age.

I still had my unique birthday, 2/22/44 and next year I am looking forward to my 78^th falling on 2/22/22!

But I never signed on, nor would I ever want to be part of a new day of infamy where we remember that 500,000 Americans died from this virus.

A sense of melancholy lurked somewhere in my psyche as my birthday approached. Still, it wasn’t until late in the day that the reality of the COVID-19 death toll hit me. My way to relate to sadness like this is to call upon a song. For this downer, I call on Paul Simon and “Have A Good Time:”

Yesterday, it was my birthday

I hung one more year on the line

I should be depressed

My life is a mess

But I’m having a good time

Have a good time

Have a good time

Have a good time

Have a good time

Maybe I’m laughing my way to disaster

Maybe my race has been run

Maybe I’m blind

To the fate of mankind

But what can be done?

So, God bless the goods we were given

God bless the U.S. of A.

God bless our standard of livin’

Let’s keep it that way

And we’ll have a good time

Have a good time

Have a good time

Have a good time

Have a good time

Originally constructed as the library for a Nineteenth Century boys’ boarding school, the bar / lounge at the St. James Club is a warm room that invites patrons to linger over one more drink. Two levels of books line one side of the room paneled in dark wood with a black cast iron spiral staircast leading to a second story grated catwalk running the length of the wall of books. Opposite, several two-story windows open onto the rear garden providing a sense of being in a chateau in the French countryside instead of being tucked away in the Port Dauphin section of central Paris. A rich wooden bar occupies the closed end of the room while oversized chairs and couches, arranged in groups, facilitate conversstions and flirtation.

Scattered about are framed photographs of celebrities who frequent the St. James Club. In our day, Joan Collins, Robin Leach and Madonna graced the crowd with their presence, silently observing the merriment and intrigues at the bar. Almost all these photos were posed on the St. James’ elegant and ornate wooden staircase that descends from the second floor to the center of the handsome lobby.

For a time, one photograph lining the room stood out as an exception from those of the beautiful and powerful people. It was a photograph of three middle-aged men, two in dark blue suits flanking one in a gray suit. Chests out, stomachs sucked in, eyes bright, smiling confidently; the photograph captured them standing on the first step of the hotel’s grand staircase.

Patrons and guests, drinks in hand, would meander about the lounge viewing the photographs commenting on the subjects. Invariably, the three men received a brief look followed by a shrug of minor curiosity or disdain.

I understood their reaction. These men were not celebrities, they were imposters. I know because I am in the photograph. Our customer, Dick Green, took the photo of Jack Camillo, Frank D’Ambrosio and me that we introduced into the bar using stealth while the bartender and waiters were otherwise intent in going about their tasks.

Originally intended as a souvenir of our successful business trip, I asked Dick to take our photograph using a disposable camera I bought for the occasion. A nearby one-hour photo store gave it a new purpose when I realized they sold frames closely matching the hotel’s in color and design. On seeing how professional Dick’s photo looked, I had the shop make a 5 by 7 enlargemant which I placed into the new frame in the security of my room. On Friday night, our last night in Paris, we made our move and placed it among other photos before retiring for the night.

The following morning, as we checked out, Frank was giddy letting us know he had something to tell us once we were in the taxi on our way to Orly Field. Safely on our way, I had to break the silence: “Frank, what is the scoop that you can’t wait to tell us?”

“Well, this morning, after breakfast, I went to see if the bar was open. It was and I observed the cleaning staff tidying up the room.”

“Was our photograph still there?”

“Yes,” Frank replied. “Not only was it still there, but the cleaning staff had also moved it to a new location. Do you know what that means? We are part of their collection.”

We laughed and carried on for the rest of our journey home.

Aftr we returned to the office, we alerted colleagues to look for our photograph whenever one was scheduled to stay in Paris. Several times, they confirmed with admiration, our continued co-existence with the famous and almost famous.

For more than six months our celebrity status endured until a renovation of the bar terminated our fifteen minutes of fame.

(An earlier version of this story appeared in my anthology: “What Ac You Do in New York and Other Stories.”)

Thursday, February 4^th was the day I was scheduled to receive my first injection of the Pfizer vaccine at 9:45 am. Mary Ann and I would be driving to the Westchester Community Center located in White Plains. We are already familiar with the facility. Mary Ann had made my reservation the previous Thursday evening on January 28^th.

After giving the state’s representative all the necessary information to complete my reservation, Mary Ann had asked her: “Do you have a spot for me?”

“Yes, I do if you can make it to White Plains by 10:15 tomorrow morning.”

My wife grabbed it and we made our first journey the next morning. She drove and upon arrival, I asked a cop on duty where I should park. He directed me around a traffic circle and pointed out where the lot was located. I wished Mary Ann, good luck, we kissed and off she went. I started around the circle, but I was distracted by a pinging noise. Looking down I saw a message: “Key fob has been removed from the vehicle.”

Fortunately, I was able to explain my dilemma to the same cop. He asked me: “What does she look like and what is her name?”

 I replied: “Tall, blond, wearing a black down coat and her name is Mary Ann.”

 He bounded up the steps while I called her. He and I reached her at the same time and a few minutes later he returned with the fob. Less than a half-hour later, she was back sporting a band aide on her right upper arm and a sticker that said she’d been vaccinated.

As my daily countdown to the following Thursday progressed, my anxiety increased at the same rate as the number of days remaining decreased. A major snowstorm began on Sunday night that dumped about 15 inches of snow on Long Island before it departed late on Tuesday. This added to my anxiety, although having Wednesday as a clean-up buffer helped.

On V-day, my radio alarm went on at 6:15 am. I was already making my bed and the first sign of trouble came at 6:18 when the WCBS traffic reporter, Tom Karminski, already off the ground and being flown in Chopper 880, began his report with a three-car wreck on the south bound lanes of the Hutchinson River Parkway. All three lanes to traffic were closed at Pelham Parkway. This was bad news as we would be passing that spot going northbound in less than three hours.

Fifteen minutes later, morning host, Scott Shannon, called on reporter Steve Kathan, who was doing a remote report from the Westchester Community Center in White Plains: “Good morning Scott. We expect a crowd to be present here today as the county has announced that people who missed their appointments due to the snowstorm closing the center on Monday and Tuesday can begin to return today to get their vaccinations. George Latimer, the county executives, has asked the folks scheduled for today to practice patience should they encounter crowded conditions”

I do believe I would have freaked if we hadn’t already experienced how smoothly run this facility was the previous Friday. Instead, we consoled ourselves to be patent no matter how chaotic it turned out to be. We left the house at 8:30 with Mary Ann at the wheel of her Jeep. The accident on the Hutch had been cleared and traffic flowed freely allowing us to arrive at the center just about an hour later.

There was a line, but nothing like I feared. It only took me 15 minutes to enter the building. After that, things proceeded like clockwork as I proceeded from station to station until a guide led me to a cubby hole of a room where two women began to process me. In a matter of minutes, one woman filled out a form, rolled up my left sleeve, dabbed a spot with alcohol and injected the Pfizer vaccine.

My first shot was over, just like that. I was directed to a room and told to find a chair. “You can leave at the time written on the sticker I placed on your shirt.”

The sticker said 10:17 and a digital clock read: 10:05. I called Mary Ann and told her I would be out soon. She was both surprised and ecstatic and so was I.

Two more trips to go for our second doses and then this will be in our rearview mirror.

This is the replacement for my previous blog post sent earlier today that was incomplete.

By Geoff Jones as told to John Delach

After Judy and I married in 1964, we moved from Westchester to a rental apartment on Webb Avenue in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx. Judy’s prize possession, her 1962 Corvette, accompanied us to our new digs. I understood that my new wife was an ardent automobile aficionado and remains so today.  

We were young and naïve about city living and gave little thought to protecting her Vette from theft or damage. It became my job to deal with alternate side parking by seeking out safe spots. I can’t recall how long I did it, but I remember being frustrated after only a few weeks.

The apartment we rented had a driveway and garage. The building owners were real city people who didn’t have a car, but they had rented their garage to a couple who lived next door. We were free to use the driveway but only when we were home, so we didn’t block their access. I can’t recall that we ever had an issue with the couple who seemed nice and who liked Judy’s car.

One summer Sunday, we drove out to Jones Beach for the day. That evening we arrived home exhausted by the sun, surf and the long drive in crappy traffic. Even so, that was a lucky night as we found a spot in front of our home. We grabbed it making unloading the umbrella, cooler, blankets etc. easier. We sat down after bringing our stuff inside and fell asleep, forgetting we’d left the Corvette’s convertible top down. Sometime before sunrise, I awoke and remembered what I had failed to do. My dread that the car had been stolen was lessened when I saw the keys on the table, but what if it had been vandalized? Fortunately, there it was completely untouched.

You can imagine my relief! I’m not sure if the crime rate in our neighborhood was better than I’d imagined, or if the Vette looked like a setup to catch car thieves. Whatever, this event may have been my motivation to find a garage. The primary impediment to securing garage space was that we didn’t feel we could afford to rent a spot.

One day, though, we noticed a “parking space for rent” sign on a house only a hundred or so feet away. I checked with the building owner who showed me the spot. The garage was an odd space  located beneath their house. It only had one door and already had a car in it. However, it was a long enough to accommodate two cars, one behind the other.

I felt that could only be a problem, but the lady said the spot for rent was not behind that car. There was an open space on the left just inside the garage door that had been her husband’s workshop that he  no longer used. The woman believed a car could be parked there. It was a tight squeeze, but our Vette was shorter and slightly narrower than many normal vehicles. I asked for a tryout and Judy and I found we could maneuver our car in and out without damages. So, we took it.

This strapped our spending but made life bearable as we could stop worrying about leaving our attractive car alone on streets for so many hours at a time.

A year or so later we attended a New Years’ Eve party somewhere we had to travel to by car. We returned to Webb Ave. long after midnight and found a car parked in the street blocking our driveway to the garage. I suppose I could have used our apartment driveway and left a sign on the car telling the couple next door to awaken us regardless of time. But you can guess how loopy I might have been after a New Year’s Eve party. Also, it had snowed leaving a blanket of ankle-deep wet snow to negotiate. I looked in the car, which was one step up from being labeled a “jalopy” and figured it was too old for power steering. I found a brick, hammered a hole in the driver’s side window, unlocked the door and got in. I put the stick shift into neutral, turned the wheels toward the curb, stepped out and, with Judy help, pushed the car back until rear wheels were against the curb. I got back in, turned the wheels out and we got behind the car and pushed it out into the street and  a car length past the driveway. I unlocked the garage, put the “Vette” to bed and we walked home.

Webb was a narrow street and parking was allowed on both sides. Since I had left the vehicle pretty much in the middle of the street, no one could get by. By the time I woke up late on the morning of New Year’s Day, the street had been plowed, and the car was gone. No repercussions and, since the statute of limitations ran out 50 years ago, I guess it’s okay to write about it now.  

Still, if that happened today, even the oldest cars on the road are equipped with power steering, power brakes and alarms guaranteeing my plan would not have worked.

By Geoff Jones as told to John Delach

After Judy and I married in 1964, we moved from Westchester to a rental apartment on Webb Avenue in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx. Judy’s prize possession, her 1962 Corvette, accompanied us to our new digs. I understood that my new wife was an ardent automobile aficionado and remains so today.  

We were young and naïve about city living and gave little thought to protecting her Vette from theft or damage. It became my job to deal with alternate side parking by seeking out safe spots. I can’t recall how long I did it, but I remember being frustrated after only a few weeks.

The apartment we rented had a driveway and garage. The building owners were real city people who didn’t have a car, but they had rented their garage to a couple who lived next door. We were free to use the driveway but only when we were home, so we didn’t block their access. I can’t recall that we ever had an issue with the couple who seemed nice and who liked Judy’s car.

One summer Sunday, we drove out to Jones Beach for the day. That evening we arrived home exhausted by the sun, surf and the long drive in crappy traffic. Even so, that was a lucky night as we found a spot in front of our home. We grabbed it making unloading the umbrella, cooler, blankets etc. easier. We sat down after bringing our stuff inside and fell asleep, forgetting we’d left the Corvette’s convertible top down. Sometime before sunrise, I awoke and remembered what I had failed to do. My dread that the car had been stolen was lessened when I saw the keys on the table, but what if it had been vandalized? Fortunately, there it was completely untouched.

You can imagine my relief! I’m not sure if the crime rate in our neighborhood was better than I’d imagined, or if the Vette looked like a setup to catch car thieves. Whatever, this event may have been my motivation to find a garage. The primary impediment to securing garage space was that we didn’t feel we could afford to rent a spot.

One day, though, we noticed a “parking space for rent” sign on a house only a hundred or so feet away. I checked with the building owner who showed me the spot. The garage was an odd space  located beneath their house. It only had one door and already had a car in it. However, it was a long enough to accommodate two cars, one behind the other.

I felt that could only be a problem, but the lady said the spot for rent was not behind that car. There was an open space on the left just inside the garage door that had been her husband’s workshop that he  no longer used. The woman believed a car could be parked there. It was a tight squeeze, but our Vette was shorter and slightly narrower than many normal vehicles. I asked for a tryout and Judy and I found we could maneuver our car in and out without damages. So, we took it.