John Delach

Recently Newsday, the Long Island daily newspaper did a poll asking readers to name their favorite Billy Joel tune. I gave it some thought and while I didn’t submit my choice, there was no doubt that it was Piano Man. It would appear that I wasn’t alone. On Friday, May 10^th, the day after Billy Joel’s 75^th birthday,  Newsday published the results. Piano Man finished first with 1,044 votes while Scenes from an Italian Restaurant finished second with 915 votes.

I especially love the opening verse of my favorite that Joel released in 1973.

“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in,

There’s an old man sitting next to me making love to his tonic and gin.

He says, “Son can you play me a memory, I’m not really sure how it goes.

“But it’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man’s clothes.”

Ain’t that the truth!

I keep the composer’s words close to me when I put my brain into gear and nothing happens. Now that I turned Eighty, I remind myself of something someone once said to me about memory. “Think of all your memories to be stored in filing cabinets. At times you can find them easily, but other times, not so easily.”

 Perhaps they were just being kind.

My wife once put it this way. “You don’t have to be concerned if you can’t remember that a spoon is called a spoon. You only have to be concerned when you don’t know what to do with it.”

Still, it can be so frustrating when I can’t think of the name for cheddar cheese. And speaking of cheddar cheese, why does some cheese guru insist on telling me what state it comes from. Who cares if it comes from NY, NH, WI, PA, ME or VT. All they are doing is giving me more information that I won’t remember.

But I digress. This joke tells us how to cope:

One night two friends were sitting  in a living room while their wives were chatting in the kitchen.

”Frank,” Bob says, “Last night my wife and I went to new restaurant in Manhasset and it was fabulous.”

“Really, Joe, what’s its name?”

“Oh, damn. Wait wait, give me the name of a flower?”

“Lily.”

“No, no, it can come in white, red and pink.”

“Carnation?”

“No simpler?”

“Rose?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Rose. That’s it”

“Hey, Rose, what was the name of that restaurant we went to last night.”

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.