John Delach

I joined Taproot in the Fall of 2000 after I retired from Marsh & McLennan in April of that year. The group was in full bloom when I joined with a weekly attendance of twenty or more poets and writers at each session. At best, one could expect to wait at least a week between invitations to present one’s piece.. As a novice, I kept my mouth shut while I learned from our master, teacher and poet, Max Wheat and the skilled poets and prose writers. Sooner than I expected, I believe it was after my second session, Max took me aside and said, “John, your purpose for being a member of this group is to share your writing with the other members. I expect that you will submit a piece at our next session. Reluctantly, I wrote my first piece which I presented during the next session.

Late summer in New Hampshire

October 2000

Summer ends suddenly and too soon as sunshine’s daily arrival comes later and later. The sky is Kodachrome blue providing the perfect background for the trees that burn with color. It is as if they are engulfed in a silent fire set ablaze by a sun that is already low in the sky.

In the morning, my hands and face feel that first cold sting as frost forms on grass, roofs, decks and windows of vehicles left outside overnight. The sense of football is in the air. It is time to start preparing for winter. Wood must be stored so that it is accessible once the heavy snow arrives. Pools and hot tubs must be emptied, outside pipes, pipes, faucets, traps and lines must be drained and decks protected against snow that will cover them until spring.

This is not a labor of love. I have no choice but to accept the change of seasons as I put away the toys of summer for another year.

I asked Max if I should submit Autumn in New Hampshire to be part of that session’s Taproot Journal. He counseled me that I wasn’t up to that and at that time, my task was to continue writing and learn form my fellow writer’s critiques. I did and the next year, the Taproot Journal published the first piece I submitted:            

The Big Orange Dog

March 2001

Harry was the first of the big orange dogs that came into our house and showed us why Golden Retrievers are special. He set the standard for all to come. Bright and alert, his favorite pastime was swimming in the still waters of Stone Pond in Marlow, New Hampshire. Stricken with arthritis early on, this passion continued even after walking became difficult for him. We rigged a wooden ramp covered in carpet fabric to assist him into and out of the truck. We chauffeured him to local ponds and he sensed water before he saw it. Excited and agitated, he had little patience until he arrived at his favorite destination.

Disregarding his infirmary, as soon as the rear gate was opened and the ramp raised, he rushed from the truck and into the pond. In the water, strong again, he would start swimming. And what a swimmer, fast with smooth, deliberate strokes creating a graceful wake that spread across the water as he progressed in his pursuit of the tennis ball of the moment. To accommodate his range and speed, I hit the ball with an old Prince racquet as hard and as far as my strength permitted. Upon reaching the ball and capturing it in his mouth, he would return in his graceful triumphant manner. As soon as he reached shore, he released the ball, turned and plunged back into the pond swimming in the direction where he anticipated the next ball would be hit. Watching for the telltale splash, he picked up his pace and swam in its direction. If he did not see a splash in a timely manner, he lifted his chest out of the water and started swimming in larger and larger circles until he found it. Again and again he continued to swim without noticeable fatigue or loss of interest.

His endurance only ended when I finally surrendered the notion that I could outlast him. Once out of the water, the pain and stiffness returned and he let me help him back into the truck. At times I lifted him in my arms so he did not have to negotiate the ramp. I tried not to mind getting drenched in the process.

I will never forget when I first received that journal. Overwhelmed with hope, I found my name, my piece listed on Page Six. …And there it was, my first piece in print in a literary journal. Inside, I jumped for joy.

So here I am; I just turned 81; how about that!

Guess what, whenever I finish a new piece, one that I sense is good, I still feel the same way and this is one of them. 

Saturday mornings are my favorite time for reading my newspapers. Newsday is compact with almost half the paper dedicated to sports and The New York Times includes their Sunday features in the Saturday delivery. These include, the weekend Metropolitan section, the Book Review, The Times Magazine, the Real Estate section and the weekly Arts and Leisure section.

I usually look at the Metropolitan section first. The front page of February 16^th edition featured a color photograph of a silver haired fellow wearing glasses and sporting a matching mustache standing in a cemetery covered in light snow in a tan lined overcoat, matching pants and canvas shoes inadequate for the ground conditions.

He is holding an aluminum cane / walking stick in his right hand and his coat is open reveling a navy-blue sweatshirt as he poses for the cameraman, unsmiling.  

A headline for the piece is below the fold that reads:

Respect for a Ransacked Cemetery

A Brooklyn Man honors the dead at Most Holy Trinity after grave markers are stolen.

 Ironically, the piece begins with: “Even as a small boy, Michael Hirsh loved visiting cemeteries.”

Ironic; where do I begin? First off, this piece unearthed memories, seventy-years old, and long since buried. The last time I visited Most Holy Cross Cemetery with my mother, Aunt Mildred and her daughter, my cousin Patty was just before I graduated from elementary school in 1957.

The cemetery, located in Bushwick, Brooklyn dates back to 1851 dedicated to the first Catholic German immigrants to settle in Bushwick. Stone markers or monuments were prohibited and nearly all graves were marked with wooden crosses that deteriorated with time and weather. The markers on active grave sites with living relatives would be renewed or replaced, but eventually, they all deteriorated into broken remnants of what they were.

Eventually, many of the wooden markers at Most Holy Trinity were replaced by metal markers. The Monumental Bronze Company of Bridgeport, CT began to manufacture a “white bronze” alternative to stone. It was actually zinc, far less expensive than bronze, but sturdy and resistant to rust. Sooner or later, all of these markers turned to rust and begin wasting away be they legitimate or knock-offs sold by unscrupulous suppliers.

In the late 1920s, the Public Service Commission authorized the Brooklyn, Manhattan Transit Company, (BMT) to build a new subway line from East New York through Bushwick into Manhattan. One section had to cross Most Holy Trinty Cemetery. The cemetery surrendered the unused land along its southern border, but the plot was too narrow to accommodate two tracks and a station.

The solution was to double-deck the structure. Manhattan-bound trains would remain in the subway while Canarsie-bound trains would travel on a concrete elevated structure. This became the great wall of the cemetery.

Okay, alright; so what is this unearthed memory all about?

Uncle Pete! So who in hell, is Uncle Pete?

Here’s what I remember. Uncle Pete lived one block away from my mother on Himrod Street. A visit to his railroad flat was always a test of my limited abilities as a kid. He was a retired recluse, no window was ever opened, the air was always stale. I don’t have a clue about his personal habits, but all I know is accompanying my mother’s visits to Uncle Pete attacked my senses. The smell was more than unique, it was overwhelming and extremely unpleasant.

My mom seemed oblivious to it. I figured she was faking it. My mother and Aunt Mildrid took turns taking care of this shell of an old man. I had the impression Uncle Pete was related to Mildred but, not directly to my Mom.

Much later, somehow, I figured why my mom and Aunt Mildrid sucked up to this shadow of a person. It seemed that Uncle Pete had acquired the honorary use of Von in front of his last name. How this came to be, I haven’t a clue. I looked it up, and while it can signify a royal blood connection, it can simply be a preposition used by commoners that means “of’ or ‘from.”

When Uncle Pete died, he was buried in his family plot at Most Holy Trinity Cemetery. It seems I vaguely remember that the metal marker was renewed to acknowledge his death and burial.

 We visited his grave several times before my teenage sense of right and wrong kicked in: Right: Let me do what I want. Wrong: Don’t make me do things I don’t want to do.

Adios, Uncle Pete.

But thank you for giving me this piece.