John Delach

Welcome to Wednesday morning and I hope you are sitting down. Yesterday, Donald Trump pulled off an upset so improbable that it almost defies explanation. In other circumstances I would describe this election by writing: He trumped everything and anything we thought we understood about our political scene, but that comes across as being silly and redundant.

What an amazing turn of events. Many of you are shocked to say the least. Those of you who favored Hillary Clinton probably assumed today would be: “Oh Happy Day.” Instead, it’s the morning after the night before, a “what the F***” moment, when the unthinkable is reality.

How do you think I feel? I had a perfectly clever piece about my Giants victory last Sunday over the Philadelphia Eagles primed and ready to go. But…nooo! Do you really want to read a piece about football, a nice, warm autumn afternoon, a tailgate, good food, good friends and an exciting football game? I think not. You can hardly put one foot in front of the other, drink your coffee, pick up a newspaper or put on TV or the radio.

Instead, I find myself up at 4 AM putting this together in an effort to say to you: It’s okay, this too shall pass, the sun will come up and life goes on. Trust me, I know, I came of age in 1964 as a passionate follower of Barry Goldwater…and how did that work out for me? It’s always darkest before the entire world collapses in on you.

To all of the giddy and hung over trumpers and trumpettes, congratulations in what has to be one of the greatest upsets of all times in the history of our Republic. We have had mavericks before; Ronald Reagan, to mention one. But nothing like the Donald. He took on a field of 15 seasoned Republicans in a seemingly unending primary designed, may I say “rigged” to stop him and blew them away. Trump did stumble and he fell several times, inflicted himself with wounds but he rebounded over and over again.

In the general election campaign, most of the main stream network television stations, the press and The New York Times in particular tuned on Trump with a partisan vengeance to the point of their own embarrassment.

Through it all, he made his case to millions of voters disaffected with the system, people who seek another path, another chance.

And so it goes…on the second Tuesday after the second Monday in November of 2016 the people have spoken and elected Donald Trump, president of the United States.

The people have spoken. Let us unite. God bless America.

Halloween has grown to be a significant American celebration. Outdoor Halloween decorations, lights, ghosts, gremlins, witches and more sinister exhibits mimicking zombies, werewolves and vampires decorate suburban front lawns. October 31 is second only to Christmas for outdoor displays, lights and decorations and the Halloween experience extends well beyond giving out candy, carved jack-o-lanterns, bobbing for apples and costume parties.

Trick or treating toddlers wearing popular comic book, TV and movie character costumes  go door to door shepherded by protective parents monitoring their safety in this potentially dangerous world. But after bedtime brings about their departure, the night gives way to curious, semi-occult costume parties featuring outfits and devices that once upon a time were considered occult or demonic.

I just don’t get what Halloween has become and find its celebration of lights and decorations to be bizarre. Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ. Halloween celebrates death and the forces of satan. It is the antithesis of the Christian feasts of All Saints Day celebrated on November 1 and All Souls Day on November 2 that honor and pray for the dead. I grew up Roman Catholic during the 1950s, the era of Pope Pius XII, Cardinal Spellman and Bishop Fulton Sheen when the good nuns of the Dominican Order, who treated Halloween akin to the black plague, ruled our lives at St. Aloysius grammar school.

In that era, Halloween was a day and night of mischief. By day, the bullies who took to the streets armed with socks full of ashes (we burned coal back then) or pieces of chalk broken apart under the wheels of buses or trucks. They descended on the rest of us in wolf packs to mark us wherever they could strike our bodies. Our only defense; run like hell to get home and hope other victims were slower.

Halloween night was for the hooligans. Older boys created controlled mayhem, but breaking into stores and homes was off limits. If they crossed that line, the local precinct cop made their life miserable. He knew his beat and how to find them. They knew if they went too far, they had no place to run, no place to hide.

So they limited their bad behavior to rude yet acceptable limits; knocking free the front gates and hosting them up utility poles, destroying the metal garbage cans left outside by forgetful landlords, egging parked cars or just getting drunk. Real destruction of personal or real property was out of the question.

In Ridgewood, Queens where I grew up, our time for begging was Thanksgiving morning and it was called Ragamuffin Day. I was reminded of this by a recent piece in the Metropolitan Section of The New York Times on Sunday, October 23.  Writing for the FYI Column, Tammy La Gorce reported that this odd practice began in 1870 after Abraham Lincoln proclaimed Thanksgiving as a holiday. “Basically, kids would go around, probably while their parents were creating the holiday meal, knocking on their neighbor’s doors and saying, ‘Anything for Thanksgiving?’ They were beggars. That’s why they were called ragamuffins. Pennies and apples and pieces of candy were the most common responses.”

It was mostly associated with New York City and continued until about 1950 when early television made it apparent that most of the country had switched to Halloween for trick or treating.

That is almost my recollection. I do remember going out on Thanksgiving mornings dressing as a cowboy while other kids dressed as superman, sailors (especially girls) and tougher kids as hobos. But I recall one big difference from the Thanksgiving scene that Ms La Gorce described: Substitute “women” for “parents” as to who was creating the holiday meal.

But where was the old man, in the local tavern getting an early start on the day. So that is where we kids came to realize where we should go to make our score.

It was a delicate balancing act. We had to get there early before other kids ruined it, but not too early. The goal; be the first in when the fathers were feeling generous and before other little snots became a pain in the ass. If we hit one saloon just right, that was a good day; two, a cornucopia of riches and once we struck out in a couple of gin mills, it was time to call it a day and wait for next year.

Most people consider the need for underground pipelines to be somewhere between necessary or unnecessary evils. Something we need but: “Not in my backyard.”

They’re dirty, transport oil, gas, chemicals and other icky things and they can and do leak. Their only defense is being damn-well less dangerous than transporting that icky stuff by rail, truck or barge. Still, they arouse the wrath of environmentalists, ranchers, farmers, Native Americans and Uncle. The Obama administration has spent most of its time in office employing procedural mumbo-jumbo to stall the Keystone XL Pipeline and the Standing Rock Sioux, neighboring tribes and activists have practically gone to battle to stop construction of the North Dakota Pipeline.

There is considerable pipeline hostility out there.

But there is an exception, a pipeline from the gods, applauded by all save a silly few, that moves 1,000 gallons of beer an hour two miles from the brewery to the bottling plant cleanly and safely. This magnificent “miracle” of engineering opened last month in the medieval city of Bruges, Belgium.

Bruges is a beautiful city celebrated by its advocates:

Gorgeous Bruges is a tourist’s dream. This is Belgium’s most perfectly preserved medieval town, and its jaw-dropping, beautiful architecture attracts more than two million visitors every year. If you’re short of time on your Belgium travels, Bruges should be your number one stop. With its wealth of interesting old buildings and its canals, Bruges still retains a distinct medieval air.

 Anyone taking a walk through the narrow streets or a boat trip on the canals falls

Immediately under its spell, charmed by the atmosphere of what is for many the most delightful of all the cities of Flanders (the Dutch-speaking northern part of Belgium). Because the center of Bruges is comparatively small, even those with only a day to spend sightseeing can expect to take away a good idea of all the major attractions. Essential viewing should definitely include at least the main square with the belfry, the Burg with the Basilica of the Holy Blood, and a trip on the canals.

Located within its “warren of narrow streets” sits the 500-year-old De Halve Maan (The Half Moon) brewery. This ancient plant is surrounded by historical buildings making expansion impossible. The brewery was forced to locate its modern bottling plant on the city’s outskirts. Tanker trucks operated a shuttle service clogging the tight city streets. Brewery president, Xavier Vanneste thought up the idea of a pipeline and four years later it is a reality.

Engineering and construction were not easily accomplished. The pipeline material could not contaminate the beer possibly ruining the taste or, worst case, poisoning the customers. It had to snake under ancient streets and buildings dug by a computer-guided drill “to create a 1.3-foot wide hole.”

Some buildings are so fragile that engineers had to drill deep underground so as not to disturb them. To thread the pipe through these depths, the engineers assembled 650-foot sections before inserting them whole under the ground. Since Bruges’ winding lanes and alleys couldn’t accommodate this length of pipe, the engineers assembled these sections by floating them on the city’s canals.

While the bulk of $4.5 million pipeline was paid for by the brewery, Mr. Vanneste successfully raised a total of $325,000 from more than 500 subscribers over the internet by offering beer in return.

Top tier donations of $8,500 brought one 33cl bottle of Brugse Zot Blond every day for the rest of the subscriber’s life.

$1,000 bought one 24 bottle case of beer a year for life.

The cheapest category, $300, comes with one presentation bottle of 75cl of Brugse Zot Blond each year on the subscriber’s birthday.

Truly a pipeline to love and in case you are wondering, the builders swear that it is tamper proof, but only time will tell…

Early in February, 1991, serendipitous circumstances enabled me to make my first road trip and witness the Giants beat the Bills, 20-19 at Super Bowl XXV in Tampa, Florida.. Bitten by the call of the road, I have made almost two dozen football trips since then including two additional super bowls; XXXV and XLII. I’ve followed the New York Football Giants to  Chicago, Miami, St. Louis, Phoenix, Kansas City, St. Louis, San Francisco, New Orleans, Buffalo, Cincinnati, Seattle, San Diego, Houston and Dallas; some of these destinations multiple times.

Like the Johnny Cash song…I’ve been everywhere man, I’ve been everywhere…well, almost everywhere but not Green Bay. It wasn’t for lack of effort or desire. Various factors conspired to prevent me from making it to a Giants away game at the home of the Packers.

When I first viewed the 2016 schedule, my heart sank. As expected, my team had a game in Green Bay and it was in October, prime football weather. But it was on a Sunday night and I despise night games. Another away game in London grabbed my attention but the reality of time needed and the cost eliminated it from consideration. Two others may have worked but a nagging thought whispered: How many more shots at Lambeau will you have?

I decided to pass this idea by my travel partner, my son, Michael, but just as I was about to call him, another light bulb illuminated my mind. I put down the phone to ask Mary Ann her opinion:  “The Giants are playing in Green Bay on October 9 and I’d like to include Drew and Matt. What do you think?”

“Do it, the boys will love it,” Mary Ann replied.

And so, the four of us arrived at the Radisson in Appleton, Wisconsin just after 11PM on Friday night, October 7. Mike had driven the rental two-hours from Milwaukee following an uneventful Southwest flight from LaGuardia. Matt (14) stayed with me and Drew (16) bunked with his dad. We wolfed down two late night pizzas before hitting the sack.

Appleton is a college town 31 miles southwest of Green Bay. The Radisson has a solid reputation for privacy. Visiting NFL teams stay there which is why, The Giants Road Crew, our travel service, put us up there.

The weekend was all Lambeau oriented most of the time. Buses left at 1:30 on Saturday afternoon for a guided tour of this exquisite football palace.

Lambeau opened as a simple bowl in 1957 seating 38,000. It has retained its charm despite multiple renovations and additions that expanded capacity to 81,000. The original bowl was extended up and out while seating remained unchanged; backless aluminum bleachers. The entire circumference behind these bleaches has been walled off by a series of dark green structures containing club seats, luxury boxes, restaurants, reception areas broadcast and media centers. Bright gold paint highlights the aisles, railings and other fixtures providing a bright contrast to the forest green background. A perfect place to watch a football game.

A reception and buffet dinner inside Lambeau’s atrium followed a visit to the gift shop later that evening. While not exactly a culinary triumph, the choice of food sufficed thanks to an open bar.

Game time activities began the next day with a 2:30PM departure and a three-hour private tent party outside the stadium. The crowd surrounding us grew in a typical tailgate fashion and treated us with friendliness and polite humor. This experience continued as we entered the bowl. I had been warned to rent a padded seat with an attached backrest that hooked under the bleacher which I obtained from a sweet lady for $6.00. She advised, “You don’t have to return it. Just leave it on the bench.”

Like other concessions, these rentals are operated by charities who supply the man-power and keep 10% of the profits in return. The crowd remained friendly throughout and from my perspective, every Giants fan I saw behaved in like manner. Two young women who consented to have a photo taken with me did ask how New Yorkers compared to them. I couldn’t resist using this explanation: “How many New Yorkers does it take to change a light bulb? None of your f***ing business.” Their genuine laughter was my reward.

It was not the Giants night and the Packers cruised to a relatively easy 23-16 win to the delight of the home town crowd who happily chanted “Go Pack, Go” whenever cued to do so. As we worked our way to the exit, two local women offered their condolences to the boys. I reminded one that it was okay and only a football game.

Dawn witnessed the start of our return trip that was seamless and without drama.

On arrival at LaGuardia, it didn’t take long to lose Lambeau’s friendly aura. Michael alerted the off-site parking dispatcher that we were ready for pick-up. She directed us to the upper deck island outside Southwest. As we approached it, our Giants garb caught the attention of the uniformed attendant stationed there keeping traffic moving:

You at that game? Thought so; what is wrong with Eli? Damn, he’s too long in the league to play like that. What is up with those spiked balls, little baby passes? He knows better than that, he does. He’s gotta do better or we gonna have a long season.

Answering his challenges was not an option, but Drew noted: “Ah, New York anger, I missed that; I’m glad to be home.”

Amen, Brother Drew, amen.

If you use the traffic / navigational app, Waze, and live anywhere in the New York Metropolitan area, you know that using this app. up or down the I-95 corridor or to travel between New Jersey and Long Island is the equivalent of taking a rubber mallet and striking the side of your head repeatedly.

This Twenty-First Century electronic wonder is without a doubt a superb tool in other parts of the land of US, but in an area as congested as the place I call home, “It’s like the little girl with the strawberry curl; when it’s good it’s good but when it’s bad it’s awful.”

I find Waze guilty, but with an explanation. Simply put, Waze works when confronted with real choices. It’s just not designed to cope with the insane volume of traffic matriculating its way over the bridges, through the tunnels and attempting to transit these obsolete and inadequate highways we confront. Waze can’t deal with our chaos, but it must. So when traffic is FUBAU (F***ed Up Beyond All Understanding) it makes bad choices. Waze doesn’t understand urban areas.

On a recent trip from New Jersey to Long Island, Waze realized the Cross Bronx Expressway (I-95) was at a complete stop…Mayday, mayday, mayday: It has us bail at University Avenue in the eastern Bronx; fight grid-lock to go north to East Tremont Avenue where we entered an urban slog westward bound to Arthur Avenue fighting crossing traffic along the way. At Arthur Avenue, it directed us back to the Cross Bronx.

Admittedly, the road was clear at this point. It is interesting to note though, as we crossed the Throgs Neck Bridge, my cousin, Bob, passed us. Later, I asked Bob, “How did you get to the bridge?”

He said, “Stayed on the Cross-Bronx!”

Case closed.

Like Sergeant Joe Friday said: “The facts and only the facts.”

The last new tunnel to cross the Hudson River to Manhattan was the third tube of the Lincoln Tunnel that opened in 1957. The last bridge between NJ and NYC was the lower deck of the George Washington Bridge that opened in 1962. The Throgs Neck Bridge (1961) from the Bronx to Queens and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge (1965) from Staten Island to Brooklyn were the last two bridges built to connect Long Island to the mainland.

These last two bridges were Robert Moses’ triumphs, the Verrazano his last hurrah. The master builder grew old, politics, environmental concerns and popular attitudes passed him by. His last stand, a cross-Long Island Sound bridge from Bayville, Long Island to Rye in Westchester County died on the drawing board.

And so it goes. We live on an island with a 1960s infrastructure. We modernize highways, add HOV lanes, better traffic patterns, introduced EZpass and other computerized improvements, but the fact remains; today’s bridge and tunnel traffic must use the exact number of lanes used in 1965.

So how is that working out? In 1965, 880,575 vehicles crossed all of our toll bridges on a daily basis. In 2015, the figure was 1,453,585.

I admit, Waze, recently did well by my family to avoid congestion allowing us to reach a funeral in Ramsey NJ in time. We left Port Washington at 8 AM for a 10 AM service only to discover all regular crossings through the Bronx or Manhattan were overwhelmed. Waze bypassed congestion by weaving us through the Bronx, Westchester County and over the Tappan Zee, (Malcolm Wilson,) Bridge, onto the NY Throughway to Suffern and back south on Route 17 to Ramsey where we arrived at 9:41.

However, two days later, it took me through every part of Fort Lee I never wanted to see on a slow, painful ride home from an awful loss by my beloved Giants to the hated Redskins at Met Life Stadium. I quit: I do no Waze no more:

Stupid Waze / Stupid Giants!

October 13, 2016 marks the third anniversary since I began this blog and this is my 150^th edition. I first penned, “Through the Heartland,” in 2001 and I included it in my 2011 anthology, “The Big Orange Dog and Other Stories.” I love it and have edited it since then tweaking this and that. Perhaps this is the final edition? In any event, I present it to celebrate these two mile-stones:

Through the Heartland

Ten hours out of Chicago, the sun outraces the train as it sets across the flat, western horizon. Nighttime has come to the Great Plains and Kansas speeds by under the brilliance of countless stars shining across a clear, prairie July sky. Blackened fields, silhouetted by a three-quarter moon, stretch out to meet the stars at the horizon.

He sits alone in the dome car of a westbound Santa Fe Chief, staggered by the scenery, unable to sleep. At 17 it is all too much, too grand to miss. Reaching into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, he launches one out of the pack and into his mouth with a practiced skill. Clicking open his Zippo, he strikes the wheel and lights another Marlboro. In a few minutes, his eyes adjust to the darkness of the dome car lighted only by muted bulbs outlining the aisle and the glow of his cigarette.

Both the fields and the sky draw his attention and his thoughts wander with them. This is the furthest he has ever been from home and each mile he travels opens the distance. Ahead lays Oklahoma, the deserts of New Mexico, the mountains of Arizona and the Continental Divide. He remembers the exhilaration earlier that day when the train crossed the Mississippi River into Missouri and the West. What about his destination, Riverside, California? What will he discover there, what will he discover about himself? The process began earlier that day when he fell into the company of a group of sailors straight out of the Great Lakes Training Center on their way to join the Seventh Fleet. They treated him as an equal, playing cards and drinking beer. He’s already changing although he cannot explain it.

He becomes part of the rhythm and motion of the train united with the darkness, the Luna landscape and the stars.

Suddenly, he’s startled by a visual jolt. In the distance there is a light. “No, it is not, but wait, it is a light, a street light. I’ll be damned.”

It passes. “Hold on” he thinks, “here comes another one.” It is about a mile down the track. Then another and another, the intervals between light poles drawing closer and closer together until a small town appears, a few buildings, a gas station, some others, maybe stores or a post office, all illuminated as if to hold back the sea of night.

It passes in a blur. Blackness returns as the gaps between streetlights lengthens and lengthens until they are no more.

Only Kansas at night returns once again.

“Wow.” Lighting up another Marlboro, he returns to his fascination with the magic of it all…Sleep will have to wait. “What will come next?”

Mostly, I read non-fiction; history and biographies being my go-to subjects. My challenge to the author when I select a new book: “Tell me things I don’t know.”

Since high school, I have been a student of World War II, particularly the war in the Pacific. I have read more books about both the war in general and the Pacific theater in particular than I can count. The first book I ever read cover to cover was, U-Boats at War, then a Ballantine paperback that retailed for 35 cents. While in college, I began collecting Samuel Eliot Morrison’s definitive sixteen volume set: History of Naval Operations During World War II. I devoured each volume multiple times.

Bill O’Reilly and his co-author, Martin Dugard, released their most recent “Killing…” book; Killing the Rising Sun, earlier this month. I grabbed a “first edition” copy at Barnes and Noble (30% off) a week ago. I set aside the book I was reading about Sully Sullenberger to take on their direct, no-nonsense style. I had previously read their Kennedy, Patton and Reagan books and I find these authors’ approach to be an easy and delightful read.

“Tell me things I don’t know.” As readable as the book was, by Page 274 of 294 pages of the written word, I had yet to learn something new from their enterprise. Ah, but then I reached Chapter 29 that chronicles a meeting in the Oval Office during the winter of 1948, almost three years after the war ended.

President Truman invited four senior Army Air Force officers to meet with him. General Carl Spatz, the man who commanded all of our air forces in Europe during the war and who was to become the first commander of the newly separated branch of service, the United States Air Force. General James (Jimmy) Doolittle, who led the 1942 raid on Tokyo flying twin-engine, B-25 bombers off the deck of aircraft carrier, USS Hornet, an act thought impossible. The third guest was a relatively unknown Air Force officer, Colonel Dave Shillen. Shillen’s claim to fame was solving the concept of aerial refueling thereby extending the range of our bombers well beyond previous limits.

The last invitee was Colonel Paul Tibbets, the former commander of the 509^th Composite Group, the top secret unit designated to drop the atomic bomb in anger. More importantly, Tibbets, flew and commanded, Enola Gay, the B-29 named after his mother, to drop the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima.

As O’Reilly and Dugard tell it, these four officers were ushered into the Oval Office where they stood awaiting the president. Three chairs were arranged in front of Truman’s desk. When the White House porter arrived, he directed General Spatz to sit in the right-hand chair to honor his rank. General Doolittle sat in the middle chair and Shillen was directed to the left chair. The usher led Colonel Tibbets to an unseen chair next to the president’s desk.

When Truman arrived, he congratulated General Spatz on his new command, General Doolittle, for his service and bravery for that 1942 raid and he told Colonel Shillen this  about his breakthrough: “We’re gonna need it bad someday.”

Quoting from the book:

Finally, Harry Truman turns to face Colonel Paul Tibbets. The president says nothing at first, letting their shared moments form a connection.

For ten long seconds, the president does not speak.

“What do you think?” Truman finally asks.

“Mr. President,” Tibbets replies, knowing full well what Harry Truman is talking about, “I think I did what I was told.”

Truman slaps his hand down on the desk, rattling the legendary “The Buck Stops Here” placard placed there after the war.

You’re damn right you did. And I’m the guy who sent you.”

That revelation alone was worth the price of admission.

How does Tom Hanks hit one home run after another without ever striking out? He currently stars in, Sully, a brilliant movie that tells the story of Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger who landed his crippled US Air A-320 on the Hudson River after a bird strike shortly after takeoff from LaGuardia Airport.

This is the actor who brilliantly portrayed a marooned businessman in, Castaway; James Lovell, the astronaut in command of ill-fated, Apollo 13; Captain Philips, who was taken hostage by Somali pirates, and James Donovan who defended the Soviet spy, Rudolph Able, and negotiated his exchange for Francis Gray Powers in, A Bridge of Spies.  Brilliant performances all.

This film is a credit to Mr. Hanks, his fellow actors and the director, Clint Eastwood. They interpreted a flight that lasted only 208 seconds and turned it into a riveting film covering an event we all know in advance has a happy ending.

The time frame of the actual flight is incredibly brief. Every decision Sully Sullenberger made had to be the right. Even then he had to do something never done before; ditch a commercial jet without any loss of life.

Here is an abbreviated record of the actual dialogue from the cockpit. (Please note: the code for this US Airways flight was Cactus 1549)

15:24:56: (Tower) Cactus 1549 clear for takeoff.

15:25:33: (Cockpit) V one, Rotate. (Take off)

15:25:45: (Tower) Cactus 1549 contact New York departure, good day.

15:26:00:  (New York departure radar:)

Contact and maintain 1,500. (Feet)

15:26.37 (Pilot to co-pilot) Uh, what a view of the Hudson today.

15:27:11: (Cockpit) Birds. (Numerous geese strike the airplane.)

15:27:15: (Cockpit:) We got rol-back of ‘em rolling back. (Both engines are disabled.)

15:27:23: (Cockpit) My aircraft. (Sully takes control of the airplane from his co-pilot..)

15:27:32: (Sully) Mayday, mayday, mayday. Uh, this is Cactus 1549, hit birds, we’ve lost thrust in both engines, we’re turning back toward LaGuardia.

15:28:05: (LaGuardia tower) Cactus 1549, if we can get it for you, do you want to try to land on runway one three?

15:28:10: (Sully to tower) We’re unable. We may end up in the Hudson.

15:29:11: (Over the intercom) This is the captain: brace for impact.

15:29:33: (Sully to tower) We’re gonna be in the Hudson.

15:30:16 to 15:30:23: (Cockpit exchange)

Hundred and fifty knots.

Got flaps two, you want more?

No, let’s stay at two.

Got any ideas?

Actually not.

15:30:24: (Sully to his co-pilot) We’re gonna brace.

15:30:43: End of recording

Two hundred and eight seconds, 194 from the bird strike to ditching in the Hudson, or in plain English, 3 minutes and 14 seconds. How many prayers can you say in 3 minutes and 14 seconds?

US Air 1549 carried a crew of five and 150 passengers. One hundred and fifty-five souls went into the Hudson River on January 15, 2009 and 155 souls lived to tell about it. The miracle on the Hudson.

The story is real but it is Clint Eastwood’s clever use of time and Tom Hanks’ faithful portrayal Sully Sullenberger that makes this movie soar.

I recently thought about this classic, silly and yet satisfyingly funny yarn:

Ms. Jones called on her third grade students individually to stand and tell what their mothers or fathers did for a living. Invariably, she came to little Johnny who stood and proudly proclaimed, “My father plays piano in a whorehouse!”

“What did you say!” gasped Ms. Jones.

Encouraged by what he took to be profound interests, Johnny repeated: “My father plays piano in a whorehouse!”

This led to a trip the office where Johnny repeated his bold statement to Ms Doyle, the principal. A suspension followed together with a letter to his parents requiring they provide an explanation in person before the suspension could be lifted.

Mr. and Mrs. Ford duly complied meeting with Ms. Jones and Ms Doyle. Mr. Ford apologized explaining that it wasn’t Johnny’s fault. “You see, he was only repeating what I told him each time he asked me where I worked.”

“Oh dear,” replied Principal Doyle. “Do you really play piano in a house of ill repute?”

“No, no, of course not, I only told Johnny that so he wouldn’t know I’m a lawyer.”

As Kurt Vonnegut once explained it: “We are who we pretend to be and that’s why we should be very careful who we pretend to be.”

Sometimes we don’t even realize who we are pretending to be especially when we ignore children’s presence when conversing with other adults. When my son, Michael was about to start first grade in a new school, Mary Ann told him that his big sister, Beth would show him the ropes. After his first day Mary Ann asked, “How was it?’

Michael replied, “All right, but I never saw the ropes.”

But the classic response happened when Michael was old enough to be part of our Port Washington version of little league, Diane, another boy’s mother picked up her son, Mark and Michael from baseball practice one afternoon. As Diane drove with the two boys in the back seat she witnessed the following exchange:

Mark: “Your father travels a lot, what does he do?”

Michael: “I don’t really know, but he goes to lots of places, tells people what to do and, when they do it, he comes home.”

If only it had been that simple!

Boeing has announced that building new 747s may be in doubt. Reading the piece in the Wall Street Journal, I gathered that part of this is a ploy to force Congress to put up or shut up about authorizing the funds to build the two needed replacement aircraft specialty designed to serve and protect the President of the United States, the ones commonly referred to as Air Force One when our national leader is on board.

Boeing will most likely prevail; two much planning has gone into the requirements for these new birds for the government to begin again with 777s or 787s as replacements.  Recently, I saw a piece where former living presidents were asked what they miss most about being our national leader and to a man they replied: “The plane.”

The Journal reported that Boeing has delivered more than 1,500 747s since 1970. I first flew in one belonging to Pan American in 1974 on a flight to San Juan, P.R. from John F. Kennedy (JFK) and my last was in 2010, a British Airway jet from London Heathrow (LHR) to JFK. I have travelled a total of 133 flights on board those jumbos, 125 of them business related. More than half those flights were to and from London but 747s also carried me to and from places like Paris, Stockholm, Oslo, Zurich, Rome, Tokyo, Manila, Singapore, Kula Lumpur, Hong Kong and Beijing.

My number one provider of 747s was TWA by choice as I was both a valued frequent flyer and a member of their Ambassador’s Club. This combination gave me almost automatic upgrades from coach to business class. Before Carl Ichan ruined TWA, they had terrific on board service and even, post-Ichan, when many good flight attendants quit; TWA still retained an edge due to their seating setup.

TWA made the upper cabin of the 747 all business class seating. This meant the space was exclusive to 18 passengers who sat two and two with an aisle in the center (ten seats on the left side, eight on the right to allow for the spiral staircase.) We had access to two rest rooms that we shared with the flight crew and a happy flight attendant exclusively assigned to this section. Happy because the attendant only had 18 clients all of who were in business meaning no first class drama and no jerks from coach.

On one particular occasion, Mary Ann, joined me for a business / vacation trip to London. TWA was desperate so we both wound up in this cabin with upgrades after I bought heavily discounted coach tickets. At best, there were only four or five business travelers accompanying us up in our perch. As we approached the start of the descent into LHR, a baby Ichan bred stewdess presented us with a bottle of champagne explaining, we were the best passengers on the plane. We thanked her and when she left, I shook my head and said to my wife, “She’s sweet and trying, but in an emergency; worthless, damn, I miss those TWA women who mattered when you needed them.”

I flew with Alexander, the deposed heir to the Yugoslavian throne who enjoyed my father’s heritage and sent me Christmas cards for two or three years, two former presidents, Jimmy Carter and Dick Nixon. Dan Rather was the most interesting. This happened because  TWA cancelled their evening flight and re-booked my mate and me on an Air India 747. That was January of 1981. I was flying in first class with Leo Whalen; (need I say more) as was Rather. Rather hustled off the plane to make a BA connection at Heathrow. Only later did we realize he had been tipped off that Iran was about to release of our hostages the day Ronald Reagan was inaugurated. Rather was on his way to Algeria where they would be released.

When TWA was forced to sell their lucrative London service to United, I switched to British Air and soon achieved gold card status. This came with a sensational bonus; whenever I flew business class or, as BA referred to it, Club Class, there was always the chance when I checked in for Flight 178, (the 10 AM morning flight to LHR,) that the clerk would ask, “Mr. Delach, would you be interested in changing over to 004?” (You have to love British subtlety; BA 004 was the 1:30 PM Concorde.)  Leave three and one half hours later and arrive two hours earlier. It did happen more than a ½ dozen times! Loved the 747 but, the SST: the only way to fly when it’s on someone else’s dime!

The 747 was the greatest venue for international travel back then before the world and airline travel went into the crapper after the horror of September 11, 2001.

My favorite flights were those Friday afternoon return trips out of Heathrow bound for JFK; all of the victories and horrors of negotiations with Lloyds over; win, lose or draw. Back then the last flights left at about 3 PM meaning we were out of London by 11 am at the latest. It meant going home. The best were those homebound flights when we found other New York insurance guys on the same flight. No matter that we worked for rival firms; school was out; time to play…One time six of us took over the large empty space in the tail of a half-empty 747 to drink and smoke our way across the Atlantic. We tipped the flight attendants, none of us hit on them, they enjoyed us and we’d spin our fingers to let them know it was time to “sprinkle the infield.”

What a flight! I still remember the price I paid due to my condition when I arrived home.

Oh hell, it was worth it.