John Delach

My Texas friend, Phil Brown, was a “plank owner” of LSM 317 being part of the original crew who took delivery of this landing craft from the Pullman Co. shipyard in Illinois. He served on this ship until it returned to Long Beach for decommissioning after hostilities ended. This is his account of Kamikaze attacks he witnessed during the invasion of Leyte.

Our crew stood at attention on 28 July, 1944 as LSM 317 was commissioned. The ensign was raised and the first watches were set. We cast off, left Lake Michigan and sailed though the heart of Chicago via the Chicago River making our way to the Mississippi River. We only navigated the river during day light on a voyage to New Orleans making stops at Memphis, Greenville, Vicksburg and Baton Rouge before reaching New Orleans where the guns were installed. A good thing; professional river pilots navigated on the rivers as none of the five officers had ever been to sea and the skipper, Lt. Warren Ayers, had previously been a professional musician.

That pilot was an old-timer who quit commercial piloting to serve his country. He was really pissed off at his fellow pilots who continued to work on commercial traffic earning big bucks. He frequently flipped them the bird as we passed their tows.

We sailed from New Orleans to Galveston for two or three weeks of intensive training and shakedown.  From Galveston we sailed across the Gulf of Mexico to the Panama Canal where we made a short stop for minor repairs and equipment replacement before transiting to the Pacific side. Next stop, Bora Bora, which appeared after a 19-day cruise. I thought of paradise; it looked just like what I always though a South Seas island should look like and the locals were friendly, trading shell jewelry for canned goods and other ordinary items. From there we headed to New Caledonia, the Admiralty Islands and stops in New Guinea before reaching our ultimate destination…the Philippines.

Kamikaze was not a word that we knew when our first such attack on December 10, 1944. It found us loading supplies to be taken around Leyte to Ormoc on the opposite side of Leyte Gulf. MacArthur planned to circle behind the Japanese who were stubbornly defending the mountains keeping us from punching through to the other side. The Japanese were also using the Ormoc beaches to reinforce and resupply their troops.

We had finished taking on supplies from the Liberty Ship, William S. Ladd, anchored well off shore…As I recall, mostly miscellaneous gear including some artillery shells. We had moved back to the Red Beach area where we grounded 317 to take on infantry that had been pulled out of the lines to be reinserted for the back door attack…About that time General Quarters (GQ) sounded: a squawking klaxon horn followed by the command: “THIS IS NO DRILL; ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS.”

Our rather primitive radar showed three bogeys approaching. Some of the larger ships opened up with what we thought were 5 inch 38s…too high for our 40mm and 20mm guns. Two or three planes were all we saw. They made their way toward the main concentration of ships where one started down in a steep dive right into and through the number two hatch of the William S. Ladd, where we had taken on supplies! The Ladd sank in a few minutes; we were thunder struck; had never seen anything like that and didn’t want to ever see anything like it again!! We’d been so close minutes before!

My GQ station was on top of the conning tower as the Captain’s talker. Several of us discussed what we had just seen and thought it would not happen again…WRONG!!!

On the runs to attack and later resupply Ormoc Beachhead I think we had suicide planes each and every time. We came to refer to the attacks as “crash divers” or “suicide” attacks. Do not remember hearing the term Kamikaze until the invasion of Okinawa.

They were scary and intimidating. On December 11, we were part of a convoy of eight LSMs and four LCIs escorted by six destroyers, supported by four F4U Corsairs. We were ordered to GQ and within minutes several low-flying planes came in front to back attacking our little convoy. They were so low we were unable to lower our field of fire for fear of hitting our own ships. One plane flew so low right over us we could easily see the pilot before he crashed into the destroyer, USS Reid, right behind us. Went in striking the torpedo tubes; blew in half and sank within two minutes. Will never forget what that looked like. Several of us began to pull back to pick up survivors but were ordered to continue our run. Only one LSM was designated to stay to attempt rescues and less than half of Reid’s crew was saved.

We were scared!!! At least I was scared!!! About that time the Corsairs covering our convoy chased off the remaining Japanese aircraft. We reached Ormoc that night but waited until about 3 or 4 am to beach. Out behind us, our escorts were in a serious fire fight with some Japanese destroyers attempting a last ditch resupply of troops and supplies. Everyone was shooting everywhere and I am sure some damage was caused by our own fire…I hate the term, “friendly fire” as it did not seem friendly. Our own radar and early daylight told us we were landing on the same beach only ¾ mile from the enemy. It was difficult getting off the beach and on our way home across Leyte Gulf; more air attacks but no crash dives.

Going on the beach to land supplies and troops was not much fun but the crash divers added a scary element as we felt there was no way to stop them. Granted we were small and insignificant; targets of last resort but on one trip a LSM was hit, the aircraft engine actually went through the ship.

LSM 317 had damage that prevented us from being sent to Iwo Jima and Okinawa. Those were much worse. Okinawa was the real climax of the Kamikaze.

As an ironic twist, after the Japanese surrendered we were ordered to Korea to take the surrender of several of their installations. One turned out to be a rather large Kamikaze base. As I remember the island was off the tip of Korea and named Sasha To. The remaining troops had been ordered to stack their arms, rifles in one stack, side arms in another, machine guns in a third, etc. Troops lined up and their officers delivered the bowing and surrendering.

The best thing about this spot was that we liberated a Japanese motorcycle with a side car. One of our mechanics (MMC) fixed it and we had a great time with it along with a jeep we had liberated before the war ended. When the tires finally blew out on the motorcycle, we used a fire hose to wrap around the wheels and wired it on. We took it down onto the land whenever we beached the LSM, opened the bow doors, lowered the ramp and zoomed off; great fun!!!

I had accumulated enough points for discharge once the ship arrived in Long Beach. I knew LSM 317’s sailing days were over. She was completely worn out and would be sold for scrap. I decided to keep the commissioning ensign and our “lucky” flag, the one we ran up during hot landings. So tattered, it was not much more than a star square but I packed both in mothballs and years later, I mounted and framed the ensign and the flag  in a cases that are still proudly displayed.

Looking back at so much confusion when I left 317, I still regret not taking a pair of good binoculars and the ship’s navigation clock.

I should have seen this one coming, the changing scene was as obvious as the sun rising and setting. Of course, I knew the old prototypical New York Jewish taxi driver was long gone, just another memory of a lost New York. Never again, an Abe, Shelly or Max; owner-drivers all, steering their monster Checkers through Midtown traffic dodging messengers, pedestrians and Jersey drivers while carrying on a non-stop proclamations on the state of the world, human relations and where and where not to find great food at a good price.

In 1962, American born hackies made up 62% of the drivers. Today it’s 4% and the Taxi and Limousine Commission, (TLC) notes the other 96% come from 167 different countries with the greatest number (wait for it fellow New Yorkers) from Bangladesh (24%) and, Pakistan (10%).

A year ago, in recognition of the obvious unfamiliarity that most of these drivers have with the geography of the city of New York, Comrade Mayor Bill DeBlasio and his Politburo, aka, the City Council, eliminated: “most geography questions from the license exam.” Last month they directed the TLC to end the requirement that the test be taken in English! Their rationale, GPS devices eliminate the need to know where drivers are going and Uber accepts non-English speaking drivers. Seriously, the first rationale is flawed at best and the second, while on paper it may be true, any Uber driver who cannot communicate with the passengers will not be an Uber driver for long.

But once again in the Peoples Republic of NYC, Comrade Mayor Bill DeBlasio and his Politburo rule supreme. Makes one wish for Bloomberg’s Nanny State, even recognizing how tedious it was. At least, law and order and common sense prevailed with Mayor Mike in charge.

In researching this piece, I decided to compare the application process for becoming a taxi driver in NYC with the one in London. The introduction for perspective London taxi drivers begins: “(They) are almost as famous as the black cabs in which they drive, this is mainly due to their in-depth knowledge of London and ability in taking their occupants to their desired destination amid the congestion and the chaos that you often find when travelling through London’s streets.”

“To become an ALL-LONDON taxi driver…you need to master no fewer than 320 basic routes, all of the 25,000 streets… 20,000 landmarks…located within a six-mile radius of Charing Cross. It takes the average person between 2 and 4 years to learn the knowledge.”

The TLC approach in New York City is a bit different. First off, you may only apply on line and you must complete the application in 20 minutes or your session will expire. (We do not have time in the Big Apple for lollygagging: TIME IS MONEY!)

You need a DMV license, a valid credit card to pay the non-refundable fee and, most important, promise that within 90 days of submitting the same, you will:

Take a drug test

Have your fingerprints and photo taken

Complete the education requirements

Lowest common denominator and political correctness rule in our Peoples Republic of NYC…and so it goes.

I do confess I miss those ethnic Jewish drivers who helped define New Yorkers. Fate allowed me to actually ride with an Abe Cohen in his Checker early in the 80s at the end of this era. I hailed him in Hanover Square after a downtown business lunch asking for a drop off in Midtown.

Once in motion, unprompted, Abe began his one-sided conversation, treating me to his opinions while heading north, navigating traffic along the West Side Highway. As we passed a joint advertized as, “The Anvil,” a gay S&M club in the West Village, Abe pointed at the club and exclaimed:

“You know that’s a homo joint? Would you believe I once picked up a fare there who came on to me!”

I asked, “Abe, what did you do?”

Abe, “I had to think quick. I didn’t want to lose the tip so I gave the guy a matchbook and told him to write his phone number and give it back to me so I could call him when I got off.”

Me, “So what happened?”

“I did great; he gave me a $20 tip.”

Several Metropolitan daily newspapers reported the death of Clarence (Choo Choo) Coleman on August 16. The New York Times reported his age as either 78 or 80. Their obituary included two quotes by Roger Angell about Choo Choo: “He handles out side curve balls like a man fighting bees.” And a second referring to his speed on the bases: “This is an attribute that is about as essential to catchers as neat handwriting.”

Their obituary included the following story about Choo Choo (who called everyone “Bub.”) “Perhaps the best known anecdote about Coleman is one that, in later years, he said never happened, though Ralph Kiner, the former slugger and broadcaster, assured The New York Times that it had. In 1962, Kiner interviewed Coleman (on his post-game show, Kiner’s Korner) and asked, ‘What’s your wife’s name and what’s she like?’ Coleman replied, ‘Her name is Mrs. Coleman – and she likes me, Bub.”

Choo Choo also had the curious distinction of being the only baseball player I ever encountered when I was young. It happened in the spring of 1966. I left Shea Stadium with my friends, Bill, Jimmy about an hour after a game ended, We had successfully made our way into the private Diamond Club for a couple of beers before we departed for Manhattan. I wrote about it in 2005 as part of a piece called “Shea Stadium Nights:”

Since the baseball game ended early on a Friday night in May, Manhattan beckoned to us. Being city kids, cars weren’t a factor so we climbed the Willets Point-Shea Stadium elevated station to catch the No. 7 train bound for Times Square. As we waited for the train to arrive, we noticed a fellow standing against the station’s wall. Jimmy looked at him several times before deciding to take the chance that he recognized this man. Jimmy walked away from Bill and me to speak to him. Instinctively, we quieted to hear their exchange. Jimmy looked at him and said, “You’re Choo Choo Coleman.”

Coleman looked back at Jimmy and said, “Bub, that’s cool, people don’t usually recognize me.”

We all asked for his autograph. He had been the Mets’ best catcher during 1962 and 1963, their first two seasons. We’d all seen him play at the Polo Grounds. Labeled, “a defensive catcher,” his hitting left much to be desired. Clarence, “Choo Choo” Coleman played in 55 games in 1962 hitting .250 and 106 games in 1963 hitting .178. The following year, he was farmed out to a minor league team and he did not make it back to the Mets until the 1966.

We said good-bye when the train arrived. We talked about how strange it was that a baseball player had no alternative but to take the subway alone.

The next day, the Mets cut Choo Choo. His come-back had only lasted six games before we met him and that subway ride was his last trip home from the Show. Sad, but that’s where a .188 average will take a defensive player.

R.I.P. Choo Choo

To say the least, I was perplexed. At 19, being told that I’d been selected to be the Godfather of the new-born daughter of the youngest son of our next door neighbor; I didn’t get it at all. For Christ’s sake, I’m psychologically divorced from something like this being completely absorbed in my own affairs. I’m in my junior year of college and totally uninterested in anything else. Why in hell would they select me? It made no sense!

Whatever, I had no choice, no input; my points meant nothing. My mother delivered this message in no uncertain terms; she would be the Godmother and, by extension, I, the Godfather.

The baby girl’s parents were the son and daughter-in-law of our next door neighbors, the M family, my mother’s tenants and good friends. Each family lived in one of the two apartments on the upper floor at 1821 Himrod Street, a two-story, four-family railroad flat in Ridgewood, Queens. Granted, Florence M. the grand-dam of their family supported my single-parent mother through thick and thin helping to raise me. In truth she even loaned me the $37.50 I needed to buy my initial season ticket to the New York Football Giants a year earlier in 1962. But how the hell did this translate into this invasion of my world?

Making matters worse, the baby’s baptism was scheduled for the same day that my Giants were at home against the St. Louis Cardinals, November, 24, 1963. Just in my second season, this meant I had to miss my first home game: Damn, damn, damn!

My good friend, Jimmy, was only too glad to relieve me of my ticket. The Giants were flying high just on the cusp of selling out and game day tickets had ceased to exist. Big Blue was still in a tight race to win the NFL East for the third straight year and this was during the time when all home games by league rule were blacked out.

You may have already made the connection that the President of the United States of America, John F. Kennedy, was shot to death in Dallas, Texas on November 22^nd, the Friday before the baptism.

What you may not be aware of though, by Saturday morning, all regular programming on radio and television ceased. TV concentrated on news but the traditional AM New York radio stations; WMCA, WNBC, WABC, WOR and WHN switched their programming to somber classical and chamber music. Regular programming didn’t resume until Tuesday morning the day after JFK’s funeral and burial.

This change of format included WNEW, the radio home of the Giants, silencing Marty Glickman, the team’s radio voice. Unbelievably, despite the depth of the terrible grief that befell the nation, Pete Rozelle, Commissioner of the NFL, was so tone deaf that he decided to go forward with all eight games scheduled for that Sunday.

(Joe Foss, Commissioner of the rival AFL, postponed his league’s games. In time, Rozelle, realized his decision was his worst act as commissioner.)

Sunday found me wearing a sports jacket and tie, gathered with my mother, my goddaughter to be, her mom and the families at their Maspeth home waiting the time to ride to Resurrection RC Church for the 3 PM baptism. (Dad was absent serving his country as an MP in Germany having been drafted into our then, peace time Army.)

Still annoyed being there and starving for any news of the game, I separated myself and tuned their TV to WCBS, Channel 2, hoping to catch some update. Instead; oh my God, sitting there alone; I witnessed Jack Ruby step into the picture, gun drawn, and fatally shoot JFK’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, in a Dallas police station. My cry of: “Holy shit,” got everyone’s attention.

The shock of that scene was, in a way, the tipping point for all Americans. Already grieving, we couldn’t absorb any thing else. Numb, that’s what we were, numb. I fulfilled my role at the baptism, we had a reception of sorts back at the house that I don’t remember and left to go home.

Somehow I discovered the Giants lost that day. It didn’t seem to matter.

Today, when I think about all of this, I realize that my goddaughter is now 53 and I do regret that I can’t recall her name.

Not to be confused with the city in Louisiana, this is about our personal “red pole” located in Marlow, New Hampshire.

We bought our house in the Granite State in 1984 toward the end of that simpler time prior to the explosion of the internet, cell phones, social media and smart phones that revolutionized our lives.

We depended on a single land-line telephone in this rural setting. Television was primitive; a single TV channel signal out of Vermont to a roof-top antenna that on most days received it accompanied by various amounts of electronic snow.

In 1988, we bought an analog satellite dish and a receiver that allowed us to track about two dozen “C” band and “K” band satellites by entering their coordinates into the receiver. The dish was mounted on a steel pole about 25 yards from the house.

It was so massive; the pole had to be filled with concrete to adequately support the weight and movement of the dish. We must have been able to track at least 500 different stations. Much of the programming featured sex, religion and shop-at-home.

Shop-at-home’s appeal increased in direct proportion to alcohol consumption. My worst was in the early ‘90s. After I ordered a Bill Clinton backwards watch, the sales rep suggested, “For another $10 we’ll send you a second.” I replied, “I’ll take it.”

We did discover some gems like the raw feeds of news programs and every NFL game for free, (the NFL had not yet realized they could make money on this too.)

News feeds were a hoot though. Did you ever give thought to what goes on before a network anchor announces: “…and now we are going to Betty Jones who is standing live outside the court house in East Paduckerville, Kansas to update us on freeing the mole women: “Hello, Betty…”

The reality is that Ole Betty and her crew have been out there for almost an hour set up and ready to go so that the feed can be accessed without any delay. There she stands in front of the camera so the studio can see she is ready while she waits and she waits and she waits. Betty may grab a quick snack or drink, adjust her makeup or do silly facial exercises but she stays on camera ready for the shoot.

Getting local news was a problem. To prevent these dishes from competing with existing television stations the owner had to demonstrate that it was located in an area without service. Since my billing address was Port Washington, NY, I’d be challenged on a regular basis by the satellite service forcing me to defend my right to receive this service. I’d patiently ask them to check our dish’s location electronically. This satisfied them until another investigator noted the billing address. For a while we received the NBC news from our home New York City station but we also received network news from Miami, Philadelphia and Boston.

All programming information was available in a TV guide for satellites that was the size of a medium town’s telephone book.

This ended with the advent of the small dishes. Congress changed the law allowing universal installation. Once the little dishes that we first called “pizza dishes” came into fashion with providers like Dish and Direct TV, the free programming on the old C and K band satellites shrunk to slim then none giving us no choice but to convert to one of those systems.

We had the big dish removed but the concrete-filled steel pole wasn’t going anywhere. Corrosion turned its color into a dull reddish orange and we came to refer to it as our baton rouge.

We did find a new use for our red pole. It became an excellent marker to identify the resting place of our family dogs once we cremated their bodies. As of today, Harry, Bubba, Sasha, Buster, Jumbo and Maggie all rest beneath our baton  rouge their remains secured in wooden and metal boxes that once upon a time contained liters of expensive whiskey like Middleton’s Irish and Johnny Walker Black or Blue.

Not a bad way to go in my opinion and, for the record, I’d prefer a Redbreast Irish 15 year-old box. Oh yeah, if you can find one, please include one of those Clinton backwards watches.

Earlier this month, Mary Ann and I hosted a family vacation for all eleven of the members of our three families at Hilton’s resort in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Being a typical beach vacation, activities included sunning, swimming, exercise, eating, drinking, reading and sleeping; repeated daily. Borrowing a term from my friend, Jim Hagelow, “We broke even. By the end of the week everyone was still speaking to each other.”

The five Connecticut Delaches and the four Brooklyn Briggs drove the 550 to 600 miles each way whereas we two seniors flew on American Airlines. Well, not exactly American Airlines as our outbound flights was on a Canadair CL-65 regional jet  belonging to American Eagle and operated by Air Wisconsin still with US Air markings. It left almost on time, it actually arrived early and our checked luggage appeared with a minimal wait.

We checked into all three rooms early, stocked them with supplies and ordered pizza to be on hand when our families arrived.

Myrtle Beach was under a stationary heat dome that brought hot, humid air to most of the East Coast from Florida north to New York. This included daily afternoon and/or evening thunderstorms. By Friday morning I was concerned enough these storms could disrupt our north bound flight scheduled to depart at 3 PM that I mentioned this to Mary Ann during our walk along the beach that morning. “I did some checking when I woke up today and we could change plans and leave around nine or ten tomorrow morning if we were willing to pay the extra charge and make a stop in Cleveland or Philadelphia. Also we’d arrive at about 2:30 instead of 5 PM.

Mary Ann liked the idea and I changed our flights even though it cost an additional $362 for the two of us. We changed the car pickup service meeting us at LaGuardia (LGA) and arranged for a taxi to take us from the hotel to the airport at 7:30 the next morning. We said goodbye to our families after dinner on Friday night and they hit the road between 5AM and 6 AM.

We arrived at the airport at about 7:45 to discover that our 9:34 flight to Philadelphia had been pushed back to 10:10. That was okay though as we still had plenty of time to make the Philadelphia to (LGA) flight scheduled to leave at 1:40 PM. However when departure time was pushed back again to 10:40, I decided I’d better find an American representative to see what options we had. I found a friendly rep named Sally who began to work with us. At first Sally thought it was a minor problem and we’d still have time to make the connection, but just in case, also re-booked us on our original non-stop afternoon flight. When the time slipped for a third time we made the switch as she couldn’t find open seats on another connecting flight to New York.

It was now only about 9 AM giving us five hours to kill and we did beginning with watching our fellow passengers scramble when the delayed flight was cancelled about 10 minutes after we made our switch. We also watched a parade of Spirit and Delta bound LGA flights load and leave while we sat around and waited. After lunch the weather began to change and cloud formations developed and moved in. I watched one outbound jet make a wide sweeping turn just after takeoff to avoid a formation closing in on the airport’s perimeter. Our plane arrived just before the heavens opened to a cacophony of wind, lightning and thunder.

My mood began to darken until I saw identical American Eagle regional jet push back, head to end of the runway and take off in the storm. Better yet, the storm subsided by the time we boarded allowing for an early departure. As we entered the jet way, Sally said, “It’s about time you two left my airport.” I rejoined over my shoulder, “I’ve been thrown out of better airports than this one.”

The flight was uneventful until we reached the New York area but our descent into LGA included both planned and unplanned descents with several disconcerting drops. We didn’t relax until the wheels were on the ground.

Our earth bound road trip families made it home just about an hour after we did and so it goes.

Glory be; I could not believe my eyes as I opened the Wednesday, July 6^th edition of Newsday! But there it was in black & white, the LIRR had begun to use electronic tickets that very week on the Port Washington branch (my line) and Governor Andrew Cuomo had guaranteed that it would be available on all branches and on Metro North’s systems by the end of the summer.

I quickly went to the app, MTAetix, downloaded it to my IPhone, registered and purchased a round trip senior off peak ticket for my planned lunch planned for the following Thursday with Mike Scott and my son at Foley’s.

To explain the momentous occasion of this event please indulge me in a brief history of the LIRR’s ticketing policies. When I first began commuting between Port Washington and New York’s Pennsylvania Station in 1977 passengers had to hand their tickets to the crew member assigned to that car who hand punched a hole in the ticket’s appropriate place to signify it had been seen. Monthly tickets, then the same size as a dollar bill actually had 64 spaces, 32 on each side that the conductor punched every trip. These tickets also identified the commuter by sex as the “M’ or “F” box was also punched at the start of each month. (This would frustrate teenage daughters who used their father’s tickets for weekend jaunts to the city.)

You can imagine how ragged these tickets became near the end of the month. Over time, the process was simplified to eight boxes. Even though you still had to show it twice a day every day, the conductor only punched it once a week on days that were changed randomly. Identification by sex also disappeared after years of protests.

July 7^th was to be the dawn of a new era for me. I practiced at home how to use the app and press the right buttons to display my new ticket but I didn’t activate it as I correctly sensed it had a time element. Being anal, I also carried my old paper ten-trip ticket with one ride remaining just in case. When the conductor entered the car soon after we pulled out of Port Washington, I opened the app, activated the ticket and found the bar code for scanning. As she approached me, punch in hand, I said, “Today I am attempting to enter the electronic age” as I showed my phone to her.

“Oh,” she said, “I can’t scan that. Can you show me the ticket and not the bar code?”

I did and she said thanks. As she went to leave, I asked, “Why can’t you scan it.”

“No scanner.” She replied. “They haven’t given most of us those yet. But I know what to look for and the ticket will expire in a couple of hours.”

The same thing happened on my return ride later that afternoon. So much for technology but I did have fun showing my electronic ticket to three cute Manhasset bound college coeds. They were impressed and one actually said to me, “Wow, you are really tech savvy.”

Needless to say I was relieved that she didn’t complete that sentence with…”for an old fart.” or if she was a bit kinder…”for someone your age.”

Being a long time Linda Ronstadt fan, I added her Dedicated to the One I Love CD to my collection soon after it was released in 1996. Also known by her fans as, “The Lullaby Album,” the eleven songs on the CD were all reinterpreted by Ms Ronstadt into children’s lullabies.

I readily admit that I was moved as I listened to her sing songs like “Be My Baby,” “Devoted to You,” “Angel Baby,” and even Brian May’s classic punk rock kick-ass hit, “We Will Rock You.”  She transformed this attack rant into a quiet soothing melody going so far to replace the drum movements with the sound of a beating human heart. The thought occurred to me; what a delightful gift to give to a woman expecting her first baby?

I’m not certain who the first woman was to whom I presented this gift but it was so well received that over the years I must have performed this right of passage about two dozen times for family members, women in business, friends, neighbors and, in a few instances, as the result of a serendipitous encounter. My plan was to present my gift as soon as I could after a woman publicly revealed she was pregnant for the first time. I never tired of presenting Linda Ronstadt’s CD because of the positive and thankful feedback I received from these women who shared their joy of playing Ms Ronstadt’s songs both before and after the birth of their first child. It lit me up like a Christmas tree.

The only semi-off-response I ever received came from a neighbor. I had left the CD on their doorstep in an envelope with an appropriate note. When next the young woman saw me, she took me aside, thanked me; then added: “You know my husband and I don’t like her politics but I’ll keep it anyway as you did a nice thing.”

My source of supply for several years was the mega-Virgin record store in Times Square my source for restocking Ms Ronstadt’s CD from their inventory. One time, I found they were out of stock so I ordered three copies which arrived in short order. When the Virgin store closed, I ordered new batches on line through Amazon. These CDs came from Rhino Flashback Records who began releasing this CD as a vintage recording in 2009. (You know you are old when they consider your favorite artist to be “vintage”.)

Alas, the electronic music revolution overtook my gift-giving concept leaving me with three un-opened copies with no place to go. Expecting mothers didn’t know from CDs any longer.

Oh well, it was a joy while it lasted especially due to one particular memory thanks to my old friend, Geoff Jones. While residing in Pleasantville, NY in the late 1990s, Geoff found himself shopping at Home Depot one Saturday afternoon.

“I was wearing a Marsh & McLennan baseball cap that you had given to me. A fellow shopper, a bit older than me, stopped to ask if I worked at Marsh?

‘No, no, I don’t, this hat was given to me by a friend of mine who works there.’

‘Well,’ he replied, ‘My daughter, Jana, worked there for many years before she had her daughter. When Jana announced it to her friends, her boss found out and you know what he did? He left the office and went to a record store to buy her some album of lullabies, came back and gave it to her. I have never heard of a boss doing something like that.’

‘Was his name John Delach?’

‘Yes, but how do you know that?’

He’s the guy who gave me the hat.”

(I will be traveling next week and I will resume my blog on Wednesday July 20.)

Our daughter, Beth, takes pleasure in assigning nick-names and years ago deemed me to be Juanito and Mary Ann; Minnie. In 2004, when we took delivery of a Jeep Liberty, I asked my wife if she’d like a vanity plate. “Of course I would and I know what I want it to say: MADMINNIE.” (MAD for her initials and MINNIE for her nick-name.) However New York’s Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) limits vanity plates to eight characters with no spaces so Mary Ann instead accepted the tag, MADMINNI.

In 2013, we transferred MADMINNI to a new Liberty on a 39 month lease and when the spring of 2016 rolled around, we invited our family to join a rather intricate dance where we would buy the leased 2013 Liberty so we could give it to the Brooklyn family who, in turn, would give their 2004 Liberty to Drew, our oldest grandson, who at 16, would gain a junior driver’s license. Mary Ann would lease a new Jeep Renegade that she christened, “Stubby.”

First we had to buy our current Liberty from the leasing company and obtain a title from NYS clear of liens.  Once the new title arrived by mail, I made my visit to the DMV armed with enough reading matter to make it through the 50 minutes I had to wait before I was able to leave after successfully registering the Jeep and paying the sales tax for the purchase.

Meanwhile, I discovered when we leased the new Renegade in Mary Ann’s name that she could not use MADMINNI for its plates because, as the money guy at the dealer explained: “Those plates are in your name and the DMV doesn’t recognize marriages.”

He instructed me to return to DMV, surrender the plates for storage then contact their office in Albany to ask what material I had to submit to transfer the plates to Mary Ann; I kid you not, back to DMV and, after another 45 minutes wait, they took the plates and issued us a receipt. A curious event transpired while Mary Ann and I waited our turn. A woman sitting next to us on the bench who, overhearing our conversation, said “Do you know that you can now make a reservation on line for a specific appointment?”

We looked at her in surprise. She had a reservation and was soon called but before she left, she gave Mary Ann the DMV’s internet address.

Calling Albany wasn’t too awful, a couple of holds then a woman who instructed me how to transfer the plates; send them a letter, copies of the current registration, my driver’s license, the surrender receipt and a check for $30 to cover the transfer.

Next Tom and Beth brought their 2004 Liberty to Port Washington. I gave Tom the title and registration for 2013 Liberty. He put his existing plates on it while I put a spare rogue NYS plate on the 2004 Jeep for Michael to use when he drove it home to Connecticut.

Early the following week, Michael brought the 2004 Liberty to his ecstatic 16-year-old son.

When the new registration for the Renegade arrived, Mary Ann made a reservation at DMV for 1 PM for the following Wednesday. She downloaded the barcode on her IPhone and we printed it as a backup. We arrived at the DMV at 12:35 PM and, of course, couldn’t find the code on the phone so we used the printed version. A clerk, whose job was to check us in, saw the code, asked for the piece of paper and scanned it. Mary Ann asked as he did this, “How long do you think the wait will be?”

“About ten or fifteen minutes.”

He handed us a ticket with our number. We drew W027. As we started to step into the usually crowded waiting room, a mechanical voice announced: “W027; Window Number 15.”

We didn’t even sit down! Let me state that again, “We didn’t even sit down.”

Game, set and match!

Curley Johnson passed away on June 12, 2016 at his home in Granbury, Texas. He was 80. This Lone Star state native is best known as being the punter on the world champion Jets who upset the Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III despite being 18-point underdogs.

Curley was born in Anna, TX, attended Woodrow Wilson high school and the University of Houston before being taken by the Pittsburgh Steelers as the 77^th selection in the 1957 NFL draft. In addition to punting, he was also an offensive end and a kick returner but he never caught on with the Steelers or any other NFL team.

Curley’s delayed pro football career began three years later when he signed on with the 1960 Dallas Texans of the newly formed American Football League. He was traded to New York the following year playing for Harry Wismer’s rag-tag Titans. Poorly financed, ridiculously mismanaged, Wismer didn’t have much to compete with the rival New York Football Giants who played before sell-out crowds across the river in Yankee Stadium. The Titans enjoyed far less fan participation at their dilapidated quarters in the Polo Grounds. Wismer fantasized the Titans attendance once noting a game day crowd that numbered 10,000 fans. This prompted New York Daily News scribe, Dick Young to note: “Ten Thousand, huh? If there were 10,000 fans at the game yesterday, 5,000 were disguised as empty seats.”

By the 1962 season the Titans were on verge of collapse unable to make payrolls, pay travel expenses or even laundry bills. The AFL stepped in to save the team and their league and the following year, entertainment impresario, David “Sonny” Werblin led a well financed syndicate who purchased the wreck re-naming them the New York Jets.

Only four Titans survived long enough to be part of that 1968 team; end, Don Maynard, line backer, Larry Graham, running back, Bill Mathis and Curley Johnson. Along the way, Curley established himself as a big-time punter still considered today the best the Jets ever had.

Still, time marches on and the summer after the championship run, the Jets cut Curley Johnson in favor of a new punter, Steve O’Neal.

Meanwhile, the now down-on-their-luck Giants had fired their long-time coach Allie Sherman prior to the start of the 1969 season. Their new coach, Alex Webster, some how managed a 3 and 3 record despite persistent problems with the kicking game. The owner and defacto general manager, Wellington Mara, offered the Giants job to Curley.

Curley début came on Sunday, November 2 against the Eagles at Yankee Stadium. Here is how I described what next happened in my 2009 book, 17 Lost Seasons:

“Mara signed Johnson. This may have seemed to Curley like a good way to have a few more paydays, but the old punter didn’t appreciate that he wasn’t playing for the Jets any longer and those ragged lineman ‘protecting’ him were not his old front line. On his very first punt attempt, he received the snap a bit off line, so patiently he corrected his line and proceeded to move his leg to kick the ball. Meanwhile a sea of green came roaring over, around and through his blockers allowing the Eagles Ike Kelly to block the punt.

“Curley either didn’t learn or couldn’t learn because the next time he tried to punt, the Eagles buried him into the grass before he could even get his foot on the ball.”

Final score, Eagles 23 – Giants 20.

RIP John Curley Johnson