John Delach

Mary Ann, Maggie and I travelled from Port Washington to Sanibel Island five times from 2000 to 2004. We  managed to convert our dog from a sickly and horrible car mate into a road buddy, Maggie added to our adventures. Back then the two Carolinas didn’t allow pets to stay in local motels. We avoided those states by  making our first stop in Emporia, Virginia, the last town before North Carolina and our second stop in Brunswick, Georgia, south of the Carolinas.

Both were dog friendly. On our last morning, fed, walked and ready to roll, Maggie would complain about these boxes we stayed in the past two nights and this rolling box we traveled in during the day. She’d verbalize her dissatisfaction with a combination of sighs and whines before settling down.

Although, our morning walks on the beach were perfect adventures for Maggie, I recognized  that I was breaking a local law by letting Maggie off the leash. True, but keeping my water-crazy Golden leashed on the beach would have been impossible. Taking our walks early in the morning and leaving the beach as soon as possible once we reached the public park was my game-plan to minimize confrontation with a non-dog lover or someone with an authoritative bent.

I thought this out, understanding that when somebody confronted me for Maggie being off leash, they would be correct to do so and I couldn’t challenge them on the facts. I considered different approaches until I found what I hoped would work if I could pull it off.

When this confrontation actually transpired, I was prepared for it. Maggie and I had just emerged from the woods onto the state park beach, when I caught sight of a couple walking toward us. We were still close to the surf and they were about half-way up the beach. Normally, I would have leashed Maggie at this point and headed inland, but an instinct told me to leash her, but stay near the surf.

Sure enough, the man walked away from the woman and headed in our direction on a diagonal path, despite her protestations not to do that.

 Oh shit, I said to myself, Here we go! Okay, you’ve got this down. Give him hell, John.

My protagonist quickly closed the gap between us so I chose to stop, tighten

Maggie’s collar to bring her close and wait for his assault. He didn’t disappoint. Instead of stopping far enough away to maintain respect for my space, he aggressively stepped forward occupying it.

Self-righteously, he proceeded to lecture me on my violations against the local laws for the proper handling of dogs on the beach. I let him lecture me until I could sense that he was running out of the energy to sustain his own self-serving indignation. Then I struck!

First off, as I began to attack him, I stepped toward him while lifting myself up to my full height. He gave way as I took a more aggressive step. I continued to close in on him making him uncomfortable. I lifted my right arm into the air and commanded: “You are correct, it seems I have violated a municipal ordinance, but this is nothing. What you should worry about are the laws of God!”

At this point, I took another step toward him, again, forcing him to give way: “Do you believe in your Lord, Jesus Christ? Are you ready to be saved? Have you repented? I ask you one last time, HAVE YOU REPENTED!”

One look told me that I had reduced him to nothing more than the jerk he was. With that, I turned Maggie away from him  and we walked away at a rapid pace leaving him behind. As we left the beach. I looked off to where his wife stood and it was obvious, she knew he had it coming.

As we walked off the beach, I told Maggie, “Another good day in paradise. We’ll do it again, tomorrow.”

Instinctively, she senses the water. Perched on the back seat of our SUV, Maggie extends her nose out through the partially opened window, her senses and  experience tells her that this is the way to the beach. Like a child, after a long automobile ride to a favorite seaside destination, she cannot contain herself as the Gulf of Mexico reveals itself.

Mary Ann lets us off before continuing on to her journey morning tennis  lession. Maggie and I will make our morning trek along the beach and back to our Sanibel rental. Maggie is a maniac, an ill-behaved Golden Retriever who luckily found her way to two of us, who can deal with her insanity.

Once on the ground, I hook my hand under her collar. Tugging, bucking, crying, she pulls me along until I secure my footing into the sand. I speak to her as I look up and down the beach. “It’s okay, Maggie, it’s okay.” The beach is clear; only a few early morning shellers, no unattended children and no other dogs. I take her collar in one hand and draw her close making her leash go slack. With my other hand, I open the clasp and let go.

Maggie crouches and pushes off with all her strength, kicking up sand as she bolts toward the water quickly closing the distance until she reaches the surf and plunges in. She swims through small breakers, turns, catches the next wave and body surfs back to shore.

 I jog toward the sun and Maggie darts ahead, establishing her own routine. She explores the beach, searching for sticks and coconuts to carry, sea gulls and osprey to scatter, or a decaying fish to sniff and, if its scent is acceptable, to roll upon.

 “Maggie, stop that.” I yell, but she ignores me until I have moved too far ahead for her to be comfortable. She stops and trots to catch up, overtakes me and veers back into the water, tail held high, to ride the surf again.

And so, our morning routine unfolds until we reach the public beach  populated with a few early arriving families ending my insane Golden Retriever’s daily morning activity to run freely and frolic in the surf.

She understands, I attach her to the leash as we begin our land journey back to the rental. I am proud of her. Yeah, she’s a half-baked poorly raised  rescue, but she’s ours and I am happy she loves swimming so much. When she came to us, she couldn’t travel in a car without her throwing up and dripping with uncontrollable sweat. Over time, she came around and we could include her on that three-day drive from Port Washington to Sanibel  without any of these issues.

We also taught her how to swim in Hempstead Harbor in Long Island Sound. We used tennis balls, another favorite, having her fetch them at the water’s edge. We threw them further and further until she had to accept floating and began to understand how to swim and reach them. Maggie quickly caught on to what being an aquatic retriever was all about.     

As we walk back to the house, she’d looks at me and whines. I’d look back at her and say: “Tomorrow is only a day away.”

(To be continued.)           

On the morning of Saturday, May 10, 1987, Ronald and Nancy Reagan attended the funeral Mass of CIA Director William Casey who had died the previous Wednesday. George de Lama reported for the Chicago Tribune that, “Casey died of pneumonia after being incapacitated since undergoing surgery for removal of two brain tumors last December. He resigned from his CIA post in February.”

“Security was tight in Roslyn, the Long Island town where St. Mary’s Church, the Casey’s local parish is located. The Reagans came directly there for the Requiem Mass with only invited guests allowed inside the church. Former president Richard Nixon sat next to Mrs. Reagan and the red-brick church was filled by…’virtually every senior member of the administration who came to honor and bury the crusty old spy who began his career by dropping Allied agents behind Nazi lines during World War II.”

Bishop John McGann, head of the Rockville Center (Long Island) diocese said the Mass and eulogized his old friend. This didn’t prevent McGann from criticizing Casey on his anti-communist views especially toward President Daniel Ortega and his Sandinista government. Neither the Reagans nor the Casey family ever publicly commented on McGann’s remarks.  

Casey was close to General William J. (Wild Bill) Donovan and served under him in several capacities in the newly formed OSS, Office of Strategic Services during the Second World War.   Casey joined other significant intelligence operators like Richard Helms and William Colby, both of whom later headed the CIA. In 1943, Donovan sent him to London where he took charge of inserting allied agents into German held territory. “Helms said years later that Casey had a feel for things clandestine. He also admired Casey’s ability to make hard decisions.”

Casey served during both the Nixon and Ford administrations. He only met Ronald Reagan in 1980, but soon after, Reagan invited Casey to become his campaign manager. Their campaign was a total success that swept Reagan into office. Reagan and Casey were sympatico when it came to implementing the “Reagan Doctrine” supporting anticommunist resistance movements.

One of their targets was Daniel Ortega, the revolutionary who led his Sandinista National Liberation Front to overthrow the US supported, long time, banana republic dictator, Anastasio Somoza one year earlier and condemn him to the dust pan of history.

“A Marxist-Leninist, Ortega pursued a program of nationalization, land reform, wealth redistribution…” that made him and his government a natural target for the Reagan Doctrine.    

Once empowered as head of the CIA Casey initiated military action to support the Contras, the most organized group actively at war with the Sandinistas.

Under Casey, CIA Operatives became involved in various black-ops like mining harbors and flying numerous missions supporting and supplying the Contras.

When Congress caught wind of what was going on, they introduced bills to curtail these activities. Essentially, Casey ignored these mandates whenever he could. Eventually, Congress cut off all funding that supported the Contras.

Undeterred, Casey and the President, agreed to fund them using creative yet illegal funding mechanism. Casey and the boys and girls at the CIA engineered a plan where Israel would sell US made anti-aircraft missiles to Iran and we would direct them to send the proceeds to the Contras. Even members of Reagan’s inner circle like George Shultz and Ed Meese opposed these actions.

Eventually, this led to a congressional investigation. As the circle began to close, it became apparent that Director Casey was at the center of these activities. It was about this time when Casey was about to be called before the committee that Casey was diagnosed with brain cancer.

Jeane J. Kirkpatrick, the former chief United States delegate to the United Nations defended Casey in her eulogy at his mass. “Supporting the Nicaraguan freedom fighters had a special priority for him, no question about it, but that had no more priority than law.” Dr. Kirkpatrick characterized Mr. Casey “as a bold, committed man in an age rent by controversy. He was not,’ she added, ‘afraid of the Devil.”

Casey’s wife, Sophia Kurz Casey, asked the mourners that in lieu of flowers or other contributions, “they make donations to the William J. Casy Fund for the Nicaraguan Freedom Fighters.”  

We can only speculate about President Reagan’s state of mind as he considered the turmoil that surrounded Bill Casey when he died. The Democrats had been closing in on initiating a congressional investigation to determine if the President’s administration had knowingly violated  Congress’ mandate not to supply the Contras with assistance.

The key was Bill Casey. Casey knew where all the bodies were buried. Like or hate Casey, you have to admit that he took what he knew to the grave. Without Casey, the chain of responsibility was broken.

Bill Daniel Ortega was peacefully voted out of office in 1990, but regained control in 2006. There he remains to this day. Now, 78, he has reverted to becoming just another Banana Republic dictator.                      

John Delach

Updated October 2023: Originally published in June 2014

A recent message sent to my blog prompted me to issue this encore edition.

A reader discovered my piece and chose to send me his recollection of living in a post-World War II Quonset Hut.

 This was M.K.’s comment: My mom and myself lived in 24-26 14^th Walk, Jackson Heights, NY. I was about five or six. I loved it there. I have very happy memories of running around on the grass, playing. Thank you for a wonderful story of those Quonset Huts. You made me so happy thinking of that time. Do you know, I have never forgotten that address.

One Sunday afternoon, when I was about seven years old, my mother took me on one of our many outings to Canarsie to spend the afternoon on the pier overlooking Jamacia Bay. That pier was one of our regular Sunday destinations, but this trip had a different twist. Leaving to go home, we walked under the Belt Parkway overpass, but Mom didn’t head for the bus stop on Rockaway Parkway. Instead, she led me toward the Quonset Huts lined up in rows and rows that were a fixture for as long as I could remember.

As we walked toward one of the huts, I realized that they were deserted. Mom made sure no one was around then pushed open the door at one the end of the hut. I followed her inside this curved structure where the walls and the roof were one. It was empty, no furniture, no rugs, no remnants or reminders of who had lived there. I don’t even remember seeing a sink or a toilet. We only saw one half as each hut was divided by a corrugated metal wall in the middle to form two homes. But I do remember what my mother said out loud as we left: “I don’t know how a woman could make that her home and live there.”

When next we visited the pier, the Quonset Huts were gone and soon construction began on a public housing project that became known as the Bayview Houses.

But the image of those cylindrical huts sheathed in corrugated steel lined up like an army of gigantic half-buried cans of soda or beer remained in my memory. There was another colony of Quonset Huts that I recall being located on vacant land in Maspeth, Queens, a short distance from where my Uncle Bill, Aunt Helen and my Christman cousins lived. This development was arranged on the slope of a hill that led up Elliot Ave. from 69^th Street to Mount Olivet Cemetery. Curiously, I can picture these tin cans vividly, but, like Canarsie, I can’t remember any images of the folks who lived there.

Quonset Hut housing: the why and how:

Our deliberate detonation of two Atom Bombs on Japan suddenly and dramatically ended the Second World War. Overnight, the incredible number of young American men who had been assembled for the most massive of any seaborne invasion ever envisioned; the assault on the Home Island of Honshu became superfluous.

Overnight, millions of GIs, swabies, leathernecks and coasties who were waiting to meet their fate when they invaded Japan were ordered to stand down. The war was over. Each expressed, the same emotional prayer of rejoicing: I’m free, free, thank God Almighty; I’m free at last!

And what does a young man want once he finally feels free enough to look himself in a mirror, smile and reflect, “Damn I’m not going die alone out here.” What does he want? “The girl back home!”

The official date for the birth of the first Baby Boomers was January 1, 1946. That’s reasonable. The boys in Europe who did the heaviest fighting had already been discharged in May. A good number had already married their sweethearts before going overseas that gave them an early staring point. Nature’s course was inevitable but, with the sudden end of the war in the Pacific, a new reality quickly hit; millions of newly discharged veterans and their wives had no place to live!

“The housing industry, still reeling from the Great Depression, had been further diminished by a wartime shortage of materials and labor…As a result; an estimated one million families were forced to double up. Before the end of 1946 that number would triple.”

Fortunately, our Nation remained on a war-footing and the right organizations existed on  local, state and national levels to implement emergency housing. They used what was available, military housing on bases made instantly surplus, other makeshift facilities and  used trailers. But, for the most part, they relied on a ubiquitous and readily available alternative, the Quonset Hut.

Conceived by the US Navy before we entered the war, the original huts were built on their new base at Quonset Point, RI to equip a remote post on Greenland. The design was based on a British expedient building, the Nissan Hut. But His Majesty’s government in its infinite wisdom had given the copyrights to Peter Norman Nissan, who designed this beauty when serving with the 29^th Company Royal Engineers during World War I in recognition of his service. Some legal eagle’s in the Pentagon saw the patent implications of deeming these structures to be Nissan Huts, so they became Quonset Huts.

The emergency housing units went up quickly once construction began and most opened in 1946. One of the largest developments was in Los Angeles, the Roger Young Village, built on a surplus aerodrome; it housed over 1,500 families. The press reported that eager husbands camped out two to three days before registration began.

Four hundred and thirteen were assembled in Canarsie, each hut accommodating two families. The New York Times reported on October 16, 1946 that the first 75 units in a development in Jackson Heights, Queens were accepted just ten days after construction  began. Ultimately, over 1,800 Quonset Huts went up on the former site of Holmes Airport.

By 1951 these humble dwelling had fulfilled their reason to exist, but it took another two years for their hosts including the City of New York to evict the slackers, schemers, grifters and deadwood forcing them to move on down the road. By then, most vets and their families had moved on to the new suburban developments like Levittown and the beat went on.

The huts were dis-assembled, their mission completed. Here today, gone tomorrow. The land was re-developed with permanent housing. I believe that my research revealed the answer to Mom’s lament: “I don’t know how a woman could make that her home and live there?”

“Ma, she didn’t have a choice.”                          

Author Unknown: Presented by John Delach

Presented by John Delach

September 2023

1. The Wall Street Journal is read by the people who run the country.

2. The Washington Post is read by people who think they run the country.

3. The New York Times is read by people who think they should run the country and who are

very good at crossword puzzles.

4. USA Today is read by people who think they ought to run the country but don’t really understand The New York Times.

5. The Los Angeles Times is read by people who wouldn’t mind running the country if they could find the time and if they didn’t have to leave Southern California to do it.

6. The Boston Globe is read by people whose parents used to run the country.

7. The Philadelphia Inquirer is read by people who’d rather be part of a brawl at an Eagles home game than run the country.  

8. The New York Daily News is read by people who aren’t too sure who’s running the country and don’t really care as long as they can get a seat on the train. 

9. The New York Post is read by people who don’t care who is running the country as long as they do something really scandalous preferably while intoxicated.

10. The Chicago Tribune is read by people that are in prison that used to run the state and would like to do so again as would their constituents who are currently free on bail.

11. The Miami Herald is read by people who are running another country, but need baseball scores.  

12. The San Francisco Chronicle is read by people who aren’t sure if there is a country or that anyone is running it: but if so, they oppose all that they stand for. There are occasional exceptions if the leaders are gay, handicapped, minority, feminist, atheists, and those who also happen to be illegal aliens from any other country or galaxy provided, of course, that they are not Republicans.

13. The National Enquirer is read by people trapped in line at the grocery store.

14. The Seattle Times is read by people who recently caught a fish and need something to wrap it in.   

Mary Ann and I purchased our vacation house in 1984 from Joe C., the man who built it in 1972. Mary Ann christened it, “Little House”. Over the years we’ve had contractors add a deck, a porch, a Four Seasons type room and finish an upstairs bunkroom that sleeps five and a second bathroom.

Some things became problematic. The Four Seasons type room is one of them. The contractors poured a concrete base in 1988 and assembled the structure on top of it. We love it, but it’s been less than a total success. The room is uninhabitable during summer days when it turns into an oven. Years later I ran into the contractor who helped build it. He assembled it and remarked: “This was the first glass room we erected and we really didn’t know what we were doing. See how close to the ground the windows go?  They should be at least a foot above ground. Also, there isn’t any insulation to protect it from the severe changes in temperature. But we live with this as we do many other quirks that come with having a vacation house in rural New Hampshire.

Marlow is a small town of 750 people as of the 2020 census. Unfortunately, most of the businesses that populated the town when we bought Little House have ceased to exist. The gas station and general store became a victim of obsolete underground storage tanks that could  leak. But we did re-gain a seasonal ice cream and luncheonette called Aaron’s. Unfortunately, it is only open from May to October.

Marlow has been called the icebox of Monadnock County and some winters have lived up to this nickname. Regardless, it has been our family’s vacation home and I expect it will remain so after we are gone.

We have witnessed many different happenings over the years. One, worth remembering, was when the presidential candidate came to town. The year was 2007 and the early hunt to make a good showing in New Hampshire’s January primary scheduled for January of 2008 was on. Candidates from both parties spent a good deal of their time that summer in Iowa and New Hampshire.

George W. Bush could not run because of term limits. So both the Democratic and Republican primaries were wide open. Candidates crisscrossed the state seeking support. One of the curators of the Marlow Historical Society realized that no presidential candidate had ever made a stop or made a speech in our town. The challenge was taken up by The Keene Sentinel, the newspaper that covered Monadnock County. Bill Richardson, then the Governor of New Mexico, accepted the invitation which was scheduled for mid-July.

The Historical Society secured the auditorium at the town’s Odd Fellows Hall, one of three classic white clapboard wooden buildings that frame the center of Marlow behind a scenic pond. The other two structures are the town church and the old town hall.

Luckily, we were in Marlow with our daughter, Beth, her husband, Tom, their infant son, Cace and their four-year old daughter, Marlowe. (Yes, she was named after the town.)

We actually ran into Governor Richardson when he arrived and somewhere we have a photograph of him holding Marlowe in Marlow. It was a hot July day and I was amazed to see that Richardson was dressed in a woolen, three-piece suit and sporting an upscale tie fashioned with a perfect Windsor knot.

Many citizens turned out and gave him a standing room only ovation.

We arrived late just before the governor was introduced having stopped at a nearby ice cream store to buy Marlowe a cone. We brought her into the back of the Odd Fellows Hall to enjoy her cone while we participated in this minor part of the election process.

Richardson began his delivery and all was going well when all of a sudden, Marlowe took a lick from the side of her cone that dislodged the ice cream from its resting place propelling it down onto the old wooden floor.

For an instant, there was silence. Then she screamed! We moved as quickly as we could not looking back. Overnight, this became part of the lore of Little House.

Richardson finished fourth in the Democratic Primary behind Clinton, Obama and Edwards

Marlowe is now a sophomore at Syracuse University.

Richardson went on to be a splendid negotiator with foreign despots gaining the release of  several Americans held in their prisons.

He died this September at 75. The New York Times ran an excellent obituary, except they failed to include mention of Marlowe and her ice cream cone.          

I am glad to be back and I look forward to sending you my weekly blog on Wednesdays beginning today. However, I will miss next week, “On the Outside Looking in” will return on September 20^th.

A decent part of the summer was consumed by my prostate culminating in a diagnosis and a recommendation for treatment in late August by my Urologist, Dr. L.  He confirmed that my biopsy did reveal that I do have cancer, but it appears to be a minor and stable diagnosis. Given that and my age, 79, he recommended that we follow the treatment of watch and wait or as Dr. L put it, “Active Surveillance.”

Active Surveillance, indeed, I wonder where on earth doctors come with these terms? It seems to me that the doc who coined this term probably watches too many cop-shows like Blue Bloods, Chicago PD and Law and Order. 

 Active Surveillance calls for PSA tests every six months and possibly an MRI once a year. This sure beats any alternative treatments so Mary Ann and I signed on for it in a New York minute.

See you again on September 20. Have a great autumn and Go Giants.    

July 2203

I adopted the title of this piece, my last about AM Radio from one of the slogans that WNEW personalities used to describe their long-term relationship with conventional music, musicians and The Great American Songbook. Management also used it for  the title of their special book that celebrated their 50^th anniversary from 1934 to 1984.

Unfortunately, WNEW died on December 2, 1992, a mere eight years later its frequency, 1130, sold to Bloomberg News.

Paul D. Colford wrote in his epitaph  “…the 58-year-old outlet for the music of Frank Sinatra, Lena Horne, Mel Torme and America’s greatest songwriters, died today after a long illness marked by financial losses, anemic ratings, schizophrenic programming and the dismissal of practically every personality who made it special.”

Today, I invite you dear reader, to join me in commenting on some of these personalities.

Klaven and Finch

 Gene Klaven and Dee Finch teamed up in 1952 when Finch’s original partner, Gene Rayburn, left to pursue a successful career in television, especially Wonderama. Klaven was the prankster while Finch mostly played the straight man. They put on a great show at management’s expense, tortured, Kyle Rote, their sports reporter and created an imaginary traffic reporter, Trevor Traffic. Trevor would report from a helicopter that frequently stalled. For several years they were up against Bob and Ray and I believe they held their own against these radio giants. I read that their studio looked like the radio room on the Titanic just before the floor got wet.

Finch was granted disability in 1968 and died in in 1983. Klavan carried on solo for five years. He wrote several books including “We Die at Dawn” about their show.

William B Williams 

The dean of AM radio Willie B was a successor to Martin Block and hosted “Make Believe Ballroom” from 1957 to 1978. He developed a smooth and sophisticated style with his audience and guests who included Lena Horne and Frank Sinatra. It was Willie B mused that since Benny Goodman was the King of Swing and Duke Ellington, the Duke, it would be appropriate that Sinatra was The Chairman of the Board, a title Sinatra embraced.

Ted Brown

Primarily an afternoon drive-time DJ, Ted Brown began his career at WOR in 1949 and being a fill-in on WNEW. He jumped to WMGM in 1949 where he remained until 1962. At this point, he returned to WNEW to host the late afternoon drive-time broadcast. Eight years later he was lured to WNBC to host their afternoon shift, but WNEW hired him back two years later. There he remained until that station’s demise. Brown ended his time there hosting the morning show. After leaving WNEW for the last time, Brown worked mid-days at WRIV, a standards station based in Riverhead, Long Island. 

He frequently, sang his ditty, “Am I blue, no I’m Brown.” He also used his show to demonstrate what liquor could do to a drinker on several Independence Days. He called it “A fifth on the Fourth.,” He consumed a bottle of whiskey over the course of his broadcast. Not a drinker, he would be incoherent when his show ended.

Marty Glickman, Jim Gordon and John Kennelly

Marty Glickman was the radio voice of the Giants when I attended my first Football Giants home game. Back then all home games were blacked out meaning my only access to the action came from Marty. In a game that year against the Philadelphia Eagles, the Giants scored a TD on a pass from Y.A. Tittle to Erich Barnes, a defense back. Barnes entered the game as a wide receiver. A complex play, this is how Marty described it: “The Giants are spread all over the field. I think they are going to punt, Touchdown.” It was at that moment I decided to buy a season ticket so I wouldn’t have to listen to Glickman’s calls ever again.

Jim Gordon was a veteran hockey announcer when he joined the Giants broadcasting team. Curiously, he began his career in New York City in 1954 when he filled in for Glickman working on Brooklyn Dodgers broadcast. The following year he signed with Madison Square Garden broadcasting, college and pro hockey, boxing and dog shows.

He became the radio voice of the Giants from 1977 until 1994 allowing him to broadcast their first two Super Bowl victories in SB XXI and XXV.  I will always remember his introductory remarks to a late year home game: “It is 15 degrees and sunny. A great day for football.”  

John Kennelly was one of the masters of sport lines. He joined WNEW in 1976 and over his stay he had this to say when the Rangers were preparing to play the Montreal Canadians in the Stanley Cup finals. “A lot of people believe the Rangers don’t have a chance but you should know that the Rangers will go through Montreal the way the Metroliner goes through Metuchen, NJ.”

Or discussing a tight pennant race: “The NL East is tighter as a tee-shirt on a Hollywood starlit.” Or “The pennant is tighter than a wallet in a fat man’s back pocket.”        

 Others:  Bob Fitzgibbon: His comments on NYC. “The hardest place to leave is a bar.” Or a porno movie playing in Midtown: “The Opening of Misty Beetoven”- “Yeah, me too.”

The list goes on: Jonathon Schwartz. Bob Jones, Al Jazzbeaux Collins, Jim Lowe and his “Green Door”.

WNEW personifies: You don’t what you lost until it’s gone!

On the Outside looking is taking a break. See you in September unless something weird happens.

Mary Ann recently bought a birthday card for a dear friend that raised this conundrum: “Suppose the Hokey Pokey is really what it’s all about?”

A Pint of Guinness

Our family gathered for Tom Brennan’s funeral on Tuesday morning, June 20^th. Tom was my son’s father-in-law.

The service was held in the St. Augustine Cathedral in Bridgeport before a packed house; a measure of the man’s life and his popularity in Fairfield, CT.

My reflections on Tom, his family and friends will come later. Today, I want to share an unexpected serendipitous moment that followed the service. Tom’s family invited the attendees to a reception at the Gaelic-American Society Hall in Fairfield following the service. Commonly called, “The Irish Club,” their choice of beverages includes Guinness on tap.

I smiled as I saw the Guinness tap. “My, my, I said to myself, it’s been a long time since my last glass of stout.”

How long? Not since March 5, 2020, the last time Mike Scott and I made our way to Foley’s for lunch. Back then, we only consumed Guinness there because it was always fresh. Shaun Clancy, Foley’s saloon keeper, couldn’t survive the COVID-19 pandemic quarantine and so it goes.

“A pint of Guinness, please.”

“Glady,” the bartender replied, and I looked on in amazement as she reached for a glass that was about ¾ full and proceeded to put a fresh head on it.

I knew at a glance that this long-delayed glass of stout was going to be a treat and that it was.

I sat alone, hoisted one for Tom, texted Shaun and Scott and celebrated life.

On December 23, 2021, Ruby, the Connecticut Delach’s senior family dog experienced noticeable distress. Michael and Drew took her to the emergency veterinarian who determined Ruby had massive tumors blocking her digestive tract. Father and son, both brave souls, did right by their very best friend by deciding that Ruby needed to be put to sleep to end her suffering.

One and a half years later her brother, Max, suffered the same fate. We were in New Hampshire on Sunday morning, May 28, 2023 when he began to experience similar distress. This was Max’s second episode in two weeks and this time it was worse and included bloody throw-up, a bad sign that cancer was present. We had no choice but to return home on Memorial Day so we could take Max to his vet on Tuesday. We did and when Dr. E. confirmed cancer, we faced the grim decision to let him go so he could join his sister in that place where the spirits of all good dogs go.

All of our grandchildren had grown up with Max and loved him. Ruby had been the sensible dog; Max was the clown. Mary Ann decided to cushion his loss by telling them that Max had reunited with Ruby in that good place by telling them: “Ruby and Max are together again. But she had to explain to her brother, ‘I’ve met a great group of friends here. I’ll introduce you to them, but don’t do something stupid to ruin it.”        

In honor of Ruby, Max and all our very best friends, I have included the piece I wrote about the day we met the two of them for the first time.

Max and Ruby’s’ Arrival

Max and Ruby were eight weeks old when they arrived by truck from Missouri on Thursday, November 11, 2010. Their litter was born on September 9, and they were transported to Long Island by a dog trucking company called Pet Ex Express.

 We had lost Maggie that summer and decided that we had one last Golden in us, but we would wait until November to welcome our new addition. In the interim Mary Ann decided to buy a second pup for our daughter-in-law, Jodie, as a birthday gift.

Jodie wanted a female, and we wanted a male. We picked the name Max and Jodie picked Ruby after the other principal characters in the comic / cartoon show: Max and Ruby.

Coming by truck produced its own complications. Steve, the driver, a good fellow who gave me his cell number, was clueless when it came to delivering in the New York Metropolitan area.

He expected to arrive on November 10 and Jodie drove down with our three grandchildren, Drew (11), Matt (8) and Samantha (4). The idea was for them to be with us that evening when the dogs arrived so they could meet and greet their Ruby. By eight o’clock that night, the kids had had it and poor Steve was lost in Manhattan. Mary Ann took charge, called him and told him, “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

He told her they had a stop at a local Port Washington pet store called Barkingham Palace and would deliver our puppies after that stop. “We’ll sleep in their parking lot.”

Knowing that my oldest grandson, Drew, was an early riser, I found him in the kitchen watching TV when I slipped out of bed the following morning. “Hey, Drew, let’s take a ride to find the truck. Don’t bother to change, just throw something on to keep warm”

Drew’s eyes lit up. He threw on slippers and a coat and off we went only to find an empty parking lot.

 Right, I called Steve on my cell phone: “Where are you?”

“We’re at Burger King having breakfast.”

“Don’t go back to the pet store. My house is between Burger King and that store. Use your GPS.”

I gave Drew my phone so he could call home to tell his mom and Mary Ann what was up while I headed for Burger King. “Grandpa, how will we know what truck to look for?”

“Simple, Drew, look for a truck with Missouri plates.”

We arrived to see a panel truck with “Show Me” state plates pull out of the lot. “See those plates, Drew, that’s our truck. Let’s follow it. Call home, tell them we’re on our way.”

Drew and I reached the driveway at the same time as the PetEx truck. Everybody poured out onto Roger Drive in eager anticipation. Steve’s helper emerged from the truck and presented these two beautiful babies into the loving hands of their new families.

Mary Ann and Jodie each hoisted one into the air to confirm who was Max and who was Ruby.

With shouts of joy, squeals of delight and vocal pandemonium, we welcomed two very confused puppies who soon would come to realize, they were home. Once again, we had two big orange dogs in our lives.

 Both Ruby and Max were cremated and we plan to inter their remains in the field that surrounds our house in New Hampshire. On one side, stands a steel pole filled with concrete that once supported our big dish. Red, with rust, we christened it, the Baton Rouge and we made it the marker for the remains of our deceased best friends. We plan to inter these two very best friends during the Fourth of July weekend so they can join all the others who came before them.

On the Outside Looking” will not publish again until July 12, 2023.