John Delach

While in college, I developed an instinctive sense of humor and the ability to remember and tell jokes. Timing, which is the essential ingredient that turns an ordinary story into a joke, came easily to me. I also understood the second commandment; don’t tell jokes that telegraph themselves. Shock or surprise are essential to the delivery of the punch line. Be it a one-liner, a shaggie dog story, or something in between, In most cases, delivering a hard tap is more effective than pulling off a soft shoe ending.

Hennie Youngman was a master of the one-liner: “Take my wife; please” “A guy asked me for a bite, so I bit him.”

I discovered my two personal favorite one-liners on visits to our local post office in Marlow, NH. The first was sported by a local woman’s tee shirt. It pronounced: “Kiss My Ass, I’m on Vacation.” The second was a chap wearing a baseball cap that noted, “Got a Gun for My Wife: Good Trade.”

One-liners are in the moment and quickly forgotten. Personally, I love shaggy dog stories that seem to go on forever without telegraphing the ending. The key to this art form is to draw your audience in and keep them intrigued as your story weaves a crooked path while maintaining the suspense. Build up the suspense until, out of nowhere, you hit them with the punch line.

I have two favorite shaggy dog stories and this is the milder of the two. It is also my personal favorite because the teller must repeat every line of the joke as he / she tells each sequence and increases the length. Most jokes like this one are best told in a bar or a café where liquor is liberally served and consumed. For sanity’s sake, I will set it out in its entirety without it’s complete repetition:

An 18-year-old French-Canadian seaman gets shore leave in the port of Montreal. In his pocket, he has a piece of paper with the name of a woman, her address and phone number. He seeks out a pay phone, deposits the required coins and dials her number:

Halo, is this Miss Evan Doucette?

Qui, this is Miss Evan Doucette .

Halo, is this Miss Evon Doucette of 221 Duquesne Street, Montreal, Quebec, Canada?

Qui, this is Miss Evon Doucette of 221 Duquesne, Montreal, Quebec, Canada,

Halo, is this Miss Evon Doucette of 221 Duquesne Street, Montreal, Quebec, Canada who had the baby 18 years ago and threw the baby into de trash can in de alley?

Qui, this is Miss Evon Doucette of 221 Duquesne Street, Montreal, Quebec, Canada who had the baby 18 years ago and threw the baby into the trash can in de alley.

Halo Ma!

My material played havoc with a wide-spectrum of life’s problems following the theory that tragedy plus time equals humor. I even had an Aids joke:

Doctor, I don’t know if my husband has a heart condition or Aids. What should I do?

Take him up to the track and force him to run a mile. If he doesn’t drop dead, don’t f**ck him!

 One day, seemingly out of nowhere, a new paperback book appeared entitles: “Truly Tasteless Jokes”. I bought a copy of this book only to discover to my dismay that almost a third of my material had been usurped by this book: “Damn!”  

Over time, I reconciled my pain to the fact that “Truly Tasteless Jokes,” forced me to abandon being a joke man well before the arrival of political correctness and when the cancel culture and the thought police would come knocking at my door.

I do regret the loss of a free rein culture where joke telling sessions, especially classic stories like the one about the little girl Petal and her doggie Porky, or Jesus, being angry on Easter could be told without fear of condemnation or cancellation. Morning

All of this brings me to my own brand-new original joke. Hopefully, it follows all the rules I have set out for a perfect hit, so, as a warning, may I suggest that you place any beverage container on a solid surface before you read on:

As a non-practicing Catholic, it shocks me when I attend wedding and funeral masses only too discover that the liturgy has been changed. The simple:

Command: May God be with you:

Response: And with thy spirit.

Has undergone a metamorphosis to new speak that my brain cannot remember. Then, out of the blue, I thought of my own ecclesiastical change to this exchange:

Command: May God be with you:

Response: And with the horse you rode in on!

“On The Outside Looking In” will not publish on July 7 and will return on July 14. Happy 4^th of July.”

Gardermoen Airport is Oslo Norway’s principal entry and exit point. It is a cosmopolitan facility of modern terminals, shops, and clubs catering to the multiple needs of international passengers. A high-speed railroad line offers thirty-minute service from and to the center of Oslo. This facility opened to the public in October of 1998, so I can imagine that more up-to-date improvements have been made or are on its horizon.

My one and only departure flight from Gardermoen took place in August of 1987 before any of these developments were contemplated. At that time, Gardermoen was a secure base serving the Royal Norwegian Air Force and NATO operations. The military authorities begrudgingly agreed to permit commercial airlines flying 747s to use their airbase as Oslo’s main airport, Fornebu, could not accommodate 747s.

Other than that experience, all my Oslo takeoffs and landings took place at Fornebu, a postage stamp of an airport that was Oslo’s version of New York’s LaGuardia, Chicago’s Midway or DC’s National. Most of the time, I flew in and out of Oslo on MD-80s, Boeing 737s or Airbus A-300’s so I didn’t quite recognize its size limitations.

I even had a near-miss on a SAS MD-80 flying in from Stockholm on a rainy morning with a low ceiling. I was flying with David Clarke, a colleague, who like me, kept his fears to himself. As we descended for our landing and broke through the clouds, what I saw were houses, lots of houses. An instant later, the pilot applied power and put the jet into a climb. When he leveled off, he announced to us, his nervous passengers, “Sorry, the tower brought us in a little too close. We will go around again.”

This was in November of 1990, and as he began our second approach, I complained to David, “Damn, just my luck, the Giants are 10 and 0 and I am going to die in Oslo, f***ing Norway!”      

But I digress! In 1987, the only way to reach Gardermoen Airport was via a two-lane highway and travel time was close to an hour without traffic. Fortunately, Steve Pires and I were returning to New York on a Saturday, so traffic was not an issue. As the taxi approached the perimeter, we observed double rows of fences topped with barb wire protecting the airbase, soldiers manning the guard towers armed with automatic weapons and the signs in English, Norwegian and German warning passengers not to stop their cars, not to get out or to take photographs. The road continued along the perimeter away from earthen embankments shielding military structures, F16 fighters and AC 135 AWAKS.

Ahead, our destination came into view, a shabby wooden passenger terminal standing alone at the far end of the base    

The inside of the terminal had the same charm, as the customs officials and airline staff on duty. The people who worked there hated their assignment and attitudes reflected the complete lack of ambience in this facility.

We shuffled along to their grunts observing the signs repeated in every room and corridor, NO PHOTOGRAPHS. Steve noted: “John, I believe if you even took out a camera, you would be arrested and interrogated for a long time.”

I have been in primitive airport facilities before. For years, a so-called Temporary Terminal at JFK served many domestic flights when the airport’s name was New York International Airport, or Idlewild, as it was commonly called. I do remember having to navigate that maze of plywood for flights three different times to find my gates on visit’s my father in Miami in 1957, 1959 and 1961.

This attitude and the physical layout of this joint at Gardemoen made us feel like we’d already crossed into the other side of the iron curtain.

Finally, we reached the main waiting room, a large area with tables and plastic chairs. Food and soft drinks were available cafeteria style. Part of the reason the room resembled an old high school cafeteria was the presence of many teenagers; boys and girls wearing the same outfits, white tee shirts and yellow shorts. They filled the space with the sights and sound of youthful energy. Clean, pretty, healthy with beautiful Nordic coloring and hair. We just looked at each other.

I decided to get us two Cokes and joined the line behind a pretty blond girl. “Excuse me,” I asked, “Could you tell me what kind of a group this is?”

“We are high school students on our way to America for our next year of school.”

“Ah, how nice. May I ask where in America you are going?”

“Kansas.”

“Kansas. Nice and good luck.”

With Cokes in hand, I returned to our table and told Steve all about my encounter. I waved to the girl so Steve would understand and let him think about it for a moment. I mentally counted to ten as timing is everything, then said,

 “You know Steve, right now, as we speak, there is a good looking, solid, tanned 17=year old kid eating a big mid-western breakfast on a large farm in middle of Kansas. He’s thinking about today’s chores, and he doesn’t have a clue that his ship is about to come in!”   

I learned on Tuesday morning, June 8^th, that Jim Fassel had passed away, a victim of a heart attack in a Las Vegas hospital at age 71. Fassel was head coach of the New York Football Giants from 1997 to 2004 and took the team to Super Bowl XXXV in 2001. He was a good man.

The Giants entered the 2000 season as an also ran in the NFC’s Eastern Division. Despite these negative predictions, Big Blue got off to a great start that continued into the middle of the season. The team achieved a record of 6-2 in their first eight games that included two victories against the Philadelphia Eagles, the team the experts picked to win their division.

But our team hit a crossroad when the Maramen were outclassed by the high-powered Rams, 38 to 24. Okay, the Giants got their butts kicked but, at least the kicking came at the hands of a nationally recognized power-house team already labeled, “The greatest team on turf.”

On November 19, the following Sunday, we had a 1 PM home game against the Detroit Lions on a beautiful autumn afternoon with sunny skies and temperatures in the low 50s. We enjoyed  another excellent tailgate before making our way to Section 107 of Giants Stadium with the highest expectations of enjoying a Giants victory.

Instead, after a scoreless first quarter, the Lions rattled off 21 points during the second quarter and added seven more at the beginning of the second half giving themselves a 28-point lead. While the Giants did manage to score 21 points of their own, the Lions added three more making the final total: Giants 21- Detroit Lions 31.

Expectations for Big Blue to make the playoffs diminished as our team’s record bottomed out at 7-4 and this debacle led to all sorts of abuse; booing, cursing and the worst of all, the team’s hometown crowd deserting them and leaving the stadium early. The joint was almost empty with ten-minutes remaining on the game clock. Radio, television and the Monday morning newspapers all cried doom as they stirred the pot. Radicals demanded Coach Fassel be sacked.

Bill Pennington, then The New York Times beat reporter remembered what happened next. “It was the day before Thanksgiving and Giants Coach Jim Fassel who looked like a librarian and generally behaved like the winsome air-conditioning salesman he once was, had a wild, restless look in his eye.

“His Giants, two weeks earlier a shoo-in for the NFL playoffs, had been booed off the field after two consecutive ugly home losses. Their postseason prospects were now dim, a mutiny was brewing in the locker room and management was agitated.

“Fassel stepped to the rostrum for what was usually a pro forma news conference and barked:”

YOU GOT THE LASER; YOU CAN PUT IT RIGHT HERE, ON MY CHEST. I’LL TAKE THE RESPONSIBILITY. GET OFF MY COACHES. GET OFF THE PLAYERS’ BACKS. I’M RAISING THE STAKES RIGHT NOW. THIS IS A POKER GAME  I’M SHOVING MY CHIPS TO THE MIDDLE OF THE TABLE. I’M RAISING THE ANTE, ANYBODY WANTS IN, GET IN, ANYBODY WANTS OUT, GET OUT.

THIS TEAM IS GOING TO THE PLAYOFFS, OK? 

Pennington recalled what he wrote the next day: “Jim Fassel, the Mister Rogers of football coaches, tore off his cardigan today, tied it around his head and joined the Hells’ Angels.”

This scribe further reported: “Two days later, standing with Fassel in the bowels of old Giants Stadium, I wondered what had gotten into the guy nicknamed Gentleman Jim. ‘If this doesn’t work out, you’re going to get fired.’ I said.”

“I was going to get fired before I did this,”’ he answered, “Now we’ll see what happens.”

Hokey, you bet; nonsensical, yeah, a bit; chock-a-block full of cliques, absolutely…but professional athletes are simple folk who just happen to make an inordinate amount of money for playing little boy’s games. Like little boys, those men in blue we called Maramen,  played their last five games of the season with a vengeance winning victories over all to clinch the NFC East. The final game against the Jacksonville Jaguars was played at Giant Stadium on a Saturday afternoon on December 13, 2000.

The following day’s NYT’s Sports Sunday front page included a photo of yours truly holding up an oaktag sign that demanded: BELIEVE IT, as I celebrated their 30 to 10, victory over the Redskins.

Fassel’s run continued through the playoffs. The Giants beat the Eagles for the third time to advance to the NFC Championship Game where they annihilated the favored Minnesota Vikings 41-0.

Our luck ran out two weeks later as my son and I watched our Giants lose Super Bowl XXXV to the Baltimore Ravens, in Tampa’s Raymond James Stadium, 34 to 7… and so it goes.

Please permit me to allow Bill Pennington to conclude this piece.

“Almost ten years ago, I had breakfast with Fassel and asked him if he saved his notes from his now famous Thanksgiving eve speech from 2000. You know, the stuff about the poker chips, raising the stakes and having no fear?”

“I never wrote anything down,” he said, laughing. “I just knew I had to put myself in the crosshairs – and nobody else. I had to cause a kind of distraction, so I just winged it.”

Well played, Coach Jim Fassel and RIP

Drinks in hand, Billy Mize and Leo Whalen stood together at the bar in the hospitality lounge of the Arrowwood Conference Center in Rye Brook, NY. As I entered the premises. Leo waved his green bottle of Heineken in my direction signaling me to join them. “Jonnie, let me buy you a drink.” Leo thundered as he looked to the bartender.

“Thanks, Leo,” I replied and asked the bartender for a Jameson on the rocks in a short glass. Billy was already enjoying his vodka on the rocks, and we toasted each other once my Irish whiskey arrived. “So, Billy, how was your flight from Mexico City?”

“Not bad, John. It seems it was only two or three months ago since we saw each other at last year’s managers meeting at the Breakers down in Boca Raton This place is  a dump in comparison!”

“Damn right, brother Billy,” I replied, “But then again times were considerably better for us and our company last year. That damn bond scandal combined with the melt down in the casualty insurance market has put us on our back foot. But, hell, we’ve survived and here we are. I am glad you had a good flight.”

We talked about Billy’s transfer from our Dallas office and how easily he and his wife assimilated Mexican culture and lifestyle. Billy’s wife is Puerto Rican, and he is a gregarious Texan who is fluent in Spanish. He then returned to the subject of his flight and said, “I did have a bit of problem getting through Customs at JFK.”

Seeing this look on my face, a look Billy understood about US citizens doing business in Mexico, he continued, “No, John, I did not carry drugs or more than $10,000 in cash. My problem was hauling the extraordinary and, in a way, the most ridiculous item I ever tried to check into the baggage compartment on an airplane.”

Leo chuckled, “I bet you did feel a bit foolish.”

I couldn’t ignore the tone of guilt in Leo’s throw out line.

I’ll admit, they had my attention as I had no idea where this story was going.  Billy explained,  “You see, John, the last time Leo visited our office in Mexico City, he remarked on how much he wanted a Mexican saddle for his wife.“

“Yes, ” Leo interrupted, “She was impressed by their craftsmanship and has always wanted one for her horses.”

Continuing, Billy added, “Knowing that Leo lives less than an hour from here, I promised to bring a saddle with me. What I forgot was that I had to claim all my baggage before clearing Customs.

“That meant I had to remove all my stuff from the cart I was using and drag my bags, golf clubs and the saddle through the Customs area. Only when I cleared could I recruit a skycap help me carry them to the limo.”

With that, Jack Shea joined us, and Billy and Leo related the story a second time. Jack was skeptical and wanted to know where the saddle was. Billy replied: “Why, Jack, it’s in Leo’s room where I delivered it.”

“Let’s go see it then,” Jack insisted.

With that, we left the bar, crossed the lobby and walked across a glass-enclosed bridge that connected the hotel’s rooms with the conference center. Leo opened the door and led us into his room. Sure enough, on a chair sat the biggest saddle I have ever seen. Jet-black with silver studs, the seat had a shine that reflected the room. Everything about it was big from the horn to the stirrups. No wonder Billy had such a tough time hauling it  through customs!

However, even a big Mexican saddle is only a saddle and not exactly an object that requires lengthy analysis. As for me, my interest wandered back to getting another drink and I wasn’t alone.

We were just about to leave when a young man opened the door. Startled to see us, he said, “Excuse me, I am here to turn down the bed.”

Leo asked him to come in and as he entered, I noticed that the bathroom door, directly across from the saddle, was closed. As this innocent steward came up to me, I stopped him.

“Do you see that saddle?” He nodded, yes. “Good. Whatever you do, don’t open that door!”

The steward’s eyes popped out and he did a double take, his eyes traveling from me to the saddle to the bathroom door several times.

We left the room closing the door behind us starting to roll with laughter. Leo said, “John, you have one sick sense of humor.”

Perhaps, but one of my best capers of all times!

Note: No horses or stewards were hurt during this caper.    

God has a plan; the information is not available to the mortal man. This line from “Slip Sliding Away” was written by Paul Simon and I believe it may help us to understand the Canadian / Canadien dilemma. These gentle and kind people inhabit a huge country of infinite beauty and substantial natural resources. Canadians / Canadiens love their land. They appreciate their burden to protect it, conserve it and nurture it. To this end they are vigilant and, …Oh Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

But they suffer dilemmas that neither God nor government can cure. Canadians / Canadiens never had a proper separation from their motherlands be it England, (Canadians,) or France, (Canadiens) or the civil war needed to reconcile this self-made and inordinately vital issue of sovereignty and identity.  

Had Canada struggled through a nasty civil war, the tediousness of Canadian / Canadien would have been eviscerated in the ferocity of cannons and the wanton spilling of blood. Without such carnage, Canada has been unable to achieve domestic national consensus and the English / French debate diverts vital interest and resources from more important issues. Consider the savings in time, money and psyche if they were just Canadian. Fortunately, the very idea of the French separatist movement remains dormant. Obviously, this obsession by a hard core of separatists is insane, but, though it sleeps, it lives on awaiting the day of resurrection.

So too is the ultimate Canadian paranoia, their fear of the monster that sleeps under their collective beds, the monster to the south. Canadians / Canadiens are like Adam and Eve this time given a second chance. “You may remain in the Garden of Eden, but you will be isolated from all others save one. The monster is powerful and is my eyes and ears. Screw up again and I shall cast it upon you.”

Canadians / Canadiens believe that someday, some way, the USA will annex them. I wish I could assure them that this fear is mistaken. The USA does not look at Canada with ambition, jealousy or envy. I believe we do not covet their nation or their wives, but, then again, I’ve been wrong before.

Years ago, on a business trip to Montreal, one of my Canadian colleagues handed me an unremarkable novel with a knowing look. It was political science fiction, that culminated with these United States declaring Canada to be part of the USA while allowing the provinces the opportunity to apply for statehood. It was a best seller in Canada!

Ridiculous, but still…what if?

The COVID-19 pandemic successfully tested our relationship. When the USA was hit hard, our neighbors to the north closed their border to all but essential traffic. Seems to me, neither one of us considered this closure to be an issue, much less a subject for controversy. Today, it’s Canada that has a COVID-19 problem. Borders remain closed, again without controversy.

Logic, logistics and National ambitions should make the case that the big, bad USA enjoys our relationship with the closest international neighbor and only seeks to enhance our strengthen and friendship.

Please notice that I have absolutely refrained throughout this piece from using the terms, America or American. Terry Manning, my Canadian friend, hated that term. Terry declared that we were all Americans. We could call them Canadians, but he would call us, Yanks.  

Still, Terry believed in the paranoia of the beast which he couldn’t always contain. For several years, our Managing Directors  gathered together for five days at the Greenbrier Resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia for a management boondoggle. Late one afternoon, I decided to join Terry and his fellow Canadians on the porch of a cabin they were sharing for our meeting.

Terry decided to call me out in front of his mates: “You know, Delach, the problem with you f***ing Yanks is you think that Canada is the 51^st f***ing state!”

“No, Terry,” I replied, “ Israel is the 51^st  f***ing state; Canada is the 52^nd

F***ing state!” 

Still, I get it. I understand that if our economy catches a cold, Canada faces pneumonia.

Thinking it through, I’ll admit that if I were living in the north country and being constantly forced to look south to see what those Yanks will do next to interfere with my well-being, Je serais avissi nerueux / I too would be nervous.            

Baby Doll has been described as: “An American dramatic black comedy.” If you read the script without any knowledge of how the dialogue sounded and the visual impression it presented, you might agree with that analysis.

Trust me though, as I watched the story unfold on the television in my Baltimore hotel room, I can attest that the dialogue was steamy, sensuous and seductive. It didn’t hurt that Carroll Baker wore the same short slip in every scene, a slip that revealed everything without revealing anything. Without any hints of nudity or any manifestations of simulated sex, Ms. Baker’s very presence exuded sensuality that turned ordinary lines that could have been comedic into sexual provocations. Witness:

Baby Doll (BD): (Silva caresses her neck) Don’t touch me. Please, don’t touch me. I don’t like to be touched.

Silva: Well, why do you giggle?

BD: Cause,  you make me feel kind of hysterical, Mr. Vacarro.

Silva: ( knowing smile) I do?

BD: (starts to get up) Mr. V. I think I’ll go and make us some lemonade. (he holds her back.)

BD: What did you do that for?

Silva: I don’t want to be deprived of the pleasure of your company. Not yet.

BD: Mister V, you certainly are getting familiar.

Silva: Don’t you have any fun-loving spirit about you?

BD: Well, this is not fun. (laughs breathlessly and smiles.)

Silva: Why do you giggle then? Hmm?

BD: Because I’m ticklish.

A word about the plot. Miss Baby Doll’s father forced her to marry Archie Lee Meighan (Carl Malden) as part of a semi-extortion plot to save the remaining assets of his cotton plantation. Baby Doll’s father forced Archie to agree to a wedding contract that the marriage would not be consummated for two years, not until Baby Doll turned twenty.

Silva Vacarro, (Eli Wallach) immigrates to town and establishes a cotton gin operation that ruins Archie’s gin. Archie, burns Silva’s gin to the ground. Silva goes to Archie’s home to set a trap to prove Archie destroyed his gin. He charms Archie who goes about his business allowing Silva to use Baby Doll to incriminate Archie. The script is saved from becoming a British romantic comedy, again,  by Ms. Baker’s sensuous performance.

BD: I told my daddy that I wasn’t ready for marriage and my daddy told Archie Lee that I wasn’t ready for it and Archie Lee promised my daddy that he would wait until I was twenty.

Silva: Then, the marriage was postponed?

BD: Oh no, not the weddin’. We had the weddin’. My daddy gave me away.

Silva: But you said Archie waited?

BD: Yeah! After the weddin’, he waited.

Silva: For what?

BD: For me to be ready for marriage.

Silva: Well, how long did he have to wait?

BD: Oh, he’s still waiting.

BD: We had an agreement that-I mean, I told him that on my twentieth birthday I’d be ready.

Silva: That’s tomorrow.

BD: Uh-huh

Silva: And are you-will you be ready?

BD: Well, that all depends.

Silva: On what?

BD: Whether not the furniture comes back, I guess.

Silva: Your husband sweats more than any man I know and now I can understand why.

Silva and Baby Doll engage in this dialogue while they lay together in the enlarged crib that Baby Doll uses as her bed. Tennessee Williams didn’t shy away from the generous use of the most base of racial and ethnic language in his script. These slurs were repeated so often that they had to be deliberate.

I believe Williams and  Kazan chose to test the limits of what was acceptable in 1956 Main Street America. If content was not enough, their publicity department commissioned a promotional billboard in Times Square featuring Ms. Baker, lying in her crib, wearing her short slip sucking on her thumb prior to the film’s release.

Two days before the movie’s premier, Cardinal Francis Spellman, the Archbishop of New York, condemned Baby Doll from the pulpit at St. Patrick’s Cathedral during Sunday’s high mass. He  demanded that both Catholics and non-Catholics forgo seeing this film. He deemed it to be morally dangerous. One critic reported: “Spellman’s unusually harsh and unusually public sermon was unprecedented.”

Cardinal Spellman was one of the top ten power brokers not only in New York, but, also,  on the national stage. His nickname was the American Pope and his condemnation marginalized Baby Doll to art houses, off beat theaters and eventually, a hotel in Baltimore over fifty- years later.

The film didn’t make a profit, but it did set off a storm of controversy between freedom of expression and censorship with prominent people and organizations taking both sides of the divide. It was banned in several countries including Sweden, curiously, where Swedish movie makers produced the erotic: I Am Curious (Yellow) in 1967.

Time Magazine called Baby Doll, ”…just possibly the dirtiest American-made motion picture that has ever been legally exhibited.”

As for me, I’m glad I got lucky in Baltimore to understand what that storm was all about. My verdict: Using 1956 standards, I find Baby Doll, guilty as charged.

Sometime in the mid-1950s when I was just short of puberty, but already intriguted by elements of the world, the flesh and the devil, The Tablet,  theofficial newspaper of the Diocese of Brooklyn began to arrive in our Ridgewood, Queens’s home for some unknown reason. Perhaps Mom had donated to some charity, or  joined a certain Catholic group where membership included a subscription to this publication?

Not once, did I ever try to read its contents except for the one feature that attracted the attention of every teen and pre-teen who saw the listing.

That feature was the National Legion of Decency’s ratings of Hollywood’s feature films. Each week, the Legion distributed a list of ratings for films so the members of their Roman Catholic flock would understand what movies were suitable for watching based on their moral content.

Films were rated according to the following code:

A: Morally unobjectionable.

B. Morally objectionable in part

C. Condemned

“Condemned.” The very word aroused a boy’s imagination and hormones. Week after week,  the Tablet displayed all the movies in those three categories. Since this was the mid-1950s, we lived under the illusion of a wholesomeness so there were only two that had earned the “C’ rating:  

And God Created Woman and Baby Doll

Oh, how exciting. All I knew about And God Created Woman, was it stared Bridgett Bardot. Photographs of that so called, “Sex Kitten,” filled Sunday magazine sections of the Daily News and the Daily Mirror so I easily understood what she looked like. No wonder why Adam never had a chance!

But what was Baby Doll all about? I understood that there was a style of women’s P.J.s named after this movie that were revealing, but so what? Strangely, all I ever encountered in that time of coming of age was that Baby Doll was a bad movie for Catholics and others of faith. I never saw its title, posted on a movie marquee nor met anyone who saw it.

Life went on and our world view of sex, morality and the Catholic sense of guilt turned into a roller coaster ride, or was it more akin to carnival ride called, the whip, where we were thrown around the cars with insane abandon? Either version; there was a whole lot of “shaking going on.”   

Cable freed TV from restrictive FCC rules. Pornography popped up in dingy midtown theatres. The internet followed blowing away the rules on almost all restrictions that prevented open  access to an electronic wonderland of pornography on demand where almost anything goes:

In olden days, a glimpse of stocking

was looked on as something shocking.

Now heaven knows

anything goes.

Still, I remained clueless about Baby Doll until a fateful trip to Baltimore with Mike Scott to see an Orioles vs Red Sox game at Camden Yards about ten years ago. We took an afternoon off. I planned to nap, but serendipitously, when I turned on the TV, I found myself watching the opening credits for, Baby Doll! Mesmerized, I watched the entire movie.

I did try to tell Scott what I was doing, but he had turned off his room phone. Mike comes from that genre of older men who consider their cell phones, the modern manifestation of pay phones, only good for outgoing calls. Oh well, I tried.

I settled in to watch this black and white film set in Mississippi cotton country. That made sense, as, the author, Tennessee Williams came of age in Clarksville, a river town that was once the hub for the sale, storage and distribution of cotton. Clarksville also attracted the pickers of cotton, those Black Americans who lived under the yoke of Jim Crow. For this very reason, Clarksville also witnessed the birth of the blues.

Williams adapted the screenplay from his own one-act play, 27 Wagons Full of Cotton. It tells a story about rival cotton gin owners, one a son of the south and the other an Italian immigrant. It is a tale of revenge and seduction. Elia Kazan produced the 1955 film with Williams and cast three alumni from his Actors Studio in the lead roles, Karl Malden as Archie Lee Meighan, Carroll Baker as Baby Doll Meighan and Eli Wallach as Silva Vacarro.

Surprisingly, Kazan cast Malden as the villain and Wallach as the less offensive hero. Their difference in age was a factor, but Baby Doll presented a reversal of their traditional roles. Malden usually played a good guy, Father Barry in On the Waterfront and Omar Bradley in Patton. Wallach’s well-known roles include being different bad hombres like Calvera, the leader of the raiders who terrify villages, in The Magnificent Seven and, Tuco Ramirez in the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Kazan originally wanted Marilyn Monroe to play Baby Doll, but after Williams saw Baker perform a scene from his script, he convinced the producer / director to give the part to her.

In Part Two, we will fearlessly, well, almost fearlessly, examine the film and why the shit hit the fan prior to its release .Heat up your popcorn and stay tuned.    

In 1972, when I was the oldest rookie at Marsh & McLennan’s Hull Department and the only one of four who was not only married, but with two kids,  I was assigned to the so called, “Small Account Unit.” I considered it to be a dead-end assignment because it isolated me from my firm’s major marine accounts where careers are made. I felt that I had been relegated to the role of being a garbage stomper, the low man on the totem pole who stomped down garbage into the can so more could be added. I knew I had fallen into disfavor.

Then one February morning, I found myself in an un-heated subway car stuck in a tunnel between stations. I could feel the cold penetrating the leather soles of my shoes as I looked out at my own image in a dirty window. Right then, I made a choice: “God-damn-it, since they made me a garbage stomper, I’m going to become the best garbage stomper in the firm!

In time, I grew to realize that this was the best thing that could have happened to my budding career. It gave me the opportunity to take on problems at my own discretion and solve them as I saw fit, either with my manager’s assistance, or on my own.

One of the little accounts I inherited was a policy for a company called Wilson Lines. It was an odd form of insurance that didn’t make much sense to me. The policy was called Barratry Insurance and covered the two brothers who owned Wilson Lines. If either of these owners took command of the SS Guano Queen, this policy would cover their unique liabilities. We had  placed it in the London Market and the current edition had a deposit premium of $2,500. Real premium would only be charged if either of them took command of the Guano Queen.

Fascinated and frustrated by the lack of information in the five-years of files we kept in our office, I contacted our archive group and requested the old insurance policies and files for as far back as they could locate them.

What I received produced a curious portrait. My firm had inherited this little account in the late 1950’s when Marsh & McLennan had bought a little broker, Briggs & Brennan, who had control of what was then the largest tanker fleet in the world, D.K. Ludwig’s National Bulk Carriers.

Wilson Lines was probably the smallest part of Briggs and Brennan’s book of business. I discovered that Wilson Lines was owned by two Danish brothers, John Wilson and Robert Wilson. I also learned that only Robert had once been a mariner and carried a captain’s license.

Everything I uncovered led me to believe that Captain Robert hadn’t taken command of the Guano Queen in the last twelve years for which we had records. I believed these brothers had been buying un-necessary coverage for, at least twelve years.

I laid out my findings to John Buzbee, my boss. John looked at me in amazement. “Damn, this is crazy! Why didn’t anyone catch this?”

He had me draft a letter to our client explaining, that with their permission, we would cancel the current policy and we would endeavor to refund the previous deposits as far back as possible.

Their return letter confirmed that the last time Robert had commanded the Guano Queen was in 1955! Obviously, they would be most pleased if we could re-coup past deposits.

We were able to recoup six-years of past premiums. I received a warm reply and notice that they wished to meet me on their next visit to New York, I informed Mr. Buzbee who advised, “Take them to an upscale restaurant.”

I chose The Forum of the Twelve Caesars located in Rockefeller Center less than a block from out office. I knew it was famous, but what I didn’t know was this former gem that opened in 1957 was well along the backside of the mountain and would close in less than three years.

I hadn’t given much thought to the Wilson brothers ages, so I was a bit shocked to realize that they were both in their late eighties or early nineties! Fortunately, they both spoke English with a Scandinavian accent. After some small talk in one of our conference rooms I suggested we continue our conversation over lunch.

It did concern me that we practically had the restaurant to ourselves, but my first sense of shock came when a waiter asked what we would like to drink. John Wilson asked for hot water with lemon while Robert declined. I settled for a Coke.

When the menus arrived, I realized that neither brother opened his menu. When I asked them what they were thinking about, John said, “Only another warm water with lemon,” while Robert explained, “I only have one meal a day and I already had breakfast so I’m alright.”

I settled for something light and that was lunch.

Our most interesting exchange came when I asked them what it was like tax wise to live in a socialist country like Denmark and own a private company?

John replied: “Oh, it is not an issue for us. You see we are both Panamanian citizens. Not only that, but we are also both charge d’ fairs so we have diplomatic immunity, and we don’t pay taxes.”

We said our goodbyes on the sidewalk. As I watched them walk slowly along Forty-Eighth Street in the direction of Fifth Avenue, I could only shake my head as I contemplated on how thoroughly they had beaten the system.

For the record, my time in small accounts worked out well. I was the first of the four to be promoted to Assistant Vice President and finished as a Managing Director. Not too shabby for a  garbage stomper.      

The last stop on the bus we take from outside the American Cemetery to Grandcamp-Maisy turns out to be opposite, La Ferme du Colombier, the inn / B&B where we will stay for the next two nights. It is quite a complex. In season, it is something like a resort, offering economy rooms and extensive camping facilities. Their appealing restaurant is also a bargain. We enjoy a late lunch and dinner there that day. Don, a CPA, calculates that the total cost for our rooms, lunch and dinner including eight bottles of wine is $125 per couple. Viva la France, viva Normandy!

After lunch, we set out to see if it is feasible to reach La Pointe du Hoc from Grandcamp-Maisy on foot. We discover that this is another fishing village and a coastal destination during the summer season. Many stores and restaurants are already closed for the season and display signs in their widows reminding the public that they will re-open next May.

A rainsquall strikes just as we leave town. We jointly decide that continuing this quest is a fool’s errand. We agree that returning to the B&B is our best course. Undoubtedly, this course of action contributes to the consumption of those eight bottles of wine.

Tuesday, October 24, 2000: We are scheduled to leave Normandy by van at  eleven a.m. with all our worldly luggage. Our next destination is, Pontorson, the town nearby the Abbey at Mont St. Michelle, the famous abbey located on an island with the same name. Today, a highway built on an artificial berm keeps it connected to the mainland even during high tides.

Again, I wake up early, a blessing rather than a curse as it allows me to make solo explorations. I make my way into town to buy Francs from an ATM. Twilight reveals a fishing town fully awake and engaged in the business of unloading catches and processing the fish for sale in town and boxing them in ice for loading into vans and trucks for delivery to other destinations.

The tide is high, the gates to the locks are open, and fishing boats continue to enter the port. On a covered part of the quay, fishmongers are already hard at work arranging fixed metal tables with  beds of ice and depositing a variety of fresh caught species for individual and commercial customers.

It seems that the entire town and surrounding communities have turned out to participate in the beehive like activity of unloading catches and separating these fish for sale locally and shipment to other destinations. I take it all in as I realize how lucky I am to enjoy this wonderful though ordinary experience.

Back at in inn, I join Mary Ann and our mates for breakfast. Fascinated by my telling of what the port was before dawn, we return only to find the activity has shifted and fish mongers are now busy selling the catches on this, the village’s fisherman’s market day.

We reassemble in the Inn’s courtyard, just before our van is scheduled to arrive. Peggy has a quiet conversation with the driver who agrees with her request that we make a stop at La Pointe du Hoc. Peggy is our hero for pulling this off and this opportunity is an excellent experience.

The struggle at La Pointe du Hoc played an important role in the D-day landings. The Germans had installed massive cannons at the top of these 100-foot cliffs and on June 6, 1944, 200 US Army Rangers using ropes and ladders scaled those cliffs to destroy those guns. Almost half the unit was lost or wounded taking the German positions. The site of this struggle is the memorial we are seeking.

The field of battle is well groomed, but it remains in the same condition as it was when the battle ended. Debris has been removed, but the shell and bomb holes remain as do the reinforced concrete fortifications, some blown apart and others, still standing intact. The bunker where the big guns were supposed to be mounted stands empty and damaged, the same way the rangers found it on D-Day. The Germans had removed those cannons to escape the heavy bombing attacks prior to the invasion. The irony is that they were unable to re-install these guns once the invasion began. Eventually the rangers discovered them laying under camouflage in a farmer’s field where they destroyed  those guns.

Such are the quirks of the battlefield. Still, those surviving rangers removed the Nazis from a strategic height that dominates Omaha Beach.

As we drive away from the Normandy beaches, we pass through St. Lo, the town where General George Patton’s Third Army began its massive offensive that would clear the Nazi army out of central France and Paris. Our visit to the Normandy beaches is a home run for all of us and I am pleased to remove it from my bucket list.       

We receive a warm welcome once we finally reach our Colleville B&B. The women who run it  treat us to sandwiches, cheese, wine and Calvados. Although warm and friendly, our B&B is small, I mean, really small. Except for Mike and Peggy, the four of us are rookies when it comes to casual European  accommodations. We finally understand what, “En Suite” means. As we relax over wine and cheese, our hosts explain that only one of the rooms has its own bathroom or, as it is said, is furnished en suite. Since Don and Helen already paid their dues, that room  belongs to them.

Our room rate is FF 120, or $21. Mary Ann and I take one look at the size of the bed and agree, there is no way we can sleep together in that tiny thing. Separate rooms are in order. Since we are their only guests, our hosts jump at my request for a second bedroom.

The shower presents a different challenge. Our hosts have booked a restaurant for us directly behind Omaha Beach. Showers and quasi-dress clothes are imperatives. The communal shower is tucked into a corner of the common bathroom. I must enter through two doors sideways as they are cattycornered to each other. I successfully squeeze in, but, once inside, movement is difficult and, of course, I drop the mini bar of soap. I do succeed in showering despite my vison of knocking the stall over in my attempt to retrieve my bar of soap. When I relate this story later at dinner, Helen takes delight and relief in explaining: “The same thing happened to me.”

There is only one taxi in town, so we travel in two parties of three. We men go first so we can correct any problems. Fortunately, there aren’t any, and all is in good order. The restaurant is charming, and the food and drink are to our liking. Over dinner, we make the decision not to hike the next day. Peggy has scheduled us to walk 14 miles to Grandcamp-Maisy, our next destination. But after enduring the toll from today’s 12-mile slog,  we decide we need a break. Besides, we want to visit Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery. We agree, instead to take a bus to our next B&B.

After dinner ends, the taxi returns to transport the ladies first. Don, Mike and I retreat to the bar where we meet Jean-Pierre Chedal-Anglay, who speaks to us in English and invites us to visit his summer home in the adjoining town of Vierville. We explain to this charming man in his seventies that time will not permit us to visit him.

I excuse myself to step outside so I can read the inscription on a nearby monument I noticed when we first arrived. Its message, in French and English gives me pause: At this place they called Omaha Beach, the Allies began the liberation of Europe on the 6^th of June 1944.

When I return to the restaurant, Mike has a glass of 25-year-old Calvados waiting for me courtesy of M. Chedal-Anglay. As we enjoy this treat, the owner, not to be outdone, pours each of us a sample of a of a 45-year-old version. God is good and what a wonderful way to end a brilliant day. I mention to Mike and Don, “Colleville may be the last town in France where the people still express a debt of gratitude for America’s sacrifices on June 6, 1944.”

Monday, October 23, 2000. We enjoy a continental breakfast and a delightful conversation with the owner of our B&B that Peggy translates. We discover that she became a grandmother last night. Her new grandchild was born in Bayeux. She will drive there today after she delivers our luggage to our next stop in in Grandcamp-Maisy.

I realize from the many photographs that line the dining room walls that her family has owned this inn for many years.

Later, when we leave to visit the American Cemetery, we pass the local Catholic church’s  graveyard,  I note an inscription on one of the first headstone we pass. It explains that the deceased was executed by the Nazis in 1941 for being a member of the resistance. His family name is the same as the family that owns the B&B. I wonder what the newborn will come to know about this patriot.

We reach the American cemetery just after 10 am giving us a bit more than two hours to visit before the bus to Grandcamp-Maisey arrives at 12:15 pm. It is a remarkably solemn and a historical place that evokes my emotional response for the sacrifices made by all who rest there.

As I walk around the perfectly groomed grass field, I come across Lieutenant General Lesley McNair’s resting place. He died on July 25, 1944, one of 110 GIs who lost their lives to friendly fire when our own bombers executing their mission to destroy the German’s front line, dropped their bombs short of the target and on our own lines. The same simple cross or Star od David that marks every other Gi’s resting place, marks his. Death doesn’t differentiate duty and service.

I find a semi-circular wall that closes off one border of the cemetery. It is dedicated to all the GIs declared Missing in Action or MIA during this campaign. I decide to walk it end to end and as I do, I am struck by the number of names of soldiers who belonged to the 262^nd Regiment of the 66^th  Infantry Division that have been engraved on the wall for those missing in action. When I return to New York, I discover that the 262^nd had boarded the troopship, SS Leopoldville, in England for passage to Cherbourg.

On Christmas Day, a German U-Boat torpedoed the transport within sight of its destination. A breakdown in communications between the ship and shore delayed rescue until it was almost too late. The soldiers waited for rescue in their combat gear. Landing craft arrived to rescue the lucky ones, but when a key bulkhead gave way, 14 officers and 748 enlisted men drowned. Since their bodies were claimed by the sea, they will forever be MIA.

“Sad, makes you want to laugh. Sad, makes you want to cry.”

The weather turns as we walk to the bus stop. The bus arrives on time and the half-hour ride to Grandcamp-Maisy  sure beats an endless 14-mile hike. Our B&B,  “La Ferme du Colombier,” is just opposite the last stop on the bus’s route.