John Delach

The Central of New Jersey’s Newark Bay Bridge was a masterpiece of engineering when it opened in 1926. The four-track railroad bridge spanned Newark Bay at a height of 35 feet above the water. Twin vertical lift draw bridges spanned the two shipping channels allowing free passage for ships between Port Newark and the sea.

The bridge’s safety devices were simple, but comprehensive. Not one of the four lift sections could be raised until the signals located along the tracks leading to these spans went to stop. Simultaneously, automatic derailing devices located 300 feet from the spans were set in the derailing position. In theory, they were designed to force a train to stop by knocking it off the tracks. 

At 8:55 am, Patrick Corcoran, the drawbridge captain set the signals and the derailleur before proceeding to raise the span for the passage of the sand boat, Sand Captain, outbound running empty headed for Coney Island. Because this was a small harbor craft, Corcoran raised the span to a height of 108 feet; 27 feet less than the maximum raised position of 135 feet. He reasoned that by limiting the height of the opening, he would be able to lower the span more quickly to resume railroad operations. But this ordinary decision had consequences. Had he opened the bridge to its maximum height of 135 feet, the concrete counterweights would have descended almost to track level blocking the opening. Instead, the counterweight hung 27 feet above the tracks.

Train No. 3314 left Elizabethport at 8:57 and passed through the first of three stop signals at the entrance to the bridge traveling at a speed of 35 MPH.

Corcoran told reporters and investigators that he looked out his window as soon as the spans were lifted to ascertain the location of 3314 so he could log the time it was forced to wait in his delay report. Instead of being stopped at Signal R26, the train had already passed this signal. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. I never saw anything like it before. All the safety devices were operating. There was nothing I could do.”

The tapes in the diesels recorded that the train reached a speed of 42 MPH before it reached the automatic derailleur. An autopsy performed on engineer Wilburn after his body was recovered revealed that he may have had a heart attack at this critical time. But what has never been explained is what was the fireman doing? Why didn’t he use his set of controls to stop the train? Instead, no effort was made to brake the train until almost at the point of derailment when another crew member riding toward the rear of the train set off the emergency brakes in the rear two cars. The ICC found that when the brakes on these two cars were inspected after the crash, “The brakes of both cars were found fully applied.”

Owing to that day being the beginning of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, only about 100 to 130 passengers were on board when the train crossed the bridge. Nobody occupied the closed front combo car, 30 to 60 occupied the second car (closest to the connecting ferry), 20 in the third car and 20 more divided between the fourth and fifth cars. Had the concrete counterweights been at track level, the two diesels would have taken the brunt of the crash and it is probable that the combo car would have telescoped the rear diesel with no loss of life. The four trailing coaches would have crashed about accordion style suffering crushed vestibules and probably overturning. It would be foolish to estimate the casualties from such a wreck or what the death toll would have been, but it would have been far less than the 48 souls who died in the actual wreck

Without the concrete barrier the engines and the first two cars went over the edge and sank into the bay. The third car, Number 932, came to rest half-submerged at an 80-degree angle with its top end leaning against the mouth of the open span with 75% under water resting on a ledge. Here it remained for two hours before plunging into the bay, time enough for all survivors in this coach to escape and photographers to record its sickening appearance before it slipped to the bottom of the channel.

To be continued

Part One

Paul V. Land, a forty-eight-year old stockbroker, chose the second passenger coach of Train No. 3314 on Monday morning, September 15, 1958. He boarded the Central of New Jersey Railroad train at the Red Bank Station for the 57-minute run to Jersey City. Mr. Land almost didn’t make the train. As he drove from his home in Rumson, he considered playing hooky and spend this Indian summer day back at home. But work came first so, with the New York Times in hand, he boarded the late rush hour train commonly called The Broker.

The train originated in Bay Head and was running north on the railroad commonly called the Jersey Shore Line. After arriving the terminal in Jersey City, Mr. Land planned to catch one of the CNJ’s Hudson River ferries to reach his office in Lower Manhattan.

The train proceeded without incident and on time through Elizabeth Junction where it switched on to the CNJ’s mainline tracks that headed east leading to a stop at Elizabethport before crossing Newark Bay over the two-mile long bridge that ran between that station and Bayonne. All seemed well. Lloyd Wilburn (63) the engineer waved to Joe Holiday, the tower man, from his diesel cab as it passed through the junction.

Land sensed something was wrong as the train crossed the trestle. Fifteen years of commuting alerted his senses, “The train was going very fast. I heard the brakes screech, and I looked out the window and saw this ship about to pass through the drawbridge. Then the train began to bump. It bumped and bumped – this must have gone on for 1,000 feet, I don’t know, I looked quickly and noticed all the windows were closed.”

“Through the car ahead I saw the first locomotive disappear from the trestle, then the second, then the car in front of ours, and then we went. There was a jar and a rush of water and the car banged sharply back and forth.”

Thus began Mr. Land’s ordeal and those of his fellow passengers as the two engines pulling Train 3314 and three of its five coaches plunged into the oily waters of Newark Bay.

Lloyd Wilburn, the engineer and his 42-year old fireman, Peter Andrews, drove the train sitting on either side of the cab of the road switcher, Engine No. 1532 with an identical engine behind them. These two diesel-electric locomotives, built by General Motors Electro-Motive Division, new in 1952, pulled the late rush hour train of four coaches and one passenger-baggage combo car. This combo car rode directly behind the engines and was running light having been closed off by the crew.

The engines were not equipped with a “dead man’s control,” a device that automatically stops a train if the operator doesn’t maintain hand pressure on the throttle. The Jersey Central believed such devices were unnecessary on locomotives operated by two crew members since the fireman had identical controls that provided enough redundancy.

As the train made its way through the towns along the Jersey Shore it picked up a mix of late commuters, people on their way for a day in the city and late season Jersey shore dwellers who stayed over Sunday night and were now making their way back to New York.

Paul Land was such a passenger as was John Hawkins, the mayor of Shrewsbury and a partner at Amott, Baker & Co., a Wall Street brokerage. Normally, Mr. Hawkins caught an earlier train, but, that morning, he had to stop at the Monmouth County National Bank to retrieve $250,000 worth of negotiable securities he deposited there on Friday afternoon as he didn’t have enough time to return them to the office before the close of business..

James Adams boarded preoccupied with his wife’s grave illness. The father of four, his wife, Alice, lay dying from cancer in Monmouth Memorial Hospital. He too normally rode an earlier train but since having his wife admitted the previous week, he became responsible for getting his oldest three boys ready for school before he could begin his daily Wall Street journey. (Alice’s brother was the author, Kurt Vonnegut.)

George “Snuffy” Stirnweiss also boarded the train in Red Bank. Mr. Stirnweiss, a retired major league infielder. had spent most of his career with the New York Yankees joining the team in 1943. He won the American League batting title in 1945 with an average of .309 and led the league in stolen bases with forty-four in 1944. He retired in 1952 and this father of six was on his way to a business lunch in the city.

To be continued.

Tessie (As imagined by John Delach)

Once Ria hooked me up to my harness and took hold of it, she took control, and I was all business. My sole purpose was to guide and protect her. My love for Ria and my training propelled me to perfection and observers soon knew me to be a serious guide dog.

Off harness, Ria knew I’d steal an occasional mouth lick or a treat. But on harness, I had her complete trust.

Our time moved on. Strange things began to happen in the spring of 2018. What always came naturally to me now become a chore. I did my best to serve Ria, protect her and guide her but it was becoming harder to do. I knew I was in trouble, but I didn’t know why. Ria noticed too. We continued our activities, but it seemed Ria was correcting me more and more.

My gait had changed upsetting our routine. Ria suffered as a result. I couldn’t perform my part in our dance seamlessly causing her to compensate. Ria suffered new pains and strains to her arm and shoulder. I accompanied her to the doctor several times where she sought relief.

By June, the truth became obvious to both of us; at nine years old, I was wearing out. How sad – my life mission was to serve and protect Ria. Like it or not, I could no longer tolerate the intensity of my job. Age had diminished my skills.

Ria began to confide in friends and even called the trainers at The Seeing Eye. Tom came from New Jersey to Port Washington, discussed everything with Ria and put me through my paces.

“Ria, my sense is the same as yours. Tessie is wearing out and it is time for you to consider retiring her and begin to think about a new guide dog.”

Not the best day of my life or Ria’s. Ria cried and in my own way, so did I.

Sadly, we all knew the truth but still, Ria was perplexed. You see up until the beginning of the year, Thomisina, Ria and I all lived together in a big house, but we had moved into a two-bedroom apartment that was more manageable.  Previously, when Ria retired her other guide dogs, they continued to live with her in retirement. The big house accommodated all of them, but Ria feared the apartment was too small.

Ria decided to ask her friends, Mary Ann and John to adopt me. John had become Ria’s regular driver and Mary Ann took us shopping and walked me. I had already accepted them as my friends.

 From the smell of their cars and clothing, I knew they lived with a dog, most probably a boy Golden Retriever by his odor. I would learn his name was Max, two years younger than me.

They jumped at the offer and agreed to let me meet Max in a park to see if we were compatible. The meeting went well. Max and I took to each other, did our share of sniffing each other then returned to our own activities, sniffing everything in sight and licking the dew off the grass.

A few sleep-overs at Max’s house followed. He had a great collection of toys that he was willing to share. For my part, Ria sent me over with my own food and Max saw that my menu was superior to his.

We soon realized that we could play together. It began when we both grabbed a toy at the same time. This led to a tug of war that escalated into a play fight full of barred teeth and fake snarls. What great fun. He liked it as much as I did, and we’d go at it whenever one of us was in the mood.

Nobody is ever hurt in these wrestling matches. Odd items like an unlucky cup, plate or other object have been knocked over during our shenanigans as we wrestle and roll on the floor with our monster tails wagging to beat the band.

Ria, Thomisina and I celebrated my tenth birthday together. Afterwards, we spent a few tearful, nights together before I left for what would become my third life.

Ria wanted me to experience a life of play in my senior years and so far, so good. John and Mary Ann are both retired, so they are around most of the time. We also travel to New Hampshire and last summer I learned how to swim and retrieve tennis balls. What a hoot!

At home, we live close to Ria’s apartment letting me see Ria and Thomisina on a regular basis. It makes me happy to visit them and I am happy to return home to Max too.

Every morning I wake up happy, hungry and glad to be alive. I watch for a sign, any sign that one of my humans is awake. When I catch a sign, I pounce onto their bed so we can begin the next best day of my life.

Sometime Max follows me. Sometimes he’s ahead of me. Either way, those days are special as we try to out-fox each other to get closest to our people and wake them up. Often this leads to a tussel right there on the bed.

Life is good. Every day is a new day and another opportunity to love and be loved. I take joy in everything I do and everyone I meet. C’mon over some time so I can cry out loud,  love you and lick you on your lips.

Tessie (As imagined by John Delach)

Oh boy, oh boy, I just arrived. My name is Tessie. I’m a Yellow Labrador girl dog. If we ever meet, I will greet you with more than a simple hello and I really, really want to meet you. My heart will be racing, my tail wagging furiously and I will lick your face if you give me the chance. You see I was born with the absolute personification of living in the moment. Each moment I am alive is the best moment of my life.

My life began at The Seeing Eye’s kennel located in Morristown, New Jersey. Supposedly, my brothers and sisters all had names beginning with the letter “T” and I became Tessie.

My first life began with the separation from my Mom. Off I went to a puppy raising family whose role was to love me, stop me from peeing inside and do their best to steer me toward becoming a guide dog.

After about a year and a half, I left my first family to return to Seeing Eye for advanced training. There I met my trainer, Denise, who introduced me to my harness. I spent the next four months with Denise undergoing serious training. There was much to learn as she put me through my paces. It made me happy when I did well because it pleased her. I received her praise and treats which were the best part. I was good at this training as I understood what was expected of me.

One day my trainer presented me to a beautiful woman who simply gushed as I licked her on the mouth. It was love at our first meeting and I took to her almost as much as I’d take to my next meal.

We were paired and trained together with Denise’s help. After a couple of weeks of breaking in each other, we departed the school and returned to her house in Port Washington, New York.

And so, I began my second life. My new partner’s name was Maria, but I knew her as Ria. We learned from each other. I paid attention to her commands and corrections because I knew when I performed as expected, it made her happy and that made me happy. Treats for good work didn’t hurt either.

I really should not tell you this as it is boasting, but I was so good at my job that outsiders would fawn over me. One person, who I think was a doctor, would get down on the floor, pet me and allow me to lick him then give me treats.

Ria also had another doctor who had a reputation for being cold and impersonal. Not so much after I arrived. I melted his heart and that too was the best day of my life.

Life is uneven and we had bad times too. My worst experience happened when we were taking our evening walk along Main Street. Suddenly, Ria stopped and dropped my harness. Off harness, I did as trained; I stopped moving. Little did I know that she had just struck a leafy branch that kids had pulled down. She began to back up to dislodge leaves that had become stuck in her hair when she tripped over a misaligned ankle-high concrete barrier. 

OMG! I had failed her. I covered her body to protect her until the EMS arrived. Thankfully, the senior responder raised guide dogs, so she insisted I accompany Ria to the hospital. That was not a good day for me. I was afraid and ashamed.

I lived with Annie, Ria’s sister until she returned home. That day was the happiest day of my life. Ria was so happy to see me and our cat, Thomasina, and we celebrated the reuniting of our wonderful little family.

The second worst day of my life was when I became as sick as a dog could be and lived to talk about it. It began when I threw up in a doctor’s waiting room. Afterward, I became woozy and disoriented. Ria took me to Doctor Berkowitz who, after taking my temperature, told Ria to get me to the Emergency Room at the Animal Medical Center in New York City. The staff put me on an animal size gurney and rushed me to ICU. For three days I ran a bad fever, but I don’t remember much except they took good care of me and I rewarded them with love when I began to feel better. I was a happy and a hungry dog when my fever finally broke.

Ria had a rich life and part of my job was to get her to where she had to go. Different destinations demanded different skills. I was good, and I got it, but I had to catalog each one of them so I could recall where I was and where I had to guide her the next time.

This wasn’t easy as Ria had to use different people and ways to get to and from her destination. Many times, we had to go by taxi with indifferent drivers. I had to adjust my navigation skills to correct their differences and obliviousness. Other people were always a problem. Many times, they didn’t make room and blocked my path. The worst were the so-called do-gooders who only blocked our way especially those who wanted to pet me. They also distracted Ria by trying to tell her about their dogs. They just made our partnering that much harder.

Thank the Lord Ria understood when I was in trouble and forceful enough to command the humans to stand down. My confidence grew as I knew my partner had my back. We were a great pair!

To be continued.

WCBS News Radio informed me that the former baseball pitcher, Don Larsen, had passed on New Year’s Day at 90. Both this announcement of his passing and his obituary deserved being noticed as Larsen once pitched a perfect game against the Brooklyn Dodgers in the 1956 World Series.

Curiously though, this announcement took me back to the weekend following his perfect game when I was twelve. At the time I was an active First-Class Boy Scout in the Rattlesnake Patrol of Troop 178 then domiciled in PS-81 on Cypress Avenue in Ridgewood, Queens.

Although I was aware of Larsen’s accomplishment, I was more excited about our upcoming weekend camping trip to Camp Sanita, located in Holmes, NY. The camp had been developed years before by the Department of Sanitation as a summer getaway and vacation spot for department employees and their families. It had been recently seeded to the Boy Scouts.

Rustic, even by the standards of the day, it would be considered uninhabitable by today’s campers except for the most adventurous. The camp’s main attraction was fifty former New York City elevated subway cars that Sanitation had salvaged from the hundreds scrapped after the Manhattan els had been torn down. Called, “Pullmanettes”, they populated the camp providing indoor living spaces although I doubt if they had running water, toilets or decent kitchen facilities.

What excited me most about this trip was that my father would be joining us. He was then a Major, stationed at Homestead Air Force Base in Florida, at that time, home to B-47 bombers belonging to the Strategic Air Command.,

John Sr. made periodic trips to Long Island to see his sisters, Ann and Joan, his brother, Marco and me. When he informed me of his upcoming visit, I explained that I was supposed to go on this camping trip that weekend and I asked if he could join me. Surprisingly, he said yes. The sequence of how this all came together is lost to history, but I do know that it worked out and he joined me as one of the adult supervisors.

I was ecstatic that he would be there with me, for me.

Understand, back in 1956, divorce was rare in my blue-collar neighborhood. Husbands went to work, and wives were homemakers. My father was absent, and my mother went to work. I stood out and no twelve-year-old wanted to stand out as being different. I was a kid without a dad.

As much as I tried to explain who John, Sr. was and what he did, I felt diminished each time I did so. Other kids’ fathers were real flesh and blood and they were present be they office workers, beer truck drivers, construction workers or mechanics. My father was nothing but an idea.

Not that weekend. Once John Sr.’s participation was confirmed, our scout master, Bernie C, (a Polish name that included complex consonant combinations like “CJZ”) invited my father and me to ride in his 1953 monster Chevrolet station wagon. This was a high honor and one never offered to me before. I wasn’t one of Mr. C’s favorites and reveled in this honor.

The weekend didn’t disappoint. My old man charmed Mr. C and the other fathers as only he could do. John was a slick fox and a snake in disguise.

As for me, that radio report of Larsen’s death awakened my memory of the moment when I knew that John’s being there finally validated my standing as a member of our troop.

Mr. C was driving on 69^th Street in Maspeth, Queens about to turn onto the service road for the Long Island Expressway when my Dad turned toward Mr. C and the three of us in the back seat.

He put his left arm on the seat and said: “I hope you all appreciate what happened in Yankee Stadium last Monday. Don Larsen threw a perfect game. Twenty-seven men up at bat, 27 men out and he did it in the World Series. This was the first World Series perfect game ever and you will probably never see the likes of that performance again in your lifetime.”

Don Larsen’s perfection and the old man’s eloquence allowed me to become a made-kid at Troop 178, at least for that weekend.

RIP Don Larsen.         

Someone once asked me what it was like to be a Giants season ticket holder for 58 years? “Well,” I replied, “It has given me that opportunity to see a lot of lousy football.”

On Sunday, December 29, the Football Giants lost their 12^th game of the 2019 Season, 34-17, at home to the Philadelphia Eagles. Had the Giants won this game, they would have played the role of spoiler denying the Eagles a place in the playoffs.

Most of the faithful, including me, made a poor showing in support of Big Blue. The odds were long, the weather prediction, awful and when coupled with a 4:25 game time start, the idea of attending became even less appealing. Eagles fans gladly invaded the stadium buying unused tickets for the chance to see their team get into the playoffs.

On Monday morning John Mara and Steve Tisch, the team’s owners fired their head coach, Pat Shurmur following two unsuccessful years at the helm of their football team. The General Manager, (GM) Dave Gettleman, managed to survive to fight or to be fired another day.

I once introduced my wife to Ernie Accorsi, then the Giants GM in a hospital elevator. “Mary Ann is an Assistant Principal in a NYC school.”

Mary Ann said, “You have a hard job.”

Accorsi replied: “Yes I do. You are evaluated once a year about how your school is doing. I get evaluated every week during the season.”  

The survival rate of head coaches in the NFL has been reduced from a more comfortable wait and see tenure of three to five years regardless of record to two and out if the coach doesn’t achieve a winning season. Things are so bad in Giants land that Shurmur’s replacement will be our third coach in five seasons. Their cumulative record in that time was 29 and 51.

Shurmur and Gettleman were anointed to return the team to its former glory following the demise of their predecessors, Ben McAdoo and Jerry Reese. McAdoo and Reese slid from being our greatest hope to being bums as has Shurmur.

And so, a quest for a new head coach began once again. Mara and Tisch said all the right things accepting their share of the blame. Gettleman supposedly agreed to embrace analytics hiring here-to-for unwelcomed computer geeks and adopting a state-of-the-art analytical system. His announcement looked like a shotgun marriage to me.

Each day, the press, columnists, reporters and radio talking heads speculated on the supposed strengths and weakness of different candidates. Curiously, each candidate was gobbled elsewhere. Rivera by the Skins, McCarthy by the Cowboys and Rhule by the Panthers. On the tenth day Big Blue’s brain trust rested after selecting Joe Judge from the Patriots.

I’ve been down this road too many times before to believe the brain trust really knew who to select. Try as hard as they will, luck will decide the outcome.      

Pete Rozelle demanded that the Giants hire George Young as their first GM following a disastrous 1978 season.

Young cleaned house but, even with a new coach, the team went 10 and 22 over the next two seasons.

Everybody knew Lawrence Taylor (LT) would become a star even though most of us didn’t realize that LT would become the best defensive player in the NFL of all time. The Giants picked second in the 1981; the New Orleans Saints, first. LT would have become a Saint if Bum Phillips, their coach and GM, so desired, but Phillips picked, George Rogers, a star running back from South Carolina.

Young got lucky and LT became the Giant who led the team to a new era of Giants glory. Luck, my friends, pure luck. Here’s hoping the Judge turns out to be lucky as well as good. 

What now seems to have happened a long time ago, our good friends, Geoff and Judy Jones invited us to the wedding of their son, Greg to a sweet young woman named, Amie. Many of the details have faded away, but I do recall that the event took place just after Labor Day and that we drove from our vacation home in Marlow, NH to Dedham, ME, the location of the Lucerne Inn where most wedding guests were staying.

What I don’t recall is why we brought, Maggie, our Looney Tune Golden Retriever with us. Usually we arrange other accommodations for our dogs, but not this time. Again, I’m not sure if we snuck her into our room or kept our actions above board?

The Lucerne Inn wasn’t near the site of the ceremony and reception, but our hosts provided bus service to and from the inn.

We had several rough moments with Maggie, especially on Friday night when she broke out of our room and crashed a wedding reception in our hotel. Fortunately, no damage or injuries happened, and we successfully coaxed her back to our room.    

In one respect, this trip afforded Maggie one of her best experiences ever. Maggie loved to swim, and we discovered that Phillips Lake was not far from the hotel. Saturday produced a glorious early autumn morning, so we decided to walk Maggie down to the lake. Since it was after Labor Day most homes were vacant and the lake was practically uninhabited. When I let Maggie off leash, as expected, she immediately took off water bound. Maggie had a glorious time swimming in the lake then racing back to us only to repeat her circuit. She continued in and out of the lake while we walked along a dirt road that provided access to the lake houses.

Maggie reveled in her freedom while we took in the autumn scenery.  

An abandoned railroad that ran parallel to the road caught my attention.  It seemed to be intact and useable for the most part, but no longer in service. On one of her return trips Maggie flew right by us barking as she made her way to the tracks.

We followed wary of what had disturbed her. On reaching the tracks, we were surprised to see a group of railcars coming toward us. We leashed Maggie and watched them pass. What a hoot.

I had read about this unusual activity in a magazine article explaining how rail fans were buying these old diesel and gasoline powered railcars. Historically, railroads had used these machines to carry inspection and work crews along their systems. They were nothing more than a square box, low to the tracks with a motor that could transport two occupants to their assigned destination.

The major railroads eliminated them years ago in favor of pick-up trucks, but some short lines and tourist railroads still utilized them if they operated on rights-of-way off the beaten track and away from serviceable roads.

Six of those railcars in convoy approached us, moving slowly to avoid obstacles along their path. I was mesmerized by their appearance seemingly coming from nowhere. We stepped aside to let them pass. The occupants were too preoccupied to acknowledge us or Maggie.    

I could see why, the tracks had dangerous areas. One I had previously noticed was a grade crossing that had been paved over. I watched as the first railcar approached it. The middle-aged couple knew what they were doing, they shifted the rail car into low gear, stepped out on either side, and expertly steered the unit across the pavement and re-railed it on the other side. They hopped back in and continued on their way.

I love trains and I love railroad history. What these people were doing seemed to be a natural fit. But I demurred. The operators were too intense, and I learned that these machines required extensive tinkering to keep them running while my mechanical ability is zero, point zero.

I let that gleam of an idea evaporate as we returned to the road, unleashed Maggie and watched her resume her joy.  

Still, I too can dream.

When I was a kid, my Christmas centered around Lionel Electric Trains. My starter set consisted of a modest steam engine and its tender, a Baby Ruth candy bar box car, a Pennsylvania Railroad (PRR) gondola, a Shell tank car and a Lionel Lines caboose.

Once I discovered Lionel Catalogues, I became aware of what was available. But money was tight, and I had to temper what I wanted. This would become my big gift. One year I asked for a Santa Fe diesel switcher, another, additional rolling stock. Relatives helped me to add automatic switches, an upgraded transformer and operating cars like Lionel’s cattle car and a log car. At the flick of a switch, cattle would leave their pens and enter the car or exit the car for the pens. Logs would be ejected from a flat car and into a saucer like container.

That is, of course, when they worked properly. Sometimes a cow or two would fall over jamming the path of others causing chaos, or logs would be flung in multiple directions knocking down scenery or blocking the tracks.

One year I asked for a PRR electric engine and my mother traveled to the Abraham & Straus (A&S) Department Store in Downtown Brooklyn to buy my desired motor. I was old enough that she allowed me to open the box when she returned home. To my horror, I realized that this unit was missing one of its two panographs.

I panicked and Mom returned it to the box, put on her coat and repeated her round-trip bus ride to exchange this engine. The trip took about two-hours and I waited for her return ashamed that I caused this to happen. Mom retuned with a new motor that passed inspection. To this day, I feel guilty.

By the time I reached 12-years of age, I had expanded my layout to allow two trains to operate at the same time. At 13, I had moved on and my railroad remained boxed and stored in our cellar bin.

When I was 17, I visited my father who was then stationed at March AFB in Riverside, California. Dad convinced me to ship my collection to him for my half-siblings, Nancy, Mark and Steven who were all quite young, He offered in return, a good pair of 7x 50 binoculars. His offer was an easy sell as I was beginning my life as a football fan and my Lionel Trains didn’t matter anymore.

Time marches on. Nancy, Mark and Steven outgrew electric trains, I married, and Mary Ann and I had our own children. I petitioned my Dad who agreed to return everything to me. Their return allowed me to build bigger and more complex layouts that I created in the basement of the house we rented in Middle Village, Queens. I continued to set up Christmas layouts after we moved to Port Washington in1977 until Beth and Michael also outgrew the magic of electric trains.

For twenty-years my trains remained inert and without power.

Drew Delach, my Number One grandson, entered the world in November of 1999. I told him early on that he was our only grandchild born in the Twentieth Century. When he turned four or five, I unboxed my train set and erected a new layout for that Christmas season. The look on Drew’s face when I powered up the system for the first time was magical. The action, the sound and the smell of these electric trains was as unique and powerful to Drew as it was to all who came before him starting with me.

Over the next four years I added additional items, a new steam engine to replace my original, a Long Island Railroad passenger car set and a set of four old IRT subway cars that I operated on a steel elevated line that ran above the train boards.

Four more grandchildren followed. Marlow and Samantha’s interest waned quickly, but the remaining two boys, Matt and Cace lasted the course. Cace is the youngest, and despite the inroads of electronics, my train set enthralled him longer than I could have expected. In February 2012, I underwent hip surgery. That Christmas season, I had to call on my son-in-law, Tom Briggs, to help me set up my railroad. By then Cace was the last kid interested. Together, we successfully set it up.

Sadly, Cace only came to visit my train set one time.

For Christmas 2013, I set up an abbreviated layout. A fool’s errand, the only times I turned it on was for my own enjoyment. Sadly, I would turn on all the illuminating fixtures on the layout, turn off  the basement lights and watch the lights while I listened to the sound, of the running gear and smelled the electric ozone as the trains circled my layout knowing this was my last stand.

Since then, my train set has remained boxed and stored in protective containers as they await either a future family resurrection or an estate sale.

December 15, 2019: MetLife Stadium, East Rutherford, NJ:

An early pre-winter “Hawk” made its presence known today by howling through the MetLife parking lots reducing tailgate tents into scrap heaps. Undaunted, we the tried and true faithful Giants fans gathered one last time in another season of our discontent. It is practically a foregone conclusion that Pat Shurmur, the team’s head coach will be fired at the end of the season, just two more weeks away. The team was 2 and 12 going into today’s contest; a miserable season for sure.

Eli Manning has been our quarterback of record for 16 seasons, a team captain and the winner of the Walter Payton award as the NFL’s Man of the Year. This award recognized Eli’s dedication to curing juvenile cancer.

He was benched after the second week of the 2019 season in favor of Big Blue’s Number One draft choice, Daniel Jones, out of Duke University.

And so it goes…the inevitable passing of the torch to the new kid on the scene from the old king whose diminished skills left management, the coaches, his teammates and the fans wanting.   

Elisha Manning’s talents may still have been enough to produce a winning season if he had been surrounded by talented players. Unfortunately, the 2019 Giants are a bad football team that loses consistently. They manage to snatch defeat from victory every chance they get while repeating the same mistakes game after game.

Young Mr. Jones began fresh and new winning his first two games only to have reality return with a thud that led to a nine-game losing streak. During that ninth loss, Jones suffered a high-ankle sprain that relegated the young man to ranks of those unable to play.

Eli was temporarily reinstated as the starter for the Monday night contest against the Philadelphia Eagles in the City of Brotherly Love on December 9. Eli started smartly throwing two touchdown passes that generated a halftime lead of 14 to 0.

Unfortunately, every football game has two halves and the Giants did nothing in the second half while the Eagles scored 14 points of their own tying the game at the end of regulation time. The Eagles then proceeded to win the game in overtime: 20-14.

Coach Shurmur knows the season is effectively over and I believe he decided to give Eli one more chance at glory in today’s contest against the Miami Dolphins. After a shaky start that included throwing three interceptions and a Miami lead of 10 to 7 at halftime, Eli shook off the cobwebs and went to work.  He led his glorious eleven offensive teammates to four touchdowns in the second half and a final score of 36 to 20.

One play into the Giants last possession with 1:50 left on the clock, Coach Shurmur pulled Manning from the game showcasing Eli to the media, his teammates and the faithful who gave him a standing ovation while chanting Eli Manning, Eli Manning, Eli Manning…

This Most Valuable Player Super Bowl XLII and XLVI took it all in as he hugged his teammates and coaches. We continued to stand and chant his name after the game ended for as long as he remained on the field. In a way, we were celebrating his last hurrah.

Even though two games remain, one next week in Washington DC and the last game at home in MetLife Stadium once again against the Eagles, I expect that Jones will resume his career while Eli returns to the sideline. I hope so as Eli achieved all that was left to achieve against the Dolphins.  

Eli summed up his feelings:

“I don’t know what the future is. I don’t know what lies next week let alone down the road. The support of the fans and their ovation, chanting my name, from the first snap to the end I appreciate that. I appreciate them always. Special day, special win and one I’ll remember.”

Eli will soon leave the pro football stage, but we will see him in the future, first when his brother, Peyton enters the NFL Hall of Fame and again, when he follows in Peyton’s footsteps.

Thank you, Eli Manning.     

Recently, I rode the train into the Pennsylvania Station on my way to lunch with my son. The ancient dungeon we call the Long Island Railroad level was undergoing major renovations. The plan is to open the roof of the main corridor so that natural light will shine down from Thirty-Third Street. The construction also includes a new entrance / exit from the corner of Seventh Avenue and Thirty-Third from the LIRR level directly to the street.

Temporary scaffolding has been erected to facilitate this work lowering the ceiling to a claustrophobic height. Any person over six feet tall had best approach the construction area carefully.

Newsday reported that construction would necessitate closing the retail shops that lined the north side of the main corridor. Many of the traditional vendors had been forced out several years ago by a concerted effort to attract upscale businesses.

The bookstore that specialized in military histories and other hard-to-find non-fiction subjects had closed together with one of best newsstands in Manhattan. They were both great places to browse. The newsstand carried both an abundance of newspapers, and a magazine inventory that stretched from A for aviation to Z for zombies and included practically every possible publication in between.  

Gone too were several passable pizza joints and the bar we had frequented for a late-night slice or a drink or a beer for the ride home. Terminated, gone, kaput, they were replaced by Starbucks, Shake Shack, an upscale Shushi eatery and Rite-Aid. Now they were all gone.

Only one fixture remained for me to mourn, Sole Man, a shoe-shine emporium and repair shop. Sole Man has occupied their spot since the early 1980’s. Over time they corrupted their theme but in their early years they presented a Blues Brothers motif. The shoeshine staff, both male and female, mimicked Jake and Elwood by wearing black trousers, white shirts, narrow black ties and faux black fedoras.

Beginning a day with a professional shine falls just behind starting the day with a professional shave. I rarely had the luxury or opportunity to experience the latter, so a shine remained on the top of my list.

I have availed myself of this simple luxury many, many times over the years and I have surprised friends, colleagues and customers by treating them to a shine whenever circumstances brought us close to Penn Station.

Curiously, a shoe-shine is more personal than one might expect. Our feet are sensitive, hence foot-fetishes. If you haven’t had a professional person polish your shoes, you have not encounteed that moment when they tackle your instep and you experience a sensation beyond what you expected. The sensation quickly disappears as the artist moves on making your shoes come alive using all the tricks of their trade.

I never walked away from a shoe-shine stand unhappy, the shine alone makes me feel better. Sole Man was the best. It seemed to me that their gang made the extra effort.

I decided to indulge myself one last time. The gal who claimed me went the extra mile returning my shoes to glory. Finished, I stepped down and chattered with the cashier, a young woman with a good sense of humor. The cost was three dollars, the same price as when Bill Clinton was in office.

As I turned to walk out of the shop, I stopped to thank the gal who serviced me, wished her good luck and handed her a $5 tip.

On the Outside Looking in will not be published the next two Wednesdays and will resume on December 18. Happy Thanksgiving.