John Delach

The El, the Gate Train and the Conductor’s Song

John Delach

April, 2002 Revised June 2025

The train’s crew leaves their rest house at the Bridge-Jay Street Station of the Myrtle Avenue Elevated line. Four conductors and the motorman amble along the wooden platform and take their assigned positions on their five-car train. Each conductor steps onto the two open platforms between each coach, facing the station straddling the two cars observing the passengers remaining on the platform and commands them, “All aboard.”

Each man pushes two iron levers away from him closing the gates and then performs the same ceremony, pulling the cord to his right ringing the bell on the next platform working toward the front of the train. Clang-clink, clank-clank, cling-clank, clang-clink, four bells, each rung twice, eight repetitions, the sound of the conductor’s song. None sound the same; each bell expresses the identity of the conductor who rings it. The sound alerts each conductor that the gates behind him are secured. The chorus continues until the final conductor rings a bell in the motorman’s cab signaling him: “You’ve got the railroad.”

With a lurch, the gate train leaves Bridge-Jay Street and downtown Brooklyn, its courthouses, law offices, banks; its shopping district featuring the department stores, Abraham & Straus, Mays and Martins and its theaters, the Brooklyn Paramount, Fox and the RKO Albee. Noisily, the train crosses Flatbush Avenue and makes its way north into Fort Greene and the Navy Street Station. As the train eases into the station, the conductors make ready to open the gates.

Working outside forces conductors to adjust their uniforms to meet their environment. Winter’s cold and freezing rain are the worst elements and quilted vests, rubber gloves, ribbed shoes and plastic hat protectors’ help. But, at every station, they must leave the warmth of the coach and return to straddle the open platforms between each coach.

Navy Street Station; appropriately, workers from the Brooklyn Navy Yard, tired and dirty, lunch pails in hand, board the train. Continuing north the old wooden cars rattle through Bedford- Stuyvesant past tenements and public housing projects, parks, stores, churches and schools. These apartments, some with open windows and curtains pulled back reveal living rooms and kitchens, containing plants, bird cages, furniture, lamps, radios and televisions. Peering out from coach windows, passengers glimpse images of these apartments and their occupants. On hot summer days, women relax on pillows propped on windowsills and stare back forcing those peering passengers to avert their eyes in embarrassment.

Sparks fly from the third rail, motors strain emitting an electrical odor as coaches sway as they move over track joints. The train crosses streets active with new trackless trolleys, diesel buses or the trolley cars they will shortly replace. Delivery trucks, horse and wagons, automobiles and pushcarts compete for space while pedestrians’ cross streets dodging this traffic.

The train progresses stopping at the wooden platforms with ornate Victorian style station houses that line the El. Each is named after the street below, many for famous Americans; Washington, Vanderbilt and Franklin. As the train idles, each stop provides curious passengers a better opportunity to spy more intently into second and third story windows.

Afternoon trains carry a melting pot mix of passengers. Black and Hispanic women carry groceries, their wash or packages from the central post office. German and Italian housewives, together or with children return from shopping trips downtown. High school students take the train home from school. Boys from Brooklyn Tech carry slide rules, science and engineering textbooks, girls from Dominican Commercial wear uniforms and knee-high socks and boys sporting ties and jackets ride home from St John’s Prep and Bishop Loughlin. Brewery workers from Rheingold and Schaefer board at Broadway. The train continues north through Bushwick as the blocks become less dense and flats and tenements shrink in size revealing the spires of small Protestant Churches. At Wyckoff Avenue, the last surge of passengers board the train, some returning from trips to The City transferring from the Fourteen Street-Canarsie subway, others from shopping trips to local stores on Myrtle Avenue.

Crossing into Ridgewood, Queens apartment houses continue to shrink to two and three stories and single-family homes begin to appear. The conductors play their song one more time at the Fresh Pond Road Station and the train descends to ground level for its final run to Metropolitan Avenue, the end of the line in the communities and cemeteries of Maspeth and Middle Village.

The last passengers detrain and the crew takes a break awaiting their next assignment to return to Brooklyn to play their song again.

“Oh shit!” I exclaimed into my otherwise empty kitchen. It was 6:05 AM on Saturday, June 7^th and I had just watched the weather report on WNBC’s local morning news.  The weatherman had gone a bit far afield and reported on a heavy rain storm in the Scranton, PA area.

“It is heading east in the direction of Sullivan County (NY) and should reach the Catskills at about eleven.”

Eleven AM, what a lousy coincidence. Beth, my daughter, her husband, Tom, their Eighteen- year-old son, Cace, and I had booked a rail-bike tour on Rail Explorers at 11 AM that would take about two and a half hours. For the record, Rail Explorers operates on abandoned track out of Phoenicia in the Catskills about twenty miles west of Kingston.

 Michael Harmon introduced me to Rail Explorers in his October 27, 2024 edition of The New York Times. Harmon’s experience reflected ours except that he only experienced light rain on his trip. Here is what he wrote: “It’s always a thrill to pull out of a train station and feel yourself picking up speed, wheels click-clacking over the rails. It’s even more thrilling when your train has no roof or sides, is as low-slung as a Mazda Miata and comes with a warning to watch out for bears crossing your path.

“I was riding a rail-bike, a pedal-powered contraption built to cruise along railroad tracks. Rail-biking opens the door to using existing rails recreationally, with no need to tear up the tracks. In 2015, Rail Explorers started the country’s first rail-biking operation. Today, the company has seven locations and there are now more than dozen rail-biking outfitters running excursions in 16 states from Maine to California.

“My trip – an eight-mile round-trip pedal, much of it paralleling the Esopus Creek – departed from Phoenicia, home to Rail Explorer’s Catskills Division.

“The atmosphere (when we met) was surprisingly upbeat for 8 am on a gray, damp morning before, Sam Huang, our tour leader began a high-energy introduction and safety briefing. ‘These are the Rolls-Royces of rail bikes.’

“Our rides did look pretty slick with painted metal frames, adjustable seats with handles on either side  and even some very Rolls-Royce-built in umbrellas. After demonstrating the raised-fist ‘brake signal’ to alert riders behind you that you are stopping – and reminding us to watch out for wildlife, Mr. Huang let out with a spirited ‘All abord’ and we were dispatched to our assigned rail-bikes. I had booked a tandem rail-bike ($102) suitable for one or two people: Rail Explorers also offer quads ($178) for groups of two to four (the prices are per bike, regardless of the number of riders.”

“One by one, our convoy set off down the line boosted by an electric pedal-assist system that helps make the rail-bikes suitable for all ages and abilities. As I pedaled along, I took in the scenery, glad the crew had generously spaced out our departures from the station giving me the opportunity to have a few times when I felt I had the tracks and the scenery all to myself.

“(Mr. Huang broke this spell as he) gathered his flock and linked our vehicles together for a dramatic transverse of State Road 28, which runs along the tracks for the beginning part of the ride. I challenge you not to smile as you bike between the lowered gates of a railroad crossing in full bells and honking cars glory.

“Four miles in, we reached the halfway point, stepping off to stretch our legs while the crew turned our bikes around using a turntable.

“After I climbed back on for the return trip, I settled into a rhythm, marveling at the effort it must have taken in the 1860s to lay these tracks flanked by the river on one side and a rocky cliff on the other.”

Returning to our adventure, the four of us left Roger Drive in Port Washington at 7:30. Tom drove us in his new Hyundai Santa Fe.  Traffic was with us and we arrived at 10:15.  

Curiously, the same Mr. Huang led our convoy. Since we were in a four-seater we learned that a single passenger, the one occupying the rear right seat actually controlled the electric motor and the brake. A good thing too as I couldn’t lift my legs up to reach the recumbent peddles. Cace did the honors  as our operator on the outbound leg, Tom on the return trip.

Shortly after we got underway, the ski let loose with rain. Beth remarked, “Wow, right on time.”

It rained and it rained and it rained. It overwhelmed the umbrellas and the ponchos that Rail Express provided. Our personal rain gear also failed. Early on, the four of us decided to ignore our suffering and concentrate on this unique experience. 

The two road-crossings were a hoot and Huang was a combination drill sergeant and cheer leader having us wave our arms and shout for joy as we sped across Route 28. Waiting motorists responded with a cacophony of honking horns. 

Our stop at the turn-around was okay. The rain lessened so we could enjoy the bagels Mary Ann had packed for us. “Bagels in the rain, what a wonderful moment, I’m happy again…”

I’ll admit the ride back to base was less than ideal as we hit another squall. We didn’t waste any time dismounting, using the rest rooms and returning to the Santa Fe.

Our soaked clothes made for an uncomfortable ride home, but we were not discouraged. Tom stopped to pick up a burger for Cace at Five Guys and we all shared a generous bag of their fries.

A unique experience, indeed. I’d do it again. Hopefully, without rain. If not, so what.

Memorial Day Remembrance

Bud Hearn

May 2025

Bud Hearn has been writing and publishing his blog, The Weakly Post, for 17 years with about 800 different titles. His post set out below was written as a celebration of Memorial Day as it was held near his home at Neptune Park on St. Simon Island, Georgia. I have re-published with Bud’s permission to honor him.

                                                        The Poppies Blow

                                                              Bud Hearn

                                                            May 26, 2025

     In this place for many years multitudes of a cross-section of diverse Americans celebrate Taps at Twilight in remembrance of Memorial Day. We come to pay tribute to those who have died in service to our country, as well as honor those living who have served in our preservation of liberty. It’s a humble and solemn occasion.

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our places, and in the sky,

The larks, still bravely singing, fly,

Scarce heard amid the guns below.”

     The annual event is organized by the St. Simons Island Rotary Club. The Golden Isles Community Band resurrects John Phillip Sousa for a short concert of his militaristic music. We can imagine him directing the band. The enthusiastic music is rousing. We march along with them, waving our tiny American flags in time with the music.

     Picnics are everywhere. Smoke from barbeque wafts across the lawn. Our own ravenous crowd usually numbers about twenty-five. We gather around several tables covered with red checkered tablecloths and feast on fried chicken, sandwiches of cucumber, pimento cheese and pineapple, all on white bread (the edges removed in true Southern tradition). There’s more: deviled eggs, guacamole dip, fruit and unlimited desserts.

     Throngs of patriotic Americans pack the entire lawn of Neptune Park. We face the rotunda where engraved bricks with the names of the beloved fallen remind us of our heritage. Standing alone in the center is a flagpole. Our flag, the enduring symbol of national unity, is alive.  It waves freely in the breeze. It’s the central focus of all eyes.

     As the day drifts down towards dusk, a Spirit floats on the coastal breeze and moves among the crowd.  It swells, then hushes, then blows again. A profound stillness descends upon the multitude. Laughing voices of children ring in the distance. They add new life to the solemnity of the gathering.

“We are the dead; short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.”

     This same Spirit blows amid the graves of patriots everywhere. It’s we, the living, who are restless. The honored dead lie peacefully in the earth now. Their names, dates and events mark their final resting places. What survive are their names, our memories and the ideal of Freedom. The Freedom that beats in every living heart was purchased by the blood of our countrymen. This same Freedom, we pray, will continue to survive long after we, the living, are gone. We have our names; we have only borrowed the dust.

     Like our warriors, we live for a purpose…a common devotion for freedom and brotherhood.  We hear this theme from every speaker who ever came to memorialize the occasion.

     At twilight we witness the Retirement of the Colors. The crowd is breathlessly silent. The flag is lowered, gently folded, itself soon to be laid to rest in the darkness of the night.

     A mournful trumpet then sounds the three simple notes of ‘Taps,’ or Lights Out or Gone the Sun. In the distance its fading echo descends gently upon the declining day.

     Three simple notes close this day, but another three notes will renew the morrow. Like death and resurrection, tomorrow’s bugle call is Reveille, accompanied by a cannon’s retort. It’s a rousing ‘get-em-up’ tune as the flag is again raised atop the naked flagpole.  It will again personify our nation’s glorious past, its hopeful future and our enduring commitment to freedom.

     So we will say goodnight to the Spirit here. The day is finished.  Picnic baskets, tables and chairs are packed, and the crowd disperses, somber in the memory of the occasion. Yet it departs unsettled, knowing that our nation’s struggle for freedom continues.

“Take up our quarrel with the foe!

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high!

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep…”

This is about Queens and its greatest advocate, Jimmy Breslin. Queens is the fourth borough in terms of prestige. Finishing next to last stinks but being the laughing stock is reserved for last place and, at least, Queens’s residents don’t have to endure the abuse and ridicule directed at the residents of Staten Island.

Staten Island will always be the least respected, least understood or cared about borough in New York City. The sophisticated, pretty, moneyed, self-absorbed young elites who populate and socialize the Manhattan night-scene scorn all the outer boroughs and Jersey traffickers. They derisively dismiss them as rabble: “The Bridge &Tunnel (B&T) crowd.” Staten Islanders don’t even qualify to be so disdained even though they’ve had their bridge since 1965. Pity!

Queens is next to last in prestige on the NYC social food-chain and will also always remain so. It has none of the grit, character, drama or clout of Brooklyn or The Bronx. In fact, if not for its two airports, Kennedy, (JFK) and LaGuardia, (LGA,) or the fact that people must drive through Queens or ride the LIRR to reach the super-wealthy East-End, few would care if Queens slipped back into the sea.

(The thought occurs: If technology had advanced  just a bit further along in 1925 when Fitzgerald published, “The Great Gatsby,” poor Jay would have avoided his downfall by being flown or helicoptered over the hellacious Flushing Meadows ash dumpsite. Again, Pity!)

We have the Mets, two world’s fairs – although the 1964-65 Fair was cheapened by the line in, “Men in Black:” Why else did you think we put a world’s fair in Queens?

While I was born in Brooklyn, I emigrated to Ridgewood, Queens as soon as Mom returned home from Bushwick Hospital. Mary Ann was born in Astoria, grew up in Astoria and Flushing. We met at the fair on June 6, 1964 and we returned there on our official first date. I actually took her to the top of the towers where the alien space ship was cleverly hidden in the movie, Men in Black…Who knew?

When first married, we rented in Kew Garden Hills. After our daughter, Beth was born, we moved to Middle Village. We rented a house from my aunt at a discounted amount, but, when it came time to buy, she wouldn’t sell. We left Queens for Port Washington in 1977.

When I was in college, I discovered Jimmy Breslin, then a regular columnist at the Herald Tribune. I quickly realized that Breslin was a treasure and both a critic and an advocate for the fourth borough. My belief in Jimmy was confirmed by a letter to the editor about the late Ed Lowe, a beloved columnist at Newsday. Early in Ed’s career, he received a congratulatory phone call from Breslin.

Bill Mason described the event in a letter: “Ed got up from his desk and walked very slowly over to mine. His eyes were wide open and his mouth was pretty much the same way. He seemed to be in a trance.

‘That was Jimmy Breslin,’ Lowe said. ‘Jimmy Breslin telephoned me.’

“Apparently, Breslin had read an article by Lowe and called him out of the blue. Lowe said Breslin told him, ‘Kid, you just remember to stay out of Queens. That’s my territory.”

Breslin got Queens and his pen gave life to minor characters, small-time hustlers, grifters and wannabees who populated the perpetually darkened streets under the elevated lines along Jamaica Avenue, Roosevelt Avenue, 31^st Street, Liberty Avenue and Palmetto Street. He understood Glendale, Sunnyside, Cypress Hills, Corona, Maspeth, Flushing and South Ozone Park.

Breslin gave us Fat Thomas, Klein the lawyer, Shelly, the bail bondsman, Marvin, the torch and Un Occhio, the mob boss.

He got The Pastrami King and the Queens Boulevard Courthouse scene. He got ex-borough president, Donald Manes, who ran unopposed across party lines multiple times before committing suicide following a municipal scandal that Breslin first broke. He christened Queens’ D/A, Brown, “Duck-down Brown,” for hiding behind his desk when then a judge during a shoot-out in his court room. Breslin said this about the blood feud between union boss, Mike Quill and mayor John Lindsay: “John Lindsay looks at Quill and sees the past and Mike Quill looks at Lindsay and sees the Church of England.”

And, of course, the gripping and terrifying saga of Breslin’s bizarre relationship with David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam.

Breslin understood the mentality of holding functions in halls. Church halls, VFW halls, Knights of Columbus, Masons and American Legion halls. If it were a social event, we called it a racket. Local married couples dressed in their best, took tables for ten or twelve, brought their own bottle of Seagram’s or Canadian Club for their tables and bought set-ups that consisted of ginger ale, club soda and a bowl of ice from the sponsor to cover the nut.

He covered endless events held in halls, political and social, triumphs and tragedy, weddings, funerals celebrations and protests. If you knew Queens, you knew halls; folding chairs and portable tables that the organizing committees set-up and dismantled.

Jimmy Breslin got it. He ended his run at Newsday with this sign off in his final column:

 “Thanks for the use of the hall.”   

Sometimes we recognize the truth immediately, usually when it is self-evident. But sometimes it takes a bit of a jar to recognize when it is present.

One recent Sunday afternoon, I found myself in the Port Washington Library making copies for our writer’s workshop. As I was leaving, I noticed a stack of books on a table close to the exit. One stood out, a rather thick non-fiction book with the title, “The Fate of the Day,” by Rick Atkinson. This was the second volume in his trilogy about the American Revolution.

My cousin, Bill, my friend, Geoff, and I are all avid Rick Atkinson fans who have read his trilogy about the US Army’s battles in Europe during the Second World War. In the same way we each read his first volume about the revolution, “The British are Coming.”

I did talk it over with Bill as to who’s turn is it to purchase the book this time and we concluded it was mine. Too bad, talk about inflation, its cover price is $42!

Mary Ann ordered it from Amazon Prime on the afternoon of May 4 and it arrived before 9 AM the next morning. Another massive undertaking, 618 pages of script! Looking at my new book, I wondered how long it’s been since the author’s first volume was launched? I looked it up, April of 2019.

There it was for anyone to see, the ugly truth that it could take Atkinson six years to publish his new and final volume.

SIX YEARS: OMG!

If the final volume takes that long, I will be 87 when it’s published:

What are the odds that I will still be around?

And if I am, what will be the odds that I can still absorb its content?

And if I can absorb it will I want to?

FUHGEDDABOUTIT!       

May 2014, Revised May 2025

When the 7:07 PM Metro North / Connecticut Transit train to New Haven left Grand Central Terminal on time on Friday evening, May 9, 2014, it included one of the last bar / lounge coach cars operating on any American commuter railroad. Officially dubbed, Café Cars, this forty- something years old unit was removed from service at the end of that run together with three other lounge coaches.

They were rolling dinosaurs and only lasted this long because Connecticut deferred replacing their M-2 commuter car fleet well beyond other railroads had like Metro North and the Long Island. Their very existence was odd as the Nutmeg State still chose to include Café Cars when they ordered new train sets in the early 1970s at a time  almost all other systems were eliminating these coaches as they modernized their equipment.

Like Chicago; Jim Hagelow recalled “We lost ours years ago and with them, many fond memories. Birthday parties, Cubs outings, ‘Oh Shit’ card games and singing Christmas carols. Every year for years, a fellow from Peat Marwick and I led the car singing carols during our rolling party.” Jim also admitted a universal truth: “I think my wife was happy when it went away.”

Geoff Jones remembered that the older pre-MTA equipment included lounge cars with upholstered chairs and couches that could be moved around. “Some had service bars at one end, but there were others with long bars running along one side of windows. The railroad had a bartender who rode south from Poughkeepsie in the morning running a continental breakfast service. At night he became the bartender for the northbound return run to Poughkeepsie where they put him up in a small apartment. On weekends, he continued further north until he reached his family home.”

“When the new equipment arrived, booze carts on the platforms at GCT replaced the lounges. But drinks bought there didn’t last to Peekskill where a funny thing often happened on Fridays. The platform is located on a pretty sharp bend of the Hudson. The train emptied on the right so it took the conductor a long time to check it all to see if passengers were safely off. Just across the street was a pizzeria and thirsty commuters who still had a way to go pre-ordered pizzas and six-packs of beer from pay phones in GCT (no cell phones) to meet the train. A designated runner left with the first wave of exiting passengers to secure the order and re-board the train. Usually, the run went smoothly, but I do believe the conductor held the train when it didn’t. The pizza always smelled great but it was only ten minutes to my stop in Garrison so I didn’t join in.”  

After the LIRR introduced their new M-1 coaches without bar cars in 1969, for a while they turned trains that went long distances into bar cars by putting a cart and bartender on one of the units. He maneuvered the cart taking over one of the two vestibules in that car. He disabled the doors behind him and the conductor would announce his location. Pity the passengers, especially non-drinkers in that car. A line would snake down the narrow aisle with thirsty patrons competing for space with others carrying their drinks back to their friends. If that didn’t create sufficient discomfort for regular riders, once the bartender came on board, that coach officially became a smoking car!

My own make-shift bar experience came on my son’s last commute to Port Washington  before he was to be married and moved to Fairfield, CT. I bought two cans of Budweiser 16 ounce tall boys to share on our express run home. While the train was still in Queens, we made an unscheduled stop for what the crew described as a medical emergency. “EMS is on the way and will be here soon.”

We had finished our Buds, the doors were open and I spied a bodega at the end of the platform across Northern Boulevard. “Watch my briefcase,” I said to Mike and made my way as quickly as I could.

Dodging traffic, I replenished our diminished rations and made it back as the EMS fellows were removing the distressed commuter from the train. “Hey, is that for us?” one of them called out as I re-boarded.

“Afraid not fellas, but if you had let me know, I would have picked up two more.”
                    

May 2016, Revised May 2025

Last week’s piece jogged my memory about another incident that also took place at the Greenbrier Resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. My company had a rough spell in the early 80s that limited the destination for two of our meetings to the nearby Arrowood Conference Center in Rye brook, NY. In a word, modest, at best, Arrowood was a sad excuse for a resort.

Happily, my company’s fortunes vastly improved in the mid-1980s and the big brains decided to reward our Managing Directors with a conference at the Greenbrier.

We realized this meeting would be special. It seemed the firm had money to burn. The first night, before dinner, we followed a high-stepping college band from the hotel to the train station. What followed was a cocktail hour on a train trip to nowhere that consisted of vintage coaches and dome cars. Even the name tags we wore were totally upscale.

From 1987 until 2000, we attended eleven conferences at this swell facility. Most years, the event began on Monday morning and ended on Friday. Our firm was enlightened enough to make Thursday afternoons free time allowing the great majority of MDs to golf on one of The Greenbrier’s three exquisite 18-hole courses.

Being a miserable duffer, I didn’t need to suffer the embarrassment that would surely accompany any attempt I made to challenge these links. Tennis, too was out of the question. Instead, I made an appointment for the spa. Without question my favorite part of the treatment was the massage that concluded the spa experience. The Sulphur baths were the low point as they were just plain smelly and did nothing to enhance my mood or physical well-being.

Naturally, different masseuses brought their own talents and approaches to their craft and over the years I received superb treatment by both men and women that left me loose, relaxed and at as much at peace as was humanly possible.

Then there was 1993. Fortune introduced me to a short fellow with powerful arms and hands who introduced himself as Chet. We made small talk as Chet went to work. I learned he was a Mountaineer, a native-born West Virginian and true to his size and rough appearance, had once been a coal miner. I mentioned that I was from New York; the conversation went on – then from out of nowhere – he noted, “I worked on the Giants’ coach last year. That’s right, he was at the hotel and I worked on him.”

“Really,” I replied. “Do you remember his name? Was it Ray Hanley?” – The Giants previous the head coach.

“No, I don’t think so.” He paused, thought about it then floored me as he continued. “No, he just said he was the coach but that’s not his name. I remember him though because he stiffed me. I paid him back though. I’m part Cherokee and I put a curse on him and the team. They will not have success as long as the curse is on them.”

My head spun because of what I just heard. Chet couldn’t know how long I had been a season ticket holder, that the Giants had finished with a 6-10 record in 1992 and that Hanley and his staff had all been fired.

Instinctively, I wanted to ask him how much he’d want to lift the curse but I sensed that this would only make the situation worse. I had to be more nimble in my approach.

The massage ended and after I dressed, Chet returned with his personal log hand-written in a copy book. He pointed to a name revealing the culprit to be Rod Rust. Rod Rust, I thought to myself, not only did his “read and react” defense suck, he screwed all of us by being a cheapskate.

I put a good tip on the spa bill, standard practice at The Greenbrier, hustled to an ATM and withdrew a like amount in cash. I sealed it in an envelope and returned to the spa, asked for Chet and waited for him.

When he reached reception, I walked over, gave him the envelope while I looked him directly in the eye and said, “Chet, this is to make up for the shabby treatment you received.” I shook his hand and walked away.

It took awhile but the Giants went on to play in three more Super Bowls winning two.

The curse had been lifted.       

When you joke about serious subjects, there is always the chance that what you say in jest can come back to bite you in the ass. It may not happen as soon as you say it, it may not happen tomorrow, or it may not happen until years later. The tragedy is it can happen.

During the 1980s and 1990s my old firm, Marsh &McLennan, had annual meetings for their Managing Directors (MD’s) at the Greenbrier Resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. This is a luxury resort where golf is king, but if golf is not to your liking, other activities include tennis, horseback riding, hiking, their world class Sulphur Baths, massages and a world class regiment of beauty treatments.

For anyone who is fascinated by the secrets and intrigue of our Federal Government, the Greenbrier is home to a decommissioned Congressional fall-out shelter that is located beneath one of the hotel wings that is now open for tours.

Food and drink are plentiful and varied from BBQs to five course extravaganzas. Before I first saw the Greenbrier, I was at another MD Conference held at the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach. Over drinks, one of my friends said, “You know, John, nice as this is, I hope to get to the Greenbrier one day and have our firm pay for it.” He got his wish.

One of the interesting oddities about the resort is they have a number of cabins along the road leading up to the main building each that could accommodate six people. One trip, I found myself walking up this road late in the afternoon past the cabin where six chaps from Canada were staying. I knew it was their cabin; a Maple leaf flag gave their presence away.

A loud voice stopped me in my tracks. Anthony Tomkinson, their unofficial leader took me on. ”You know, Delach, the trouble with you F-en Yanks is that you think that Canada is the 51^st F-en State.”

“No, Anthony, Canada is not the 51^st F-en State, Israel is the 51^st F-en State. Canada is the 52^nd F-en state.”

Needless to say, I had a beer with them before heading back to my room to get ready for dinner. I had made a good point or so I thought with no harm done.

More than twenty-five years later, my words came home to roost. Here was the second coming of Donald J. Trump seemingly at war with anybody and everybody; friend or foe to correct all real or imagined things others had done to him. Canada was one of them.

The only good news was Tomkinson had passed several years ago, not because of lots of booze, but rather because of lots of his brand of unfiltered cigarettes. Still, I felt badly and wanted to make it up to Anthony and his mates.

I found my answer in a sports story about a fan being ejected from a Toronto Blue Jays game for wearing a baseball cap that read: “Canada Is Not For Sale.” (Fortunately, the Blue Jays backed off and invited this chap to attend another game while wearing his hat.)

I ordered my hat via Amazon and I was told I had to pay a surcharge of $2.75 to pay any possible tariff. For other reasons that I don’t understand,  Amazon advised me that I might not receive my new hat until May, but it actually arrived on April 13^th.

I have worn my hat in public several times without receiving a single comment. This is not a good thing. I am sorry to say the lack of comments is not due to agreement with my message. Rather, it is due to our lack of interest as to how Trump’s tariffs will affect Canada. I am not surprised by this. Americans tend to ignore Canada and Canadiens and take them for granted. Sad, but true.  

Oy vey, Trump’s brave new world is quite confusing and self-serving. Sorry, Mr. President, this old Goldwater conservative has decided that you are a self-serving egoist with the concentration of a flea. And yet, you are the forty-seventh President of the United States of America.

May God have mercy on us all:   

I am an old man named after my father,

My wife is another child who’s grown old,

If dreams were thunder and lightning was desire,

This old place would have burned down a long time ago.

 Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery,

Make me a portrait of an old rodeo,

Just give me something that I can hold onto,

To believe in this living is such a hard way to go.

With thanks to John Prine

January 2005. Amended April 2025

I first caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye. It was the color of his skin that drew me to look at him. Copper, not quite as bright as a recently minted penny, but just as shiny.

He stood on line waiting patiently to use the restroom in an Arco convenience store in Gardano, Arizona. I knew that I would be embarrassed if he caught me staring at him, but I couldn’t turn away. He was a compact, wiry man with a chiseled face, a square jaw, high cheek bones, a narrow, pointed nose and black eyes set deeply into his face. I guessed his age to be about 75, but he could easily have been 60 or 85.

White hair draped down the back of his neck from under a blocked cowboy hat. His clothes suggested that he was on his way to some place special. A crisp starched white shirt with red trim, black bolo tie fastened with a silver clip and tan pants, newly creased  without a wrinkle. His pants were hemmed at mid-ankle revealing highly polished boots. A leather belt joined together by a large oval brass buckle completed his outfit.

I forced myself to look away before he saw me. I could not remember what I wanted to buy so I settled on a Diet Coke and walked back to my car.

As I thought about him, I remembered an incident I read about long ago. A New York State Trooper pulled over one of the Hemingway girls for speeding on an upstate parkway. Once he had her license and registration, he returned to his cruiser, wrote out the ticket and gave it to her without saying a word. When asked why he hadn’t talked to her, he replied, “I couldn’t, her perfect beauty overwhelmed me.”

Now I understood how he felt.  

Bob Sylvester was a gossip columnist for many years with the Daily News including when I was growing up. From time to time, he would write that day’s column about changes in our lives and the things that surround us that he titled: “You know that you are getting old when you remember when airliners had propellers…etc, etc.”

My personal introduction to this concept came in 1962 when I was only eighteen-years-old. That February, I turned eighteen, then the legal age allowing me to enter a bar and grill and have a beer, or two or three. Back then, the cost for a glass of beer at a typical bar in Ridgewood, Queens was 15 cents and the bar tender bought back every fourth beer.  All I needed was proof of age. At that time in my life, a driver’s license was only a dream, but the Selective Service gladly accommodated this need by issuing me a draft card.

All was well until September 22, 1962 when a seventeen-year-old-wunderkind baseball player made his debut appearance with the New York Mets after making his way through three levels of the Mets minor league system with a combined baseball average of .301.

Edward Emil Kranepool III was born on November 8, 1944 in the Bronx. Kranepool attended James Monroe High School where he played baseball and basketball. Mets’ scout, Bubber Jonnard signed Kranepool in 1962 as an amateur free agent.

He made his major league debut on September 22^nd as a late inning defensive replacement for Gil Hodges at first base. He made his first start the next day playing first base and going one for four with a double.

More importantly, Kranepool was the first major league player who I knew of who was younger than me. OMG, you know you are getting old when newbie players arrive at the big show who are younger than you.

Kranepool had an up and down career with the Mets making several trips to the Mets triple A top ranked minor league clubs only to be called back up to the big show , the Major League Mets. Originally, he wore number 21 whenever he was back playing at Shea Stadium, but in 1965, the Mets acquired future Hall of Fame pitcher, the aging Warren Spahn from the Milwaukee Braves. Kranepool gave up his number 21 to Spahn and began wearing number 7 for the rest of his career.

He was a strong part of the 1969 Miracle Mets and contributed to an 11-game winning streak in late June that put the team in second place in their division, seven games behind the Chicago Cubs.

“On July 8, Kranpool hit a fifth-inning home run off Fergunson Jenkins to give the Mets a 1-0 lead over the Cubs. By the time the Mets batted in the ninth inning, however, the first place Cubs had taken a 3-1 lead. The Mets scored three runs in the ninth to win the game, with Cleon Jones scoring on Kranpool’s single to center.

“The Mets completed their remarkable ‘Miracle’ 1969 season, in which the team backed by Kranepool, Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman, won their first World Series title against the Baltimore Orioles. Kranepool hit a home run in game three of the series, a 5-0 win for the Mets.”

1970 was an off season for Kranepool who was only batting .118 by June when he was demoted to the Mets then triple A affiliate, the Norfolk, VA based Tidewater Tides where he batted .310 in 47 games. He bounced back in 1971 when he batted .280 with 14 home runs and 58 RBIs.

By 1974, this fan favorite’s role had been reduced to that of a pinch hitter. However, he made the most of his opportunities and from 1974 until 1978, he hit .396. After the Mets traded Jerry Koosman at the end of 1978, Kranepool became the last of the 1969 Miracle Mets.

He retired after the 1979 season at age 34, the all-time Mets leader in eight offensive categories. He still holds the mark of most games played with the Mets at 1,853.

In retirement, he became a lasting hero to the Mets-centric Long Island community making an endless number of appearances at many functions. In 1990 he was inducted into the New York Mets Hall of Fame. He did develop diabetes soon after retirement and by 2017, both his kidneys were failing. His fame came to his aide and in 2019, he received a new kidney from a living donor at Stony Brook University Hospital extending his life to 2024. Kranepool died in Boca Raton, FL on September 8, 2024.

The Mets announced shortly before the 2025 baseball season started that they would honor the late Ed Kranepool by wearing a uniform patch featuring his iconic Number 7 on the sleeves of all Mets jerseys.

“Of all the stats and records Ed accomplished throughout his career, the thing he was most proud of was that he spent his entire Major League career in a Mets uniform.” Fellow 1969 Miracle Met, Art Shamsky said in a statement. “Ed would be touched that the team will be wearing his number seven on that uniform all year long.”