John Delach

Erminia, our cleaning woman, looked perplexed when she arrived on Thursday, December 6th. She held out a large white envelope. Immediately, I recognized the handwriting to be that of Rosemary King. “Ah, the annual White House Christmas Ornament,” I thought to myself.  

For the last several years, Rosemary King has generously posted the latest edition of this special ornament to us during the first week in December. Unfortunately, something was very wrong with this one. The envelope was empty. The sealed flap had come undone somewhere in route.

I decided not to tell Rosemary as I knew she sent these treasures to over a hundred people. Instead, I chose to look up the ornament on line and discovered the White House Historical Association had them for sale. I ordered two and accepted a FedEx surcharge, so they would arrive in under three days.     

Like me, I have discovered that most folks are unaware of the existence of these ornaments. Truly, this is truly amazing once you realize their significance, their beauty and how economical they are.

Rosemary included us on her list about seven-years ago. Mary Ann and I were taken aback by its beauty and craftmanship, but at that point in our lives, we no longer erected a Christmas Tree. We decided to give it to our son and his family. They were thrilled to add it to their tree. The following year, the ornament went to our daughter and her family. They too loved it; we established a new tradition.

The history of these ornaments is relatively recent. The White House Historical Association has been selling them to the public since 1981 when First Lady Nancy Reagan suggested this. That first year, the association released 1,500 “Angel in Flight” ornaments that depicted a copper weather vane found on historic buildings like Mount Vernon and Independence Hall.

From the beginning, ChemArt Inc., a privately-owned firm in Lincoln, RI, has produced these ornaments. Their founder, Richard Beaupre, now 81, has worried over the annual production ever since. Today, ChemArt produces almost two-million ornaments each year all in their Rhode Island plant.

Beginning with Angel in Flight, each keepsake has been hung on the White House Christmas Tree located in the Blue Room. The historical association designs each ornament that focuses on every president in chronological order. The exceptions to this chain have been White House historical events like anniversaries.

The ornaments commemorate certain aspects of a president’s time in office, curious at times, but not controversial. The 2007 ornament, honoring Grover Cleveland, depicts his wedding ceremony to Frances Folsom in the Blue Room in 1886. (He was 49, she was 21.)

The 2011 ornament depicts Santa Claus standing on the snow-covered front lawn of the White House. The caption reads: “I hear there are kids living in this house.” The back of the ornament shows Teddy, Mrs. Roosevelt, a maid and the six Roosevelt children looking out a window excitedly observing Santa outside on the lawn.

William Howard Taft’s, 2012 Ornament pictured our most corpulent president embracing new technology by being the first president to ride in a motor car.

Herbert Hoover’s ornament is a fire engine, truly a curious choice to honor his presidency ruined by the great depression that descended upon the nation. His fire engine commemorated a toy fire engine given to children at a 1930 Christmas party to remind them of the White House fire in 1929 that forcing the evacuation of the people’s house during that Christmas party.      

This year’s ornament is drop -dead gorgeous. It honors Harry S. Truman with two themes, the complete re-construction of the White House from 1950 to 1952 and President Truman’s 1948 proclamation to permanently change the Great Seal so that the eagle’s beak would always be faced toward the talon holding the olive branches and not the one holding the arrows.

A small gold-plated seal stands above the ornament with the eagle proudly duplicated on both the front and rear. Two red ribbons extend above the seal to facilitate fastening it to a tree. The ornament is attached to the seal by a short chain. Its front depicts the South Portico, after the reconstruction that includes the “so called,” Truman Balcony that the 33^rd President added to the White House facade. This three-dimensional, bowed image includes two outside staircases leading up to the balcony, a wreath and a red ribbon bearing, “The White House – Christmas 2018.

The concaved back of the ornament depicts the re-built Blue Room decorated for Christmas with a tree in the center. A scroll at the bottom reads: “1945-1953: Harry S. Truman.”

The cost is reasonable, less than $21 all in including standard shipping. I kid you not, these decorations are special and several of the more recent ornaments remain available. They are packaged in a handsome box with a booklet explaining the significance of the ornament for that presidency and a short biography and milestones achieved during his administration.

When I next saw Rosemary, I thanked her for the latest edition and said, “This one is the most beautiful of them all.”

She replied, “I think it is spectacular.”

True to my word, I didn’t say anything else.

Next up is Dwight David Eisenhower and I have this funny feeling that one way or another, it may include his famous putting green. Stay tuned.

Weather impacted every home game this season.

Game outcome, not withstanding, rain prevailed.

Shorter days, colder days, rain became miserable.

We endured, but no day at the beach for sure.

And it rained.

December 2 versus Da Bears. All day drizzle.

Mild enough, not cold, no wind, rain gear held up.

Stayed the course, all four quarters plus unwanted OT.

Joy prevails, Giants win, hot chocolate surely helped.

And it rained

December 16, 2018. Prediction: All day-steady rain-non-stop.

Prepared: Socks wrapped in plastic, freshly polished work boots.

Waterproof down coat over sweatshirt, rain pants over jeans.

Rain hats, gloves and ponchos over everything.

And it rained.

Ready or not here we go. Joe swings by at 8 AM.

We joke: “Off to see a losing team in bitter rain.”

We few, the worthy. Summer soldiers long gone.

Yet other faithful re-appear, gather, tailgate, endure.

And it rained.

Game time, head in. The contest yet to begin.

Already losing, our rain defenses are failing.

 Water-proof turns out to be a relative term

 Leaving us exposed in harm’s way.

And it rained.

Soldiers fighting a battle of endurance. Titans versus Giants.

Rain versus protection. Cold and wet versus dry.

Tyrannical forces prolong contest created to break us.

Game officials, TV and even the singer stretches Oh say can you see.

And it rained.

Misery. By the Second Quarter my arms shiver.

“This is insane’” I stand: “Mike, I won’t return

until the second half.” None of us returned to our seats.

Drew and Jeff join Mike and me sheltered at halftime.

And it rained.

My alarm blasts alert: LEAVE NOW!

Drew, Jeff, and Mike SIGN ON next.

Joe and Justin need one more score.

Titans accommodate with a TD on a turnover.

And it rained

One last potty stop and a ten-minute trek to the cars.

A last, but hurried goodbye for the season, then shelter.

Shed as many sodden clothes as I can

Waze works with a tolerable post-game ride home.

And it rained

Once home, realize everything damp or soaked.

No doubt, every woman in our lives intones:

“I told you so.” Of course, they are right.

We long-time fans rolled the weather dice that came up craps

And it rained, and it rained, and it rained.     

These confessions involve snow, always a possible factor in late season games. First up, 1964, the beginning of our discontent. How did our proud team that went to the NFL Championship Games in 1961, 1962 and 1963 shatter and collapse and fall to last place? By early December, all hope was lost so when the Minnesota Vikings came to town. They dealt my team their ninth loss of the season by the score of 30-21 but I decided to take my revenge as they took the field for the second half.

 

As their star, quarterback, Fran Tarkington jumped out from the third base dugout, I let fly a snowball aimed for his back. My throw was lame, but the snowball landed close enough to get the attention of one of their linemen. Caught in the act, I froze as this big man looked back at me with an expression that said: “Boy, are you nuts!”

 

One cold December afternoon after an overnight snow fall found Geoff, Bill and me at a meaningless game at the end of another losing season. We came prepared fortifying ourselves with two pints of whiskey to defend against the elements. Recollections are vague, but I do recall fans throwing snowballs toward the field and some serious troublemakers trying to light the wooden bleachers on fire.

 

After the game ended, we infiltrated the Stadium Club, Yankee Stadium’s private member’s only watering hole to extend our celebration. Still thirsty, we stopped at a bar on 161^st Street for a last libation for the road before trekking up to the Grand Concourse for home bound taxis. Geoff caught one for Kingsbridge and Bill and I piled into a second for his place in Parkchester.

 

I was on the edge, but Bill was a goner. We made it back to his family’s place where my family was also waiting. Bill was out for the count, puked and went to bed. Somehow, I persevered but a double plus unhappy Mary Ann was forced to drive home.

 

Bill called me at work Monday morning. “What do I owe you for the cab ride home from the stadium?”

 

“Nothing, Bill, we are squared away.”

 

“No really, John, what do I owe you?”

 

“Nothing; Before you passed out in the cab, I told you to give me your wallet. I used your money to pay for the cab, so you owe me nothing. By the way, you tip well.”

 

(Authors note: I did repay Bill, but that exchange was worth it.)

 

Both experiences can’t compare to the great Meadowlands snow ball game. The stadium managers had failed to remove the snow that fell before the Giants last home game on December 23, 1995, a game the Giants would lose to San Diego Chargers 27-17.

 

Dave Anderson recalled what occurred in The New York Times in January of 2014 as a reminder of what could happen during Super Bowl XLVIII scheduled for the new stadium (not yet called Met Life Stadium.)

 

On Wednesday of that week, about 12 inches of snow fell. By game time Saturday, the bulk of it had been removed from the aisles and the 75,000 seats, but much remained under the seats. Some of that snow had frozen. And with the Giants about to complete a 5-11 season, several of the 50,243 spectators began to throw snowballs, if not iceballs, onto the field. Soon, hundreds were throwing them.

 

One of the iceballs struck the Chargers’ equipment manager, 60-year old Sid Brooks, near his left eye. Knocked unconscious, he regained consciousness in the locker room.

 

When the snowball throwing continued, the referee Ron Blum threatened to declare a forfeit. He did not, but Wellington Mara, a Giant owner, said later that Blum “would have been justified” to rule a forfeit. The Giants later took a full-page ad in a San Diego newspaper apologizing for the “snowball game.”

 

Some 175 spectators were ejected and their season tickets confiscated. 15 were arrested. Jeffrey Lange, 26, of Bridgewater, NJ, identified by a widely published photograph showing him throwing him throwing a snowball, was later arrested and charged with disorderly conduct. He was convicted of improper behavior and fined $650.

 

Michael and I attended that game. Through the years whenever questions about that game come my way, my standard reply has been: “On the advice of counsel, neither of us can confirm or deny participation in such shenanigans.”

 

It is time to expunge the record and come clean.

 

Our caper occurred towards the end of the first half. NBC, who broadcasted the game, used an obtrusive camera to rove the sideline in front of where we sat blocking our view when the action was in front of us. This gave us, in effect, obstructed seats when it mattered most.

 

By the end of the first half, I’d become fed up with this obstruction. So, when the cameraman riding on his ten-foot high boom once again obstructed our view, I turned to my son and requested: “Do you think you can put a snowball inches from his wheelhouse and yet not hit him? I don’t want to see him get hurt, just give him religion.”

 

Michael, who had been an effective little league pitcher, put a snowball so close to the cameraman’s right ear that he ordered his crew to lower his rig shutting it down for the rest of the game.

 

 

(FOR SOME REASON, THIS BLOG DIDN’T PUBLISH THIS MORNING SO I AM RE-LAUNCHING IT.)

 

 

“Call me Buster.” I am a seven-year-old mixed breed part Chow / part Border Collie with brown and black hair. I have pointy ears that I can turn 180 degrees that would make a lousy poker player as how I set my ears gives away my mood. Let me tell you about my first trip to Florida.

 

Before we left, I had my hair cut. This was not my idea as it was January during a cold, wet winter. When they did this to me. I thought that Mary Ann and John, the people I live with, were trying to kill me, but the next day we set out in their truck on a road trip that would take us to special place, called Florida, where the weather is nice and warm in January.

 

I didn’t always live with them. A girl named Jodie, who I adore adopted me from the North Shore Animal’s Leagues shelter. She took me home to Connecticut. Later, she married their son, Michael. It was not a bad life until they had this kid. Didn’t like him, but food became more plentiful once he arrived. Then he became mobile and interested in me. A couple of bites later, it was goodbye Fairfield, and hello Port Washington, Long Island.

 

My life in this new home would have been much better if they didn’t already have Maggie living with them too. She arrived a year before I did, in 1999, another reject.

 

She was thrown out of her home because she was a crazy ten-month-old Golden Retriever. Now five, she’s still nuts, and she’s a pain in my ass. Stupid Golden Retrievers think they are so special and this one thinks she is “The Supreme Being.” The fools I live with, especially, John, treat her that way.

 

You don’t believe me? She uses toys as props, rubber footballs, a rubber ring, a rope and especially tennis balls. She obsesses over her toys and God forbid, I borrow one, the bitch takes it away. Now toys are not a big deal for me, but fair is fair.

 

She also hogs the window in the back seat. She stands there waiting for them to open it, so she can put her stupid head out. And they do! God forbid, I go over to it. She growls and snarls. It got so bad on this trip that I said the hell with it and found a spot in the back of the truck. Mary Ann was nice enough to find a mat for me to lie on while “her majesty” had the entire soft seat to herself.

 

Spending eight hours in a truck every day for three days is not as bad as you think. It isn’t as though I had other things to do and we stopped often enough to stretch and relieve ourselves. Sleeping in those little boxy rooms was another matter altogether. There are too many strangers, each one a potential assassin. I was ready to stay up all night and let them know I was on alert, but John stupidly closed the curtains.

 

When we arrived at the house in Florida, I had to learn a few things the hard way. Glass sliding doors are not always open, what happens when I walk across the plastic cover on top of the swimming pool. My only pleasure was watching her majesty do the same thing.

 

Each morning we hopped in the truck for a short ride to the beach. As soon as we began to move, Maggie began to act up. Her ears flailed back making her look like a bolting horse. Her eyes blinked rapidly as her tongue moved in and out of her mouth at the same speed. She whimpered and cried. When she saw the water, the Loony Tune’s barking and crying became so high-pitched that it went right through me. It was all I could do not to bite her, so she’d shut up. This cacophony ended only after John let her out of the truck. And this happened every morning!

 

The beach was great. Not many people, a few new dogs to meet and greet. Most of the time we ran free and I had a grand time cataloging new and different smells, rolling on dead creatures and playing in the surf. On the other hand, “nutsy Fagin” had to have something to chase and carry in her big mouth. Each morning, John found a different coconut that he would throw into the water. Maggie mindlessly chased it.

 

Her nuttiness gave me the idea that if I chased it too, it might drive her off the deep end. After I grabbed the coconut first a couple of times, she freaked out and started ripping it out of my mouth. After that I decided to back off and let her have it.

 

John threw the coconut like a football, but its weight and the wind made some throws fall short. It was my fondest hope that sooner or later one would hit her on the head and kill her. (Imagine John having to call his kids to tell them what happened.)

 

Don’t get in an uproar, it didn’t happen. Actually, it was an excellent vacation with no mishaps after the first day. Neither of us went swimming in the bayou behind the house because the bottom was too muddy and our instincts sensed danger. Good thing too because we found out alligators liked to swim there.

 

We also avoided fleas and I had to smile because last year Maggie acquired fleas on the trip I missed.

 

So, you can put me down to recommending Florida as a good place to go to leave winter behind, but it would be much better to go there as an Only Dog.

 

 

When posters celebrating sports heroes became popular in the late sixty’s, the Football Giants were excluded. Y.A. Tittle, Frank Gifford and Sam Huff had retired. The Giants were a bad team and even their best player, quarterback Fran Tarkenton, had limited appeal. If you wanted a poster of a star player from New York, your choice was Joe Namath.

 

That changed in 1970 when the Giants traded their mercurial receiver, Homer Jones, to the Cleveland Browns for Ron Johnson. Johnson, an All-American half-back at Michigan, was their Number One pick in that 1969 draft. For reasons unknown, The Browns made the deal and the Giants prospered. With Ron Johnson running and catching the football, the Giants achieved their first winning record in seven seasons and came within one victory of making the playoffs.

 

Ron Johnson ran for 1,027 yards as Big Blue finished 9-5 and he was All-Pro first team. More important, he ignited a fire that made lesser players shine. This was my take on two home games I wrote about in my book: “17 Lost Seasons.”

 

(The Giants had won four games in a row when they met the Cowboys on November 8, 1970.) The Giants were becoming fun to watch and our joy continued Sunday as they beat the Cowboys 23-20. Bob Hayes did manage to catch two touchdown passes of 38-and 80-yards helping Dallas reach a 17-6 lead in the second quarter. But Ron Johnson ran 23 times for 136 yards and caught four passes for 59 yards.

 

Bill Christman and I both sat in Section 12, but I sat in Box 242C and he was in 242F. Each box had four seats. Two NYPD cops sat behind Bill, but whoever had the fourth seat sold it to different people for each game. Bill told me after the game, “An older, well-dressed man sat next to me. He was a Cowboys fan, but after we cut their lead to 20-16 in the third quarter, he looked at me and said, ‘You got this game won.’ Then he got up and left.”

 

Next Sunday’s game was against the Redskins. Bill and I car-pooled from Middle Village across the 59^th Street Bridge, parked on Lexington Avenue outside of Bloomingdales. Parking was free, and Bloomindales was closed on Sundays back then. We caught the IRT Jerome Avenue express at Fifty-Ninth Street station for the five-stop ride to 161^st Street and Yankee Stadium.

 

This game has remained fresh in my mind, especially the winning touchdown that Ron Johnson scored with one-minute left to play that made the final Giants 35, Redskins 33.

 

Sonny Jurgensen’s passing and Charlie Harraway’s rushing had boosted the Redskins to a 33-14 lead as the last period began. The Giants started the fourth quarter with the ball on their own 29-yard line and drove it the length of the field in 13 plays in five minutes. The drive culminated in a 5-yard Johnson TD run. Fran Tarkentton’s passes accounted for 60 of the 71 yards.

 

Leonard Koppett reported:

 It took two passes to (Tucker) Fredrickson to make it a 33-28 less than 2-minutes later, with Tucker running and dodging the last 30 yards of a 43-yard play for the touchdown. And there was 4:06 to play when the Giants put the ball in play after Bobby Duhon had run back a punt from the Giants 6 to the 27. On third down, a pass to Bob Tucker for 20 yards reached the Washington 45. One to Fredrickson reached the 32 with 2 minutes left. With fourth and 6, Tarkenton hit Johnson for a first down on the 18. He hit McNeil on the 9 and Johnson went unopposed round the left side for the rest.”

 

Our view of Johnson’s run was superb. The Giants were driving toward the closed end of Yankee Stadium. He took the handoff and headed away from us. As he turned the corner toward the goal line, it was obvious that he wasn’t going to be touched. He only had to go 9 yards, but he could have gone 99.

 

“It makes you feel proud.” Coach Alex Webster said, “It is the way they wouldn’t give up. This is what you try to get from them, to make them believe in themselves.”

 

Johnson ran for 106 yards and had 49 through the air. Fredrickson had 33 and 165 respectively. A happy Fredrickson welcomed the press to his locker, “It’s a pleasure to talk to you gentlemen even though I haven’t spoken with you for quite a while. Just don’t build it up too much, though. Next week, I may be a ghost again.”  

 

Ron Johnson spent six seasons with the Giants including 1972 when he set a new team rushing record of 1,182 yards. To my delight, his stardom produced a poster of Number 30 wearing a white away uniform with red and blue trim with the lower case “NY” on his helmet. This heroic photograph captured Ron carrying the football in his right arm at a full gallop, looking powerful, bound and determined.

 

The New York Times carried Ron Johnson’s obituary on November 10^th. Johnson succumbed to complications from Alzheimer’s, no doubt due, at least in part, to his football career. He was 71.

 

That poster is framed and hangs proudly in my personal Giants gallery. Thank you, Mr. Johnson for the light you shined on us during that dismal era

 

R.I.P. Ron Johnson

(I could explain that this blog was delayed by a trip to NH through snow squalls, or that I was hacked last Wednesday, but the truth is I forgot to publish it…and so dear reader😊

 

Congressman Peter King wrote this piece following his recent re-election. I believe it offers an insider’s view of our voting process. I am re-printing it for this week’s blog with Peter’s permission.

 

I wish all my readers a Happy Thanksgiving

 

John Delach

Election morning was wet and overcast. Not ideal weather but not as bad as predicted. First stop that morning for Rosemary and me was voting at Seaford Manor School at about 7:20. Print and TV cameras were there for the ritualistic “candidate votes” photo.

Then it was on to GOP breakfasts to thank all the Committeemen, Committeewomen and Leaders whose job was to man the polls and get out our vote. The breakfast spots I hit were Massapequa South GOP at the Nautilus Diner on Merrick Road in Massapequa; Seaford GOP at the Waffle House on Merrick Road in Seaford; and Massapequa GOP at Paddy’s Loft on Hicksville Road in Massapequa. The mood was positive and upbeat. At each stop I thanked them for their efforts, said all looked good but we had to make sure we got out every possible vote.

I take no Election for granted but I was confident of victory — barring the unexpected. My polling (done by John McLaughlin, a great friend with first rate skills and instincts) had me in the mid-50s. Based on what John was seeing in his polling across the country, he told me my maximum would be 55% and that could be a reach. He said there was the real possibility of a Democratic surge in the suburbs and among minority voters. I had the daily double: a 34% GOP registration and a suburban district with 35% minority voters.

The first turnout report I received at noon was cause for some concern — Democrats were turning out much greater than in 2014 (the last off year Election) while the Republican vote – though up – was increasing at a lower rate.

In late afternoon I joined with State Senate candidate Jeff Pravato for campaign stops at Stop and Shops in Massapequa and Seaford (covered by Channel 12) and then the Seaford LIRR Station (covered by FIOS) where my daughter, Councilwoman Erin King Sweeney, gathered about a dozen volunteers to hand out palm cards as I was asking the returning commuters to make it to the polls on their way home. The response seemed friendly and supportive. Also, I received the 5:00 turnout report that Republicans were coming out at a much-improved rate.

I made a few radio interviews, then went home to take a shower, put on a suit and get ready for the biennial trauma of the Election Night vote count — knowing that once the polls closed at 9:00 PM, there was nothing to do but wait and count.

Rosemary and I arrived at my Campaign Headquarters on Broadway in Massapequa about 8:30. It was already packed tight with supporters — and with media on a death watch to see if a 26-year Republican incumbent would be swept out in a Democratic Blue Wave. Ghoulish, but part of the business. Nothing personal they always say. (Or at least most of them say that!)

To add to the inherent Election Night confusion, the vote tally would be bifurcated. The Board of Elections in Suffolk County — which is 75% of the district — reports votes on-line as they come in and they would be displayed on a large screen on the side wall of the Campaign Headquarters. Since Nassau’s Board of Elections doesn’t report on-line, I must rely on local GOP leaders either hand delivering or calling in their vote totals to me. Roughly I knew that if I stayed within 4000-5000 votes in Suffolk and gathered my normal 60+% in Nassau, I would be fine. Suffolk hadn’t begun to report yet when I received the first votes in from Nassau at about 10:00 PM.– Seaford (69.5%) and Massapequa (71%). Suffolk started to report soon thereafter putting me about 51% for a while before finishing at about 47.6%, about 4,500 behind.

Each Nassau community — Massapequa Park, North Massapequa, Farmingdale, and Levittown — reported a solid majority. Our quick tabulation showed me at about a 64% total in Nassau with a winning margin of approximately 20,000 votes. (The official district wide vote would have me winning by a 15,000+ vote margin: 122,103 (53.3%) – 106,996 (46.7%). John McLaughlin had come within 1.7% of hitting it on the head!)

To play it safe, I waited until almost 95% of the Suffolk vote was in before deciding to declare victory at about 10:45. My outstanding Campaign Manager Anne Rosenfeld went to the podium at the rear of the Headquarters, faced the anxious media and announced that I had won. She then introduced my daughter Erin, who introduced me. With Erin, Rosemary and my son Sean standing with me, I thanked all my volunteers and said this was a victory for the heart and soul of the people of the 2nd District — pro-Police, pro-Military and pro-the hardworking middle-income families who have made and keep Long Island and America great.

(What I didn’t realize was that the media still didn’t have the Nassau County numbers and until almost midnight was reporting the race as too close to call.)

Rosemary, Erin, Anne and I then went to Nassau GOP Headquarters in Westbury where the enormity of the results hit me. Every Republican State Senator in Nassau County had lost and three of the four GOP Senate candidates in the 2nd Congressional District had lost.

Getting home to Seaford shortly after 1:00 AM, I watched the television reports, caught up on my emails and text messages and saw the full extent of the electoral carnage. Not only did Republicans lose the House, they got decimated in the suburbs nationwide — New Jersey, Philadelphia, Chicago, California, Minnesota, Dallas and Houston. Even my good friend Dan Donovan lost his Staten Island-Brooklyn District. Fortunately, Lee Zeldin and I kept the national wave from overtaking Long Island. It was time to get to sleep.

Democracy is a contact sport and was never intended to be easy. Principles and ideals and good people are worth fighting for. I’m proud to have once again fought the fight and am deeply grateful to the people of the 2nd Congressional District for having stood by me. I won’t let you down. The fight continues. God Bless America!!

The estimated first prize payout for Mega-Millions on October 23^rd was $1.6 billion (cash payout, $913 million before taxes.) A single winning ticket for Mega-Millions was sold in South Carolina.

 

Power Ball payout for October 27th was $750 million (cash payout, $454.3 million before taxes.) Two winners, one down south and one in New York.

 

The payouts for these two lotteries are deliberately obscene. The actuaries who control the odds of hitting the grand prizes have intentionally rigged the system so that winning the prize has become harder and harder. The fewer $ 40 million winners, $60 million winners or $80 million winners allows the jackpot to climb into an atmosphere where main-stream media begins to pay attention. Tightening the odds, offering jackpot that reach nine figures produces a shout out to the population at large: “Big money, suckers.”

 

At $500 million, we reach a magical payout threshold it awakens the greed in our very souls, the opportunity for a potential life changing fortune, the quick fix, the ultimate gold ring or the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. At this level almost every red-blooded American will begin to sign on to the dream apart from some fundamental Calvinistic sect hidden in the backwoods of Indiana, Kentucky or West Virginia.

 

The siren’s call commands: “You have to be in it to win it.”

 

Five hundred million is the tipping point. Beyond that threshold, all players, already in, stay in. “Why should I get out now? Sure, I didn’t win but neither did anyone else. Roll it over; no, hold on, instead double-down giving you two chances for each lottery instead of one.”

 

Each time another $100 million is added to the prize, additional holdouts sign on. Even those accolades in West Virginia surreptitiously dispatch fellow travelers to rural smoke shops so they too can join the frenzy.

 

Greed at this level produces strange suggestions. Experts come out of the woodwork to appear on talk-radio, and TV stations. They provide a forum to explain to us the hopeful masses what to do to prepare for this sudden wealth and how to manage it: Establish a family trust, form an LLC, form a family foundation, hire great lawyers and financial advisers.

 

Trusts, overseas holdings, financial consultants, CPA’s, actuaries, psychologists, body guards, intelligence and security forces, surveillance operatives, Swiss Banks and on and on…

 

Did I fail to mention Bitcoins?

 

Take away taxes and the single winner of Mega-Millions would receive a cash payout of about: $550 million, Power Ball: $210 million.

 

Believe it or not, there are things that even this kind of money won’t buy like a major league sports franchise, but most other things can be on your radar. If you are of sound mind and judgement, winning such obscene amounts of money should scare the shit out of you so rejoice in your so-called bad luck.

 

Once upon a time quick buck fever did not always prevail. There was a family owned and run restaurant in Manhattan on 54^th Street between Fifth and Madison called Reidy’s. They served Irish cuisine but in the proper atmosphere of a restaurant. Tishman Speyer’s assembled all the property on Madison Avenue between 53^rd and 54^th and along these two streets to build a 42-floor office building that became known as 520 Madison Avenue.

 

The Reidy family owned the bottom two floors of the building that housed their restaurant. However, the people who owned the upper floors sold these air rights to Tishman who demolished everything above these two floors.

 

Maurice Reidy family patriarch and owner refused to sell forcing Tishman to build the skyscraper around his restaurant. To ensure that customers and the public knew his position he draped a sign on his building that read: “Reidy’s Restaurant will stay at this location and will remain OPEN while the men play with their erector set. Thank you.”

 

Tishman finally conceded and reached a compromise with Mr. Reidy. In return for vacating the old second floor room, Tishman would incorporate a larger second floor dining room into the new structure while preserving the ambiance of the main room and bar.

 

One night a group of us found ourselves upstairs at Reidy’s enjoying a lengthy and happy dinner filled with much laughter and cheer. Most other customers had left when Mr. Reidy decided to join us. He sat next to me and I decided to ask him: “Mr. Reidy, I’m curious about one thing. Before the Tishman people realized that there was no way that you would close this restaurant and vacate this space, they must have become desperate. How did you resist accepting the large amount of the money they must have offered you?”

 

He looked me in the eye, smiled and said: “Because for my family to have that much money would be sinful.”

 

And that was that except nothing is forever. The restaurant business is a tough business. When Maurice Reidy passed on, the family closed the restaurant not long after. An Irish curio shop replaced it but not for long. Today it is a modern restaurant, but the bare brick walls testify to its previous life. I hope the Reidy family retained ownership and now collect a handsome rent.

 

 

He died on December 12, 2002 six-days after celebrating his eighty-third birthday. Cancer of multiple organs was the cause a diagnosis rendered less than a month before his death. He died at home, in his sleep, under hospice care free of pain. Shortly before dying, he decided that his ashes should be interred at Arlington National Cemetery. Marilyn, his second wife, followed his instructions after cremating his remains without the presence of family or friends.

 

The administrators at Arlington processes twenty to thirty services each day, Monday to Friday. With so many World War II veterans dying, our family was told in March that Dad’s service would take place on Thursday, June 19, 2003.

 

We are a small family, but we all attended the service. Mary Ann and I drove down from New York as did our son, Michael, and his wife, Jodie. Our daughter, Beth, and her husband, Tom, used Amtrak. My two half-brothers and sister were there. Steven, flew to Florida from Oregon with his wife, Cathy, son and daughter, Jeffrey and Kelsey. They stayed with Marilyn then flew to Norfolk and drove to brother Mark and his wife, Nancy’s house outside of Richmond. They convoyed north to Arlington that morning as did Nancy’s mom and dad. Two of Marilyn’s cousins also attended. Our sister, Diana rounded out the group at sixteen when she arrived that morning from Maine.

 

The Catholic chaplain, a “full-bird” colonel, insisted that my Dad have a service in the Fort Myers chapel adjacent to the cemetery rather than in the administration building. I found this a curious ceremony for a man who freely and publicly proclaimed being an atheist. But it was not my call.

 

Fortunately, the chaplain kept the service simple and almost non-denominational. My daughter and son read from the old and new testament, Kelsey, read the petitions and the priest led us in the Lord’s Prayer. Unfortunately, he did not keep his homily simple but waxed poetically. He showered Dad and our family with qualities and attributes that never existed. As I listened to him, I wondered how he’d react if I limited my eulogy to:

“The sons of bitches of this world have lost their leader!”

 

But I didn’t. (Mary Ann wouldn’t allow it.) Instead, I said:

 

Dad led a remarkable life. He demonstrated fortitude, courage, honor, loquaciousness and grit for as long as I can remember. He had an unending thirst for knowledge that took him both figuratively and literally to all parts of the world.

His zest for life never diminished. He needed to know things, to understand them.

He was combative, and the Lord knows the confrontations we each had with him. But he did love and care for his family.

When his body deserted him, when he knew he had terminal cancer, he accepted this with dignity, honor and humor.

It is time to take joy in his life, in his memory. It is time to celebrate his life. That is why we are here.

 

This was true enough and made for a proper eulogy. Good thing too, in view of the size of the interment detachment that waited outside the chapel.

 

Dad’s rank, years of service, war record, citations and medals qualified him to receive a high military ceremony. A horseman with drawn sword led the formation. Behind him six horses stood hitched to the burial caisson. Three horses carried mounted riders. A band and an honor guard stood at attention as six pallbearers followed two others who inserted the urn into a compartment at the end of the coffin mounted on the caisson.

 

A four-man color guard led the procession away from the chapel. A twenty-piece band and an honor guard followed, proceeding the flag draped caisson and its eight pallbearers. We followed in our cars as part of the procession. Slowly, we proceeded through Arlington to the Columbarium where his remains were to be interred following the military service. I was humbled as the workers along our path ceased their activity and stood at attention as we passed.

 

Because it had rained earlier that morning and the forecast predicted afternoon showers, the airmen all wore blue raincoats. The humidity was not kind to them though they did not display their discomfort.

 

The pallbearers carried the urn to the central square where they set it down on a catafalque. They unfurled the American flag that had draped the coffin with great ceremony and held it taut as if covering a coffin. The band played. The chaplain spoke. We stood while the honor guard now positioned on a grass field two hundred yards away fired a twenty-one-gun salute. Taps followed.

 

The flag was re-folded, handed to the chaplain who handed it to Marilyn. Mark carried the urn to its assigned vault. The chaplain made a few more remarks and the service ended.

 

We walked back to our cars crossing the central square one last time. I calculated that about sixty Air Force personnel had participated in the ceremony. “Well, Dad,” I thought, “You got your due. Too bad you weren’t here for it. You would have loved it and I would bought you today’s first Scotch whiskey.”

 

 

November 1^st marks the 100th anniversary of the most devastating rapid transit disaster in our nation’s history. Ninety-seven New Yorkers lost their lives when Edward Luciano, a novice motorman crashed his train. Luciano had never piloted a train before that fateful day. He had been drafted into this service because of a wildcat strike by the motormen’s union.

 

Last September, I joined a walking tour of the crash site sponsored by the NYC Transit Museum with by my son-in-law, Tom and his eleven-year-old son, Cace. Kathryn, our young guide filled in many gaps in the narrative as I knew it. “The more I learned about Luciano, the more I came to sympathize with him. For example, Luciano was recovering from the Spanish Flu and he had buried his middle daughter, a victim of the flu, two days earlier. He was heart-heavy believing he infected her. “

 

Normally a train dispatcher, Luciano started his first run at 5 am that morning after receiving minimal instructions. He was due to be relieved at 4:30 pm but was ordered to drive one more train back to Brighton Beach from Manhattan. Stress, fatigue and the coming darkness took their toll and complicated braking system so befuddled the rookie motorman that he made several serious mistakes. Almost 400 of the 1,000 riders abandoned this train due to his obvious incompetence before he wrecked it.

 

Just before the right-of-way descended into the Prospect Park Station it reached a complex passage, a tight “S” curve that had only opened 13 days earlier. A small sign just outside the tunnel entrance posted the speed limit as 6 miles-per-hour. Accounts of Luciano’s true speed vary but it was estimated between 40 and 50 MPH.

 

The front trucks of the first car remained on the rails leaving Luciano uninjured. The rear third of that car was damaged. Cars two and three were destroyed as their wooden exteriors and glass windows splintered and shattered as they smashed into the tunnel’s steel columns and concrete sides and ceiling. The fourth car escaped serious damage and the fifth uncoupled coming to rest outside the tunnel, partly derailed but upright and intact.

 

Most of victims were killed in the second and third cars that rocketed into oblivion. Ordinary fixtures turned into missiles, Rattan seats, the bars that supported the leather straps for standees, window panes and glass ripped into the occupants. The wooden framing, sides and even the roof split open and shattered killing many trapped in wreck. Others were thrown from the train against the steel and concrete tunnel. The coroner’s office listed the cause of death for 88 of the 93 souls who died that day as being due to massive blunt force. (Four passengers subsequently passed in hospitals.)

 

First responders faced difficult challenges when they arrived at Malbone Street. The wreck was partially in an open-cut trench about than 100 feet below the surface and partially in the tunnel. Ladders had to be procured. A block and tackle system had to be rigged to remove the seriously injured victims needing stretchers. The Spanish Flu outbreak complicated rescues. Ambulances were in short-supply and hospitals were already overcrowded. The dead were set aside and ultimately removed to an armory for identification.

 

The public was furious, and the Brooklyn District Attorney indicted Luciano and five BRT executives for manslaughter. The defense forced a change in venue from Brooklyn to Mineola, Long Island for obvious reasons. After lengthy trials, none were found guilty.

 

For this and other long festering reasons, the Brooklyn Rapid Transit was forced into receivership. Ultimately, re-christened, the Brooklyn Manhattan Transit, Management of the BMT eventually compensated the victims with a fund of $1.4 million, ($18 million today.)

 

Malbone Street ceased to exist. Forever tainted by the horrific loss of life, city fathers re-christened it, Empire Boulevard

 

All that remains of the line is a short, three-station shuttle that moves passengers between Prospect Park and Fulton Street. The wall of death also remains but is in limited revenue service.

 

No plaques or recognition. Perhaps the one hundredth anniversary will correct that?

 

Kathryn pointed out that when Luciano emerged from his motorman’s booth, his obvious path of escape was to open the front door. He stepped off the front platform and walked 142 feet away from the wreck to the Prospect Park Station without having to look back at the carnage.

 

When Luciano opened the operator’s compartment, he ran into a dazed passenger, Charles Darling who asked what had happened? Darling subsequently reported to the police that Luciano, in an incredible moment of candor replied, “I don’t know. I lost control of the damn thing.”

 

 

 

The young man who worked at the bike shop in the port town of Avalon on Catalina Island began his five to seven-minute tutorial as soon as we signed the waivers holding them harmless for all liabilities including injuries we could sustain by riding electric powered bicycles (E-Bikes) during the next two hours.

 

He walked us through how to increase and decrease the gear ratios to help us pedal the E-Bikes over the numerous up-hills and down-hills we would encounter, how to work the electric motor throttle and the front and rear brakes. “Remember, these are disc-brakes, not traditional hand brakes. To use them, don’t press and hold them. If you do, the bike will suddenly stop, and you may go flying over the handlebars. Squeeze them gently, on and off.”

 

I knew he didn’t see the weird look on my face as he explained braking. As if by magic, his words transported me back to the summer of 1957 in Cutler Ridge, Florida. My father had put me on his Vesper motor scooter and was explaining how to brake it. The old man was bit more elegant but less P.C. than the young man, “John, touch the brake like you are squeezing a girl’s breast.”

 

Mary Ann returned me to the moment with her worried question and plea, “Do we really want to ride these things?”

 

“Yes, yes, of course we do. C’mon, lets do it, we’ve been looking forward to this.”

 

I hoped my adamant reply concealed my own doubts and any panic in my voice.

 

But our guide only raised more red flags as he took out a map and set out his recommended route. “Head out on the coastal road that gives you about a half mile to get used to the bikes. Remember, they weigh over twenty pounds so don’t make sharp turns or brake hard. Use your electric motor judiciously and brake easy and often on the downhills.”

 

When he warned us about watching out for other tourists driving rented four and six-passenger golf carts, I really became nervous.

 

Again, came the warning, “Do we really want to ride these things?”

 

Thanks to male ego or call it what you will, I stayed the course with, “C’mon, let’s do this.”

 

And so, we started off. Leading the way, I had only gone about fifty feet when I was forced to stop for a woman inching a golf cart out of a parking area. Seeing me she stopped. I clearly had the right-of-way and began to move forward when she looked beyond me to see if the road was clear and pulled out. “Son of a bitch,” I murmured to myself as I jammed on the brakes to let her pass.

From the back seat, one of her companions who witnessed this near miss said as he passed by, “Sorry, rookie driver.”

 

I learned what I could during that first half mile but any confidence I acquired evaporated as we climbed a series of switchbacks that led us up the side of a mountain, especially those stretches where we had to navigate on the outside half of the road. I was able to climb even the steepest hills by peddling while keeping the motor at full throttle.

 

But I had to force all my attention on keeping a line away from the edge while not straying out of my narrow lane. By the time we reached a scenic overlook, my state of mind was such that I really didn’t observe the spectacular scenery. The many houses that clung to the hillsides should have been impressive as the beautiful harbor filled with boats big and small, but my preoccupation trumped enjoyment.

 

Realizing how high we had climbed only intensified my state. A group of twenty-something young adults took a photo of the two of us and asked us how we were doing. “Okay, so far, but we hate having to stay close to the edge.”

 

One young man responded, “You don’t have to, this road is one way.”

 

How do you say “relief?” “One way!”

 

We made it the rest of the way and back into town. Still in the lead, I decided to halt at a stop sign to check our location and discuss where we could go next. After I brought my bike to a stop, I turned off the battery to prevent inadvertently using the throttle and stepped off to use the kick-stand. I moved my left foot onto the ground. Holding the bike steady, I lifted my right foot to clear the relatively low bar,

 

My right leg failed me, the combination of a seventy-four-year old knee and a replacement hip. The weight of the bike won out and over I went. First response: check all body parts. All good, but my left leg was pinned under the bike held fast by my right leg that remained on top.

 

Slowly I lifted the bike to free my left leg. It was then that Mary Ann arrived. “Oh my God, are you all right?”

 

“Yeah. A few bruises, nothing of concern.”

 

I was able to stand and right the bike. We biked for a while longer before returning them. My left knee had the kind of blood wound that seven-year-olds regularly suffer.

 

God bless Mary Ann for remaining silent about the folly of our adventure. Instead she accompanied me to a local pharmacy to purchase Neosporin and over-size band-aids to cover my wound.

 

We had a pleasant dinner before boarding the ferry for the return trip to Dana Point and our car ride home to Carlsbad.