John Delach

My First Flight: Bill Christman

It’s truly amazing to me how vividly I can recall my travel experiences from that Labor Day weekend in 1964 and yet have no recollection of the weekend I spent with Helen and Don at Journey’s End itself.

I recall arriving by train at the Brattleboro station, looking at my watch to see that it was about 2:30 am Saturday morning and seeing my brother-in-law looking fresh and bright all set to drive me to their Journey’s End cabin. But from that time to Monday late morning my mind is a blank, and so it goes.

My game plan was to fly home as I had never flown before. Just like my first real train trip on Friday night, I wanted to experience flight for the first time. Come Monday, I remember getting more and more nervous as the time drew closer for us to leave for the airport, but not so nervous that I would back out. Mother Nature helped granting me a clear day of beautiful weather so that would not be a factor. Don drove me to the Keene airport while my sister Helen and my mother stayed back with my infant niece Anne-Marie.

The trip to the airport was memorable in one aspect. Most of the ride was on a simple two-lane winding country thoroughfare that had the necessary traffic lines dividing the road. A broken line on your side of the rode meant passing was permitted; a solid line meant don’t even think about passing. Somewhere along the way two young punks drove immediately in front of us and would crawl at say 20 mph when no passing was allowed and then speed up to the point where you could not attempt to pass when it was permitted. They seem to be in front of us most of the 20 or so miles to the airport but eventually went their own way.

At that time, Dillant-Hopkins Airport, (The airport’s official name) offered non-stop service to JFK on Mohawk Airlines. I bought my ticket at the counter, spending about $20 for a coach seat. My thinking was that I would figure out how to get home from there with the limited resources that I still had, meaning I was damn close to broke.

The flight was about half-full and uneventful although for a while I believed that my fellow passengers owed me a debt of gratitude for my keeping that plane in the air through sheer willpower. I remember being disappointed that the plane flew as high as it did since this minimized my view of the ground, but this was a minor annoyance and we arrived on time and in good order.

Relieved and safely on the ground, I exited the terminal and walked toward an area where several green municipal buses were waiting to begin their next runs. One of the first I saw had “World’s Fair” as its destination and I knew the Fair was relatively close to home if only I could find a local bus there. On arrival at the World Fair’s bus parking area, I found a sign showing where different buses stopped. One of them was the B-58, the Flushing-Ridgewood bus, that ran down Grand Street in Maspeth, within walking distance to my house. Almost safe at home, I boarded the next bus to arrive and handed my transfer to the driver.

Unexpected Encounter: John Delach

Mary Ann and I were seeing each other on a regular basis by Labor Day of 1964. We spent at least part of that holiday weekend together. Like, Bill, I too cannot remember the details of our experiences that weekend. However, I do recall that I left her family’s home that Monday afternoon to begin my long bus trip home. First, I grabbed any one of three buses of opportunity to Flushing followed by the long trek via the B-58 that would meander to the World’s Fair, then on through Corona, Elmhurst and Maspeth before finally reaching Ridgewood. Once on board, I opened my paperback book to pass the time, likely a James Bond novel or a book about World War II.

The Fair always drew my attention so when the bus stopped at the Rodman Street’s Worlds Fair Terminal, I put down my book to pay attention to what was going on. Lo and behold, entering the bus, shoving a paper transfer to the driver was my cousin and just-graduated, former college buddy, Bill Christman.

I saw him before he saw me. I know I fired the first salvo but I’m certain I wasn’t so quick to think of a line so clever that it blew his socks off.

Bill recalls, “I heard from the back a familiar voice shouting, ‘So you’re going away for the weekend, huh?’ It was my cousin and good friend John. Eagerly and anxiously I could not wait to talk about the topic then upper most in my mind; my first plane ride. Visiting Journey’s End, my sister Helen and her husband or my mom, forget about it. I flew in a plane. Wowzah!”

A guest blog by Bill Christman

Summer trips to Journey’s End stopped once our Dad took ill. He passed on Christmas Eve, 1957. RIP, Dad.

Life continued and we carried on. My sister, Helen, married Don Markey and once their first baby, Anne Marie, came into the world, Helen revived the Journey’s End experience. In 1964. Helen and Don thrilled Mom by inviting her to join them there.

I was working for Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in Manhattan, having started there in early July following my graduation from St. Francis College. Helen surprised me with a call from New Hampshire inviting me to join them for the upcoming Labor Day weekend.

That call became my proverbial “one small step” that began my not-so-giant leap.

Mom had driven the 200 or so miles in our 1959 Ford and I had no car of my own. I had gone with my parents to Journey’s End as a kid several times. I loved the place and I wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity some ten years later. Besides I was 21 and full of myself even though I was hardly worldly or sophisticated. How to get there and return home? I decided to take the train from NYC and fly home.

This was my first opportunity to ride on a real train, not the NYC subway.

I bought a ticket for the train leaving on Friday after work meaning a late arrival in Brattleboro, VT. I vaguely remember asking a ticket agent at Grand Central Terminal for a ticket to Brattleboro being told I would have to change trains. That was upsetting, I was a rookie, what if I missed my connection or fell asleep and didn’t get off? This is not the subway where you just double back or wait it out. I had no choice but to stay awake.

How did I let my sister know what train I would be on? None of the cabins had phones and forget about cell phones-this was 1964. I must have called the Rilling’s main house and left a message for Helen.

I asked the conductor to let me know when we reached my transfer station. (Let’s say it was New Haven although I’m not sure of that.) As we rode onward through Connecticut I became more concerned. In the oncoming darkness many stations either had no identification or I could not identify them before the train moved on. The loudspeaker, what there was of it, sounded garbled or only on in the other cars.

The conductor, true to his word, told me this was my station when we reached New Haven and I’m sure I pushed everyone out of the way, so I could detrain before they closed the doors and pulled out. It didn’t seem long before my next train arrived; I remember asking the conductor if this train stopped at Brattleboro and he assured me it did. Ahh, things were moving in the right direction. But not for long.

The train was scheduled to in Brattleboro around 11:30 pm. That was not going to happen. I joke that we spent too much time standing at various stations, probably waiting for mail to arrive or delivering milk. It became obvious that sticking to a timetable was not a priority.

Little did I understand when making my reservations that the North-Eastern railroads were going to hell in a hand basket and the last thing on their agenda was passenger service. They were bleeding money because of antiquated union contracts and ICC restrictions on pricing and loss of passengers. By 1964, hardly anybody took long distance trains in the North East. The interstates opened up New England for easy access by cars and buses and people flew for longer distances. Had I taken a bus, I would have easily made it to Brattleboro by 11:30.

Springfield, Mass was the worst; a long delay with no explanation. Vendors came through the cars with the most unappetizing sandwiches, which most passengers passed up, me included. When a newspaper vendor came through with the next day’s edition, I began to get concerned about whether I would ever get there.

I probably dozed off several times as we made our way north along the Connecticut River valley stopping at towns like Amherst, Northampton, Deerfield and Greenfield before finally entering Vermont.

We finally pulled into the Brattleboro station at 2:30 am. In my mind’s eye I still see a chipper looking Don Markey greeting me, appearing as though sleep was no problem for him. The five miles or so trip from the station to Journey’s End is only a blur but I do hope I had the good sense to apologize to everyone the next morning for my tardiness and interrupting their sleep.

The worst team in the National Football League, the Cleveland Browns, exceeded last year’s horror show of finishing 1-15 by losing all sixteen games this season. Once again, their awful record entitles the Browns to pick first in the 2018 NFL Draft. That draft, a semi-socialist, semi-indentured servitude process that makes superbly athletic young males instant millionaires will begin on April 26^th at the home of the Dallas Cowboys, AT&T Stadium, in Arlington, Texas.

The second pick will go to my beloved, New York Football Giants who earned this dubious distinction by self-destruction, winning only three games while losing thirteen. Along the way they embarrassed their franchise quarterback by benching him. This led to the firing of both their general manager and head coach who both pleaded: “I was only following orders.”

The owner-in-charge who initiated that benching ducked any responsibility. It’s good to be the owner.

Much will be speculated in the coming months about who my beloved Giants will select in the draft and how this will affect Eli Manning, the man whose benching caused the shit storm. (Full discloser; Mr. Manning is my quarterback of record so what’s good for Eli, is good for me.)

This will play out between now and April and I will report as needed. But, let me take you back to 1981, the last time my beloved Giants had the second pick in the NFL draft.

The Giants imploded in 1980; general manager, George Young, head coach, Ray Perkins and quarterback, Phil Simms, all in their second year together, finished 4-12 earning the second pick behind the New Orleans Saints.

There was absolutely no talk of replacing Young, Perkins or Simms despite the awful record. Wellington Mara, Young and Perkins all had a laser focus of who they wanted to pick in the draft: North Carolina’s unanimous All-American linebacker, Lawrence Taylor. The only force  that stood between them and Taylor was Bum Phillips, general manager and head coach of the Saints. The smart money predicted Phillips would select George Rogers, the South Carolina running back and winner of the Heisman Trophy. But Phillips remained coy and the Giants brain trust feared the Saints would trade down.

Taylor’s ability and ferocity were not exactly trade secrets across other teams’ personnel scouts and selectors. Gil Brandt of Dallas noted that Taylor, “… was the best player available on our list.” Mike Hickey, the Jets personnel director called Taylor, “A linebacker freak. He’s too big to be that fast, too fast to be that big and too tough to be stopped easily, if at all.”

Dave Anderson of The New York Times covered the first day of the draft on Tuesday, April 28 held in the New York Sheraton. He reported that NFL Commissioner, Pete Rozelle, began: “New Orleans first up,” the commissioner said. When the commissioner announced that the Saints had chosen George Rogers…at the Giants table, Ed Croke (public relations director) tore up a card with Rogers name on it and handed another card to Jim Heffeman of the NFL office who hurried up to Pete Rozelle with it.

“The Giants,” the commissioner was saying now, “select North Carolina linebacker”…That’s all the draftniks had to hear. They knew that the only North Carolina linebacker who counted was Lawrence Taylor, 6 feet 3 inches, 242 pounds – “a one-man demolition crew,” according to the NFL profile sheets. The draftniks whooped in agreement. “That’s the first time in six years” a Giants historian grunted, “that they cheered.” 

The man who quickly become known as LT was a New York Football Giant and would lead the team to its first playoff appearance in 17 years that season. The long nightmare was over.

Once the 1981 season ended Ray Perkins, who was stingy when it came to compliments, noted: “He’s a prototype outside linebacker in the National Football League. He’s an excellent blitzer, he’s an excellent tackler, he’s smart and he had a great impact on our football team. And I’ve already made this statement and I’ll make it again, that he’s the best young player I’ve seen at any position as a rookie.”

George Young best explained the force that LT brought to the game: “If you went to a ball game and had no idea who the best players were, and you just sat and watched the game, suddenly about five-minutes into the game you’ll be watching Lawrence Taylor.”

Big Blue should be so fortunate this year both in selecting their new head coach and what they do with their selection.

Guest Blog by Peter King

Up until the early 1970s, ship-borne cargo was transported as “break bulk,” meaning inside the holds of freighters, stacked on wooden pallets that had to be loaded and unloaded by scores of longshoremen. These hardened workmen shaped-up every morning on the waterfront at the entrance to dozens of finger piers that jutted out into the bays and rivers separating Manhattan, Brooklyn and Staten Island. Agents from the stevedoring companies that ran each pier selected who would work that day based on seniority, favoritism, the union’s orders, the mob, kick-backs or having a rabbi; troublemakers didn’t work.

Those working that day descended ladders into the bowels of these break bulk freighters in the same manner their forbearers did. Dressed in cover-all’s, work boots, tattered sweaters or sweatshirts over flannel shirts most days of the year, they manhandled the pallets, hooking them onto the ship’s cranes that lifted the contents over the side and down onto the apron of the pier. Forklift operators scooped up the cargo stacking it inside the shed that covered the pier.

The older wooden sheds were almost alive, a place that grabbed onto your senses. The wood absorbed a complex combination of aromas from the commodities stored there over the years. Cargoes accumulated waiting delivery to their destinations: bags of coffee, cocoa, chocolate and tea, bales of unprocessed gum, molds of rubber, timber of every size and description and rolls of newsprint. Some items arrived damaged, their contents staining the floor. Residues of olive oil, beer, whiskey, tomato paste and sugar, tins of sardines in oil or tomatoes, anchovies, herring and mackerel. These powerful odors assaulted the eyes and the nose of anyone entering the pier, especially first timers or outsiders.

These piers were dangerous places. Every aisle was a canyon. Stored cargo rose twenty-feet or more with pallets stacked five or six high. They were subject to landslides if uneven or if the weight of the topmost load crushed the cargo beneath. Cargo shifted and crashed to the floor without warning.

Both four-legged and two legged varieties of rats and other vermin would bite if surprised. The four-legged ones were omnipresent, the two-legged ones were rarer but just as dangerous. It was not wise to interrupt a drinking session, a craps game, or to suggest having witnessed ongoing theft or a shakedown.

Courtesy required a visitor to meet first with the Checker before entering the pier. The Checker controlled the pier and his shack guarded the entrance from the street. Today, he’d be called a fixer. The checker expedited what was needed and what had to happen to release cargo from the pier. This was his world. He knew US Customs, union rules and who needed to be paid and how much. The smart visitor came prepared, paid what was needed, followed instructions, had his cargo loaded onto waiting vehicles, tipping the men delivering it, and exited the pier only after the Checker knew he was leaving.

Nor was it wise to frequent the bars in the surrounding neighborhood. They were the exclusive realm of the longshoremen and warehousemen who were not interested in the company of strangers, especially those wearing a jacket and tie.

Many of the piers had been active since the mid-1800s. They developed their own language, customs, hierarchy, code of honor, justice and punishment. Because it was a complex society, it was hard to imagine how fragile it was and how quickly it would disintegrate. In 1969, the finger piers in Brooklyn were all active but by 1975 they were deserted except for squatters, vandals and varmints.

Cargo now arrived in steel boxes on container ships bound across the harbor for the new terminals at Port Newark and Port Elizabeth, New Jersey. The backwater infrastructure serving the Brooklyn piers ceased to exist as did the bars and sandwich shops. Fires, either accidental or deliberate, destroyed several piers and buildings. Others were torn down.

For years, the waterfront remained silent and abandoned due to archaic zoning laws that prevented anything but industrial development. Finally, Mayor Michael Bloomberg in the guise of bidding on the 2012 Summer Olympics seduced the City Council to change waterfront zoning.

As if by magic the waterfront began to transform. Real estate developers designed new apartment towers in Greenpoint and Williamsburg. Industry City, those abandoned factories and warehouses in Sunset Park, have been born again into broadcast studios, think tanks, a Fairway’s supermarket, an Ikea and on it goes. The Brooklyn Navy Yard, long a backwater since the navy left, rose from the dead as did its surrounding neighborhood.

The more modern Brooklyn piers, Piers 1 through Pier 11, rebuilt by the Port Authority in the late 1960s, were converted into parks and other family friendly fun places with water taxis and ferries connecting the lot. Welcome to Twenty-first Century New York City!

No denying that, but for me, a bit sad. It is as if those Brooklyn piers, their commerce, energy and the men who made it come alive never existed.

I worked on the waterfront for two years, 1969 to 1971 especially in Brooklyn. I spent considerable time on one pier in particular, “The pier at the foot of 29^th Street.” I even treasure its peculiar name.

I was 25 the first time I set foot on that pier and I learned much there, I learned about working men, tough guys, how to get along and survive and life itself. In my mind, that pier is as real and vivid as it was back in the day.

Author’s note: An earlier version of “Brooklyn Piers” appeared in “The Big Orange Dog” my 2011 anthology of pieces I wrote between 2000 and 2010 before I began this blog. If you are interested, a Kindle version is available on Amazon. The price is right, but I have no idea where the proceeds, if any, go. 

“Your flight is delayed.” However, you discover this unpleasant news, it means trouble, trouble for you and those traveling with you. Trouble with connections, your ride home from the airport or the plans you made for the rest of the day.

Word that your flight has been delayed may reach you by way of a text or an email from your carrier, from the message board at the airport or by word of mouth from an airline employee. No matter the source, that first notice is a knife wound, a loss of heart and confidence, a silent or half whispered, “Damn,” or “Oh sh**.”

If you are a seasoned traveler, your plan of actions begins with, “How do I determine if the time of the delay is real or if it is going to continue to lengthen until it becomes a nightmare?”

Why? Because, once a delay is posted, it can only get worse. We have all suffered delays, they are part of the process. My approach is to get in front of the delay, find out as much as I can about the cause and seek out realistic alternatives before the enemy; my fellow passengers, wake-up to the problem.

On Friday, December 15, Mary Ann and I left the South Seas Resort in Captiva, Florida at 8:07 AM to begin the return journey to our home in Port Washington, NY. Mary Ann drove our rented Jeep Renegade to the Fort Myers Airport for our Jet Blue flight to JFK scheduled to depart at 11:02 AM. As we waited to check in two bags, I walked over to the departure board. To my chagrin, there was an alert that our departure had slipped forty-minutes to 11:42. “Oh sh**.” I exclaimed to myself as Mary Ann caught my eye.

Once we were at the counter I asked the agent checking us in, “Can you tell if the inbound airplane that will become our flight has taken off?”

She checked her computer and replied, “It left on time and is in the air and will land at 10:18.”

“Interesting,” I replied. “For some reason the departure board is showing a forty-minute delay?”

“That’s not unusual. We don’t control those boards, the airport does. That’s probably some other airline.”

As we walked away, we turned to each other and agreed that it was highly unlikely that two different airlines would have flights departing at an odd time like 11:02. Once we reached the central lobby I excused myself for a pit stop.

After my toilet break I wandered over to the main Departure Board while a middle school band performed their interpretation of Christmas Carols into funeral dirges. How appropriate, I thought. Looking up at the flights my mind registered that it showed Jet Blue Flight 430 departing at 11:02 AM: On Time! WTF! How can this be? My only thought was Mary Ann’s probable reaction, “Are you insane? Delays do not disappear, what did you see on the other board?”

Instead, when Mary Ann rejoined me she said, “I was looking at the board when you went to the Men’s Room. Just like that, the delay disappeared, and our original departure time re-appeared.”

We were stunned. In all of our years of travel, especially me, we have never, ever witnessed a delay reversing itself. Such an event does not happen. What the hell was going on here?

At the gate, departure time remained 11:02 and we began to board accordingly. We were in the last group scheduled to board Jet Blue Flight 430, so we had just lined up when the agent at the gate explained, “The captain has requested a rapid boarding to avoid being delayed. Once everyone is on board, the door will close and once the Jetway pulls away, your flight is considered as departed and not subject to a ground delay.”

Our fellow passengers complied, the ground tug pushed the A320 back at 11:00, we taxied out and went wheels up at 11:07. With a monster tailwind, we made wheels on the ground at JFK at 1:02 PM, less than two-hours in the air. Seriously, RSW to JFK in less than two hours flying time, OMG!

I asked one of the flight attendants just what had happened to the delay? She explained with a mischievous look in her eyes and on her face, “The delay was a warning. The airport posted it, but the Captain took it only as a warning and didn’t confirm he accepted it. He knew he had a window to get ahead of it and that’s what he did.”

Sign me up for that captain, anytime, anywhere!

Both of our children chose to spend a semester of their junior year in the United Kingdom in different colleges located outside of London. Curiously, circumstances made their experiences completely different. The good news is I was totally available for our daughter Beth who traveled first, spending her semester at Reading University during the winter / spring of 1990.

One year later, our son, Michael, was preparing to spend the second semester of his sophomore year at New England College’s UK campus in the town of Arundel when the sh** hit the fan; Desert Storm, President Herbert Walker (41) Bush’s war. The United States led a coalition of allies from far and wide in a conflict designed to kick Sadam Hussein out of Kuwait.

A daughter is a daughter and not being available for Beth would have been a disaster especially at that point in time, I seemed to spend almost half of my life in London.

In the same sense, a son is a son. When it was Michael’s chance to go overseas, few were flying. My own company, Marsh & McLennan, prohibited us from going overseas without the chairman’s permission; I kid you not!

My experience with Beth:

Reading University will never be confused with the elite so called “public schools” like Eaton, Cambridge or Oxford. They called Reading a “red brick university,” one of nine colleges established at the turn of the Twentieth Century to open higher education to Britain’s middle class. Reading was spartan by our standards to say the least, especially for a young American woman’s toilet needs.

Say no more; Daddy is on his way! Having immense flexibility at that time, I invented reasons for three business trips to London during Beth’s stay that included expanded weekend stays. My game plan was simple, I’d book the 10 AM TWA flight out of JFK on Friday mornings enabling me to make it to the Sheraton Perk Tower in the West End between 10 PM and 11PM, London time.

I booked the room for an early Friday morning arrival. This allowed Beth and her new friend, Debbie Parrot, another American girl from Indiana to check in early using my account. This way, they could enjoy the luxuries of a four-star hotel; mini bar, full bath and room service including high tea.

On arrival, I went straight to the room. First order of business was to hand Beth and Debbie treasures from America that they had requested. After I freshened up, I escorted these two pretty women to a late dinner. Our usual destination was a curious little place with the moniker “Foxtrot Oscar,” (F.O.)

To the day I die, I will treasure the leering looks I received from guests and staff as we walked through the lobby and into a taxi. As a bonus, my status and treatment at the Park Tower improved immensely. After dinner, we’d deposit Debbie at the Paddington Railway station, where she could catch the train to Reading.

Beth and I would spend the weekend together. Shopping and sightseeing on Saturday, the theatre that night and brunch and walks in Hyde Park on Sunday. Late afternoon we’d say goodbye and Beth would take a taxi to Paddington to return to Reading with a collection of the Park Tower’s bath products.

It was only after Beth came home that a friendly secretary at our London office took me aside and admitted, “Some of us thought you had a girlfriend in London because you started taking the ‘boyfriend flight.’ That’s what we call the Friday morning flight from New York. You Yanks, who had a squeeze over here took it, so you’d have a full weekend together.”

My experience with Michael

The extent of my physical contact with Michael ended when we dropped him off at the Virgin Airline check-in at the International Building at JFK. It was a cold Monday night in late January. Desert Shield, the buildup for Desert Storm, the shooting war was well underway. Super Bowl XXV would be played the following Sunday. There were only three other cars in the vast parking lot. Intense security forced Mary Ann and I to say our goodbyes outside Virgin Airline’s vestibule. The night’s chill intensified as we watch Michael walk away with his over-sized hockey bag.

Of course, we were worried by the same concerns that made my company ground all of us from flying internationally. But Michael wanted to go, and I agreed this was an experience not to be missed. We picked Virgin as they were not a high-risk target like British Airways, Pan Am or TWA could be.

Knowing that I wouldn’t see him again until he was back in the USA, I offered Michael three pieces of sensible advice for him to follow during his time in Britain: “Look left before stepping into a two-way street. Watch your head, you are a 6/5 person in a 4/5 size country. The Queen and the Royal Family are none of your business. Whenever the subject comes up, walk away.”

Fortunately, I was able to send Michael anything he needed via my company’s overnight pouch. I addressed these parcels to a friendly senior secretary and she forwarded them unopened via the Royal Mail. Michael received his goods in two days without exception. I would include a copy of a now defunct daily sports newspaper called The National. Inside, each copy I included a $20 bill with a note, “Andy Jackson says hello.” Michael’s school was in the town of Arundel and he and his mates made additional spending money by participating in lineups for the local police.

I also had him bring most of his belongings up to our London office, so he didn’t have to lug them home. I was glad to see him when I met him at JFK in late May, even after I realized he was sporting a pierced earing with the skull and crossbones.

“On the Outside Looking In” will not publish next week as I will be traveling.  

Max turned seven on September 9, 2017 He came to live with us on November 10, 2010. He and his sister, Ruby, came to us via truck from their birthplace in Missouri. The delivery service with the unlikely name of PetEx Express transported these sibling Golden Retrievers in one travel crate as part of a shipment of puppies going to various destinations on the East Coast. Fortunately, both Golden Retrievers arrived clean and in perfect health. Mary Ann and our daughter-in-law, Jodie, lifted both pups up to tell who was the boy and who was the girl.  The boy, already named, Max, stayed with Mary Ann and me and Ruby went to her new home in Connecticut, a birthday gift for Jodie.

In many ways Max was great from the moment he arrived. Housebroken from day one, he never cried during the night and took to his crate like it was his second home. He was so laid back that when one of us went down to open his crate in the morning, he went through a series of stretches before deciding to begin a new day.  Feeding was easy; Max was born with a food alarm clock. Since we fed him both breakfast and dinner every day, his breakfast gong rang as soon as he was up, and his dinner alarm went off between 4 and 4:30 PM. Max loved treats, any time and all the time.

…And now for the bad news, Max was hell on wheels as a pup. He was all teeth wasting anything in his path. Fortunately, he never took to furniture, but he did take to objects made of cloth or fabric. This boy could destroy a tee-shirt, jacket or towel in the blink of an eye, but he was a hard-wired natural retriever. No matter what he stole or destroyed, he insisted on displaying it in front of us, so we could see how well he retrieved stuff.

His behavior became serious when he decided that kids were playthings and separating them from their shirts, sweaters and jackets was his retriever mission. He favored kids wearing sweatshirts with hoods, so called, “hoodies.” Give Max a kid running with a hoodie and he was off. (He now weighed about 50 pounds and he was young, determined and fast.) He’d come up behind his designated play toy, time his leap and grab onto the hood dragging them down. “Gotcha!” Now he tried to retrieve them by dragging them where he thought they should go. The poor kid now on his or her back usually didn’t take kindly to his shenanigans nor did their parents.

Not good, not good at all!

We had a serious problem. In so many ways, Max was a great dog, but kid tackling was clearly unacceptable. We were proactive, trainers, shock collars and anything that seemed to work. We even hired teenagers to act the part of, “flopping children.” Under the supervision of a trainer who used a shock collar they allowed Max to attempt to retrieve them so that our trainer could electronically reel Max in when he went after them. Our grandchildren, dog lovers all, volunteered to play the part for a price with mixed results. Finally, a dog-whisperer type trainer advised, keep up the work and he’ll outgrow this and turn his attention elsewhere.

He did finally outgrow this awful behavior, but it took five years before we no longer had to be on guard ready to leash and remove him when flopping children came to his dog park. Max will always be nose and tooth sensitive. But we cater to his need with treats and toys. Treats are easy, he’s a food hound. Toys, not so easy. One problem solved, replaced by a new problem, toy destruction.

Remember, he’s all nose, all teeth; give Max a toy advertised as indestructible…life expectancy, ten minutes. Absolutely indestructible; 12 minutes and, absolutely, positively indestructible with a money back guarantee; 15 minutes. I kid you not. We have bought toys in stores, on line, garage sales, and charity sales. Old toys from grandkids, used athletic articles; tennis balls, baseballs, footballs, hockey pucks, whatever; ole Max made short shift of their existence. The only object that he cannot destroy is not really a toy. It is a rubber coated solid steel door stop we use in New Hampshire that he steals when all else fails. We call it, “Max’s indestructible toy,” and his teeth marks on the rubber surface attest to his endless battles with it for dominance.

Last Christmas, we finally found a toy that he absolutely loves called Outdoor Dog by All For Paws (AFP.) Simple but hardly indestructible, it is a canvas covered tube 11 inches long with a diameter of three inches. Inside is a large plastic squeaky bladder with approximately the same dimensions as the canvas cover. Max instantly took to this toy constantly carrying it around in his mouth. After about a week, he bit the canvas seam opening it and over the next few days, he carefully extracted the bladder. He loved this plastic tube even more than the original toy and proceeded to carry this bladder everywhere while at home squeaking it as he walked along. We expected he’d bite a hole into it in a few days, but weeks went by then months and he left it in tact. Finally, one fateful day, visitors came and in a frenzy, he destroyed it.

Off to Pet Land, I purchased another and he was thrilled when he heard the familiar sound it made. His squeaky had been resurrected! This one lasted longer as we hid it out of sight whenever we expected company, but eventually the plastic wore thin and succumbed to his teeth. Obviously, this toy had a finite lifetime. Sooner or later Max would bite too hard or it would just give out.

We ordered five more from Amazon and when this supply fell to three backups, we tried to order more only to discover that it had been discontinued. Since then we have tried many different sources without success. Desperately, I contacted All For Paws and I hope to hear from them as Max has been reduced to one working Squeaky but only one left in reserve.

Otherwise, we are doomed. So now let us pray that we find a solution.

Two months ago, I vented my frustration with Jet Blue for radically changing the Estimated Time of Departure (ETD) for my family’s flight from Tampa, FL from 11:06 AM to 6 AM. A letter to their CEO followed by a complaint to their Customer Commitment (Center) rectified much of my misery. We re-booked on a flight out of Orlando leaving at 12:15 PM providing us with a civilized wake-up call of 8 AM as opposed to one of 3 AM.

My son rented a car from Hertz using his corporate discount and I made the case to my Customer Commitment Crewmember, Janet, that Jet Blue should reimburse me for the rental cost as part of our inconvenience. Without commitment, she asked me to submit my proof of expense.

Long story short, I submitted both the Hertz receipt for $132.60 and the itemized Amex charge for the same amount. Jet Blue responded promptly agreeing to reimburse me with a pre-paid Visa card in that amount. Game set and match!

So why the title? True, my Jet Blue blues have been lifted, but I like this title and it leads into the second part of this story.

When Michael, Drew, Matt and I made our fan trip to Tampa, our beloved, Big Blue, the New York Football Giants, were a dismal 0-4. They lost that game against the Buccaneers dropping to 0-5. Since then, Big Blue has lost four more games while winning only one making their won / loss record a horrendous 1-9.

On November 5^th, the wheels fell off the wagon as Big Blue was obliterated by the LA Rams 51 to 17 on a rainy Sunday afternoon at Met Life Stadium in the Meadowlands. Brutal, a disgrace, players gave up, quit; shamed themselves. I have been a season ticket holder for 56 years, so I have seen more than my fair share of lousy football. Once, Big Blue’s unexpected collapse this season would have had me going berserk, acting like a lunatic. Fortunately, at 73, I take Big Blue’s triumphs and failures in my stride, calmer, much calmer than ever before. But, still, when it becomes obvious that the team is a train wreck, it’s time to let ownership know. This is what I wrote to John Mara, President and CEO of the Giants following the Rams debacle:

Dear Mr. Mara,

When my mates and I gave up the ghost and left the Rams game early in the fourth quarter we encountered other Giants fans burning their game tickets in the parking lot.

I believe that tells you everything you need to know.

Sincerely, John J. Delach; Football Giants Season Ticket H.O.F. 2013

Unfortunately, the following week Big Blue traveled west to play the winless San Francisco 49ers. How’d that work out? The Giants cratered once again losing by a score of 31 to 21 in a fiasco that wasn’t nearly as close as the final score indicated.

On November 17, I received the following reply signed by Mr. Mara and dated three days earlier:

I have your letter. I feel worse than you do. When you are 1 and 8 there is not much you can say. We will evaluate everything after the season and make a decision about how to move forward.

Thank you for your many years of loyal support.

Next up, the Kansas City Chiefs at home in Met Life Stadium on November 19 at 1 PM. Ugh! Everything being equal, I’d stay home and skip it. But neither my friend Dave or his son could make it so he offered me his tickets. I asked my son if he thought grandsons Drew and Matt wanted to go and the answer was a resounding, “yes!”

Fine, count me in. Another quirk, my other buddy, Joe, couldn’t make it either so I chose to go by train rather than drive alone. The LIRR to Penn Station, NJ Transit, one stop to Secaucus then the dedicated shuttle to Met Life Stadium. Upon arrival at Penn Station, my heart dropped when I realized I had left my game ticket on my dresser. I texted Michael already in the parking lot: “All F***** up. Left game ticket at home! Do your best to scrounge a ticket for me. Worst case, I’ll enjoy tailgate and return home.”

Upon arrival at our tailgate, Joe Daniels, a regular greeted me with: “John, not a problem. I did the same thing two weeks ago only to discover that we have access to E-Tickets. Do you know your password?”

I did, and as if by magic, Joe downloaded my e-ticket to my phone.

Sunday should have been the Chief’s day. Ten points favorites, The Chiefs were well rested having had a week off and Andy Reid, their coach had a record of 16-2 coming off byes.

Once upon a time when the NFL was about to explode from an obscure after-thought to college football to the America’s top rated sport’s league, Bert Bell then the commissioner, made this remark: “On any given Sunday, any given NFL team can beat any other NFL team.”

New York and Kansas City went at it, going east and west in the swirling winds. NY went up 6-0 on a TD with a missed PAT. The Chiefs tied the contest, but late in the game the Giants kicked a field goal to make it 9 to 6. The Chiefs scored with two seconds left to make it 9-9.

By that time, I was on the train heading back to Secaucus. After boarding the connecting NJ Transit train headed to Penn Station, I discovered the Giants had grabbed their second victory of 2017 beating the Chiefs, 12-9 in overtime.

I was stunned. Overtime! I expected Big Blue to quit and KC to prevail. Make no mistake, the Giants are a bad team but for one autumn afternoon in November they upset a better team. There is a wonderful expression that gladdens rooting hearts and souls belonging to loyal fans. It explains how their underdog team can defeat the prohibitive favorite:

“And that’s why they play the game!”

The rustic charm of Journey’s End spread by word of mouth. Young families mostly from Boston and New York City flocked to this unique country retreat for their two-week summer vacations. In some ways it became a middle class “fresh air” experience. Popularity grew and families began to book their next year’s stay during the two-weeks they were there. As families became comfortable with their cabins, they booked them for the same two weeks the following year. Margaret Rilling began her annual ritual of marking these reservations on a large piece of oaktag that she divided into a grid. Across the top, each square designated a different cabin and on the left side, each week was listed in a separate square from July 1 to Labor Day.

The price was right and remained so. Helen found a price list from about 1950. The smallest cabins, the Chickadee, Bobolink and Oriole cost $45 per week for two people, $50 for three. Three family-size cabins, the Robin, Cardinal and Swallow went for $60 for a family of four, $65 for five. (The Bobolink and Oriole would subsequently be enlarged to family size.) The price for the two big cabins, the Raven and the Whip-poor-will, that could accommodate six to ten was “based on size of party.” For the odd person who desired to stay in the main house, the price was $35 per week.

During those early years, guests were encouraged to swim in the Connecticut River where they had a dock and a diving raft anchored to the bottom. Fortunately, the current moved slowly because the river was dammed in the village of Guilford just south of Brattleboro. Bob recalled that the path down to the river was via a thousand-slate staircase difficult to walk on. “One year, we found some trees had been cut and Mr. Rilling had made a trail from the first cabin parallel to the river through the woods down to the dock. I think you just had to go down a few cement stairs, but it was shorter, and you didn’t have to go up or down all of those slate steps.”

Bill recalls that Helen was a good swimmer. “I remember the float as being off the end of the dock, somehow anchored to keep it in place. I knew for sure I was not going to attempt going out to it even in the inner tube I used as my personal floater.”

Helen respone, “I can’t believe I swam to it. Despite swim lessons, I could barely stay afloat for more than a few strokes. I do remember waving to the passing trains on the other side of the river.”

Bill, “Yes, I too remember the train crews waving back to us from the engine and caboose, as well as passengers from passenger trains particularly during afternoons when we were all on the dock swimming.”

Eventually, the Christman family discovered a beach on Lake Spofford open to the public. Spofford was about ten miles east of Rillings via Route 9. But that beach wasn’t nice and had a rocky bottom, not much of an alternative from the river. Bill recalls that it was Helen who found Ware’s Grove Beach. Both the beach and lake bottom were sandy and offered a gentle slope into deeper water making novice swimmers more comfortable. The large dirt parking lot was home to a drive-in movie by night for many years. The order of the day was pack up the car with kids, food, drink, blankets and floats to spend the better part of the day there. (The beach at Ware’s Grove is still in business but the drive-in is long gone.) At some point Charles and Margaret Rilling added a full-size pool that included a diving board and a separate kiddie’s wading pool, virtually ending river swims. But Ware’s remained a welcome alternative for adults and kids.

Rituals and traditions were quickly established. Fathers were relatively young and in good shape. So was Charles Rilling and this led to almost nightly spirited softball games on the grass field behind the cabins. Fast food was far from common and a Howard Johnson’s was one of a few alternatives, close by, just across the bridge in Vermont where Route 9 met Route 5. Margaret established a weekly spaghetti dinner on the handball court near the main house. Burgers, hot dogs and spaghetti with strawberry short cake for dessert.

Bob remembers the heavy brown cooler. “We had it for umpteen years. It weighed a ton and hurt your hand to carry. My father also brought his ‘portable’ radio so he could listen to NY Giants baseball games. It also weighed a ton. Two batteries powered it, one was 69 ½ volts. Of course, it had vacuum tubes as transistors were not invented yet.”

Somehow, their father fit the cooler, his radio and an outboard motor into the car. Helen reported, “Dad enjoyed attaching the outboard to one of the rowboats Mr. Rilling had tied to the river’s edge. Once or twice he took the boat down to the junction where the West River flowed into the Connecticut River, a place where cattails grew. He’d bring back a bunch. He’d take them home to dry out so that they would be ready the following year, dried out so he could get them smoking so we could enjoy keeping the mosquitoes away with last year’s cattails.”

“Dad also used his power boat to make ice cream runs.” Bill continues, “Once or twice during our vacations, Dad would motor to the Dairy Bar by the West River Bridge, climb up from the river, get plenty of their home-made ice cream, climb back down and motor back to the dock with a treat for everyone.”

Bill, “There were grocery stores in Brattleboro where we could re-provision as needed. But shortly after we checked in on Saturday, a local milk man came to the cabin to ask if we wanted delivery. Mom always said ‘yes’ as she didn’t drive back then. The milk came in glass bottles and unlike at home, the bottles had to be manually shaken to mix the cream on top. As kids, we didn’t realize the milk was not homogenized and thought of it unique to Journey’s End.

Bob, “One year, I was flying a kite in the ball field with my father and mother. The kite took a dive and tangled in some wires above the field. I remember my parents yelling, ‘Don’t pull the string.’ So, you know what came next, I pulled on the kite pulling two uninsulated wires together. Bingo, I knocked out the power for the town of West Chesterfield. The power company was happy that Mr. Rilling reported it as they did not have to search out where the problem was. I feared the police would be called.”

Bill provided a final thought regarding their packed car: “However cramped we might have been on the trip up, we could always count on at least two boxes of liquor from the cheap state liquor stores being added to the load on the return trip.”