John Delach

I recently thought about this classic, silly and yet satisfyingly funny yarn:

Ms. Jones called on her third grade students individually to stand and tell what their mothers or fathers did for a living. Invariably, she came to little Johnny who stood and proudly proclaimed, “My father plays piano in a whorehouse!”

“What did you say!” gasped Ms. Jones.

Encouraged by what he took to be profound interests, Johnny repeated: “My father plays piano in a whorehouse!”

This led to a trip the office where Johnny repeated his bold statement to Ms Doyle, the principal. A suspension followed together with a letter to his parents requiring they provide an explanation in person before the suspension could be lifted.

Mr. and Mrs. Ford duly complied meeting with Ms. Jones and Ms Doyle. Mr. Ford apologized explaining that it wasn’t Johnny’s fault. “You see, he was only repeating what I told him each time he asked me where I worked.”

“Oh dear,” replied Principal Doyle. “Do you really play piano in a house of ill repute?”

“No, no, of course not, I only told Johnny that so he wouldn’t know I’m a lawyer.”

As Kurt Vonnegut once explained it: “We are who we pretend to be and that’s why we should be very careful who we pretend to be.”

Sometimes we don’t even realize who we are pretending to be especially when we ignore children’s presence when conversing with other adults. When my son, Michael was about to start first grade in a new school, Mary Ann told him that his big sister, Beth would show him the ropes. After his first day Mary Ann asked, “How was it?’

Michael replied, “All right, but I never saw the ropes.”

But the classic response happened when Michael was old enough to be part of our Port Washington version of little league, Diane, another boy’s mother picked up her son, Mark and Michael from baseball practice one afternoon. As Diane drove with the two boys in the back seat she witnessed the following exchange:

Mark: “Your father travels a lot, what does he do?”

Michael: “I don’t really know, but he goes to lots of places, tells people what to do and, when they do it, he comes home.”

If only it had been that simple!

Boeing has announced that building new 747s may be in doubt. Reading the piece in the Wall Street Journal, I gathered that part of this is a ploy to force Congress to put up or shut up about authorizing the funds to build the two needed replacement aircraft specialty designed to serve and protect the President of the United States, the ones commonly referred to as Air Force One when our national leader is on board.

Boeing will most likely prevail; two much planning has gone into the requirements for these new birds for the government to begin again with 777s or 787s as replacements.  Recently, I saw a piece where former living presidents were asked what they miss most about being our national leader and to a man they replied: “The plane.”

The Journal reported that Boeing has delivered more than 1,500 747s since 1970. I first flew in one belonging to Pan American in 1974 on a flight to San Juan, P.R. from John F. Kennedy (JFK) and my last was in 2010, a British Airway jet from London Heathrow (LHR) to JFK. I have travelled a total of 133 flights on board those jumbos, 125 of them business related. More than half those flights were to and from London but 747s also carried me to and from places like Paris, Stockholm, Oslo, Zurich, Rome, Tokyo, Manila, Singapore, Kula Lumpur, Hong Kong and Beijing.

My number one provider of 747s was TWA by choice as I was both a valued frequent flyer and a member of their Ambassador’s Club. This combination gave me almost automatic upgrades from coach to business class. Before Carl Ichan ruined TWA, they had terrific on board service and even, post-Ichan, when many good flight attendants quit; TWA still retained an edge due to their seating setup.

TWA made the upper cabin of the 747 all business class seating. This meant the space was exclusive to 18 passengers who sat two and two with an aisle in the center (ten seats on the left side, eight on the right to allow for the spiral staircase.) We had access to two rest rooms that we shared with the flight crew and a happy flight attendant exclusively assigned to this section. Happy because the attendant only had 18 clients all of who were in business meaning no first class drama and no jerks from coach.

On one particular occasion, Mary Ann, joined me for a business / vacation trip to London. TWA was desperate so we both wound up in this cabin with upgrades after I bought heavily discounted coach tickets. At best, there were only four or five business travelers accompanying us up in our perch. As we approached the start of the descent into LHR, a baby Ichan bred stewdess presented us with a bottle of champagne explaining, we were the best passengers on the plane. We thanked her and when she left, I shook my head and said to my wife, “She’s sweet and trying, but in an emergency; worthless, damn, I miss those TWA women who mattered when you needed them.”

I flew with Alexander, the deposed heir to the Yugoslavian throne who enjoyed my father’s heritage and sent me Christmas cards for two or three years, two former presidents, Jimmy Carter and Dick Nixon. Dan Rather was the most interesting. This happened because  TWA cancelled their evening flight and re-booked my mate and me on an Air India 747. That was January of 1981. I was flying in first class with Leo Whalen; (need I say more) as was Rather. Rather hustled off the plane to make a BA connection at Heathrow. Only later did we realize he had been tipped off that Iran was about to release of our hostages the day Ronald Reagan was inaugurated. Rather was on his way to Algeria where they would be released.

When TWA was forced to sell their lucrative London service to United, I switched to British Air and soon achieved gold card status. This came with a sensational bonus; whenever I flew business class or, as BA referred to it, Club Class, there was always the chance when I checked in for Flight 178, (the 10 AM morning flight to LHR,) that the clerk would ask, “Mr. Delach, would you be interested in changing over to 004?” (You have to love British subtlety; BA 004 was the 1:30 PM Concorde.)  Leave three and one half hours later and arrive two hours earlier. It did happen more than a ½ dozen times! Loved the 747 but, the SST: the only way to fly when it’s on someone else’s dime!

The 747 was the greatest venue for international travel back then before the world and airline travel went into the crapper after the horror of September 11, 2001.

My favorite flights were those Friday afternoon return trips out of Heathrow bound for JFK; all of the victories and horrors of negotiations with Lloyds over; win, lose or draw. Back then the last flights left at about 3 PM meaning we were out of London by 11 am at the latest. It meant going home. The best were those homebound flights when we found other New York insurance guys on the same flight. No matter that we worked for rival firms; school was out; time to play…One time six of us took over the large empty space in the tail of a half-empty 747 to drink and smoke our way across the Atlantic. We tipped the flight attendants, none of us hit on them, they enjoyed us and we’d spin our fingers to let them know it was time to “sprinkle the infield.”

What a flight! I still remember the price I paid due to my condition when I arrived home.

Oh hell, it was worth it.

My Texas friend, Phil Brown, was a “plank owner” of LSM 317 being part of the original crew who took delivery of this landing craft from the Pullman Co. shipyard in Illinois. He served on this ship until it returned to Long Beach for decommissioning after hostilities ended. This is his account of Kamikaze attacks he witnessed during the invasion of Leyte.

Our crew stood at attention on 28 July, 1944 as LSM 317 was commissioned. The ensign was raised and the first watches were set. We cast off, left Lake Michigan and sailed though the heart of Chicago via the Chicago River making our way to the Mississippi River. We only navigated the river during day light on a voyage to New Orleans making stops at Memphis, Greenville, Vicksburg and Baton Rouge before reaching New Orleans where the guns were installed. A good thing; professional river pilots navigated on the rivers as none of the five officers had ever been to sea and the skipper, Lt. Warren Ayers, had previously been a professional musician.

That pilot was an old-timer who quit commercial piloting to serve his country. He was really pissed off at his fellow pilots who continued to work on commercial traffic earning big bucks. He frequently flipped them the bird as we passed their tows.

We sailed from New Orleans to Galveston for two or three weeks of intensive training and shakedown.  From Galveston we sailed across the Gulf of Mexico to the Panama Canal where we made a short stop for minor repairs and equipment replacement before transiting to the Pacific side. Next stop, Bora Bora, which appeared after a 19-day cruise. I thought of paradise; it looked just like what I always though a South Seas island should look like and the locals were friendly, trading shell jewelry for canned goods and other ordinary items. From there we headed to New Caledonia, the Admiralty Islands and stops in New Guinea before reaching our ultimate destination…the Philippines.

Kamikaze was not a word that we knew when our first such attack on December 10, 1944. It found us loading supplies to be taken around Leyte to Ormoc on the opposite side of Leyte Gulf. MacArthur planned to circle behind the Japanese who were stubbornly defending the mountains keeping us from punching through to the other side. The Japanese were also using the Ormoc beaches to reinforce and resupply their troops.

We had finished taking on supplies from the Liberty Ship, William S. Ladd, anchored well off shore…As I recall, mostly miscellaneous gear including some artillery shells. We had moved back to the Red Beach area where we grounded 317 to take on infantry that had been pulled out of the lines to be reinserted for the back door attack…About that time General Quarters (GQ) sounded: a squawking klaxon horn followed by the command: “THIS IS NO DRILL; ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS.”

Our rather primitive radar showed three bogeys approaching. Some of the larger ships opened up with what we thought were 5 inch 38s…too high for our 40mm and 20mm guns. Two or three planes were all we saw. They made their way toward the main concentration of ships where one started down in a steep dive right into and through the number two hatch of the William S. Ladd, where we had taken on supplies! The Ladd sank in a few minutes; we were thunder struck; had never seen anything like that and didn’t want to ever see anything like it again!! We’d been so close minutes before!

My GQ station was on top of the conning tower as the Captain’s talker. Several of us discussed what we had just seen and thought it would not happen again…WRONG!!!

On the runs to attack and later resupply Ormoc Beachhead I think we had suicide planes each and every time. We came to refer to the attacks as “crash divers” or “suicide” attacks. Do not remember hearing the term Kamikaze until the invasion of Okinawa.

They were scary and intimidating. On December 11, we were part of a convoy of eight LSMs and four LCIs escorted by six destroyers, supported by four F4U Corsairs. We were ordered to GQ and within minutes several low-flying planes came in front to back attacking our little convoy. They were so low we were unable to lower our field of fire for fear of hitting our own ships. One plane flew so low right over us we could easily see the pilot before he crashed into the destroyer, USS Reid, right behind us. Went in striking the torpedo tubes; blew in half and sank within two minutes. Will never forget what that looked like. Several of us began to pull back to pick up survivors but were ordered to continue our run. Only one LSM was designated to stay to attempt rescues and less than half of Reid’s crew was saved.

We were scared!!! At least I was scared!!! About that time the Corsairs covering our convoy chased off the remaining Japanese aircraft. We reached Ormoc that night but waited until about 3 or 4 am to beach. Out behind us, our escorts were in a serious fire fight with some Japanese destroyers attempting a last ditch resupply of troops and supplies. Everyone was shooting everywhere and I am sure some damage was caused by our own fire…I hate the term, “friendly fire” as it did not seem friendly. Our own radar and early daylight told us we were landing on the same beach only ¾ mile from the enemy. It was difficult getting off the beach and on our way home across Leyte Gulf; more air attacks but no crash dives.

Going on the beach to land supplies and troops was not much fun but the crash divers added a scary element as we felt there was no way to stop them. Granted we were small and insignificant; targets of last resort but on one trip a LSM was hit, the aircraft engine actually went through the ship.

LSM 317 had damage that prevented us from being sent to Iwo Jima and Okinawa. Those were much worse. Okinawa was the real climax of the Kamikaze.

As an ironic twist, after the Japanese surrendered we were ordered to Korea to take the surrender of several of their installations. One turned out to be a rather large Kamikaze base. As I remember the island was off the tip of Korea and named Sasha To. The remaining troops had been ordered to stack their arms, rifles in one stack, side arms in another, machine guns in a third, etc. Troops lined up and their officers delivered the bowing and surrendering.

The best thing about this spot was that we liberated a Japanese motorcycle with a side car. One of our mechanics (MMC) fixed it and we had a great time with it along with a jeep we had liberated before the war ended. When the tires finally blew out on the motorcycle, we used a fire hose to wrap around the wheels and wired it on. We took it down onto the land whenever we beached the LSM, opened the bow doors, lowered the ramp and zoomed off; great fun!!!

I had accumulated enough points for discharge once the ship arrived in Long Beach. I knew LSM 317’s sailing days were over. She was completely worn out and would be sold for scrap. I decided to keep the commissioning ensign and our “lucky” flag, the one we ran up during hot landings. So tattered, it was not much more than a star square but I packed both in mothballs and years later, I mounted and framed the ensign and the flag  in a cases that are still proudly displayed.

Looking back at so much confusion when I left 317, I still regret not taking a pair of good binoculars and the ship’s navigation clock.

I should have seen this one coming, the changing scene was as obvious as the sun rising and setting. Of course, I knew the old prototypical New York Jewish taxi driver was long gone, just another memory of a lost New York. Never again, an Abe, Shelly or Max; owner-drivers all, steering their monster Checkers through Midtown traffic dodging messengers, pedestrians and Jersey drivers while carrying on a non-stop proclamations on the state of the world, human relations and where and where not to find great food at a good price.

In 1962, American born hackies made up 62% of the drivers. Today it’s 4% and the Taxi and Limousine Commission, (TLC) notes the other 96% come from 167 different countries with the greatest number (wait for it fellow New Yorkers) from Bangladesh (24%) and, Pakistan (10%).

A year ago, in recognition of the obvious unfamiliarity that most of these drivers have with the geography of the city of New York, Comrade Mayor Bill DeBlasio and his Politburo, aka, the City Council, eliminated: “most geography questions from the license exam.” Last month they directed the TLC to end the requirement that the test be taken in English! Their rationale, GPS devices eliminate the need to know where drivers are going and Uber accepts non-English speaking drivers. Seriously, the first rationale is flawed at best and the second, while on paper it may be true, any Uber driver who cannot communicate with the passengers will not be an Uber driver for long.

But once again in the Peoples Republic of NYC, Comrade Mayor Bill DeBlasio and his Politburo rule supreme. Makes one wish for Bloomberg’s Nanny State, even recognizing how tedious it was. At least, law and order and common sense prevailed with Mayor Mike in charge.

In researching this piece, I decided to compare the application process for becoming a taxi driver in NYC with the one in London. The introduction for perspective London taxi drivers begins: “(They) are almost as famous as the black cabs in which they drive, this is mainly due to their in-depth knowledge of London and ability in taking their occupants to their desired destination amid the congestion and the chaos that you often find when travelling through London’s streets.”

“To become an ALL-LONDON taxi driver…you need to master no fewer than 320 basic routes, all of the 25,000 streets… 20,000 landmarks…located within a six-mile radius of Charing Cross. It takes the average person between 2 and 4 years to learn the knowledge.”

The TLC approach in New York City is a bit different. First off, you may only apply on line and you must complete the application in 20 minutes or your session will expire. (We do not have time in the Big Apple for lollygagging: TIME IS MONEY!)

You need a DMV license, a valid credit card to pay the non-refundable fee and, most important, promise that within 90 days of submitting the same, you will:

Take a drug test

Have your fingerprints and photo taken

Complete the education requirements

Lowest common denominator and political correctness rule in our Peoples Republic of NYC…and so it goes.

I do confess I miss those ethnic Jewish drivers who helped define New Yorkers. Fate allowed me to actually ride with an Abe Cohen in his Checker early in the 80s at the end of this era. I hailed him in Hanover Square after a downtown business lunch asking for a drop off in Midtown.

Once in motion, unprompted, Abe began his one-sided conversation, treating me to his opinions while heading north, navigating traffic along the West Side Highway. As we passed a joint advertized as, “The Anvil,” a gay S&M club in the West Village, Abe pointed at the club and exclaimed:

“You know that’s a homo joint? Would you believe I once picked up a fare there who came on to me!”

I asked, “Abe, what did you do?”

Abe, “I had to think quick. I didn’t want to lose the tip so I gave the guy a matchbook and told him to write his phone number and give it back to me so I could call him when I got off.”

Me, “So what happened?”

“I did great; he gave me a $20 tip.”

Several Metropolitan daily newspapers reported the death of Clarence (Choo Choo) Coleman on August 16. The New York Times reported his age as either 78 or 80. Their obituary included two quotes by Roger Angell about Choo Choo: “He handles out side curve balls like a man fighting bees.” And a second referring to his speed on the bases: “This is an attribute that is about as essential to catchers as neat handwriting.”

Their obituary included the following story about Choo Choo (who called everyone “Bub.”) “Perhaps the best known anecdote about Coleman is one that, in later years, he said never happened, though Ralph Kiner, the former slugger and broadcaster, assured The New York Times that it had. In 1962, Kiner interviewed Coleman (on his post-game show, Kiner’s Korner) and asked, ‘What’s your wife’s name and what’s she like?’ Coleman replied, ‘Her name is Mrs. Coleman – and she likes me, Bub.”

Choo Choo also had the curious distinction of being the only baseball player I ever encountered when I was young. It happened in the spring of 1966. I left Shea Stadium with my friends, Bill, Jimmy about an hour after a game ended, We had successfully made our way into the private Diamond Club for a couple of beers before we departed for Manhattan. I wrote about it in 2005 as part of a piece called “Shea Stadium Nights:”

Since the baseball game ended early on a Friday night in May, Manhattan beckoned to us. Being city kids, cars weren’t a factor so we climbed the Willets Point-Shea Stadium elevated station to catch the No. 7 train bound for Times Square. As we waited for the train to arrive, we noticed a fellow standing against the station’s wall. Jimmy looked at him several times before deciding to take the chance that he recognized this man. Jimmy walked away from Bill and me to speak to him. Instinctively, we quieted to hear their exchange. Jimmy looked at him and said, “You’re Choo Choo Coleman.”

Coleman looked back at Jimmy and said, “Bub, that’s cool, people don’t usually recognize me.”

We all asked for his autograph. He had been the Mets’ best catcher during 1962 and 1963, their first two seasons. We’d all seen him play at the Polo Grounds. Labeled, “a defensive catcher,” his hitting left much to be desired. Clarence, “Choo Choo” Coleman played in 55 games in 1962 hitting .250 and 106 games in 1963 hitting .178. The following year, he was farmed out to a minor league team and he did not make it back to the Mets until the 1966.

We said good-bye when the train arrived. We talked about how strange it was that a baseball player had no alternative but to take the subway alone.

The next day, the Mets cut Choo Choo. His come-back had only lasted six games before we met him and that subway ride was his last trip home from the Show. Sad, but that’s where a .188 average will take a defensive player.

R.I.P. Choo Choo

To say the least, I was perplexed. At 19, being told that I’d been selected to be the Godfather of the new-born daughter of the youngest son of our next door neighbor; I didn’t get it at all. For Christ’s sake, I’m psychologically divorced from something like this being completely absorbed in my own affairs. I’m in my junior year of college and totally uninterested in anything else. Why in hell would they select me? It made no sense!

Whatever, I had no choice, no input; my points meant nothing. My mother delivered this message in no uncertain terms; she would be the Godmother and, by extension, I, the Godfather.

The baby girl’s parents were the son and daughter-in-law of our next door neighbors, the M family, my mother’s tenants and good friends. Each family lived in one of the two apartments on the upper floor at 1821 Himrod Street, a two-story, four-family railroad flat in Ridgewood, Queens. Granted, Florence M. the grand-dam of their family supported my single-parent mother through thick and thin helping to raise me. In truth she even loaned me the $37.50 I needed to buy my initial season ticket to the New York Football Giants a year earlier in 1962. But how the hell did this translate into this invasion of my world?

Making matters worse, the baby’s baptism was scheduled for the same day that my Giants were at home against the St. Louis Cardinals, November, 24, 1963. Just in my second season, this meant I had to miss my first home game: Damn, damn, damn!

My good friend, Jimmy, was only too glad to relieve me of my ticket. The Giants were flying high just on the cusp of selling out and game day tickets had ceased to exist. Big Blue was still in a tight race to win the NFL East for the third straight year and this was during the time when all home games by league rule were blacked out.

You may have already made the connection that the President of the United States of America, John F. Kennedy, was shot to death in Dallas, Texas on November 22^nd, the Friday before the baptism.

What you may not be aware of though, by Saturday morning, all regular programming on radio and television ceased. TV concentrated on news but the traditional AM New York radio stations; WMCA, WNBC, WABC, WOR and WHN switched their programming to somber classical and chamber music. Regular programming didn’t resume until Tuesday morning the day after JFK’s funeral and burial.

This change of format included WNEW, the radio home of the Giants, silencing Marty Glickman, the team’s radio voice. Unbelievably, despite the depth of the terrible grief that befell the nation, Pete Rozelle, Commissioner of the NFL, was so tone deaf that he decided to go forward with all eight games scheduled for that Sunday.

(Joe Foss, Commissioner of the rival AFL, postponed his league’s games. In time, Rozelle, realized his decision was his worst act as commissioner.)

Sunday found me wearing a sports jacket and tie, gathered with my mother, my goddaughter to be, her mom and the families at their Maspeth home waiting the time to ride to Resurrection RC Church for the 3 PM baptism. (Dad was absent serving his country as an MP in Germany having been drafted into our then, peace time Army.)

Still annoyed being there and starving for any news of the game, I separated myself and tuned their TV to WCBS, Channel 2, hoping to catch some update. Instead; oh my God, sitting there alone; I witnessed Jack Ruby step into the picture, gun drawn, and fatally shoot JFK’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, in a Dallas police station. My cry of: “Holy shit,” got everyone’s attention.

The shock of that scene was, in a way, the tipping point for all Americans. Already grieving, we couldn’t absorb any thing else. Numb, that’s what we were, numb. I fulfilled my role at the baptism, we had a reception of sorts back at the house that I don’t remember and left to go home.

Somehow I discovered the Giants lost that day. It didn’t seem to matter.

Today, when I think about all of this, I realize that my goddaughter is now 53 and I do regret that I can’t recall her name.

Not to be confused with the city in Louisiana, this is about our personal “red pole” located in Marlow, New Hampshire.

We bought our house in the Granite State in 1984 toward the end of that simpler time prior to the explosion of the internet, cell phones, social media and smart phones that revolutionized our lives.

We depended on a single land-line telephone in this rural setting. Television was primitive; a single TV channel signal out of Vermont to a roof-top antenna that on most days received it accompanied by various amounts of electronic snow.

In 1988, we bought an analog satellite dish and a receiver that allowed us to track about two dozen “C” band and “K” band satellites by entering their coordinates into the receiver. The dish was mounted on a steel pole about 25 yards from the house.

It was so massive; the pole had to be filled with concrete to adequately support the weight and movement of the dish. We must have been able to track at least 500 different stations. Much of the programming featured sex, religion and shop-at-home.

Shop-at-home’s appeal increased in direct proportion to alcohol consumption. My worst was in the early ‘90s. After I ordered a Bill Clinton backwards watch, the sales rep suggested, “For another $10 we’ll send you a second.” I replied, “I’ll take it.”

We did discover some gems like the raw feeds of news programs and every NFL game for free, (the NFL had not yet realized they could make money on this too.)

News feeds were a hoot though. Did you ever give thought to what goes on before a network anchor announces: “…and now we are going to Betty Jones who is standing live outside the court house in East Paduckerville, Kansas to update us on freeing the mole women: “Hello, Betty…”

The reality is that Ole Betty and her crew have been out there for almost an hour set up and ready to go so that the feed can be accessed without any delay. There she stands in front of the camera so the studio can see she is ready while she waits and she waits and she waits. Betty may grab a quick snack or drink, adjust her makeup or do silly facial exercises but she stays on camera ready for the shoot.

Getting local news was a problem. To prevent these dishes from competing with existing television stations the owner had to demonstrate that it was located in an area without service. Since my billing address was Port Washington, NY, I’d be challenged on a regular basis by the satellite service forcing me to defend my right to receive this service. I’d patiently ask them to check our dish’s location electronically. This satisfied them until another investigator noted the billing address. For a while we received the NBC news from our home New York City station but we also received network news from Miami, Philadelphia and Boston.

All programming information was available in a TV guide for satellites that was the size of a medium town’s telephone book.

This ended with the advent of the small dishes. Congress changed the law allowing universal installation. Once the little dishes that we first called “pizza dishes” came into fashion with providers like Dish and Direct TV, the free programming on the old C and K band satellites shrunk to slim then none giving us no choice but to convert to one of those systems.

We had the big dish removed but the concrete-filled steel pole wasn’t going anywhere. Corrosion turned its color into a dull reddish orange and we came to refer to it as our baton rouge.

We did find a new use for our red pole. It became an excellent marker to identify the resting place of our family dogs once we cremated their bodies. As of today, Harry, Bubba, Sasha, Buster, Jumbo and Maggie all rest beneath our baton  rouge their remains secured in wooden and metal boxes that once upon a time contained liters of expensive whiskey like Middleton’s Irish and Johnny Walker Black or Blue.

Not a bad way to go in my opinion and, for the record, I’d prefer a Redbreast Irish 15 year-old box. Oh yeah, if you can find one, please include one of those Clinton backwards watches.

Earlier this month, Mary Ann and I hosted a family vacation for all eleven of the members of our three families at Hilton’s resort in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Being a typical beach vacation, activities included sunning, swimming, exercise, eating, drinking, reading and sleeping; repeated daily. Borrowing a term from my friend, Jim Hagelow, “We broke even. By the end of the week everyone was still speaking to each other.”

The five Connecticut Delaches and the four Brooklyn Briggs drove the 550 to 600 miles each way whereas we two seniors flew on American Airlines. Well, not exactly American Airlines as our outbound flights was on a Canadair CL-65 regional jet  belonging to American Eagle and operated by Air Wisconsin still with US Air markings. It left almost on time, it actually arrived early and our checked luggage appeared with a minimal wait.

We checked into all three rooms early, stocked them with supplies and ordered pizza to be on hand when our families arrived.

Myrtle Beach was under a stationary heat dome that brought hot, humid air to most of the East Coast from Florida north to New York. This included daily afternoon and/or evening thunderstorms. By Friday morning I was concerned enough these storms could disrupt our north bound flight scheduled to depart at 3 PM that I mentioned this to Mary Ann during our walk along the beach that morning. “I did some checking when I woke up today and we could change plans and leave around nine or ten tomorrow morning if we were willing to pay the extra charge and make a stop in Cleveland or Philadelphia. Also we’d arrive at about 2:30 instead of 5 PM.

Mary Ann liked the idea and I changed our flights even though it cost an additional $362 for the two of us. We changed the car pickup service meeting us at LaGuardia (LGA) and arranged for a taxi to take us from the hotel to the airport at 7:30 the next morning. We said goodbye to our families after dinner on Friday night and they hit the road between 5AM and 6 AM.

We arrived at the airport at about 7:45 to discover that our 9:34 flight to Philadelphia had been pushed back to 10:10. That was okay though as we still had plenty of time to make the Philadelphia to (LGA) flight scheduled to leave at 1:40 PM. However when departure time was pushed back again to 10:40, I decided I’d better find an American representative to see what options we had. I found a friendly rep named Sally who began to work with us. At first Sally thought it was a minor problem and we’d still have time to make the connection, but just in case, also re-booked us on our original non-stop afternoon flight. When the time slipped for a third time we made the switch as she couldn’t find open seats on another connecting flight to New York.

It was now only about 9 AM giving us five hours to kill and we did beginning with watching our fellow passengers scramble when the delayed flight was cancelled about 10 minutes after we made our switch. We also watched a parade of Spirit and Delta bound LGA flights load and leave while we sat around and waited. After lunch the weather began to change and cloud formations developed and moved in. I watched one outbound jet make a wide sweeping turn just after takeoff to avoid a formation closing in on the airport’s perimeter. Our plane arrived just before the heavens opened to a cacophony of wind, lightning and thunder.

My mood began to darken until I saw identical American Eagle regional jet push back, head to end of the runway and take off in the storm. Better yet, the storm subsided by the time we boarded allowing for an early departure. As we entered the jet way, Sally said, “It’s about time you two left my airport.” I rejoined over my shoulder, “I’ve been thrown out of better airports than this one.”

The flight was uneventful until we reached the New York area but our descent into LGA included both planned and unplanned descents with several disconcerting drops. We didn’t relax until the wheels were on the ground.

Our earth bound road trip families made it home just about an hour after we did and so it goes.

Glory be; I could not believe my eyes as I opened the Wednesday, July 6^th edition of Newsday! But there it was in black & white, the LIRR had begun to use electronic tickets that very week on the Port Washington branch (my line) and Governor Andrew Cuomo had guaranteed that it would be available on all branches and on Metro North’s systems by the end of the summer.

I quickly went to the app, MTAetix, downloaded it to my IPhone, registered and purchased a round trip senior off peak ticket for my planned lunch planned for the following Thursday with Mike Scott and my son at Foley’s.

To explain the momentous occasion of this event please indulge me in a brief history of the LIRR’s ticketing policies. When I first began commuting between Port Washington and New York’s Pennsylvania Station in 1977 passengers had to hand their tickets to the crew member assigned to that car who hand punched a hole in the ticket’s appropriate place to signify it had been seen. Monthly tickets, then the same size as a dollar bill actually had 64 spaces, 32 on each side that the conductor punched every trip. These tickets also identified the commuter by sex as the “M’ or “F” box was also punched at the start of each month. (This would frustrate teenage daughters who used their father’s tickets for weekend jaunts to the city.)

You can imagine how ragged these tickets became near the end of the month. Over time, the process was simplified to eight boxes. Even though you still had to show it twice a day every day, the conductor only punched it once a week on days that were changed randomly. Identification by sex also disappeared after years of protests.

July 7^th was to be the dawn of a new era for me. I practiced at home how to use the app and press the right buttons to display my new ticket but I didn’t activate it as I correctly sensed it had a time element. Being anal, I also carried my old paper ten-trip ticket with one ride remaining just in case. When the conductor entered the car soon after we pulled out of Port Washington, I opened the app, activated the ticket and found the bar code for scanning. As she approached me, punch in hand, I said, “Today I am attempting to enter the electronic age” as I showed my phone to her.

“Oh,” she said, “I can’t scan that. Can you show me the ticket and not the bar code?”

I did and she said thanks. As she went to leave, I asked, “Why can’t you scan it.”

“No scanner.” She replied. “They haven’t given most of us those yet. But I know what to look for and the ticket will expire in a couple of hours.”

The same thing happened on my return ride later that afternoon. So much for technology but I did have fun showing my electronic ticket to three cute Manhasset bound college coeds. They were impressed and one actually said to me, “Wow, you are really tech savvy.”

Needless to say I was relieved that she didn’t complete that sentence with…”for an old fart.” or if she was a bit kinder…”for someone your age.”

Being a long time Linda Ronstadt fan, I added her Dedicated to the One I Love CD to my collection soon after it was released in 1996. Also known by her fans as, “The Lullaby Album,” the eleven songs on the CD were all reinterpreted by Ms Ronstadt into children’s lullabies.

I readily admit that I was moved as I listened to her sing songs like “Be My Baby,” “Devoted to You,” “Angel Baby,” and even Brian May’s classic punk rock kick-ass hit, “We Will Rock You.”  She transformed this attack rant into a quiet soothing melody going so far to replace the drum movements with the sound of a beating human heart. The thought occurred to me; what a delightful gift to give to a woman expecting her first baby?

I’m not certain who the first woman was to whom I presented this gift but it was so well received that over the years I must have performed this right of passage about two dozen times for family members, women in business, friends, neighbors and, in a few instances, as the result of a serendipitous encounter. My plan was to present my gift as soon as I could after a woman publicly revealed she was pregnant for the first time. I never tired of presenting Linda Ronstadt’s CD because of the positive and thankful feedback I received from these women who shared their joy of playing Ms Ronstadt’s songs both before and after the birth of their first child. It lit me up like a Christmas tree.

The only semi-off-response I ever received came from a neighbor. I had left the CD on their doorstep in an envelope with an appropriate note. When next the young woman saw me, she took me aside, thanked me; then added: “You know my husband and I don’t like her politics but I’ll keep it anyway as you did a nice thing.”

My source of supply for several years was the mega-Virgin record store in Times Square my source for restocking Ms Ronstadt’s CD from their inventory. One time, I found they were out of stock so I ordered three copies which arrived in short order. When the Virgin store closed, I ordered new batches on line through Amazon. These CDs came from Rhino Flashback Records who began releasing this CD as a vintage recording in 2009. (You know you are old when they consider your favorite artist to be “vintage”.)

Alas, the electronic music revolution overtook my gift-giving concept leaving me with three un-opened copies with no place to go. Expecting mothers didn’t know from CDs any longer.

Oh well, it was a joy while it lasted especially due to one particular memory thanks to my old friend, Geoff Jones. While residing in Pleasantville, NY in the late 1990s, Geoff found himself shopping at Home Depot one Saturday afternoon.

“I was wearing a Marsh & McLennan baseball cap that you had given to me. A fellow shopper, a bit older than me, stopped to ask if I worked at Marsh?

‘No, no, I don’t, this hat was given to me by a friend of mine who works there.’

‘Well,’ he replied, ‘My daughter, Jana, worked there for many years before she had her daughter. When Jana announced it to her friends, her boss found out and you know what he did? He left the office and went to a record store to buy her some album of lullabies, came back and gave it to her. I have never heard of a boss doing something like that.’

‘Was his name John Delach?’

‘Yes, but how do you know that?’

He’s the guy who gave me the hat.”

(I will be traveling next week and I will resume my blog on Wednesday July 20.)