John Delach

August invites us to sit back, relax and muse about some of the improbables that life offers.

Item One: After 35 Years, Stolen Stradivarius Is Home. In 1980, the Ames Stradivarius, made by the master craftsman, Antonio Stradivari in 1734, was lifted from the office of violin virtuoso, Roman Totenberg, at Longy School of Music in Cambridge, Mass. Mr. Totenberg had his own deep suspicions of the thief’s identity, a certain student by the name of Philip S. Johnson. Mr. Totenberg’ daughter, Nina, explained the basis to a reporter from The New York Times, “He (Johnson) was loitering around the place where it was taken and later his ex-girlfriend would tell my father that she was quite sure that he had taken it.”

Mr. Totenberg who acquired the instrument in 1943 told CBS a year after the violin was purloined:

“…that it had taken two decades of playing the instrument before it reached its potential. ‘It took some time to wake it up,’ he said, ‘to work it out, find all of the things that it needed the right kind of strings and so on and so on.”

Mr. Totenberg passed away in 2012 at the age of 101. He did collect $250,000 in insurance proceeds following the theft. Mr. Johnson died in 2011 and his wife, Thanh Tran, discovered the violin when she forced open a locked case given to her by Johnson before he died. Recently, she brought it from her home in California to New York for appraisal supposedly “innocent” of the circumstances surrounding it. When confronted with the details, Ms. Tran wisely “voluntarily relinquished” the violin.

The family has returned the insurance money for a simple reason as The Times reported, “…these days, the finest Stradivarius violins sell for millions of dollars.” They also noted that Mr. Totenberg’s wife became so frustrated with the lack of effort by the police in gaining entry to Mr. Johnson’s abode that she frequently asked friends if they knew someone from the mob. Too bad she couldn’t find someone like Ray Donovan to do her bidding.

Item Two: Semi-Happy Ending, Seaside, For Long Island Ponzi Scheme. The usual fraud story with a twist, a pair of brothers-in-law, Brian R. Callahan and Adam Manson, bilked 45 investors out of $96 million by creating a semi-mythical hedge fund beginning in 2007. Instead, they invested the bulk of the money in the Panoramic View, a Montauk, N.Y. resort of villas and cottages first opened in 1954. Their plan was to renovate the aging property, sell some of the units as co-ops and operate the remaining cottages as a hotel. Whether or not they intended to share the profits with their investors is unknown, but timing, as usual, is everything. Their original timing was lousy and their entrepreneurial scheme collapsed in the face of the great recession that hit late in the summer of 2008.

Of course, not all of the money went into the Panoramic View although Mr. Callahan did buy his own co-op there – Unit Salt Sea No. 4 for $450,000. Investors’ money also helped pay for “…(he) and his wife’s Old Westbury, N.Y. mortgage, credit-card bills, golf-club dues and payments on a range Rover and a BMW.”

As the recession waned, the Montauk real estate market heated up and in 2012, they were offered $50 million for the Panoramic View that had cost them $38 million. Mr. Manson rejected this offer as too low but the following year the Law caught up to the two crooks. Both men plead guilty and will be sentenced this October. Now it is the government’s job to secure the best offer possible so to return as much of the lost investments as possible.  They were ready to sell the property said to be worth as much as $75 million for $54 million in 2013 but Federal District Judge Arthur D. Spatt nixed it as t.f.l. (too f***ing low.)

New bid packages were sent to interested parties in June…stay tuned.

Max is our sixth Golden Retriever. He traveled from a breeder in Missouri by truck with the comical name: PetEx Express. He and his sister, Ruby, arrived on November 11, 2010. Ruby was a birthday gift for our daughter-in-law, Jodie and her three kids named the two pups after the story-book and TV cartoon brother and sister rabbits. Max succeeded Maggie who we lost the previous summer.

Our first Golden was Harry. Then came Fred, Bubba, Jumbo and Maggie. Harry was our first and a grand dog. Knowing what I now know about Max, his disposition, attitude, temperament, etc. Harry would have been a great name for this Missouri dog. Failing that, I would have pushed for Truman because he is a “show-me-dog.”

Max was our first pup in a long time. We acquired Maggie in 1999 when she was ten-months old and already a certified Looney Tune. Anyone who knows us and knew Maggie will certify that she was f—ing nuts.

Folks we know looked at Mary Ann and me in a way that clearly showed their thoughts: “The two of you are either dumb or crazy.” I too had real doubts about what we had done. A puppy with all that it brings. The biting, destruction, housebreaking, sleepless nights and other unpleasant happenings and events. WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

Admittedly, we had some bad moments, but this new pup was special. He gave us a pass on one of the fundamental problems, crying through the night. Not Max. He took to his crate (cage) for naps during the day and to sleep without fuss and remained quiet and dry until we woke him up. And those are magical words: “Until we woke him.” He remained contented until he heard action. Then he’d whine, but when we opened the door, he usually reacted by first looking at us, stretched, got up, stretched again and exited the crate to begin his day.

Also importantly, almost from the beginning, the floor of the crate would be dry even after eight hours. Max was clean even for Goldens who by nature house break themselves quickly. Max also proved to be very trainable. He’d cooperate for love but we quickly realized that he did and he’ll do almost anything for food.

The biting lasted more than a year, never vicious, he just had the need to use those teeth. Unfortunately, this meant that play sessions deteriorated into bloody sessions especially for Mary Ann whose thin-skinned arms and hands soon made her look like a serial knife fighter. Mary Ann’s ultimate defense was to cut the toes off of athletic socks and fashion them into shields to minimize the damage to her skin.

Max grew rapidly almost before our eyes and quickly became known in the neighborhood as the dog who carried sticks around in his mouth the size of small trees. A fine looking dog, one gal remarked to me one day: “Wow, is that dog good looking. Why he’s the Robert Redford of Golden Retrievers.”

He grew and grew rapidly. One problem with this is he thought flapping children wearing oversized jackets, sweaters or hoodies were great sport who should be brought to the ground by grabbing on to the back of their garments. Needless to say this activity led to some difficult crises until we learned to anticipate when this was going to occur. Fortunately, he outgrew this impulse.

Now an adult about to turn five he would be a total pleasure if not for his need to steal. And steal he does, clothes, shoes, towels, throw rugs, mats, pillows and even blankets and bed spreads. The only good news about his stealing regimen is he considers it to be retrieving and he brings the items to us with his plume tail high in the air proud of his prowess.

On the whole, this adventure has gone well and he’s a love. But if sometime in the future, hopefully way down the road, we even consider a puppy again; please, I beg of you,  shoot us.

Slip slidin’ away, slip slidin’ away, you know the nearer your destination the more you’re slip slidin’ away.

Paul Simon

I cannot recall even approximately when I began to feel naked, alone and afraid whenever I discover that I am beyond walking distance from my cell phone. This awful realization hit me like a ton of bricks the other day when I called my carrier, Verizon, to accept a discount in return for electronic billing. The helpful young lady pleasantly thanked me for my loyal service. I murmured, “Whatever.” But then I realized she was saying in amazement, “Why you have been a wireless customer since 1992.”

Nineteen ninety-two, “Damn,” I said to myself after I had hung up, “Chances are she wasn’t alive in 1992.” Not only that, Verizon wasn’t alive in 1992. Neither were its predecessors, Bell Atlantic or NYNEX. Heck, when I first signed up it was with New York Telephone then an orphan of the broken-up AT&T, Bell System.

My first phone was a Nokia brick (small size), not as big as those Motorola walkie-talkies. I’ve gone through L.G.’s, Samsung, the Motorola Razor and one made by Qualcomm, whoever the hell they are / were. (Incidentally that relic is still in my garage and bears the name, Bell Atlantic Mobile.”)

Now I am blessed / cursed with an IPhone 5C that does everything except offer sex, at least I think it doesn’t, as I probably utilize less than 15% of its capability. My friend, Mike calls it the work of the devil. (Mike swore allegiance to his flip-phone until dragged into the dark side at a family intervention where his flip-phone was forcibly removed, replaced by a hand-me-down IPhone 4 from his teenage son.)

Worse, a mobile device doesn’t even scratch the surface of my skitsofrantic relationship with technology. In fact, if it weren’t for Google, it would be impossible for me to spell skitsofrantic!

Just last night, I miss-hit some button on my key board sending my tool bar into never, never land. The cold sweat of fear descended upon me, my hands became clammy and my heart raced as I contemplated being unable to make next Wednesday’s blog deadline.

This blog is another thing. Every Wednesday morning I sit down at this computer with absolute dread and certainty that today will be the day that I will not be able to access WordPress or that it won’t work.

Computers, IPhones, IPAds, Kindle, all those devices frighten me. So too in my vehicle- OnStar, Blue Tooth, GPS and XM – each of these things are traps waiting to turn on me when I least suspect it.

The house in New Hampshire has gone from a bucolic place for peace and quiet into the nut house. When we took ownership in 1984, the only devices were a radio, telephone land-line and a roof-mounted antenna that picked up a single television station out of Burlington, VT. We replaced the antenna with one of those old monster dishes that combed the sky for C and K-band satellites. In all we could access two or three dozen satellites each with 15 to 24 stations both domestic and foreign. That was fun especially during football season as we could access the raw feed of every NFL game for free. But like modern pizza discs that replaced it about ten years ago, we quickly discovered that most of the content consisted of, sex, obscure religions and shop-at-home. (Back in the day, late one night after a few pops I bought two Bill Clinton backward-watches because the price was right!)

Now we have semi-adequate cell-phone service (unless you have AT&T) and a Router that works well except when our offsprings and their families overwhelm it with their war chest of devices or when the not infrequent blackouts play havoc with it.

Windows 10 is knocking at the door and what future shock will next strike? I avoid all social media and clouds though I hear this voice inside that repeats, “Soon, sucker, soon.”

Late in May, the One World Trade Center (WTC) observatory opened to the public, 1,250 feet above West Street. For $32 an adult can whiz up to the 100^th Floor in 47 seconds while looking at a virtual presentation of how the view from the top changed during the last 500 years. One WTC joins the Empire State Building (also $32) and the Top of the Rock ($30) observatories as the highest in New York.

But these towers are for common people, you and me, Aunt Sally from Indiana, tourists from Birmingham, Alabama or Birmingham, England – Paris, France or Paris, Texas and  any other place on the planet considered to be friendly to our nation. Their special views are open to anyone who can afford to buy a ticket.

These towers though, high as they may be are not the truly exclusive top of the Big Apple. That distinction belongs to the new “supertalls,” new mega-tower residential buildings that cater to the incredibly rich who already occupy the very top of the food chain. These insanely wealthy domestic and international messieurs and madams have demonstrated an insatiable appetite to fork over millions of dollars as investments in absurd structures that boggle the mind with their heights, views and the cost of admission.

One57, a 1,094-foot tower completed last year on West 57^th Street was the first of the supertalls . It set an all-time ceiling for the cost of single residence this past January, “…when a duplex penthouse there closed for $100.4 million.”

As scandalous as One57 may seem, for now the reigning king of the supertalls is 432 Park Avenue. Naturally, located between 56^th and 57^th streets, It stands 1,396 feet tall, has 104 units with more than half under contract, “…for roughly $1 billion in potential sales, including a $95 million penthouse.” Those still available range from $16.95 to $82.5 million.

But wait, as the carnival barker would call out to hustle the crowd, “You ain’t seen nothing yet!”

The developer of One57, Extell Development Company, has plans to build “the tallest residential structure in the Western Hemisphere between 57^th and 58^th Street east of Broadway rising to at least 1,500 feet if not higher.”

How much higher? According to The New York Times, “A spokeswoman for the developer denied reports speculating that the building might top the 1,776-foot pinnacle of One WTC!” The projection is that the building will “generate some $4.4 billion in total sales proceeds.” That’s $4,400,000,000 in cash money.

Across the street construction on a 950-footer containing 118 units has reached street level. Designated as 220 Central Park South reports are “…buyers have already snapped up about a third of the units representing $1.1 billion in commitment.”

“The least expensive apartment, a 2,394-square-foot two-bedroom apartment on the 22^nd floor, is listing at $12.25 million.” The 9,500-foot penthouse can be gained for $100 million.

Foundation work has started on a third tower at 111 West 57^th Street scheduled to reach 1,421 feet. Designed for 46 apartments in the tower and 14 in an adjoining building, prices begin at $14 million.

Insanity personified, simply mind-numbing just to contemplate these figures. How can it be that there is so much disposable wealth available to fuel such expansive uber-luxury development in mid-Manhattan?

Come the revolution, ground zero will definitely be 57^th Street. Forget the Wall Street “One Percenters” with their $343,000 in annual income. No, no, we’re talking here about 1/4 or even 1/8 Percenters. When the time comes to put these interlopers up against the wall; at least we’ll know where to find them. That is, if they are home. Since much of this development is driven by Russian, Chinese, Indian, etc. investors seeking a safe haven to part their ill gotten gain, they will not be in residence often. Timing is vital.

Autumn in New York, why does it feel so inviting…

Pass the word; the revolution begins in the October after the last of these towers is finished. Start collecting cobblestones and Belgian blocks and prepare to man the barricades; to arms, to arms.

During the early 1980’s when New York City was in the middle of enduring those bad times and crime was rampant, I was tasked to meet a valuable client in the lobby of the Dorset Hotel on Fifty- Fourth Street. The Dorset was a throw-back to a more gentile era, a favorite for old-school British businessmen. My purpose; to escort him to Giambelli’s, then one of the city’s more upscale and popular Italian eateries. I was so assigned to keep creeps at bay based on my size and girth that gave me the same profile of Popeye Doyle from the French Connection.

This profile didn’t offend me, I considered this assignment a privilege to have the opportunity to spend some time alone with an amazing man. He was a fellow with the dryest sense of humor of any person I’ve ever had the privilege to know and beyond that, he was a RAF war hero and old enough to be my father.

We met at the bar and shared a drink. He had a gin and tonic, I probably had something similar but with vodka. The doorman ordered us a taxi and I gave the driver our destination. Correctly, he turned south onto Fifth Avenue. As memory serves me, the taxi was passing St. Patrick’s Cathedral when I proposed a question to my customer:

“There was a chap who worked for your firm. He preceded me on your account. I never met him, never knew him but I’ve heard many things about him, may I ask you, ‘What kindof a man did you find him to be?”

He looked at me, thought about what I had asked, measured his response, paused, then replied, “Like him or dislike him, you have to admit he was basically dishonest.”

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Once upon a time a group of sports entrepreneurs created a professional football league to play their games during the spring rather than compete against the NFL in the fall. They called it the United States Football League (USFL.)

The Donald usurped this concept by buying the New York franchise, called the Generals and led the charge to compete against the NFL not on the playing filed but in court. He set out to sue the league on the grounds of antitrust and force his way into the league.

The trial took place in Brooklyn in the Eastern District Court. The Donald and renegade NFL owner, Al Davis, were pivotal witnesses in favor of the plaintiffs. They both accused the NFL of just about everything short of nuclear war.

Here is what happened: In the normal course of events with an urban jury The Donald & Co. would have won and, in fact, they did, or would have had it not been for a single alternate juror.

This juror was a naturalized citizen, a British ex-pat, who prior to coming to America had been a secretary at NATO. She replaced one of the original jurors who pleaded to the judge that he’d just been accepted by the US Post Office as a trainee but, if he didn’t show up the next day, he’d forfeit the job.

Except for this new juror, the USFL’s case was a slam-dunk! Out-numbered and out-voted, she voted with the other five but held her counsel until it was time to award damages. She recommended to her fellow jurors that this was really a bit of a silly case, something the judge should really decide. So she proposed they set the award at one dollar and let the judge amend the amount as he saw fit.

When the jury announced their verdict, the court was stunned. What she had failed to explain to her fellow jurors is that a judge can only reduce a settlement, not increase it.

Brilliant from where I sit, but I guess some of you may consider this the con of the century.

In any event, in this his latest re-incarnation, The Donald running for president of the United States has erased his role as the prime mover in this litigation and professes his loyalty to and love of the NFL.

The Donald is amazing:

Like him or dislike him, you have to admit, he’s basically dishonest.               

The origin of hat-trick according to Wikipedia: The term first appeared in cricket circa 1858 to describe HH Stephenson’s taking three wickets with three consecutive deliveries. Fans held a collection for Stephenson and presented him with a hat bought with the proceeds. The term was used in print for the first time in 1878 and was eventually adopted by many other sports including hockey, association football, water polo and team handball.

On July 5, 2015, the American midfielder, Carli Lloyd, accomplished a hat-trick by scoring three goals against Japan in the team’s 5-2 victory in the finals of the women’s World Cup. She was the first woman to make a hat trick in World Cup competition and the first athlete to make it in a final match. Ms Lloyd scored her third goal in the 16^th minute, another record.

While the mostly partisan American crowd went wild in their spontaneous reaction to this amazing feat, their behavior was nowhere near as intense as two other instances that I have witnessed as part of my experience as a sport’s fan.

The first demonstration occurred during the New York Yankees 1978 home opener, but the reason for it actually happened the previous October. In Game 6 of the 1977 World Series, Reggie Jackson, put the Yankees ahead 4-2 with a two-run homer off Burt Hooten in the fourth inning. In the following inning he went yard again hitting a second two-run blast off of Elias Sosa giving the Bronx Bombers a 7-3 lead. Finally in the eighth, Mr. October parked his third round-tripper served up by Charlie Hough to become the first player since Babe Ruth to make a hat-trick in a World Series Game. Celebration of this event was subsumed by the team’s clinching the series that night and the chaos that followed the victory as unruly fans flooded onto the playing field.

Before Jackson came to New York the brash superstar predicted that if he played in the Bronx, “They would name a candy bar after me.”

And so it came to pass; the Reggie Bar was born, a square shaped concoction of chocolate, nuts and raisons wrapped in a bright orange package showing Reggie’s image about to swing at a suspended ball and emblazoned with REGGIE! in blue letters. The long defunct Wayne Bun Company that made this new treat introduced it at the 1978 home opener distributing individual candy bars to the 50,000 faithful in attendance. The Reggie Bar elicited comments reflecting the over-sized ego of its name sake: “It’s the only candy bar that tells you how good it is,” and, “It tastes like a hot dog.”

As luck would have it, Number 44 blasted a home run his first time at bat and most of the fans decided to celebrate the event and his World Series hat-trick by bombarding the field with his candy bars as he circled the field. The cascade of unopened candy continued until we ran out of ammunition covering the most of the field within reach of the stands in a sea of orange.

My second experience took place at a non-descript Rangers hockey game at Madison Square Garden Unfortunately, I don’t recall the player involved but that night a group of us secured our firm’s corporate box and filled it with a group of insurers who had assisted us in placing a difficult risk. Unbeknownst to any of us, Winston cigarettes was using this venue to showcase their then famous Winston Cup stock car racing series by distributing bright red baseball caps to each arriving fan. You guessed it, that unidentified Ranger scored three goals and the rink was transformed into the frozen Red Sea. Again, a lengthy delay ensued as all of the hats had to be picked up by hand, the Zamboni being useless for this task.

When action resumed, the same player scored a fourth goal bringing on an onslaught of any remaining hats plus packs of Winston cigarettes.

I just wish those fans in Vancouver had the presence of mind to celebrate Ms Lloyd’s achievement in similar fashion. But it can be argued that a jubilant New York City crowd exceeded this wish by showering Ms Lloyd and her teammates with confetti last Friday when the city hosted a parade in their honor up the canyon of heroes on a glorious July day.

We drove up in two cars a necessity of traveling with our daughter, Beth, her two, Marlowe and Cace plus Matt Delach after a stop in Fairfield, CT. Matt’s older brother, Drew, called the next morning asking me to drive back down to Deerfield, MA where his dad would drive him. “Why not,” I thought. Matt wasn’t too pleased to have his big brother intrude on his time here but we bought him off with a double sawbuck.

Sunday was cold and wet when I left the house at 10:30AM to pick up Drew. The rest of the gang drove to Keene where we met for lunch at the Colony Pub known for good food and long waits. All went well until we arrived back in Marlow later that afternoon where we discovered power was out. I had bought a small inverter for such an emergency that I hooked up to my GMC Arcadia to power the freezer and refrigerator.

The bad news: we were without the well with the primary and immediate concern of flushing toilets. The good news: water was available from the hot tub so I established a periodic bucket brigade. By 9 PM what fun remained was fast disappearing with the day’s last light and the Electric Cooperative gave no estimate of when power would be restored. We had enough flashlights for everyone and we all turned in early rather than curse the darkness. A bit after ten my restless sleep was interrupted by the sound of trucks on the road so I rose, put on sweats and a tee shirt and watched two line trucks pass our house. When they came back down ten-minutes later, I stepped out to ask when they thought we’d get power back?

One lineman said, “Soon,” and I started back to the house. It was then that I realized that I had on a Yankee tee. “Great,” I thought. “Soon, my ass,” I thought, “After seeing my shirt it will be a cold day in hell before power returns.”

Fortunately, we had it back ten-minutes later.

Beth took three of the kids to Mount Sunapee’s Aerial Adventure Park on Monday where they were strapped into harnesses and navigated various suspension “bridges” consisting of planks, wires, ladders and tunnels, some as high as 50 feet. One look convinced me that even back in the day when I was younger and more agile, there wasn’t any power on earth that would get me up there other than the army. The army made me climb telephone poles, never again!

Amazingly, Cace, Marlowe and Drew successfully tackled all four levels of the course. Beth also took it on four times but wisely restricted herself to level one, three times and level two, once. The park also featured two rock walls, one that ended with a 15-foot “gravity jump” onto a large air bag. Deliberately falling 15 feet is akin to trying to hurt or kill oneself. Wisely, Beth decided to forgo this plunge, but Drew, Cace and Marlowe chose to jump. Drew made it alright but the others hurt themselves, fortunately not seriously. If all of this is not enough to satisfy your daredevil, there was a two and a half-hour zip line trip; again thanks but no thanks!

On Wednesday it rained so it was off to the movies in Keene. Mary Ann, Beth, Marlowe and Cace saw the animated movie, Inside Out, while the two boys and I saw Jurassic World. Malowe and Cace liked their movie, the two adults, not so much. As for Jurassic World, this was Matt’s third time and Drew’s second. My impression in one sentence: “There goes the neighborhood.”

The boys and I returned to the house first just in time to have a weather cell pass over us and lightning strike really close by. So close that the boys saw a flash and sparks in the front room. Shockingly, we didn’t lose power!

The rest of family arrived Wednesday night and Thursday afternoon together with good weather. Six adults, five children and three Golden Retrievers successfully co-existed (mostly) over the next three days including a pontoon boat rental on Lake Sunapee on July 4^th.

Once they all departed on Sunday the quiet was inspirational!

The visual effects displayed on the internal walls of the elevator cabs for their ascent up to the observatory at No. 1 World Trade Center are impossible for me to explain sufficiently to give them justice. When you have a moment please go on the internet and type in: “WTC elevator movie” to see this dramatic presentation.

You will see a virtual image of Lower Manhattan and its environs beginning 500 years ago progressing to the present. The video starts as the elevator begins ascending with visions of the bedrock that support this 1,776 foot-tall tower, the successor to the late Twin Towers. Like all of the other passengers, I was mesmerized by this visual image of the changing architectural landscape of the city that unfolded as the elevator cab ascended to the 102^nd floor.

The video lasted forty-eight seconds the time needed to travel 102 floors. Five hundred years condensed into 48 seconds reduces the images of the late twin towers to just 3.84 seconds to account for the 30 years of their existence. Trust me, this is disconcerting and un-nerving.

The observatory opened in May and on June 23, I took my oldest grandsons Drew and Matt downtown to see the Memorial and the Observatory. Neither can recall September 11, 2001, but Drew, who was born in November of 1999, can recollect through family lore that he pleaded with Mike, his dad that fateful morning not to leave Fairfield, Connecticut and go to work. Mike did, thereby witnessing the tragedy that unfolded from a south-facing window from 1166 Avenue of the Americas.

The names of all who died at the Trade Center are cut into the brass surfaces that line the edges of the two square water falls that sit on each of the tower’s footprints. Each morning, memorial staff members place a white rose into the cutouts of those victims who would have celebrated their birthdays that day. I steered my two charges to see one of these roses to explain their significance. As I drew their attention to this honor, I caught my breath as I saw the name of the person set out above one so celebrated. The name I saw was, Pat Cahill, a colleague of mine from Marsh & McLennan.

I said nothing as chills descended. It was another reminder that remembrance and grief from that day is without end. Even though time has softened the edges, each time I venture there I resurrect my sorrow for all those I knew who perished that day.

Our reservations for the observatory were for noon but we were able to start our journey slightly before 11:45. Crowd control and security were totally present but not stifling or rigid. The line to the five express elevators wound its way, Disney style, through faux walls of bedrock displaying historical messages. Drew noted one that stated how old bedrock is. “You know, Grandpa, how you tell us you are older than dirt? Well, I think you should say you are older than bedrock.”

The elevator was smooth and quiet and I didn’t sense movement which was probably aided due to being mesmerized by the video. Upon reaching the top, we were directed into an area called “Theater in the Sky.”

(Because of the unique and dramatic presentation, I will not describe this experience. Write to me if you want to know more about it.)

Surprised by the boys’ excited reaction to their birds’ eye view from 102 floors above the ground, I realized this was their first experience viewing New York City set out below them from an observatory in a skyscraper. Shortly after we arrived the three of us headed to the men’s room. Drew and I exited first. When Matt came out, he was holding a cell phone. “I looked down and saw this on the floor inside the stall next to me.”

Matt gave a good description of the owner and we turned in the phone to the staff, then looked for its owner. Matt spotted the fellow, told him that we found his phone and explained where we turned it in. A short time later, after being re-united with his device, the owner returned to thank us.

The floor below the entrance to observatory complex, the 101^st floor, houses a fast food eatery, a bar and restaurant operated by Legends, a co-venture between the Dallas Cowboys and the New York Yankees. The café was suitably mobbed it being lunch time but we didn’t look for a seat as our plan was to head uptown to Foley’s NY for lunch after our visit. This scene was of little interest except I wanted to know the cost of a Jameson’s on the rocks at the bar. The answer: $15-heavy, but surprisingly, not insane by New York prices.

The actual observatory is on the 100^th floor and features a wide open view of all of New York City and its suburbs in every direction. Unfortunately, the day of our visit was hot and hazy offering us a view impeded by heavy humidity that proceeded strong thunderstorms destined to strike much of the region later that day. Too bad, but so it goes. In all, we stayed about an hour before we’d seen enough and hunger called us to the elevators.

A different virtual reality unfolded for the descent. The elevator cab popped out of the building acting like a glider that sailed around the tower as we settled back to the ground floor to conclude a rather grand but incomplete experience.

I’ve marked it off on my to-do list, to return to the tower on a clear night next winter to witness once again Gotham’s radiance from that bar on the 101^st floor. My plan is to order a double Jameson’s on the rocks raise it in memory of all of the good times I experienced at The Club at the World Trade Center and salute all of the souls lost on that awful day.

Planes, Trains and Ships run in my DNA. For as long as I’ve had a memory, these three forms of movement and commerce have fascinated me. Today, I address the wonder of flight. My two favorite aviation books are Earnest K. Gann’s, Fate Is the Hunter and Richard Bach’s, Stranger to the Ground.  Each captures the majesty of flight.

I am about to add a third offering, Skyfaring: A Journey with a Pilot. The author, Mark Vanhoenacker, a British Airlines pilot invites readers to submit their favorite photographs taken from window seats. I have never photographed such a moment, but I do have four experiences permanently implanted into my memory. Each happened serendipitously on business flights. My brain recorded each of these images as I peered from a window seat when the air was crystal clear, three happened at night and one during the day. They are  as vivid to me today as when I witnessed them.

We begin one afternoon in 1974. I was summoned in the afternoon to make a flight that night to Miami. Those were our salad days, Mary Ann wasn’t working, the kids were five and three; we had one car. Mary Ann packed a bag for me, drove to LaGuardia with the kids and kissed me goodbye. By the time the Eastern L-1011 lifted off it was night. The flight pattern was unusual, north across Long Island Sound, west over Westchester County then south down the Hudson River. Manhattan shined like a constellation as I sat in awe taking in this unimpeded and uninterrupted view of this city of towers and lights from a First Class window seat. I remember glancing back into the mostly empty cabin realizing I was alone to witness this incredible display. “Damn,” I thought, “Lucky me.”

The same powers that sent me to Miami decided to have a marine conference in San Francisco open to Assistant Vice Presidents and above. As a newly elected AVP, I just made the cut. We were still living in Middle Village and a snow storm on Friday night threatened to postpone my Saturday morning TWA flight. But the morning report on WCBS radio advised John F. Kennedy had one runway open so it was off to JFK for the   flight. A group of us had chosen this airplane, in this case another L-1011 and I recall a universal joy when we lifted off.

My moment of record came when the aircraft was flying over the Rocky Mountains in Western Colorado. Looking down, I was so disarmed by what I thought I was seeing from 30,000 feet, that I asked my seatmate, Dick Sullivan, to change seats with me. What shocked me was that I thought I could see the shadows of evergreen trees set in the snow. “Sullivan, look down at the trees and can you see their individual shadows in the snow?”

He looked down, looked at me and simply remarked, “Yup, You got that one right Delach.” Remarkable, truly remarkable.

My third experience happened on a late night flight out of Atlanta. I began my journey in Mobile, Alabama but delays conspired so that I didn’t check in for my connecting flight out of Hartsfield until after 10 PM. My airline of record that night was Republic, a short-lived successor to three disparate partners, Southern hubbed in Atlanta, North Central based in Chicago and Hughes-West out of LA. Back then, if you flew with a full-fare coach ticket and boarded a flight after 9 PM, you’d fly first class.

And so it went. I sat in a window seat up front on the left side of an empty 727 on a perfect night. From Atlanta north I watched the panorama of the megalopolis that is the East Coast present its brilliant light show from Richmond through, DC, Baltimore, Wilmington, Philadelphia and Trenton, The show grew in intensity as we neared Gotham; all the while the flight attendants catered to me, their only charge with beer and peanuts.

My last observation happened near the end of a non-descript flight back to New York. My airliner was making a routine approach into LaGuardia over Brooklyn. Mundane to most passengers, this flight path over Brooklyn and Queens flies over the places where I grew up, went to high school and college; where I came of age. So I remained alert to the sights on this passage. On that particular crystal-clear night I looked down as we passed over the ice skating rink in Prospect Park. A girl / woman was twirling and as God is my witness, I saw her outstretched arms.

Each of these moments touched me and gave me opportunities to understand the reverence of the aviators and authors about such wonderment.

Mike Scott and I yearned for a trip leading us to develop plans for one to Baltimore for the spring once Major League’s 2015 schedule was released. We picked early June when Mike’s Red Sox would be in town. As if by magic, Mike received an offer from Hotwire for the Holiday Inn Express-Baltimore Downtown for an outstanding price of $100 per room per night. He reserved the hotel for two nights and used StubHub to acquire tickets to the Red Sox – Orioles outing on June 9th. We each booked round-trip passage on Amtrak’s Northeast Regional trains and put this aside.

Unfortunately, then came the trouble in Baltimore that developed into serious disturbances. In my normal grab-ass manner, I sent Mike the following e-mail: “Just who the f*** picked Baltimore for our trip?”

Things only got worse when Amtrak suffered a deadly crash when a train derailed in North Philadelphia about a month later prompting my second question: “Just who the f*** put us on Amtrak?”

Regardless, we pressed on. The trip down went without a hitch until the immigrant cab driver in Baltimore’s Pennsylvania Station decided to put his Prius into gear before my both legs were in. A, “Whoa, whoa, whoa” shout bought that drama to a halt.

On arrival, our location seemed unfamiliar compared to my other stays in town. But the building was charming. The Holiday Inn is located in the former headquarters of The Old Town National Bank, an eight-story, granite faced, handsome building erected in 1924. The hotel opened in 2009 and is in great shape with a restored, high-ceilinged lobby featuring large, comfortable rooms.

BUT, the location, 221 North Gay Street, sucked. It’s on a seedy street with the Baltimore City Juvenile Justice Center diagonally across the street and in sight of a small tent city on an embankment for an entrance to an elevated highway a block away.

Fortunately, the Holiday Inn provides van service to most parts of the city enabling us to avoid recon foot patrol missions. After checking in we boarded the van for the Inner Harbor. I asked our friendly young Black driver his name. “Dominic,” he replied.

“Dominic, aye now, you could have fooled me, I didn’t suspect that you are an I-talian.”

Dominic shot back, “Where are you from?”
When we replied, New York, without hesitation, he noted, “That’s great. You guys are the best tippers.”

And so we were, because he was a great driver.

Mike hadn’t seen the Inner Harbor so we grabbed the water taxi for Fells Point. I insisted our first stop should be The Horse You Came In On Saloon for obvious reasons. A couple of beers later, we moved on to Riptide by the Bay for crab. A young group; two girls and three boys spontaneously adopted us for a while. One girl who called herself, “Chino,” was wasted, the other cold sober. Two of the three boys were also well on their way. They did shots, we didn’t. It was starting to wear thin when a chap from management arrived convincing them to leave. This was done quietly and with superb efficiency that impressed the two of us. So did Dominic who returned us to the hotel despite a raging rain storm that swept in that night.

Midday Tuesday, we visited the B&O Railroad Museum; an excellent find. They have a top notch collection and two guides, Lou and Jack, were all too happy to take us around as we had the place to ourselves. To go further will bore all but steam engine aficionados so I’ll limit our impressions to their pride and joy, locomotive # 1604; a C&O Allegheny articulated Mallet locomotive used to pull coal drags over its namesake range. For the record, the wheel arrangement is 2-6-6-6 and the tender sits on fourteen wheels. Built by the Lima Engine Works in 1941, they rival Union Pacific’s 4-8-8-4 Big Boys for the claim as being the largest locomotives in the world.

From the museum, we walked to Oriole Park at Camden Yards where we ate in air conditioned restaurant, Dempsey’s, before taking our seats on the Club Level in Row 1 of Section 212 out toward right field. More of a feeble hitting night than a pitcher’s duel, Mike had to suffer through a 1-0 loss that the Orioles scored on a wild pitch thrown by Sox rookie reliever, Matt Barnes! In the process, we ducked several line-drive foul balls that cascaded into 212 and surrounding sections. Dominic had almost a full load of Sox fans for the return ride.

Next morning, a final van ride back to Baltimore’s Pennsylvania Station started us on our way. No Dominic, so the tip was not as good as his would have been.

We talked about a trip to Pittsburgh for next year. Mike won’t fly but that’s ten hours each way via a slow Amtrak’s Pennsylvanian. Still…