John Delach

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…

Such a poetic phrase, I lifted: “He Failed to Negotiate a Curve,” from The New York Times’ obituary for Joe Don Looney. Joe Don, a former football star died while maneuvering his motorcycle along a winding road in East Texas. Forty-five, when his obituary was published on September 26, 1988, he died the same way he lived; chaotically.

Memories of his comet like life and death were reawakened recently. Twenty-six years after Joe Don’s death, he still retained the power to co-op his father, Don’s obituary despite the elder Mr. Looney having lived a long and successful life first in sports then in the oil patch, passing at 98.

Don Looney, (the father) born September 2, 1916, starred at Texas Christian University and was named MVP of the 1938 National Championship team that finished 11-0 beating Carnegie Tech 15-7 in the Sugar Bowl. Don went on to play three years in the NFL before joining the Army Air Force where he continued to play football with his base’s team known the Randolph Ramblers. After the war, Don embarked on a successful Fort Worth based career that included many civic, industry and charitable honors. When he passed, Don was the oldest living former NFL player and the last living member of TCU’s 1938 team.

When it came to football, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Unfortunately it must have bounced too many times before falling into a hole so deep that most obits found it a must to reference Joe Don in his father’s last earthly recognition. Once again Don was usurped by the life and crimes of his only son.

Joe Don played for Pascal a high school in the Fort Worth area where he gained fame as a senior beating rival Arlington Heights on a thirty-five yard run in the fourth quarter to make the final score, 14-12.

In 1962, he was a bench warmer at Oklahoma University. OU was losing to Syracuse with five minutes left to play. Joe Don took it on himself to walk up to legendary head coach, Bud Wilkinson, to announce, “If you want to win the game, you’d better get me in there.”

Stunned, Wilkinson was speechless so Joe Don inserted himself into the game, told the quarterback to give him the ball and bolted for a sixty-three yard touchdown and an Oklahoma victory, 7-3. A magnificent runner and punter, Joe Don led the Sooners to a berth in the Orange Bowl.

Things went badly the following year. Wilkinson kicked Joe Don off the team following a smack down delivered by Looney to an assistant coach.

Despite this incident, the New York Football Giants picked Joe Don as their first-round draft choice in 1964. He lasted a grand total of 25 days with the team before the Giants traded him to the Baltimore Colts. This is how I described his tenure with the Maramen in my book, 17 Lost Seasons:

It was said of the 6-3, 230 pound back, “He can run, he can punt, he can block, but, most of all, he can run.” It also should be noted that Sooners’ head coach, Bud Wilkinson had cut the 21-year-old handsome Texas native mid-way through his junior year at the request of his teammates. Joe Don had run for 852 yards in 1962, averaged 6.2 yards per carry, scored 62 points and led the nation with a 43.4 yard punting average. When Wilkinson cut him the following year, the coach was quoted as saying, Joe Don was, “…a bad influence upon other members of the team, was indifferent about practice and discipline.”

“We’re not interested in the past,” responded head scout and former head coach, Jim Lee Howell when asked why the Giants drafted this product of four colleges in two states as their number one choice. Question: Didn’t anybody from the Giants think about contacting Bud Wilkinson, the Sooners’ world class head coach to ask just how screwed up Joe Don was and how much he lived up to his last name?

Perhaps it was the fact that his dad had played for the Eagles and served as an NFL official? Joe Don’s career with the Giants lasted twenty-five days during which he refused to participate in workouts and slept, on occasion, 22 hours a day.

The Giants traded him to the Baltimore Colts for cast-offs. Even though he helped the Colts to win a division championship, head coach Don Shula refused to let Joe Don punt: “I was afraid to put Looney in the game to punt because I didn’t know if he would punt. He might do anything.”

At his next stop with the Detroit Lions coach Harry Gilmer told Joe Don to go into the game and tell the quarterback to call a screen pass. Joe Don replied to his head coach, “If you want a messenger boy, call Western Union.”

From there he went to the Washington Redskins where he punched out an opposing player. The army sent him to Viet Nam where he began his love affair with automatic weapons. He then wound up in India under the tutelage of a peculiar swami who prophesized the world as we knew it would implode in the mid 1990s, the anti-Christ would make his appearance and guns would be used for currency. (The story that Joe Don punched out the swami’s elephant may be an urban legend.)

Joe Don believed he was prepared for the end of all things. He lived alone in Alpine, TX off the grid with his automatic assault guns in a solar-heated dome without electricity or a telephone.

The principal feature at his funeral service was some fellow playing Stardust on a piano.

Joe Don could have done worse than to be sent off to the sound of Hoagy Carmichael’s soothing hit melody.

What do you get if you purchase a rather sophisticated flying electronic toy and have untried rookies attempt to operate it in a restricted area? Answer: Great drama!

My son-in-law, Tom, decided to treat his children, Marlowe and Cace, to a small plastic drone from a company called Dromida. He selected Model DIDE01GG dubbed Ominus, a fully assembled quadcopter. (Ominus, what an appropriate name for what was to follow!)

The proprietor of Toy City in Keene, NH and one of his customer’s recommended the unit to Tom as being, safe, reliable and easy to use.

The copter advertised itself as “fun to fly,” “easy to fly,” and “nearly impossible to break.” Tom charged the batteries for the flying machine and its controller on his return from the store. I was out and missed the arrival at the house and by the time I arrived first flight preparations were well along.

I watched from a safe distance on the porch as Tom ventured outside, set the copter on a table and engaged the controls. Smoothly and effortlessly the copter popped into the air rising about ten to fifteen feet. Working the controls Tom sent it forward, backwards and sideways. First flight ended in a crash about 15 seconds later.  The duration of subsequent flights varied as Tom began to master his expertise of the controls but all ended in crashes of one sort or another. But the copter was none the worse for these crashes. Although the quadcopter remained undamaged, our household quadruped, four-year-old Golden Retriever, Max, decided this darting, semi-controlled interloper was something he wanted no part of. Max joined me on the porch.

Marlowe and Cace joined the fray and the copter headed up higher and traveled further away. Granted, the house is located in a decent clearing but the fact is we live in the woods and it quickly reached a tree line. It cleared the trees for brief seconds then fell into a strand about 100 yards away as control was lost.

Drama descended on the once happy scene as a desperate search began. Tom spotted it dangling from a tall spruce tree too high to permit ground retrieval. Even so, being a dutiful father, Tom grabbed an extension ladder and attempted to climb up the tree, no small feat. He first had to clear low branches using a saw and clippers that prevented the ladder from being made at least somewhat secure.

I held the ladder more for morale support than in doing any real good. The copter was just too high but he couldn’t get anywhere near the copter to flick it off the tree even with a ten-foot pole. But Tom effort was a tie; no retrieval but he didn’t fall and break a leg, arm, etc. in the attempt.

One by one, crushed family members left the scene and returned to other activities. I decided to clean up some of the items we had used that day for the spring clean-up. One was an electric power washer used to clean an outdoor deck. It’s heavy and I decided to move it back to my GMC Arcadia on a hand-truck. Mission accomplished and with no further need for the hand-truck, I headed for the shed where we keep it. The ground was uneven so I looked down as I walked to avoid obstacles. So it came as a surprise when I heard a whooshing sound coming from the trees to my right. I looked up just as the copter hit the ground no more than a yard from where I stood. The tree had given up its prey safe and sound making me its emissary to return the unit restoring peace, tranquility and joy.

After dinner, eight-year-old Cace, who had taken the afternoon’s loss the hardest, walked pass me as I sat on the porch. In his hands he carried the copter and the controller. “Say, buddy, where are you going with those?”

“Outside to fly it.”

“Sorry, Cace,” no more flights today.” I replied as I decided to play the bad guy.

With less fuss than I expected, he accepted his grandfather’s edict.

One miracle a day is enough!

 Author’s note: Next weeks blog will be published on Thursday. 

Marlow, NH: Each year brings its own set of challenges when it comes time to awaken the New Hampshire house from its winter snooze. There are easy openings and hard openings and 2015 was leaning towards the hard side. At our first arrival in April we tackled immediate problems as expeditiously as possible. Power, water and communications are top priorities in that order.

We knew the dishwasher was broken when we left in December so we ordered a new one to be delivered and installed when we returned for the Memorial Day weekend. DirecTV was also out so we arranged a visit by their technician. A toilet was out of kilter needing the plumber but that could be done while we’re not here. Prior to this season’s opener, I ordered a new cutting blade and a tune-up kit from the D.R. Trimmer Company for my field and brush mower. A local fellow who advertises “small engine repairs” serviced this machine and a conventional gas-powered lawn mower. He finished servicing them before we arrived. When I called to find out what I owed him he said, “I had to get a new battery for the field and brush mover and I used the new parts you left but I couldn’t get the lawn mower to work until I got the shit out of the carburetor.”

We came up on Wednesday and two guys from Sears arrived on Thursday to install a new dishwasher and take away the old one. All went well until they began to pull the old one out of the kitchen. “Hey, bud,” the leader said. “We have a problem. This thing is hard-wired, not plugged in and we’re not licensed to work on it. You need an electrician.”

That wasn’t good news. Mary Ann looked at him and said, “How do we find one who’ll work on it before the weekend?”

“Oh, you should call the Sears store where you bought it. This happens all the time.”

With that they left right after we signed a receipt that they delivered the new one. Mary Ann called Sears and spoke to a woman in the store. Yes, she could try to get us an electrician to install it tomorrow but before he would come, we’d have to pay $190. She asked, “Do you have a Sear’s card?”

When Mary Ann answered, “No,” she said, “Well, you’ll have to come into the store to use another card before we can dispatch him.”

She said she’d call back but she didn’t. Instead a licensed installer called us. “If my wife takes the kids to school, I can be there by 8 AM tomorrow. If not, I have a job in Walpole at 10 and I’ll be there after 11.” His name was Jason. He told Mary Ann the cost was $175 and he’d take a check; go figure?

The DirecTV tech came a little after four and solved the problem fairly quickly. The dish had become misaligned which was why it wasn’t receiving a signal. But then he got into a conversation with Mary Ann about upgrading to a wireless system that would allow us to watch TV on our I Pads or on televisions anywhere in the house. When she spoke to an agent at DirecTV the cost kept going up and up until she finally said, “Never mind.”

That night in bed as black thoughts crossed my mind, a new one snuck in, “When was the last time we had the septic system drained?”  I kept my own counsel until morning then checked my records. The system was last serviced in June of 2012 and was due for servicing June of 2015. Ahead of the curve on that near-miss, I made an appointment to have it drained on June 2.

Jason arrived as promised a little past 8 AM. He disconnected the old unit, installed the new one and put on the power. One problem; no water. Then, opening valves to find out why, unbeknownst to us, he drained all of the hot water. This happened just as Mary Ann was about to take a shower. When she told us there was no hot water, I was ready to panic. No dishwasher and now no hot water for the holiday weekend, not good, not good at all.

Jason remained calm. He realized the loss of hot water was temporary and he re-connected the dishwasher. “Give it an hour for the water to get hot and put the dishwasher on. It should work. If not call me and I’ll come back this afternoon.”

He was right and that problem was solved.

So much for this year’s opening day dramas. Tom, Beth and Cace arrived for opening day chores later on Friday. Their daughter, Marlowe, was already with us. On Saturday, they went to Marlow’s Memorial Day service before we started working. They felt the ceremony was touching, a simple mix of the National Anthem, God Bless America, Amazing Grace and Taps.

Chores commenced. I made a couple of runs to the garbage transfer station to rid ourselves of junk left over from Christmas, Tom went to work on the lawn, Cace cut down seedlings, we power-washed the deck, prepped the septic tank by clearing the dirt that covered it, cleaned outdoor furniture, etc.

The summer season of 2015 was underway.

American maritime paintings that depict scenes from the mid Nineteenth Century and the early Twentieth Century are popular because they are special. They interpret a black and white era in brilliant colors inviting our eyes to observe a newly industrialized America flexing its muscle, expanding its dominance over the land, the rivers and the oceans.

Artists like John Stoddard and Michael Blaser depict a multitude of steamboats of all sizes and description serving river cities and towns on the Ohio, Missouri and Mississippi rivers. They portray daily river life from sunrise to sunset and even at night time.

Famous steamboats fill their portfolios, Belle Memphis, Bayou Sara, J.M. White, Belle Amour, Dean Adams and The Island Queen. Their portraits present a world of commerce on these rivers, the commerce of an America propelled by determination, prosperity, and confidence.

Sailing upriver on board the modern steamboat, American Queen, passengers can re-live this era by examining its many paintings that line the boat’s passageways, lounges and public rooms. But the land and the towns that line the Mississippi tell a different story, a story of change and not for the better, of being bypassed, made redundant and abandoned to exist in nostalgia that once was their glory.

I first witnessed the state of Mississippi River towns in 2010 during a baseball trip that took my mates and me from St. Paul to St. Louis. Here is how I described our journey as we drove south in Iowa along the Mississippi River:

We drive back into Davenport to see the place during daylight and discover that this is the first of several “ghost towns” we will drive through. It seems that only the poor and disconnected live in these towns any longer while retail business has fled to suburban malls. Downtown: empty storefronts look back at us and many abandoned housing units dot the nearby, once-upon-a-time, residential neighborhoods within this once prosperous city. We witness this same phenomenon in Burlington, Fort Madison and Keokuk, Iowa.

Late in April, 2015, Mary Ann and I traveled on board the American Queen upriver from New Orleans to Memphis. The trip took seven days, the massive 40-ton paddle wheel behind the stern pushing the steamboat against the current at five miles an hour against the “Big Muddy” or the “Father of All Waters.” Along the way we stopped at by-passed towns, in Mississippi and Arkansas; Natchez, Helena-West Helena and Clarksdale.

What took us seven days could be covered by automobile in about six and a half hours on Interstate-55, but the point of making this trip was to experience this part of our country. The American Queen was the only passenger boat on the river in regular service.

But commerce remained strong on this great inland river though it has minimum contact with the land especially in the Delta between Vicksburg and Memphis. Great fleets of barges tied together into groups of 12 to 20 called “tows” are maneuvered up and down the river pushed along by powerful towboats. The barges carry cargo in bulk, coal, grain; soy, wheat, oats, corn or any other bulk commodity including sand and stone. Downriver for exports, upriver for imports- the tows never stop at the towns. They move from one fleeting area to another, where they tie off at landings away from human traffic. Full barges are brought along side floating cranes which lift their cargoes in huge buckets up into the holds of ocean-going ships. Likewise they load empty barges with imported bulk cargoes to be taken upriver to inland ports.

The river towns prospered during the time of king cotton when this industry dominated the land, the people and their life-style. Cultivating, harvesting, cleaning, inspecting, warehousing and shipping cotton ruled the land and those who lived there. Starting during the First World War, the put-upon lowly black field workers and sharecroppers began to quit the land taking their families north up the center of the country to cities like Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, etc. seeking a new life. The Great Depression slowed this migration to a crawl, but the need for workers serve in the plants of our “Arsenal for Democracy, as World War II arrived turned this trickle into a flood as masses of black field workers left the land. Cotton doe forced to automate eliminating field jobs forever. After the war, interstates by-passed the river towns, railroad traffic gave way to the airlines while malls and big-box stores starved local mom and pop merchants. One by one downtown retail stores gave up the ghost as did the hotels and restaurants.

What remains today is nostalgia, heritage and the Delta Blues. Natchez has a black-tie Festival of Music each May, a Mississippi River Race in October and Christmas in Natchez, a festival of lights. Helena has the King Biscuit Blues Festival each October that attracts 100,000 fans or more and the Wild Hog Music Festival and Motor Cycle in April. (Damn, we must have just missed that one by a week.) We also missed the Juke Joint Festival held in April in Clarksdale.

Nostalgia, heritage and the Delta Blues, that’s what they hope to sell. Despite these towns’ being down and out, here’s the message I heard their folks screaming out, “We are not going to disappear.”

B.B. King just passed. A boy born on a Mississippi plantation who had his first paid gig in Clarksdale. Like Muddy Waters or Bessie Smith, he came into this world when cotton was king and now their memory and the music they invented help to keep these towns alive and I believe sustain their future; nostalgia, heritage and the Delta Blues.