John Delach

One Sunday afternoon in early spring, I joined my son-in-law, Tom and his boy, Cace, for a visit to the Intrepid Air and Space Museum. After Cace reached his saturation point of airplanes and flying hands-on mock ups of helicopters and jet fighters, we left the aircraft carrier. But on the way out, we took a quick tour of the British Airways’ Concorde parked on the pier.

As soon as I entered the cabin, I was drawn back to my own personal golden age of travel, an era that lasted from 1979 until 1993. During those fifteen years, marine and energy, the department where I worked was a top earner for Marsh & McLennan. New offshore oil and gas projects were happening everywhere. Our only real problem was finding new insurance capacity needed to cover the next project that required greater policy limits. We made crazy money for our company and, in return, we could expense things without much limit. In the words from a Jimmy Buffet song: We made enough money to buy Miami, but we pissed it all away.

In that time of expenses be damned, I flew in SST (Supersonic Transport) Concorde nine times all between JFK and London Heathrow airports. Just stepping into the gray on gray interior of the de-commissioned bird on that pier that day and stepping into its miniscule center aisle brought it all back, the two-by-two seats each no bigger, at best, than a domestic first class seat on a 737 but with less leg room. The tiny cabin windows and the tubular shape of the fuselage with a curve so narrow that for someone my size to squeeze into a window seat, I had to do it on a diagonal, legs first with my top shoulder brushing along the cabin wall. I remarked to Tom, “See the rest rooms, the toilets are sideways facing toward the back of the airplane.” Tom is 6’5” tall. “I don’t know how you could pee standing up. You’d have to contort your body on an angle to fit that curve.”

I told Tom about some of the other quirks of flying Concorde. “There are two cabins, fore and aft separated by rest rooms and galleys. For whatever reason, the forward cabin was considered Posh. Since most of my flights were thanks to upgrades, I usually rode in the aft cabin. Knowing my difficulties occupying a window seat, I quickly learned to ask for an aisle seat. What I didn’t expect was the unusual and somewhat disconcerting view this provided during takeoff. Because the airplane is so long and so narrow, the fuselage ungulates like a Slinky as the aircraft powers down the runway. By leaning slightly into the aisle, I was able to watch this scary scene down the runway from the aft cabin.

“If that wasn’t enough to get my attention, a member of the crew would first prepare the passengers for the experience of this bird during take off. Of course this was all explained to the passengers by a senior man enunciating a proper, re-assuring English accent. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, once airborne, you will experience a sudden deceleration and a falling sensation approximately seven seconds after takeoff. This will be due to noise abatement procedures as we shut down our afterburners used during takeoff. The aircraft will drop slightly and, simultaneously, the aircraft will bank left to avid populated areas.’ (Daddy wouldn’t lie.)

“Takeoff on the SST began with a WHooPoooOOOOOOOSSS-KABOOM as the afterburners kicked in. This blast of noise produced the G-forces that threw the passengers back into our seats as the bird rapidly accelerated. At takeoff speed the Concorde climbed quickly, steeply, very steeply with a lot of noise, a lot of drama; then, in an instant; relative silence, slowing down like someone hit air brakes or a brick wall. So too was there a noticeable drop combined with a left shear. Thank God for the warning otherwise the souls on board would presume it was time to meet our maker.

“When the aircraft reached international waters and it was time to go supersonic. The captain advised the cabin crew to stop service, everyone to return to their seats, seatbelts on. The afterburners were brought back on line and a second, albeit much quieter and relaxing takeoff ensued. Pinned back into my seat, I watched the mach meter go from 0.80 (or 80% the speed of sound) to 2.10 or more than twice the speed of sound. The thrust of the afterburners was the only sensation and there was no feel of speed as the SST accelerated. Cruising altitude was about 65,000 feet above the earth with the deep, deep blue of near space and the curvature of the earth visible through those tiny portholes.

“Landings were also unique and quirky. Concorde was most efficient when it was high and fast so the crew maintained altitude as long as they could. The resultant landings were steep, fast and dramatic.”

Tom thought a minute and asked, “It doesn’t sound like the most pleasant experience. Was it worth it to go that fast?”

“Oh, yeah.” I thought about what it was like, smiled and said, “Remember that only British Airways and Air France flew the SST and they treated Concorde like royalty. Only fourteen ever reached operational status. Special lounges were more opulent than First Class where many times celebrity spotting wasn’t a challenge. Each passenger received a handsome souvenir, a pen, leather luggage tag, notebook, etc. each with the Concorde logo and the pilot signed a Mach 2 certificate for each passenger giving the date, speed and time of the crossing.

“But none of that meant much. It was the mere act of flying supersonic going faster than almost anyone else on earth had ever flown. The only people who flew faster were a select number of test pilots, fighter pilots and rocketmen who were paid to do it.”

I had my own expression about traveling by SST: “You can say anything about Concorde, but all of them mean the same thing: ‘She’s fast!”

The group of us that flew Concorde knew she was special, knew we had lucked out to fly her. Luck lends itself to hubris and we had the nerve to call her, “the Grape” as in:

“How’d you cross the pond this trip?”

“Took the Grape.”

We made a pact vowing that whenever on board Concorde either alone or collectively, we would eat nothing but caviar and drink nothing but champagne or chilled vodka.

I do believe that from time to time we cheated about the food.

Ah, life in the fast plane!

Be not troubled or afraid. I know many of you who lived through the terror and heartbreak of September 11, 2001, experienced those events or witnessed it all helplessly cannot or do not wish to revive those raw emotions by visiting the place once called “Ground Zero”  be it the World Trade Center Memorial or Museum. Be true to your own counsel.

My purpose is to report my first impressions of visiting the museum. I had been to the memorial twice before when it was gated and entry required a ticket. Now the public space is open to all. It is in many ways a park, the memorial fountains are soothing, it is still partially fenced in by construction sites for new buildings and the PATH terminal which is terribly distracting and it will be filled by tourists especially this summer. No vendors are in evidence which has a calming effect.

The Museum is different. (I visited the museum on Monday, June 23^rd with Mary Ann and my cousin and friend, Bob Christman.)

The ticketing process is still developing and purchasing tickets in advance is recommended, but, unless you are a member you will still face a slow line to claim your tickets. Extra time is a must. Security is the equivalent of being at an airport.

From security you descend by escalator, stairway or elevator to an informational level where there are guides, an information desk, rest rooms and the controversial book shop and gift shop. (It is discreetly set off to one side of this lobby.)

The elevators can be used to access the main floor but the primary path is along a long ramp that snakes downward. Early along there is a map cut into the wall in relief showing the four flight paths and recorded conversations from that day play as you pass. From high on the ramp, you first view some of the artifacts like the slurry wall, the last column removed from the site and steel from the side of one of the towers twisted by the impact from one of the airplanes. The survivors’ staircase is alongside the stairs and escalators that connect the suspended ramp to the main floor.

The main floor is far underground down where the footings for the towers were set.  The footings for both the North and South Towers are visible throughout this huge space and a ramp on the south side of the South Tower brings you below the footings exposing concrete and steel above this path.

Several different artifacts, memorial objects and remembrances are set out in various locations throughout these spaces. The area near the North Tower by the slurry wall is an enormous space with breathtaking views.

It is on this floor where the curators took the utmost care to provide an experience that each visitor commands for themselves. The telling of that awful day is presented in a separate exhibit behind a glass wall under a sign that describes what it is. Access to the exhibit is through a revolving door which gives pause to decide if you are ready to re-live those events. The photos of the dead are discreetly set in alphabetical order on the inside walls of a large room that you do not see unless you seek to enter.

The same is true for other experiences of the day. Nowhere is the visitor subject to shock, violence or terror. It is a somber place for sure. It is stark and minimalist in its framing of the objects on display and the story it tells. The large number of tourists in their bright, summer apparel counters the somberness but even the most casual visitor I encountered was subdued and seemed to understand.

I dreaded this first visit and there were certain experiences that my companions and I avoided. But, I am glad I made the visit and broke the spell. In the fall I will be ready to return and this time I intend to take the next step and re-visit some of the events and recollections that I was not prepared to encounter this time.

We were about three and one-half hours out of the berth in Baltimore Harbor, slowly sailing on Chesapeake Bay, just past the half-way point on this six-hour historical voyage. So far, my two grandsons were holding up, but fading. They’d explored every part of the Liberty Ship open to them plus a few, I suspect, not open to the public where their nimble and athletic 12 and 14 year-old legs gained the better of obstacles in their path. You bet I was waiting for the melt-down, that moment when they would pass the point of no return; they’d lose it, their father would lose it and I’d lose it too leading, just perhaps, to burial at sea.

The staff and volunteers running this, the 99^th historical voyage of the 1942-built, John W. Brown, truly had their act together filling the day with a variety of happenings, commemorations, events, meals and distractions to make for a full day. But for two electronically skilled, Type “A” personality Boys with a capital “B”, I knew when I made these plans that this adventure would be a challenge. Let the record show that when Drew was five and Matt was three, I told them: “From now on, Drew, your name is, Jesus, and, Matt, your name is, Christ. That way, when I yell; ‘Jesus Christ, knock it off,’ you’ll know who I’m talking to!”

Sailing on this World War II relic had been a long time item on my “bucket list.” The ship has four sailings in 2014 and Father’s Day weekend worked for me and their Dad, my son Mike. We did it right, drove down on Friday, taking them to see the Orioles play the Toronto Blue Jays at Camden Yards that night. We lasted until the Eighth Inning when the rain arrived with the Orioles losing 2-0. We left for the hotel to see our Rangers lose the Stanley Cup to the L.A. Kings. (The Orioles also lost, 4-0.)

Saturday was glorious. The storm passed leaving a cool, dry, sunny day. Mike drove to the pier where we set eyes on this “old dog.” S.S. John Brown is just one of two Liberty Ships still in existence, left from the 2,711 frantically turned out by American shipyards to replace the incredible number of ships sunk by Nazi U-boats early in the war.

While we were waiting to board, I asked the boys, “Who do you think is older, me or the John Brown?” If you took me, you lost. I was launched in 1944, the Brown in 1942.

Drew and Matt, like their father and grandfather, have a devilish sense of the absurd, causing me to fear that security and the attitude of the regulars manning the ship could be an issue. Absolutely, not. Security was appropriate and, as for the crew, these volunteers all came with a relaxed attitude and a great sense of humor. Like one deck hand who told Matty, “Before you use one of the Port-o-sans, you should know that one flushes overboard. Let another person use it before you do. If they don’t come out, don’t go in.”

Activities included a girl-group trio, the Manhattan Dolls, who put on a wonderful Andrew Sisters, show while styled in tight-fitting, 40’s era tops and pencil skirts. The National Anthem, was appropriately, played as John Brown passed Fort McHenry and Taps as we cleared the harbor. After lunch just past the half-way point in the bay, an air show mesmerized the crowd as a Japanese Val and Zero buzzed the ship while the crew loudly shot off blank 20 mm shells from two cannons mounted on the bow. The boys asked me, “Gramps, what if they were real?”

“If they were real, we’d be toast.”

A US Navy Avenger and Dauntless intervened chasing off the “enemy,” one trailing smoke. The show ended with a B-25 Mitchell making a series of low passes.

One act remained, billed as: The Ultimate Abbott and Costello Tribute Show. It featured three comedians, Bill Riley, (Costello) Joe Fields (Abbott) and Jason Crutchley (Scoop Fields) who re-create a number of their classic routines. Drew and Matt joined me in one of the converted cargo holds and we were soon roaring to material like “The Honey Bee Club,” Two Tens for a Five,” Sticky Fingers,” “The Hidden Lemon Trick” and “Who’s On First.”

What is old was new again especially for the boys and it delivered so much that the effects lasted for the rest of the trip. Salvation was at hand, halleluiah!

We drove home the next day and met Jodie in Westchester where we said our goodbyes. When she asked them what was their favorite part of the trip, they exclaimed, “Mom, ‘Who’s On First.”

One Sunday afternoon when I was about nine years old my mother took me on one of our many outings to Canarsie to spend the afternoon on the pier overlooking Jamacia Bay. The pier was one of our regular Sunday destinations but this trip had a different twist. Leaving to go home, we walked under the Belt Parkway overpass, but Mom didn’t head for the bus stop on Rockaway Parkway. Instead, she led me toward one of Quonset Huts lined up in rows and rows that were a fixture for as long as I could remember visiting Canarsie.

As we walked toward one of the huts I realized that they were deserted. Mom made sure no one was around then pushed open the door at the end of the hut. I followed her inside this curved structure where the walls and the roof were one. It was empty. No furniture, no rugs, no remnants or reminders of who lived there. I don’t even remember seeing a sink or a toilet. We only saw one half as each hut was divided into two homes by a corrugated metal wall in the middle. But I do remember what my mother said out loud as we left: “I don’t know how a woman could make that her home and live there.”

When next we visited the pier, the Quonset Huts were gone and pretty soon construction began on a public housing project that the City would deem the Bayview Houses.

But the image of those cylindrical huts sheathed in corrugated steel lined up like an army of gigantic half-buried cans of soda or beer remained in my memory. There was another colony of Quonset Huts that I recall being located on vacant land in Maspeth, Queens, a short distance from where my Uncle Bill, Aunt Helen and my Christman cousins lived. This development was arranged on the slope of a hill that led up from 69^th Street to Mount Olivet Cemetery along Eliot Avenue. Curiously, I can picture these tin cans vividly, but, like Canarsie, I can’t remember any images of the folks who lived there.

Quonset Hut housing: the why and how:

Our deliberate detonation of two Atom Bombs on Japan suddenly and dramatically ended the Second World War. Overnight, the incredible number of young American men who had and were still being assembled for the most massive of any seaborne invasion ever envisioned; the assault on the Home Island of Honshu became instantly superfluous.

Millions of GIs, swabies, Marines and coasties some still in Europe waiting to sail to the Pacific to meet their fate each said, thought or prayed in their own way the same thought: I’m free, free, thank God Almighty; I’m free at last!

And what does a young man want once he felt finally free enough so that he is able to look himself in a mirror, smile and reflect, “Damn I’m not going die alone out here.” What does he want? The girl back home!

The official date for the birth of the first Baby Boomers is January 1, 1946. That’s reasonable. The boys in Europe who did the heaviest fighting there could have been home in May, a good number had already married their sweethearts before going overseas so they had a quick staring point. Nature’s course was inevitable but hard core reality quickly hit; a significant number of these new families had no place to live!

“The housing industry, still reeling from the Great Depression, had been further diminished by a wartime shortage of materials and labor…As a result; an estimated one million families were forced to double up with other families…Before the end of 1946, that number would triple.”

Fortunately, our Nation remained on a war-footing and the right organizations existed on a local, state and national levels to implement emergency housing. They used what was available, military housing on bases made instantly surplus, other makeshift facilities like trailers, but for the most part, they relied on a ubiquitous and readily available alternative, the Quonset Hut.

Conceived by the US Navy before we entered the war, the original huts were built on their new base at Quonset Point, RI to equip a remote post on Greenland. The design was based on a British expedient building, the Nissan Hut. But His / Her Majesty’s government in its infinite wisdom had given the copyrights to Peter Norman Nissan, who designed this beauty when serving with the 29^th Company Royal Engineers during World War I in recognition of his service. Some legal eagle in the Pentagon saw the patent implications of deeming these structures to be Nissan Huts and, as if by magic, they became Quonset Huts.

The emergency housing units went up quickly once construction began and most opened in 1946. One of the largest developments was in Los Angeles, the Rodger Young Village, built on a surplus aerodrome; it housed over 1,500 families. The press reported that eager husbands camped out two to three days before registration began.

413 were thrown up in Canarsie, each hut accommodating two families. The New York Times reported on October 16, 1946 that the first 75 units in a development in Jackson Heights, Queens were accepted just ten days after construction has begun. Ultimately, over 1,800 Quonset Huts went up on the former site of Holmes Airport.

By 1951 these humble dwelling had fulfilled their reason to exist but it took another two years for their hosts including the City of New York to evict the slackers, schemers, grifters and deadwood forcing them to move on down the road. By then, most vets and their families had moved on to the new suburban developments and the beat went on.

The huts were erased, there mission completed; here today, gone tomorrow. But I think I know the answer to Mom’s lament: “I don’t know how a woman could make that her home and live there?”

“Ma, she didn’t have a choice.”

I shoot de puck, it go in de net, I score de goal, ay! To me, that’s the simplest and best description by an athlete replying to the tired, inevitable reporter’s question, “How did you win the game tonight?”

My late, great Canadian friend and business colleague, Terry Manning, related that gem supposedly made by Maurice Richard at one of our sessions at a bar somewhere in Montreal, New York, London or White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia.

(Terry also taught me a valuable late-night pronouncement to be delivered before leaving a bar: “Let’s have one for the ditch!”)

Terry’s first love was the Montreal Canadiens, and I should have been able to torture him during the early 80s when we worked closely together as my local team, the upstart NY Islanders, won four Stanley Cups in a row from 1980 to 1983. But I couldn’t give a damn about these interlopers; my team was the Rangers, the one I grew up with.

My experiences with the Rangers originated during the early 1950s when my cousins, Helen, Bill and Bob Christman surprised me for birthdays and with tickets to Sunday night games at the old Madison Square Garden.

The Rangers weren’t good usually finishing fifth or sixth in the six-team league that was the original National Hockey League. They weren’t any better later in 50s when my friends and I started making visits to the old joint on Eighth Avenue and Forty-Ninth Street. We showed out high school General Organization (G.O.) Cards that together with fifty cents gave us access to the side balconies. The principal problem with those seats was they presented an incomplete view of the ice after the third row from the rail cutting off about 10% of the action along the near boards. Regulars would arrive early enough to commandeer entire rows of choice seats for themselves and their buddies and, if perchance we arrived early enough to seize seats for our selves, they were not beyond bully threats forcing us to vacate them.

College years and post-college years before marriage, it was not uncommon for us to attend the Football Giants contest on Sunday afternoon at Yankee Stadium then proceed downtown via the Eight Avenue subway for hockey.

But try as I might, watching hockey on a regular basis was not for me and like NASCAR, if the subject came up, my eyes would glaze over and my thoughts would drift to a myriad of other interests while I half-listened to this background noise. I did attend a number of games at the Madison Square Garden that replaced the old joint in the late 1960s especially after my employer, Marsh & McLennan, leased a series of corporate boxes. Great to entertain clients and I could duck out early and catch a reasonable LIRR train in the basement back to Port Washington.

One memorable night, Winston cigarettes staged a Winston Cup night. At the time they sponsored stock car racing both on a national and local level and somehow or other it was hooked into this particular hockey game. We had 15 folks in the box that night each who received a bright red Winston baseball cap. Then, as luck would have it, a Ranger scored three goals achieving a “hat trick” that night. When thousands of fans finished sailing their new found head gear from high and low the ice had been turned into a sea of crimson. Then, lo and behold, the same chap scored a fourth goal. The few remaining caps hit the ice along with other hats of all types and even packs of Winston cigarettes.

But the playoffs are a different matter altogether and the further the Rangers progress, the further out of the closet I come. They had a near miss in the 1978-79 season losing in five games to Montreal and that glorious 1993-1994 season when they finally won the Stanley Cup and silenced the taunting chorus of “1940-1940-1940…”

Now twenty years later, the Rangers are back in Cup this time as decided underdogs against the Kings. Few give the Blue Shirts a chance. Balderdash! Proudly out of the closet, permit me to paraphrase the late radio sportscaster, John Kennerly, and declare: “The Rangers will go through Los Angeles like the Acela goes through Metuchen, New Jersey!

Sometime last year I heard about a new book called: “The Routes Not Taken – A Trip Through New York City’s Unbuilt Subway System.” Fascinated by the title, I asked my son to give it to me for my 70^th Birthday. Try as hard as he could, Michael discovered, contrary to the information I had, it was yet to be published. In April, two of my buddies, Geoff Jones and Bill Christman, sent reviews from the Wall Street Journal. I quickly went to Amazon and bought a copy.

I’ve read about half of this history of the transit system in the 20^th Century; I will be shocked if the author, Joseph B. Raskin, sells more than 500 copies. It’s not an awful book. Quality is not an issue. The problem is the subject matter is exactly as advertised; a definitive narrative of the reasons that many proposed and planned subway lines were never built. The short answer; lack of money, conflicting interests and / or lack of political will.

You now know the primary cause and effect of Mr. Raskin’s narrative. Beyond that, do you really want to know that the Brooklyn – Queens Crosstown Line, today known as the “G” Line was originally conceived as a steam-powered elevated line in the late Nineteenth Century or that the Winfield Spur in Queens only appeared on the 1929 Board of Transportation Planning Map even though an underground subway terminal was built along the IND Queens Line to accommodate it? That terminal remains today, abandoned, unfinished and connected to nothing.

If you answered anything other than, “Hell, no!” you are a liar, psychotic, a fool or a subway geek. As for me, I jumped on such information like a dog on a bone but, I admit, this book is a test. A test of endurance, knowledge and patience. Witness this simple paragraph describing a proposed extension to the Flushing Line:

“The extended route would run past Flushing and along Warburton Avenue (now 38^th Avenue) to Bayside Boulevard (now 221^st Street) near Little Neck Bay. For most of this distance, the Flushing line would closely parallel the LIRR’s Port Washington’s line.”

Did you find your eyes glazing over, were you distracted or did you even finish reading the passage? Even if that paragraph made any sense to you at all, admit it; everything being equal, you’d rather be forced to watch snooker on the tele than read any more of this drivel.

But I am hooked as I knew I would be. You see I hold what would be the equivalent of a Masters Degree of Subway having honed by education and knowledge for more than 50 years from publications like the Electric Railroader Association (ERA) and the National Historic Railroad Association’s (NHRA) bulletins. I began collecting material while in college making visits to the nearby Transit Authority’s headquarters on Jay Street where I met two employees who I learned were legendary subway historians; a.k.a. geeks, Don Harold and Frank Goldsmith who introduced me to material I did not know existed about the subways.

My collection of written material expanded over the years. As technology improved first with VHS tapes and, later, DVDs, I grew my video library of the old films featuring trolleys and old els shot in the 1930s and 1940s. Previously they could only be viewed on 8mm and 16mm projectors at club meetings.

It was the internet that made research simple and provided a plethora of information about the subways past, present and the routes not taken. It was about the same time that I secured copies of the official Board of Transportation maps of 1929 and 1939 that laid out plans for the so-called, “Second System” the next phase of extending the IND system.

Please, do not be under whelmed, to a subway geek these maps are the equivalent of Biblical scholars finding the Dead Sea Scrolls. Oh, all right granted I am engaging in a bit of hyperbole, but they were a major find. But the maps had to be taken on face value and details were poor. Oh sure, I could see where the Utica Avenue Line and the Smith Street – Staten Island Line would go or where the two-level South 4^th Street Station would be located in Brooklyn, but there weren’t any details.

But Mr. Raskin opened the vault and has provided intense and specific details not only of locations, but of the how, why, when and who were responsible.

He make life good for subway geeks everywhere.

But before I sign off I will confirm one thought you are considering: It’s true; I have never met a subway geek whose all there including when I look in the mirror.

When the 7:07 PM Metro North / Connecticut Transit train to New Haven left the Grand Central Terminal on time on Friday evening, May 9, 2014, it’s consist of cars included the last bar / lounge coach operating on any American commuter railroad. Officially dubbed, Café Cars, this forty- something years old unit was removed from service at the end of that run together with three other like lounge coaches.

They were rolling dinosaurs and only lasted this long because Connecticut deferred replacing their M-2 commuter car fleet well beyond other railroads had like Metro North and the Long Island railroads. Their very existence was odd as the Nutmeg State still chose to include Café Cars when they ordered new train sets in the early 1970s at a time  almost all other systems were eliminating these coaches as they modernized their equipment.

Like Chicago; Jim Hagelow recalled “We lost ours years ago and with them, many fond memories. Birthday parties, Cubs outings, ‘Oh Shit’ card games and singing Christmas carols. Every year for years, a fellow from Peat Marwick and I led the car singing carols during our rolling party.” Jim also admitted a universal truth: “I think my wife was happy when it went away.”

Geoff Jones remembered that the older pre-MTA equipment included lounge cars with upholstered chairs and couches that could be move around. “Some had service bars at one end, but there were others with long bars along one side of windows. The railroad had a bartender who rode south from Poughkeepsie in the morning running a continental breakfast service. At night he became the bartender for the northbound run to Poughkeepsie where they put him up in a small apartment. On weekends, he continued further north where his family lived.”

“When the new equipment arrived, booze carts on the platforms at GCT replaced the lounges. But drinks bought there didn’t last to Peekskill where a funny thing often happened on Fridays. The platform is located on a pretty sharp bend of the Hudson. The train emptied on the right so it took the conductor a long time to check it all to see if passengers were safely off. Just across the street was a pizzeria and thirsty commuters who still had a way to go pre-ordered pizzas and six-packs of beer from pay phones in GCT (no cell phones) to meet the train. A designated runner left with the first wave of exiting passengers to secure the order and re-board the train. Usually, the run went smoothly, but I do believe the conductor held the train when it didn’t. The pizza always smelled great but it was only ten minutes to my stop in Garrison so I didn’t join in.”

After the LIRR introduced their new M-1 coaches without bar cars in 1969, for a while they turned trains that went long distances into bar cars by putting a cart and bartender on one of the units. He maneuvered the cart taking over one of the two vestibules in that car. He disabled the doors behind him and the conductor would announce his location. Pity the passengers, especially non-drinkers in that car. A line would snake down the narrow aisle with thirsty patrons competing for space with others carrying their drinks back to their friends. If that didn’t create sufficient discomfort for regular riders, once the bartender came on board, that coach officially became a smoking car!

My own make-shift bar experience came on my son’s last commute to Port Washington before he was to be married and move to Fairfield, CT. I bought four cans of beer to share on our express run home, but while the train was still in Queens, we stopped at a station for what the crew described as a medical emergency. “EMS is on the way and will be here soon.”

The doors were open and I spied a bodega at the end of the platform across Northern Boulevard. “Watch my briefcase,” I said to Mike and made my way as quickly as I could. Dodging traffic, I replenished our diminished rations and made it back as the EMS fellows were removing the distressed commuter from the train. “Hey, is that for us?” one of them called out as I re-boarded.

“Afraid not fellas, but if you had let me know, I would have picked up four more.”
 

This is an excerpt from my 2014 Baseball Journal: “Tickets: $6.00 – Hot Dogs $18.75”

Our 2014 annual baseball trip takes place in late April and culminates in Durham for a late afternoon contest between the Bulls and the visiting Scranton / Wilkes-Barre Railriders, the Yankees AAA affiliate. The Bulls represent the Tampa Bay Rays. We are an audience of six, part of the 10,011 sell-out crowd. I am joined by my baseball buddies, Bill, Don, Geoff, Mike and Geoff’s son-in-law, Paul whose family lives in Durham. We sit along the third base line out toward left field.

The ballpark is modern and Geoff explains that they undertook an $18 million renovation after the 2013 season ended. New four and five-story office buildings loom over the left and center field walkways with balcony’s overlooking the field. Paul explains that during weekday early starts, office workers come out to watch the games.

Just inside the left-field foul pole is a large painting of a bull. When a Bulls’ player hits a home run, steam comes out of the bull’s nostrils and its eyes turn red. Written on the bull is a sign: “HIT BULL WIN STEAK.” Below the bull on painted grass it reads: “HIT GRASS WIN SALAD.”

A Sign in Center field proclaims that this is Goodmon Field. Paul explains that Jim Goodmon is a local media mogul and current owner, but it seems his choice to name the place after himself is not catching on. Newspaper reports of the game call it Durham Bulls Athletic Park or by its initials, DBAP, pronounced D-bap.

I take a solo walk around the ballpark during the early innings to observe the view from all fields. Covered stands stretch from just past first base around home to just past third base. This main seating area is a big single deck, that tapers down beyond first and third. Luxury boxes line the wall along the rear of this grandstand. Open stands continue to the right field and left field foul poles. Bleachers line right-center with a grass seating area in center field. The scoreboard covers the left field wall with a an outdoors restaurant above it.

Before the game begins, I ask a fellow two rows behind us to take our photo using my phone. He does, but the chap with him asks, “When did you boys play for the Bulls.”

“I’m not sure of the year,” I reply, “But they were still flying the Confederate Flag.” After a group of youngsters finish performing the National Anthem, I turn and ask, “When did they change the tune?”

At first he looks puzzled then he explodes in laughter.

It’s an easy game for the Bulls who take a 5-0 lead into the Ninth on the strength of two home runs. It is only then that I wake-up to the fact that the starting pitcher, Mike Montgomery, has pitched eight innings of no-hit baseball! But he is also at or about the 100 pitch count. Somehow, he avoids his manager, Charles Montoyo, and returns to the mound for the top of the Ninth. But Montgomery throws two straight balls before getting the batter to ground out to first. Without hesitating, Montoyo goes out to the mound and takes the ball from Montgomery. There are some boos, but then, mostly cheers. Montgomery gives his manager the ball without hesitation which leads us to believe wrongly that Montoyo told him he was going to take him out after the first batter. Instead, like a kid being caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Motgomery meekly returns to the dugout. At least he receives the accolades from the fans that he deserves on his way.

Brad Boxberger in relief, gets the last two outs. The crowd explodes with cheers as he strikes out the second batter preserving the no-hitter.

We eat in a crowded pub in the tobacco warehouse district near the stadium. Paul points out the Lucky Strike smoke stack, now preserved. (I think to myself, few of these people here ever smoked a Lucky Strike or know what their advertizing slogan, L.S.M.F.T. meant*)

I make it to the end of the bar attempting to flag down one of the harried bartenders while we wait for a table. When I catch one’s eye, I decisively demand, “One Fat Tire, three Kettle One’s, rocks and two non-alcohol beers.” This command impressing a young couple watching me.

“You know what you want,” the boy notes.

“At 70 years-old, I should. Pretty soon, I won’t remember what I want.”

We have a second round at the bar so when we sit down, we only order food. That’s why, when we split the bill, we are shocked that each of our share is $15.65. “How could we have ever submitted that on an expense account when we were working?”

*(Lucky Strike Means Fine tobacco.)

My dear senior citizens and fellow travelers, one of the passages we must make when the calendar verifies that we have reached the magical age of 65 is to enter into the brave, new and different world of Medicare. In many ways it is not overt or a shock to the system, but there is also no doubt that we will discover that things are different as we make appointments with doctors for the most mundane of visits. First, almost universally, our bright new red, white and blue Medicare Cards are accepted readily and little attention seems to be made to secondary providers. Despite all of the wringing of hands and doom and gloom articles that doctors are ready to opt out of Medicare, we experience a warm welcome, “Nice to see you.”

Then we discover that every time we see a provider, a CMS, Medical Summary Notice is produced detailing the costs of services rendered, the amount covered, less deductibles and coinsurance and the remainder that you may or may not be billed.

No longer is the bill for a visit a fixed amount. Now, when the nurse – practitioner takes a test, that’s a charge, takes your vitals, that’s a charge, uses a machine, that’s a charge and each charge has a different code; one visit, many codes.

When the doctor finally appears and asks, “How are you?” that’s a charge. “Say Ahhhh.” that’s a charge, “Let me see you walk?”: A charge. Test reflexes, that too is a charge. And, if during the course of your discussion you mention another non-related symptom, that will lead to additional tests and multiple new charges.

…And so it goes because that is the Medicare way. But you come to realize that there is something basically wrong with the system that encourages a menu of tests, treatments  and examinations to be undertaken without regard to their actually being necessary, appropriate or beneficial.

Then, finally a wake-up call. Take Dr. Salomon E. Melgen, a North Palm Beach, Florida ophthalmologist who received $21 million in Medicare reimbursements in 2012. All hail Dr. Melgen, king of Medicare payments.

Better yet, he is worthy of being Fighting Dr. Melgen, he is suing Uncle to claw back $9 million he over-billed in 2007 and 2008. He protests the activities the federal lawyers charge he undertook with patients where they state: “(He) seeks to game the system by seeking reimbursement of three to four times its actual costs.”

The New York Times explained this charge further on April 10, 2014:

Each vial of medication (Lucentis) comes with up to four times the amount that a patient requires. Investigators said the doctor was using one vial to treat three or four patients and billing as if he had purchased a new vial each time. The doctor would be reimbursed $6,000 to $8,000 for a vial that cost him $2,000.

Fighting Dr. Melgen isn’t alone. Thanks to the Wall Street Journal taking the Department of Health and Human Services to court, the DOH&HS has been forced to release the list of the top Medicare earners. Joining Melgen in the second spot is Dr. Assad Qamar of Ocala, Fla, an interventional cardiologist at $18 million in Medicare reimbursements. Dr. Michael C. McGinnis, a pathologist from Wrightstown, N.J., finished third at $12.6 million.

Like Melgen, Assad doesn’t mind throwing money at politicians including $100,000 to the DNC. Assad also hired “…a former Justice Department official and Capitol Hill aide from the firm named Gregory W. Kehoe – helped Mr. Oamar contact more than a dozen members of congress asking them to help him address why he was subject to such intense scrutiny from Medicare auditors.” (NY Times.)

And, just in case you are wondering, both Melgen and Assad, according to the Paper of Record…”are still certified to receive Medicare payments.”

But wait, there’s more. Witness the lead story in the April 28^th edition of the NY Times that ran under this headline:

One Therapist, $4 Million

In 2012 Medicare Billing

8 of Program’s top 10 Earners in Physical

 Therapy Practice in New York

The four million dollar therapist is Wael Bakry. The Times notes that his practice treated 1,950 Medicare patients in 2012 and that Medicare paid him for 94 separate procedures for each patient. “That works out to 183,000 treatments a year, 500 a day, 21 an hour.”

Bakry’s rejoinder and rationale: His patients receive good care and return when they have other problems. “If the patients didn’t get good care, they wouldn’t come back to us again.”

Why is it I have this feeling this is still only the beginning with more to come down this Medicare pipeline? Good God Almighty, Only in America!

From the very beginning of our early visits to the 1964 New York World’s Fair, my friends and I made it a habit to salute our visit by enjoying a brew or two at The Schaefer Center. Outstanding beer; extremely fresh, straight from their Williamsburg brewery having arrived by truck that very day. Not only was the taste exquisite, Schaefer served this, their premier draft larger in a special glass that they commissioned specifically for the Fair.

“Schaefer is the one beer to have when you’re having more than one,

A most delightful pleasure in this man’s world,

 For people who are having fun,

Schaefer is the one beer to have when you’re having more than one.”

Fortunately, I wasn’t bold enough to attempt to steal one or two of these works of art and I had enough cash in my pocket. So, I asked the bartender if I could buy one of these glasses? The answer was no, but he told me I could buy a set of six glasses protected by a strong carton in which they were boxed and sealed. The price was reasonable so I took the plunge. Somehow the glasses survived the night and arrived safely home with me in the early morning hours .

When my mother awoke the next morning she discovered the box on our kitchen table and naturally assumed that the glasses were a gift for her. After all, what would her 20-year-old son want with a set of glasses? Also, she accepted this as a special gift fomher son as the Fair opened on her birthday, April 22. Mom had adopted the Fair as her special place.

Even though I was a still-selfish, newly-minted, post-teen, I had enough sense not to deny her those glasses or to concoct some malarkey as to why I should keep them. And so they remained with my mother until she passed in 1997. It was then that I discovered that all six glasses remained almost in mint condition having never seen the inside of a dishwasher during their long lives.

Wow, what memories these glasses provide for me. Thanks, Mom for keeping these treasures safe.

This is what I wrote about them in 2002. That piece, The Beer Glass, appeared in my anthology, The Big Orange Dog:  

The Beer Glass

A fluted eight-ounce beer glass, it is both handsome and practical. Though not very old, it is nonetheless well-crafted projecting the pride of the brewery that commissioned it.

On one side, near the top, there is a vertical oval ring embossed in gold. Gold lines radiate inward from the top and bottom of the ring to a horizontal red oval in the center of the ring. In clear script, “Schaefer” is imprinted onto this red oval. Beneath the gold ring, in matching red script, the glass proclaims, “America’s Oldest Lager Beer.” On the opposite side in matching red script, “Schaefer Center- New York World’s Fair 1964-1965.”

The glass is well balanced, easy to hold, easy to drink from. It cries out to be filled with, “The one beer to have when you are having more than one.”

 When filled, the amber liquid backlights the red script, the clear brand name and the gold ring, while a foamy head provides needed contrast.

Pick it up. Look at it. Drink from it. Settle back into a different era when they still made beer in Brooklyn.