John Delach

Recently, I wrote about the lyrics near the beginning of Billy Joel’s Piano Man, “Son, won’t you play me a memory…”  as being my favorite from his prolific mind. Another is from the less popular Ballad of Billy the Kid,  near the end of the song:

Well, one cold day a posse captured Billy,

And a judge said, “String him up for what he did.”

And the cowboys and their kin

Like a sea came pouring in,

To watch the hanging of Billy the Kid.

Kelly Willis really grabbed me with the first verse of her title song , Talk Like That:

Talk like that

Well, I don’t know where you’re from

But, oh how it takes me back

When you talk some

Well, I can hear my father

And his Oklahoma drawl

I hear my grandmother

I can hear them all

Paul Simon, another genius wordsmith has given us so many. I begin with Verses 5 and 6 from The Boxer 

And I’m laying out my winter clothes and

Wishing I was gone

Where the New York winters aren’t bleeding me

Leading me

Going home

In the clearing stands a boxer

And a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders

Of every glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cried out in anger and his shame

“I am leaving, I am leaving”, but the fighter still remains

Whenever I play a collection of Paul Simon’s songs, I end up with America:

Cathy, I’m lost, I said though I knew she was sleeping

I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why

Countin’ the cars on the New Jersey turnpike

They’ve all come to look for America, all come to look for America.

Depression has its place in music and Dorey Previn addresses that in Lady with the Braid:

Would you like to stay till sunrise

It’s completely your decision

It’s just that the night cut through me like a knife

Would you care to stay awhile

And save my life?

I don’t what made me say that

I’ve got this funny sense of humor

You know I could not be downhearted if I tried

It’s just that going home is such a ride

Going home is such a ride

Going home is such a ride

Isn’t going home a low and lonely ride?

This brings me to my last song, one written and sung by a Canadian by the name of Lyn Miles accompanied only by a single guitarist. Its name is self-evident: Loneliness:

Loneliness is an envelope that you can seal yourself into

And send out to a stranger in a place across the sea

Loneliness is a tired old friend

Who carries your baggage to airports and train station for free

Loneliness wears a suit and tie to big city streets

And makes you cry at parties filled with people that you know

Loneliness will take you to the shoreline

On a fogey day to find an undertow

It is the hurt that hurt’s the deepest

It is the ache that you can’t cure

It is the desperation of a late-night call

It is the lover in the shadow

It is the one who got away

It is the cry of the southbound bird in the fall

(On the Outside Looking In will not publish next week and will return on August 7. )

The two puppies were eight weeks old when they arrived at our house on a Wednesday, November 11, 2010. That day also happened to be Veteran’s Day and Mary Ann’s and my forty-third wedding anniversary. Mary Ann had engineered the purchase through a breeders’ network based in Florida who acted as our agent with the breeder. They were sent to us by truck via a pet-oriented shipping company with the unlikely name, PetEx Express. The driver and his helper found us through a complicated series of events, and here they were, two lively and healthy puppies being handed over to Mary Ann and Jodie.

Both gals lifted the pups into the air to determine their sexes. We were taking delivery of the male while the female was Jodie’s birthday gift. Once the right sexes was determined, the grand kids moved in as part of this exciting morning. Both families had already named them, Max and Ruby after the story-book and cartoon rabbit brother and sister. Ruby went off to Fairfield, CT with three kids, ages 11, 9 and 5 and their sister Golden Retriever, Barely, seven-years old. Max stayed in Port Washington with two sexagenarians.

Separating the puppies reminded me of an old Budweiser commercial where two Dalmatian pups arrive and the pick goes to a fire house. The lucky pup sticks out his tongue at his sibling as they depart not knowing that it is heading for Bud’s Clydesdale’s wagon. At the end of the commercial they pass on a road, the shunned pup sitting on the wagon seat with the teamster driving the Clydesdales. The chosen pup sits in the open cab of a fire engine. The shunned pup retunes the gesture and sticks out its tongue at its sibling.

Max became our sixth Golden Retriever. The first was Harry, then came Fred, Bubba, Jumbo and Maggie. Harry was 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 bred 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 when she was ten-months old and a certifiable 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. The biting, destruction, housebreaking, sleepless nights and other unpleasant happenings and events: WHAT HAD WE DONE!

Admittedly, we had some bad moments, but this new pup was special. He gave us a pass on several fundamental problems. He never cried through the night and he was house broken when he arrived. Max remained happy in his crate and would return to is for naps during the day. In the morning, once we opened it, he usually reacted by looking at us, stretched, got up, stretched again and then began his day.

Max was clean even for Goldens who by nature house break themselves quickly. His only early accidents happened when he was excited and these stopped after a few months. Max also proved to be very trainable. He cooperated for love and he would do almost anything for food.

Biting, however 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 the victim of a series of knife fights. 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 our development as the dog who proudly carried sticks around in his mouth the size of small trees. A fine-looking dog, one gal remarked to me one day, “Wow, that is a good-looking dog. Why he’s the Robert Redford of Golden Retrievers.

Max retained a terrible flaw as a young dog, he considered children to be play toys, especially those dressed in hoodie sweat shirts. As all of my five grandchildren, each one suffered the same dubious experience of Max grabbing the hood on their sweat shirt, knocking them down and being dragged on their backs along the ground. This finally stopped, but stealing never did. Max stole anything he could get his mouth on, clothes, shoes, towels, throw rugs mats and pillows. He would even unmake beds so he could get to the pillows. He considered  stealing to be retrieving and he would proudly parade his trophy with his plume tail high in the air.

We lost Max when he was twelve, but he was not our last dog. We were done with raising puppies and our last two were adults that we rescued.   

In my time as a frequent business flier, roughly between 1975 and 1998 I flew in more 727s than any other airplane and until 1991 more times on Eastern Airlines than any other carrier. Most of these flights were domestic to other locations from Boston to Alabama. The major exceptions to this rule were flights to Houston and Dallas to visit Reynolds Metals and Exxon. But why Eastern and not Delta?

That decision came early thanks to a Northeast Petroleum, a small oil company based in Boston. The Suez Canal was blocked by ships sunk there as a result of the 1973 war between Egypt and Israel. Without the canal, tanker charter rates exploded leading Northeast to purchase a group of old tankers. I do remember there being at least three named the Caribbean Voyager, Mediterranean Voyager and Coral Voyager. Marsh & McLennan was appointed broker and I was assigned to their account. What was the easiest way to fly to Boston from New York?

The Boston Shuttle. And who operated the shuttle? Eastern Airlines. That was that, my Eastern days began and so did flying their 727s assigned to this run. I soon solidified this relationship by joining their airport club that they called The Ionosphere Club.

Unfortunately, Northeast’s exercise in owning these tankers ended badly and not one of these ships completed a voyage. But as this client disappeared into the night, I was assigned to Reynolds based in Richmond VA and Corpus Christi, TX and Puerto Rican Shipping Authority (PRMSA) based in San Juan, PR. Waterman Shipping Co. based in Mobile, AL joined my assignments. All of these places were served by Eastern Airlines.

My status grew materially when Eastern established the first frequent traveler program. They called it the Executive Travel Club and membership was by invitation only. In fact, I only discovered the club when a colleague showed me a copy of the form he had received to apply for membership. With his permission, I made a Xerox copy of it and, as if by magic, I was approved. A credit card sized plastic card arrived with my name and account number. Together with a list of privileges.

Chief among them were upgrades to first class when available. This was near the end of airline regulation when the FAA still kept control of airlines’ operations and few flights were full. When armed with my membership in the Ionosphere Club, it almost guaranteed upgrades.

One of my most bizarre experiences happened on my flight from JFK to West Palm Beach to attend our annual Managing Directors Meeting then being held in the Breaker’s Hotel. Armed with The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, I made my way to the empty Lockheed 1011 widebody jet for my trip south. Another chap boarded a bit late and in a hurry. I could see from the paperwork he had with him that he too was headed for the same meeting, he was French and he probably had flown to JFK 0n that morning’s Air France Concorde.

I introduced myself and asked him if  he had seen that morning’s  NYT  or WSJ?

“No, no, I have not seen them yet.” 

I handed both newspapers to him. Both contained headlines and stories that Marsh & McLennan had been the victim of a bond scandal and had lost a considerable amount of money. It was obvious that the value of our stock would take a large hit. He looked me in the eye, but all he could say was “Sacre’ bleu, Sacre’ bleu, Sacre bleu, etc.

Turned out he was Raymond Jutheau, one of the principles of our French affiliate. Unfortunately, I certainly ruined his day.

Deregulation ruined a number of traditional airlines like Eastern, Pan American and TWA while others were merged out of existence. New start-ups replaced them and they two are now attempting to merge.

Eastern’s was particularly ugly. By the late 1980’s most business flyers deserted this carrier and  broke and busted, Eastern was liquidated in 1991.

Despite its demise, I still carry their luggage tag on my computer bag that produces the occasional odd look or a smile.       

In my time as a frequent business flier, roughly between 1975 and 1998 I flew in more 727s than any other airplane and until 1991 more times on Eastern Airlines than any other carrier. Most of these flights were domestic to other locations from Boston to Alabama. The major exceptions to this rule were flights to Houston and Dallas to visit Reynolds Metals and Exxon. But why Eastern and not Delta?

That decision came early thanks to a Northeast Petroleum, a small oil company based in Boston. The Suez Canal was blocked by ships sunk there as a result of the 1973 war between Egypt and Israel. Without the canal, tanker charter rates exploded leading Northeast to purchase a group of old tankers. I do remember there being at least three named the Caribbean Voyager, Mediterranean Voyager and Coral Voyager. Marsh & McLennan was appointed broker and I was assigned to their account. What was the easiest way to fly to Boston from New York?

The Boston Shuttle. And who operated the shuttle? Eastern Airlines. That was that, my Eastern days began and so did flying their 727s assigned to this run. I soon solidified this relationship by joining their airport club that they called The Ionosphere Club.

Unfortunately, Northeast’s exercise in owning these tankers ended badly and not one of these ships completed a voyage. But as this client disappeared into the night, I was assigned to Reynolds based in Richmond VA and Corpus Christi, TX and Puerto Rican Shipping Authority (PRMSA) based in San Juan, PR. Waterman Shipping Co. based in Mobile, AL joined my assignments. All of these places were served by Eastern Airlines.

My status grew materially when Eastern established the first frequent traveler program. They called it the Executive Travel Club and membership was by invitation only. In fact, I only discovered the club when a colleague showed me a copy of the form he had received to apply for membership. With his permission, I made a Xerox copy of it and, as if by magic, I was approved. A credit card sized plastic card arrived with my name and account number. Together with a list of privileges.

Chief among them were upgrades to first class when available. This was near the end of airline regulation when the FAA still kept control of airlines’ operations and few flights were full. When armed with my membership in the Ionosphere Club, it almost guaranteed upgrades.

One of my most bizarre experiences happened on my flight from JFK to West Palm Beach to attend our annual Managing Directors Meeting then being held in the Breaker’s Hotel. Armed with The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, I made my way to the empty Lockheed 1011 widebody jet for my trip south. Another chap boarded a bit late and in a hurry. I could see from the paperwork he had with him that he too was headed for the same meeting, he was French and he probably had flown to JFK 0n that morning’s Air France Concorde.

I introduced myself and asked him if  he had seen that morning’s  NYT  or WSJ?

“No, no, I have not seen them yet.” 

I handed both newspapers to him. Both contained headlines and stories that Marsh & McLennan had been the victim of a bond scandal and had lost a considerable amount of money. It was obvious that the value of our stock would take a large hit. He looked me in the eye, but all he could say was “Sacre’ bleu, Sacre’ bleu, Sacre bleu, etc.

Turned out he was Raymond Jutheau, one of the principles of our French affiliate. Unfortunately, I certainly ruined his day.

Deregulation ruined a number of traditional airlines like Eastern, Pan American and TWA while others were merged out of existence. New start-ups replaced them and they two are now attempting to merge.

Eastern’s was particularly ugly. By the late 1980’s most business flyers deserted this carrier and  broke and busted, Eastern was liquidated in 1991.

Despite its demise, I still carry their luggage tag on my computer bag that produces the occasional odd look or a smile.       

I had invited Dave Walker of Better Roofing to inspect our aging roof. As I expected, he didn’t have anything nice to say about its condition. Long story short, it had to be replaced. Our town has peculiar rules and regulations including the need for a permit to change a roof, unless the work is done in one day on a Saturday.

We picked the coming Saturday, June 23^rd. “Dave, you do know we currently have three roofs on top of the house?”

“Certainly, I’m aware of that, but my roofers will rake off all three with plenty of time left to add all elements of the new roof on Saturday.”

On Saturday, Dave’s acting foreman, Jorge, was waiting outside our house by 6:30. The six-man crew arrived at 7, proceeding to place tarps all around our property. At 7:30, a truck began to deliver various roofing material and the crew took to ladders like a practiced army to prepare for ready themselves for the town’s 8 am starting time.

They went to work raking the roof in sections and depositing the bulk of the derbies into an open truck parked on our driveway. The day was hot, part of a heat wave we were suffering through. Temperatures reached the 90s while we were still in the morning. Around 11, I  offered the crew water from our refrigerator. When they broke for lunch at noon, I offered them another round. Every time I did, the bottles of Poland Spring were universally accepted.

It seemed to me the sun was taking its own toll on the crew’s speed and stamina. By 2 in the afternoon, I noticed an area of bare wood that covered three of our four bedrooms. I was facing west, so I didn’t notice the black cloud heading our way from New York City. Not for long, however. It began to fill the sky. True, the forecasters had predicted the possibility of thunder storms, but not until later in the day. Well, they lost that bet as did I. The rain came quickly and it came ugly. It didn’t last long, maybe twenty minutes and the roofing crew didn’t seem all that excited.

Most of them continued to work through the storm unconcerned about the lightning. Perhaps the rain cooled them off. I did worry about their safety, but it seemed I was alone acting this way.

They kept going until after 7 pm including clean-up. As they were preparing to leave, Jorge explained to Mary Ann and me that they still had some minor work remaining and that he and two other workers would return on Sunday at 9 am.

Pizza for dinner. We finished around 7 pm. As we were cleaning up and preparing to watch television, we heard a thump from somewhere in the house. Not too loud, but enough to get our attention. We shook our heads, but didn’t do anything about it.

Instead, we watched our show, or most of it when I asked Mary Ann to pause it so I could use the bathroom. I decided to use the one upstairs off of our bedroom. When I opened the bedroom door, I stopped dead in my tracks. The floor in front me was white. For a second, I was stunned until I realized I was looking at what had been our bedroom ceiling. O.M.G! OH MY GOD, lots of foul language interspersed with calls to Mary Ann to come quickly.

Instead of just standing there, Mary Ann was resourceful enough to take three photographs of the ceiling and its bare wooden rafters. The beddings, furniture and every surface in the room was full of what had been sheet rock, fiber board and insulation. Mary Ann sent the three photos to Mr. Walker with a cry for help.

He did reply rather quickly that he had ordered two workers to our house that evening to dispose of all of the wet debris. We also called our neighbors, Rob and Linda who knew Walker. Linda and Mary Ann removed all of the wet bedding to our laundry to wash and dry it all the next several days. The two men worked past 10 pm and promised that a full crew including painters  would be present on Sunday.

Today is Wednesday June 25 and our restoration continues. We discovered moderate to severe damage to the other rooms on the second floor. My office was so badly damaged that the insulation and wall boards had to be completely removed and replaced. I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out and praise Walker for the incredible resources he threw at this disaster from Sunday to Wednesday. Most importantly, he was there when we needed him. To be Continued,

On the Outside Looking In will not publish again until July 17.

Polo Grounds Glory Days: 1954

April 2023, revised June 2024

Last night, June 18, 2024, while watching the Yankees game, I received the news that Willie Mays had passed away. I dedicate this revised edition about the 1954 World Series to Mister Mays, one of the best, ever.

A last hurrah, the final World Series championship won by the New York Giants at their venerable Manhattan home, the Polo Grounds.

Bill Christman shares his memories of that season:

August of 1954. My Dad took me to a Sunday doubleheader against the Pirates. We had an early, but traditional Sunday dinner of leg of lamb. My Mom made delicious sandwiches of left-over meat and off we went to see Johnny Antonelli and company win both ends of that doubleheader 5-4 and 5-3.

The Giants were my love, but things were rocky. They had lost three straight to the second place Dodgers reducing a 3 ½ lead to just ½ game. But the lead had replenished itself back to two games going into that Sunday. I kept one eye on the scoreboard that showed the Dodgers losing to the Phillies in both games of their doubleheader in Ebbets Field. I can still see in my mind’s eye the man to my right and several rows back yelling, “Philly got five runs.” When the sun set, the Giants lead was four games.

The Giants opponent in the World Series was the Al Lopez-led Cleveland Indians who won a remarkable 111 games that season, ending the Yankees run of five consecutive AL Pennants.

The Giants went on to sweep the Indians, four games to none. The accepted turning point of the series occurred in the top of the ninth inning of Game 1. With the score tied at 2-2, runners on first and second base, Giants manager, Leo Durocher brought in left-handed relief pitcher, Dick Littlefield, to pitch to Vic Wertz, the Indians first baseman batting second.

 Wertz hit a long fly ball deep into “Death Valley” also known as the Polo Grounds’ center field. Willie Mays, playing a medium- ranged center field position, took off at the crack of the bat. The ball and Mays reached the 440-foot mark at precisely the same moment. Mays, with his back to the ball, made a spectacular over-the shoulder catch.

 After catching the ball, Mays used his momentum to pivot 180 degrees back toward home plate. As he rotated, his right arm swung out and around him allowing Willie to release the ball at exactly the right moment with an amazing velocity. His perfect catch followed by his perfect throw forced the runners to hold up. Durocher called time-out to go to the mound. Littlefield greeted his skipper with a great understatement, “Well, I got my man out.”

The game remained tied as the runners were subsequently stranded. In the tenth inning, Dusty Rhodes pinch-hit a three-run homerun to win the game 5-2.

The next day, September 30, 1954, the Giants won the last World Series game ever to be played in the Polo Grounds, 3 to 1. Rhodes again was the hero driving in all three of the Giants runs. The Giants finished the series in Cleveland winning the last two games, 6 to 2 and 7 to 4 to sweep the Indians in four games.

1955 belonged to the Brooklyn Dodgers as “Wait until next year,” fell into the same category that the Boston Red Sox did to “Reverse the Curse” in 2004. By winning the World Series, it just did not matter anymore. The Dodgers won the pennant with a record of 98-55 while the Giants finished in third place behind the Braves.

Bill Christman remembered a Fourth of July doubleheader against the Dodgers.

The Giants and Dodgers hardly ever played each other in doubleheaders which made this a special event. I went to the Polo Grounds with a good group of neighbors and friends on a day that, weather-wise, could not have been a better day for baseball.

My scorecard shows that the Giants did not allow the Dodgers to score a run in the first inning of the first game. The next time they accomplished this was the second inning of the second game. Brooklyn won the first game, 15-2 and the second, 6-1.

Willie Mays hit 51 home runs in ‘55, but the pitching floundered. Leo Durocher resigned as manager on September 25 to be effective at the end of a doubleheader against the Phillies. The Giants won the first game 5-2. Here is how Noel Hynd described what happened in the bottom of the ninth inning of the second game with the Phillies leading 3-1 and the Giants at bat:

With Joey Amalfitano on second base and Whitey Lockman on first, Bobby Hoffman lined a ball to Phillies shortstop, Ted Kazanski. Kazanski flipped the ball to Bobby Morgan, the second baseman, to double Amalfitano. Then Morgan threw to first before Lockman could return there. Leo must have been muttering to himself as he took his final walk to the center field clubhouse. His reign in John McGraw’s old job had ended on the short end of a triple play.

The Giants reign in the Polo Grounds came to an end on Sunday, September 29, 1957. The home team lost to the Pittsburg Pirates, 9-1, before an angry crowd who did their best to demolish what they could. Some in the crowd chanted: “We want Stoneham with a rope around his neck.”

The Giants abandoned New York for San Francisco joining their principal rivals, the Brooklyn Dodgers, who abandoned Brooklyn for Los Angeles. The Dodgers home park, Ebbets Field, was quickly demolished to provide land for Urban Renewal housing.

Curiously, the vacant Polo Grounds was left intact. Good thing: It became the initial home, first for football in 1960 when the newly minted American Football League (AFL)  New York Titans made the Polo Grounds their home field.

When the baseball expansion New York Mets joined Titans successor, the Jets there in 1962, the life of this historic ballpark was extended until its replacement, Shea Stadium, could open in April of 1964. A week before the Mets inaugurated Shea with a contest against the Pittsburg Pirates, the jack hammers went to work beginning the destruction to erase this old friend.

 Frank Sinatra memorialized its passing with a song called, “There Used to be a Ballpark here.”     

After we lost Harry and Bubba, Jumbo became an only dog. Curiously, he didn’t seem to mind this at all. In fact, he reveled in his new-found attention.

Enter, Sandy, an insane Golden. My son had warned me that one of our colleagues  at work, a chap named Rob, told him that he needed somebody to take his dog.

Soon after, Rob came to my office to ask if we would adopt his family’s one-year old Golden Retriever, Sandy. He explained that Sandy was the first dog his family ever adopted, but she turned out to be a problematic, a first dog with a box full of problems. Questionably, I allowed him to bring her over one night so we could see what we were getting into. Rob jumped on this.

It turned out that Sandy was so uncontrollable that on one of her attempts to bolt out the front door to find the kids in her family, she caused his wife to fall breaking her leg. The interview didn’t go well. Rob brought all of Sandy’s possessions, many that closely resembled torture devices. When Rob released her, she proceeded to jump to the top of our living room furniture and race around the living room, totally out of control. Poor Jumbo just tried to get out of her way.

Despite the obvious issues and Sandy’s nuttiness, we kept her. How do you spell, sucker!

 Sandy would remain a work in progress her entire life. One thing that Mary Ann succeeded in doing was changing her name. Mary Ann hated the name Sandy since it was a first dog name and decided to give our new dog the  name of Maggie, after Bubba’s mother.

By this time, Jumbo had reached the age of seven or eight years old, the ages where Golden Retrievers contract cancer and I swear he decided to quit rather than endure Maggie’s reign of terror.

Our biggest issue with Maggie was her inability to ride in a car without getting sick. And by sick, I mean really, really sick. She was so terrified that, in addition to throwing up, her body would get so tense that she would break out in a enormous body sweat that would cover everything. We limited these discharges by purchasing an airline crate and lining the inside with newspapers before putting Maggie inside. Most of the timer, the crate gave her a sense of calmness, but, if we encountered bad traffic that included large trucks, our Golden Retriever would be overwhelmed.

Then we replaced our GMC Taheo with a brand-new GMC Suburban. Our first trip to New Hampshire was uneventful and when we reached Little House, I let her out, but she decided to stay in my truck. I drove her around on our circular driveway. She remained calm and I opened a window so she could stick her head out. When this worked, I drove her back to town and then returned to our house. She was perfect!

Unbelievably, Maggie had broken the code of riding in a vehicle and soon became a traveling dog. We actually drove her to three winter vacations on Sanibel Island making two overnight stops along the way. She actually complained about the length of our journey on the third day by vocally expressing her dissatisfaction with long and loud groans.

While Maggie didn’t have nine lives, she did escape death several times. One time she followed a critter into the woods at our New Hampshire house. We didn’t know something was wrong until that night when I petted her belly while she laid on the couch with me. She didn’t whimper or show any other reason that she was in pain, but my hand came away bloodied by a wound she had on her belly.

We took her back to Port Washington where Dr. Ann, our local vet took her in and treated her with anti-biotics and opening her wound and cleansing it several times a day for three or four days. Dr. Ann’s treatment saved her life and added years to Maggie’s  life with us.

But nobody could change her craziness. We loved her, but nobody else in our family did.

Our dog dynamics changed when our son, Michael and his wife, Jodie asked us to rescue their mixed dog, Buster. Jodie had adopted Buster from the North Shore Animal Shelter here in Port Washington while she and Mike were still dating. Jodie loved Buster and he loved her. Then life took it’s course, they married and had their first child, Drew. All went well until he became mobile. Long story, short, Drew annoyed Buster, Buster retaliated, and Buster joined us in Port Washington.

Buster accepted his new home, but Maggie never treated him fairly. Still, he never entered the CT house again. Those rare times, when we stopped at his old home, he refused to get out of the truck.

I have already written a piece about a trip to Sanibel with Maggie and Buster that is better than something new I could compose, and that will be next week’s piece

Before I continue the stories about our dogs, I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell the story of Jigger, Dorothy, Mary Ann’s mother’s last dog. Jigger was a Wirehaired Terrier. Someone once said to me: “When it comes to terriers, it’s not the size of the dog in a fight that matters, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

Before we married in 1967, Dorthy, who loved terriers, adopted Jigger as a puppy. Mary Ann remembers Jigger as a cute puppy, but as he grew older, he grew to be ornery and possessive. Jigger took possession of ordinary things and was more than willing to defend his possessions. My moment of destiny came one Christmas eve. Mary Ann and Dorthy went shopping leaving Jigger at our house. Our kids, Beth and Michael were in grammar school and decided to play knock hockey on the living room floor.

Their laughter, dialogue and the loud sounds from the game attracted Jigger. He took possession of the board and wouldn’t let anyone near it, including me. He actually walked onto the board and growled if we came near.

Enough was enough. I disliked him and I decided to shut him down. I grabbed a broom from the garage and started up the stairs toward the board. Jigger stood his ground growling and making feints as I banged my way up the stairs. I forced him into our kitchen securing the exits. There he stayed until the women retuned and I announced that he was banned from our house. My edict was probably overridden, but my recollection is that Jigger died soon thereafter.

Back to the Delach dogs, Jumbo was our fourth Golden. He had a peculiar marking The lower portion of one of his ear’s was jet black as if it had been dipped in an ink well. The breeder thought that at some point. A Newfoundland Retriever had stopped by for a roll in the hay. Jumbo was supposed to be a gift to Michael for his 21^st birthday, but the policy at his college changed to: No Dogs Allowed.

Michael did bond with Jumbo enough to teach him to drink beer out of a bottle. Funny thing, if you offered Jumbo a beer in a can or a glass, He’d ignore it. It was only beer from a bottle that made him salivate.

Both Harry and Bubba were with us when Jumbo arrived. Harry had turned ten and he was worn out. Let me share with you two good things from his senior years. One time, I came home from a business trip to find Harry asleep on his perch overlooking our living room. In my bag, I had a soft-toy of a Golden Retriever baby. I unzipped my bag and placed the puppy on the living room floor.

I walked away and watched Harry’s reaction. All of a sudden Harry raised his head, saw the puppy, got up and came down the stairs. Translating his thoughts, “OMG, not another puppy! I already raised three others.”

When Harry reached the stuffed toy, he sniffed it. Realizing it wasn’t alive, he flipped it over with his snout before returning to his perch.

My last Harry story happened on the last Father’s Day that we still had Harry. His ability to take walks with us had diminished to being only when necessary to relieve himself.

Michael was home from school so I asked him for a special Father’s Day gift. “Michael, Mom and I will take a walk to the beach with access to the Long Island Sound. Harry can’t make that walk so I want you to drive him to the beach so he can join us.

Harry had a great day and, for a little while, swimming in the Sound, he was young and agile again. After we finished, Michael picked him up, put him in the back of his GMC truck and  drove him home. 

Recently Newsday, the Long Island daily newspaper did a poll asking readers to name their favorite Billy Joel tune. I gave it some thought and while I didn’t submit my choice, there was no doubt that it was Piano Man. It would appear that I wasn’t alone. On Friday, May 10^th, the day after Billy Joel’s 75^th birthday,  Newsday published the results. Piano Man finished first with 1,044 votes while Scenes from an Italian Restaurant finished second with 915 votes.

I especially love the opening verse of my favorite that Joel released in 1973.

“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in,

There’s an old man sitting next to me making love to his tonic and gin.

He says, “Son can you play me a memory, I’m not really sure how it goes.

“But it’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man’s clothes.”

Ain’t that the truth!

I keep the composer’s words close to me when I put my brain into gear and nothing happens. Now that I turned Eighty, I remind myself of something someone once said to me about memory. “Think of all your memories to be stored in filing cabinets. At times you can find them easily, but other times, not so easily.”

 Perhaps they were just being kind.

My wife once put it this way. “You don’t have to be concerned if you can’t remember that a spoon is called a spoon. You only have to be concerned when you don’t know what to do with it.”

Still, it can be so frustrating when I can’t think of the name for cheddar cheese. And speaking of cheddar cheese, why does some cheese guru insist on telling me what state it comes from. Who cares if it comes from NY, NH, WI, PA, ME or VT. All they are doing is giving me more information that I won’t remember.

But I digress. This joke tells us how to cope:

One night two friends were sitting  in a living room while their wives were chatting in the kitchen.

”Frank,” Bob says, “Last night my wife and I went to new restaurant in Manhasset and it was fabulous.”

“Really, Joe, what’s its name?”

“Oh, damn. Wait wait, give me the name of a flower?”

“Lily.”

“No, no, it can come in white, red and pink.”

“Carnation?”

“No simpler?”

“Rose?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Rose. That’s it”

“Hey, Rose, what was the name of that restaurant we went to last night.”

I am interrupting “Good Golly Miss Molly” so I can complete Tessie’s story. In the process, I decided to explain Mary Ann’s and my long association with dogs. We both grew up with canine companions. I had three different dogs in my youth and so did she.

My first dog was a black Cocker Spaniel named Sugar that arrived in a big wooden crate one Saturday morning. Two delivery men from Railroad Express Agency placed the crate on our kitchen floor. Before they could open it and let her out, Sugar, relieved herself. An enormous yellow lake spread across the kitchen floor until Mom, equipped with a mop and bucket, took control. Even as a kid, I wondered how long that poor creature had been holding onto her pee.

Mary Ann’s childhood pet was a wire-haired Terrier named, Mickey. Mary Ann was told that Mickey was originally destined for Mayor Robert Wagner’s wife, but her serious illness altered that dog’s destination. Mickey’s new destination became the Donlon family.

Growing up, I lived with two other dogs, neither that I loved. The first, another Cocker Spaniel, that I shared with my cousin, Pat, was named, Puffy, In spite of my objections, this name stuck. Puffy was an awful dog. She freely bit people without cause that led her being sent to that mythical farm where bad dogs and sick dogs supposedly go to spend the rest of their lives.

My last dog was Mindy, a Shetland Sheep Dog that my Aunt Helen and Uncle Dick gave me for my Fifteenth birthday. Seriously, what is one of the last things a teenager desires as a birthday present? A dog!

She already had a name when she came to me, Mindy. Mindy and I never got on. She hated Mary Ann when I got married and moved away, She grew old and sickly and Mom called me to take her to her vet to put her down, I took Mindy to their clinic. They took her away and I left. I will never forget the sadness I felt about leaving a family dog to die without being there to comfort her.     

A month after we were married in 1967, we decided to get a dog. We picked a pet store in Flushing, Queens, Al Mazor’s Puppy Land and bought a black spaniel mix with white markings for $19.95. We decided to call her Woofie. Talk about a basic first dog name, Woofie, was, indeed, terrible name.

She stayed with us for about 14 years that included two moves to Middle Village and Port Washington and the births of our two children. As she faded, we decided on a Golden Retriever for our next buddy. I wanted a male and a friend found our first Golden that we named Harry.

Harry had a square head and the darkest fur. I called him, “The Big Orange Dog.” He was one of our two best swimmers and he taught one of his successors, Bubba, how to swim and fetch tennis balls. Poor Harry, he suffered from arthritis later in life, but not when he was swimming. Fred joined Harry but Fred wasn’t cooked right and died when he was just three-years old. I believe Fred knew he didn’t have long to live and he ran with gusto like a star shooting across the sun. When he died, we added his photo to the ornament we placed on the top of our Christmas trees. We dedicated his ornament as the spirit of Christmas.

Bubba cane next, a good-looking Christmas puppy, He still had to grow into his black nose and his tongue that were too large. He did grow into his nose, but not his tongue. Naming him was not easy. Bubba competed with Jack and other names for about a month until we were reduced to calling him, Puppy Delach. Bubba had a good life but we lost him during the cancer years, (seven to nine). He woke up one morning at Little House in New Hampshire and fell over. We put him down at the veterinarian in Keene, NH.

The end of life for a dog always comes too soon, but sometimes with humor. We instructed the vet to have Bubba cremated so we could bury him outside Little House. When we returned to collect his remains, we discovered that he hadn’t been cremated and Bubba’s remains were still in the vet’s freezer. Finally, we were notified that he had been cremated and Bubba We picked up his remains in a fine wooden box that I placed under the front passenger seat of one of our GMC Yuckon’s – where I promptly forgot about it.

Months later at one of the NY Football Giants home game tailgates, I notice that Bubba was still under that seat. When no one was looking I put it on one of our tables. “Hey Michael,’ I said to my son, “Guess who came to today’s tailgate?”

Michael searched the tables, notice Bubba’s box and stated, “You are one sick dude, Pop.”          

(To be continued.)

On the Outside Looking In will not publish on May 22 and will return on May 29.