John Delach

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.

July 2002, Edited June 2021 and May 2024

Drinks in hand, Billy Mize and Leo Whalen stood together at the bar in the hospitality lounge of the Arrowwood Conference Center in Rye Brook, NY. As I entered the premises. Leo waved his green bottle of Heineken in my direction signaling me to join them. “Jonnie, let me buy you a drink.” Leo thundered as he looked to the bartender.

“Thanks, Leo,” I replied and asked the bartender for a Jameson on the rocks in a short glass. Billy was already enjoying his vodka on the rocks, and we toasted each other once my Irish whiskey arrived. “So, Billy, how was your flight from Mexico City?”

“Not bad, John. It seems it was only two or three months ago since we saw each other at last year’s managers meeting at the Breakers down in Boca Raton This place is  a dump in comparison!”

“Damn right, brother Billy,” I replied, “But then again times were considerably better for us and our company last year. That damn bond scandal combined with the melt down in the casualty insurance market has put us on our back foot. But, hell, we’ve survived and here we are. I am glad you had a good flight.”

We talked about Billy’s transfer from our Dallas office and how easily he and his wife assimilated Mexican culture and lifestyle. Billy’s wife is Puerto Rican, and he is a gregarious Texan who is fluent in Spanish. He then returned to the subject of his flight and said, “I did have a bit of problem getting through Customs at JFK.”

Seeing a curious look on my face, a look Billy understood about US citizens doing business in Mexico, he continued, “No, John, I did not carry drugs or more than $10,000 in cash. My problem was hauling the extraordinary and, in a way, the most ridiculous item I ever tried to check into the baggage compartment on an airplane.”

Leo chuckled, “I bet you did feel a bit foolish.”

I couldn’t ignore the tone of guilt in Leo’s throw out line.

I’ll admit, they had my attention as I had no idea where this story was going.  Billy explained,  “You see, John, the last time Leo visited our office in Mexico City, he remarked on how much he wanted a Mexican saddle for his wife.“

“Yes, ” Leo interrupted, “She was impressed by their craftsmanship and has always wanted one for her horses.”

Billy added, “Knowing that Leo lives less than an hour from here, I promised to bring a saddle with me. What I forgot was that I had to claim all my baggage before clearing Customs.

“That meant I had to remove all my stuff from the cart I was using and drag my bags, golf clubs and the saddle through the Customs area. Only when I cleared could I recruit a skycap help me carry them to the limo.”

With that, Jack Shea joined us, and Billy and Leo related the story a second time. Jack was skeptical and wanted to know where the saddle was. Billy replied: “Why, Jack, it’s in Leo’s room where I delivered it.”

“Let’s go see it then,” Jack insisted.

With that, we left the bar, crossed the lobby and walked across a glass-enclosed bridge that connected the hotel’s rooms with the conference center. Leo opened the door and led us into his room. Sure enough, on a chair sat the biggest saddle I have ever seen. Jet-black with silver studs, the seat had a shine that reflected the room. Everything about it was big from the horn to the stirrups. No wonder Billy had such a tough time hauling it  through customs!

However, even a big Mexican saddle is only a saddle and not exactly an object that requires lengthy analysis. As for me, my interest wandered back to getting another drink and I wasn’t alone.

We were just about to leave when a young man opened the door. Startled to see us, he said, “Excuse me, I am here to turn down the bed.”

Leo asked him to come in and as he entered, I noticed that the bathroom door, directly across from the saddle, was closed. As this innocent steward came up to me, I stopped him.

“Do you see that saddle?” He nodded, yes. “Good. Whatever you do, don’t open that door!”

The steward’s eyes popped out and he did a double take, his eyes traveling from me to the saddle to the bathroom door several times.

We left the room closing the door behind us starting to roll with laughter. Leo said, “John, you have one sick sense of humor.”

Perhaps, but one of my best capers of all times!

Note: No horses or stewards were hurt during this caper.   

When we lost our best friend, Max, our sixth Golden Retriever just after Memorial Day last spring. We mourned our old friend, who would have turned Thirteen on September 9, 2023. We had his older sister, our other best friend, Tessie, who was closing in on fourteen. Tessie had been our friend Ria’s seeing eye dog who we had adopted when she retired. We agreed that her needs had to come first especially if we decided to adopt a new dog,

And so, spring progressed into summer and summer into autumn as we hemmed and hawed while we considered different ways to adopt a new companion.

We had a couple of leads, a breeder of Labradors nearby in Pennsylvania, who donated their breeder females after their second litters. After careful consideration, no thank you, too many complications. Meanwhile, Tessie’s age began to catch up to her slowing her down and bringing on some problems that we coped with.

It was in September that Max’s old trainer, Marianne, told us about a retriever adoption group in the Metropolitan area that rescued mostly mixed-breed Labradors from a rescue facility in the South that they distributed by truck as far north as New York, New Jersey and Connecticut. They had a shipment coming north that week that included an eight-year-old black lab mix girl dog in need of a foster home. Marienne, (the trainer) assured us that the rescue group would gladly allow us to adopt her once the papers were prepared.

Her arrival was scheduled for the afternoon of Saturday September 30^th at a weekday commuter parking lot just off of the Thruway exit in Nanuet, NY. Needless to say, we arrived at an empty parking lot well over an hour too early. We grabbed a burger from Burger King as began our wait.

Other cars began to arrive, each with an expectant person or family. We had a “cheat sheet” on our soon-to-arrive new very best friend and here’s what we learned. Molly had lived in Louisianna near Shreveport. Her owner had recently died, and no one in the family wanted to adopt her. Instead, they surrendered her to the Longview Animal Care & Adoption Service Center in Texas.

Here is what her sheet informed us:

Good with kids: Yes.                      Car Rides: Loves them!

Housetrained: Yes.                         Dog parks: Excellent: (Lie: See with dogs.)

Easy on leash: Yes: (Lie)               Water: Loves!

Good with dogs: Yes: (Lie. At best: overenthusiastic)    Treats: Ummm, yes.

It was after four pm when this enormous tractor-trailer truck entered the parking lot. Slowly, as the monster came to a stop the dozen or so new owners and/or fosterers approached the rear doors of the trailer. The driver opened the doors a sheaf of papers in his free hand.

His name was, Eric, who owned and operated his truck on a regular bi-weekly run-down south where he collects a truck-load of rescue dogs. He transports them north making stops where he turns them over to their new owners and/or fosterers. Eric calls his transportation service: Mighty Mutts.

(We discovered that he has the support of small armies at each of his overnight stops who feed, walk and clean the dogs as well as giving them a dose of tender loving care.)

Eric pointed to Mary Ann first and asked, “Who are you picking up?”

“Molly,“ my wife replied. Eric stepped into the truck and quickly returned with a black dog pulling at her leash with all of her God given power. Eric told Mary Ann, as he handed her the leash: “Grab hold and brace yourself, she’s ready to bolt.”

Mary Ann held on, absorbed the shock of her new charge and led her to a grassy spot where Molly relieved herself before devouring a bowl of water. Finally, Mary Ann, opened the rear door of our SUV and Molly jumped in.

I tipped Eric and thanked him for all he did.

I aimed our Palisade southward toward the Mario Cuomo Bridge, through Westchester and The Bronx, crossed the Sound and drove to Port Washington,   Moll y’s new forever home.         (To be Contiued.)

        (On the Outside will not publish on May 1 and will return on May 8.)        

John Delach

April 2024

This Story is a product of the author’s imagination

Part One

As every fable begins: Once upon a time…

Once upon a time, my daughter informed me that New York State, with emphasis on New York City and its surrounding counties of Nassau, Suffolk, Westchester and Rockland, had been declared the epi-center for the Covid-19 Virus attack on America.  To protect the nation, the President of the United States, declared all interstate commerce in, out and through New York would be suspended until further notice. President Trump issued this Executive Order with the active agreement and support of the Governors of Connecticut, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Vermont, New Hampshire, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Florida.

President  Trump authorized each governor to activate their individual National Guard units, arm them and deploy them at all border crossings with New York.  They will have the power to explain to exiting New Yorkers that they had two choices: One: Turn around and go back home, or Two: Enter into being quarantined in tent cities for a minimum of two weeks or longer as the state should require. Failure to accept one or two would subject them to being forcibly removed, imprisoned or death. New Hampshire chose to eliminate the first two alternatives. Their message: Get the f*** out of here or Die. 

When Trump went on TV with a gaggle of governors, generals and medical experts we were understandably upset, but when Andrew Cuomo joined the mob on stage and signed on lock, stock and barrel, we knew we were up Shit’s Creek!

Cuomo had sold out his own people in a quid pro quo of receiving federal aid in unlimited amounts that supposedly saved the greater good. Point made; point taken. Still, in the process, he reduced the Big Apple and the Empire State to being the largest internment camp of all times. Judas sold out for thirty pieces of silver! Andrew sold out for respirators.

Damn, damn, damn. We had a plan! Hell, we’ve had that plan since 1984 when the Reagan / Gorbachev peace talks broke off and war seemed imminent. Not coincidentally, that was same year we purchased Little House, our camp somewhere in remote New Hampshire. Mary Ann loved the Granite State and called our camp, “Little House.” I loved the state’s motto: “Live Free or Die” or thought I did until the quarantine was declared.

Beth was 15 and Michael 13. We were both active; Mary Ann. a Fifth-grade teacher at PS 121 in South Ozone Park, Queens and me, a newly promoted Managing Director (MD) at Marsh & McLennan Inc. In a way being a MD elevated me to a similar status of being a made-man in the Mafia.

The original threat was nuclear war and we acted accordingly, constructing an underground shelter sophisticated enough and supplied to sustain us for a minimum of 36 months.

Time marches on. Being a made-man brought me enough wealth to forgo silly stuff like more upscale cars, Olympic size swimming pools, motorboats, wave runners, etc., etc. Instead, we invested in independent electric power, security and communications. As time went by, we actively developed our own alternatives for a personal, secure and closed electronic connection.

Trust me, James Bond would have been pleased with our arsenal.

 We did everything necessary to keep up as times as the world changed and became more and more unhinged. This led me, on several occasions, to wonder if I should put Operation Bug Out into motion to head north to our last redoubt?

September 11, 2001 tested our resolve. By then, both Beth and Mike were married. Mike and his wife, Jodie, already had two boys, Drew and Matt. Beth and Tom were close to having children. All of them save Jodie were in Manhattan when the towers came down. A terrible time for all of us, but survivable.

So was the great recession of 2009 and Super Storm Sandy in 2012. Both were trying, but not enough to pull the trigger.

Still, we changed and improved our personal fortress to address changing needs. We expanded living spaces to account for not only this photo in time but prepared to accommodate our grandchildren’s future married families. We established independent electric, internet and radio / TV sources making us independent of any grid.

We continually expanded our escape procedures, always with a “What if,” theme in mind.

And so, when Cuomo sold us out to Trump, we were ready to put Operation Bug Out into motion.    

(To be continued)      

Edited by John Delach

Number 510, last edited April 2024, originally edited in 2010                

This piece was written by a friend of mine, Brian Davidson. I edited it and thought up the title. His piece reflects the man he was. We lost Brian to cancer in 2016.

            George, the owner of the sporting goods store handed me my new annual Alaskan fishing license. “Where are you from?”

            “Houston,” I replied. “I got a job with a contractor to settle insurance claims so I’ll be up here for thirty-days at a time for six to nine months. I don’t read much, hate television and I don’t want to spend my free time in bars so I figured I’d try fishing”

            “Well, you picked a good time to start fishing for pink salmon. They start to run in May and you can fish as late as you like because it doesn’t get dark until about 2 a.m. I’ll help you pick out the kind of equipment and clothing you’re going to need.”

            George selected a rod and reel, a net, tackle box, wading boots, thermal socks, and long johns. “Why do I need thermal socks and long underwear in June?”

            “The water temperature in Prince William Sound does not get out of the thirties. You’ll be happy to be wearing them when you wade out into the sound. If you don’t have a sweater or light gloves, you should buy them too.”

            I figured he knew what he was talking about so I kept quiet as my pile kept rising on his counter. When he finished counting and totaling my purchases, he reached behind the counter, opened a wooden box and placed an odd-looking fishing lure in the palm of his hand. A big silver spoon with a big red plastic diamond shaped thingy glued to it, it looked like something that your grandmother used to wear on her chest to church on Sunday.

            “This is the best lure for catching pink salmon. It’s called it a pixie. If I were you, I’d guard it with my life. I’m running out of them and I don’t know when I’ll get new ones in stock.”

            I asked him how many I could have and he agreed to sell me six for six dollars each. I started asking him about places to fish, but he stopped me and called over an Eskimo guy hanging around the store. “Hey, Billy, come tell this guy where to fish.”

            Billy and I got to talking and he agreed to meet me the next night at a camp-ground located on the shoreline. We seemed to hit it off and became regular fishing buddies. Also, it didn’t take long for me to realize just how valuable Billy was to me. The first thing I noticed that night was that when I cast my pixie out into the water, it kept going down and down and down. I asked Billy what was going on.

            “After about ten feet, the bottom drops 500 to 600 feet. If you wander out too far and take the plunge, you’ll have about five minutes left to live.”

I became a good angler catching five to ten fish each night which I cut loose or gave to people staying in the camp-ground who gathered to watch the master fisherman. I usually traded the fish for a cold beer and a relaxing chat with these tourists and retirees in their trailers, campers and RVs. The fishing alleviated my boredom from the seemingly endless task of settling claims. I only regretted losing my pixies which made me feel badly as my supply dwindled.

            One night while fishing with Billy, I cast out my next to last pixie. It didn’t hit the water and my rod started to jerk away from me pulling skyward. “What the hell…,” I shouted as I looked up. To my astonishment, I realized that I had hooked a sea gull on its butt. People on the bank shouted at me to cut the line, but all I could think of was my six- dollar pixie attached to a bird that was maneuvering like an out-of-control kite. Up and down, it flew screeching like all hell as we continued our struggle. I had to let out line fearing that the tension would break it and the gull would make off with my pixie. Finally, it went straight up then came crashing down onto the bank to the oohs and ahs of the crowd who were watching the show.

            I ran out of the water, grabbed onto this pecking and clawing creature who continued to screech for its mother. In desperation, the gull threw up a regurgitated fish onto my boot, but I managed to get a firm grip on its mangy butt to retrieve my pixie. As I stood up, I heard loud and clear, “They’re not very good to eat.”

            Rather embarrassed, I yanked my pixie out of its butt, released the gull who flew away and gave each and every one of my admirers a very low bow.

John Delach

April 2024

Number 510

I awakened on Wednesday, March 27, 2024 to the news that earlier that morning, the MV Dali, a large container ship outbound from its terminal in Baltimore had struck the Francis Scott Keys Bridge. Seemingly, the force of the strike was sufficient to collapse the entire 1.6-mile-long main truss sections that spanned the channels leading into the port in a manner of seconds.

This catastrophe closed the port to all marine traffic and other maritime activity for the foreseeable future until the wreckage that once was the bridge and the damaged Dali could be   removed. The bridge, itself, can’t be rebuilt and must be replaced by a more modern and safer span than this 1974 relic.

The only good news – the death toll at this early hour was limited to four of the six workmen repairing the roadway.

 But that’s still a developing story for another time.

Today, I want to share with you a different ship versus bridge story. Soon after the disaster became a national headline that morning, I heard from two old business friends, Louise Varnas and Geoff Jones,  who took to the internet to share their recollections of this bizarre incident that we all remembered from 1977.

That bridge was named after Benjamin Harrison, a past Governor of Virginia and the father / grandfather of two Presidents. It was a vertical lift draw bridge that spanned the James River carrying vehicle traffic between Hopewell and Richmond, Virginia.

The ship was a war-built T-2 tanker, converted to a bulk carrier and renamed the Marine Floridian by its new owner, Maritime Transport Lines, or (MTL)  MTL was a client of Marsh & McLennan, our employer and Louise and I were familiar with their operations. Geoff worked for one of the insurers responsible for settling the loss.

The Marine Floridian finished unloading its cargo of chemicals into the tanks at the Allied Chemical Plant in Hopewell in the early morning of February 24, 1977. Fredrick Luke, the James River pilot boarded his charge on time and set sail down river about 6:30 am.

As the ship approached the bridge, the Floridian experienced steering malfunctions. Ultimately, the National Transportation Safety Board determined the cause was an electrical failure that led to a loss of power to the steering motor.

Mr. Lake, the pilot, radioed a Mayday, ordered the engine into reverse, dropped both anchors and alerted the bridge tender, Henry C. Frazier, that he had lost control of the ship.

Frazier’s station was on the top of one of the two towers that could lift and lower the main deck of the bridge. He realized that his best chance for survival was to stay at his station. He told the Coast Guard Board of Inquiry that he remained in the control house atop the north tower when the ship struck the bridge. “For a while, it looked like I was going to eat breakfast off the captain’s table.”

The out-of-control Marine Floridian missed the main channel and struck the bridge to the left of  the center. That section was high enough for the body of the bulk carrier to pass underneath until it reached the superstructure. At that point, the voyage of the Marine Floridian came to a halt, but not without a souvenir, a 241-foot section of the bridge that fell onto the main deck of the ship.

The vertical lift’s main section still remained in its open position, but precariously so. Frazier, the bridge tender, made it out of this office and away from the bridge. Lucky for him, as the following day, the central span and the entire northern tower dropped into the river.

Reconstruction of the bridge took 20 months and cost $9.5 million. The bridge reopened to traffic in the fall of 1978.

Someone out there whose identity has been lost to history, produced a tee-shirt that for a short while became a collector’s iitem:

The front and back had images of the Marine Floridian and the bridge:

On the front, it said: “I was there when the ship hit the bridge,

and on the back: “and when the bridge hit the ship.”  

Something went array with today’s piece that was to be called “The Super Mario Bridge.” Somehow the body of this piece merged with last week’s piece “The Cold War Re-visited” and I can’t retrieve it.

I regret this attack by gremlins and hope that I can shake this off and properly publish another piece next Wednesday.

John Delach