John Delach

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.

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)