The first time we met Jack he was hollering at my mother for shooting BBs at his house. Neck veins bulging, he came lunging through the woods yelling at my poor mom who stood on the back porch holding a gun, looking nothing like Jesse James.
More like a confused Annie Oakley; just the moment before she’d been handed the weapon by our son who was smart enough to skedaddle. He was the one who’d been shooting into the woods that apparently were not as dense as we’d thought.
Grandma wasn’t the guilty party, but she was the one holding the smoking gun and the target of Jack’s anger. That was the beginning of what would be a long, loyal friendship.
City mouse, country mouse
We thought of our neighbors as those uptight city people who should learn to relax. To them, we were those local weirdos who let old ladies play with guns. After that initial encounter, we ignored each other.
Their lot is behind ours at the top of the hill so we’d spot their car going up the drive late on Friday, then coming back down late on Sunday. That’s why we instituted a don’t-shoot-Jack’s-house-on-weekends rule.
Opposites attract
For a few years, we were merely nod-and-half-smile neighbors until the night when we walked aboard a North Ferry at the same time as those city people. We nodded, exchanged our usual insincere smiles, then ended up walking to the same crowded restaurant where we had to share a table and kicked into high gear a city-mouse/country-mouse friendship that has lasted through decades.
We became best friends. When we got involved in local politics, so did Jack. He even made bumper stickers, most too risque and/or not politically correct to be mentioned here. However, the one I put on my car said, “Vote for Hoot. If Joanne likes him he can’t be all bad.”
Those magnificent men and their flying machines
During the week, Jack Doenius was an owner of the iconic Empire Diner in Chelsea, where my favorite thing on the menu was a small note at the bottom that nagged, in Jack’s voice, “…and it wouldn’t hurt to call your mother.”
Weekends, though, were spent on the Island. Jack was part of that golden era of flyboys back when there was constant activity at Klenawicus International Airfield and the annual fly-in was nearly as popular as the firemen’s chicken barbecue.
Jack kept a small plane at the field and he helped Hoot in the building of his biplane. It was the two of them who attempted to fly in Hoot’s open cockpit Hatz 1,069 miles from here to Oshkosh. Although they were chugging to Wisconsin at 75 mph, the wind and bad weather prevented them from getting beyond the Poconos.
Jack reported that from his windy 1,200-foot perch he could look down at the trucks on Route 80 that were going a lot faster than their small plane. But the trip wasn’t a total bust. While they were grounded, they found a track and raced go-karts for entertainment.
After a few days, they returned to the Island and taxied up to a large sign made by their flyboy buddies that said “Welcome to Oshkosh”.
Oh yeah, you blend
Jack was part Auntie Mame, part Pied Piper and a little like your Fairy Godmother, all rolled into one. A triple whammy.
It was Jack who said, “Oh, you like Lizzie Bordon? I’ve got an idea. Let’s go to the opera.” And we did. (Spoiler alert: Lizzie did it.) And on another occasion, Jack made dinner reservations at the famous Rainbow Room on the 65th floor of Rockefeller Center. On a Wednesday.
Even in the middle of the week it was still a dress up event and I’m not talkin’ Sunday go-to-church dress up, or even hoity-toity Hamptons cocktail party dress up, this was big-time dress up. Maybe one level down from “let’s go meet the queen.”
I wore my sparkly black dress, three-inch heels, push-up bra and mascara, the whole nine yards. I was wearing black stockings but I shaved my legs anyway. Seriously, it was that kind of a big deal. The icing on the cake was our carriage. Jack had arranged that we’d travel in a sleek stretch limo.
I suppose every first-timer rolls down the window and waves at strangers, because what’s the point of being in a limo if no one sees you? Plenty of people waved back, including another guy in a limousine. Of course, he was the driver, but in my book of memories, that still counts.
When potshots pay off
Taking potshots at Jack’s house turned out to be our good luck. Only occasionally now, usually on a Friday, Judy’s car goes up the driveway. She’s still a city mouse and we’re the country mice who share a special bond and so many special memories of good time with good neighbors.
Jack isn’t here anymore, but I can still hear his voice saying, “I’ve got an idea…” or something not politically correct and probably way too risque, but for sure he’d add, “…and it wouldn’t hurt to call your mother.”
