Lou’s Dogs, Turtles … and his Dolly

The Love Story Behind the Man Who Brings Smiles to Sea Isle

Lou and Dolly Minchelli

When I met Lou Minchelli, 91, and his wife Dolly, 88, he had just gotten out of the hospital after a brief stay. Dolly stays close and reminds him to take it easy for our interview.

“Don’t talk too much, Louie,” she says. “Save your energy.”

“She worries about me,” Lou says, with a wink.

Dolly reaches out and gently touches his shoulder. He looks back at her, a twinkle in his eye.

As I settle into a comfortable chair, I look around the room, and I’m taken by the warm decor, which includes two strikingly beautiful stained-glass palladium windows featuring a pair of lovebirds and a red cardinal.

A turtle sculpture Lou made for Dolly.

“I made those before I started losing my eyesight,” says Lou, who stopped driving eight years ago due to macular degeneration and now gets around on a scooter.

Lou, who was born and raised in New York City, reminisces about his life, including his 25-year career as a New York City firefighter, and about the time before the pandemic that his two sons and daughter-in-law bought, restored, and presented him with a 1975 Mack fire truck on his 90th birthday.

And he proudly speaks of the Sabrett hot dogs he served at Lou’s Dogs, the famous hot dog stand that he operated at the 85th Street beach in Sea Isle from 1982 to 2007.

But, I’m really on assignment to talk with Lou about what’s now making him a local celebrity: turtles, whimsical figurines, that with the aid of a glue gun he makes with shells, miniature straw hats and spectacles.

“You should see the big turtle I just made for Dolly,” says Lou, who regularly leaves his creations around town to the delight of local residents and summer visitors alike, who often boast on Facebook’s Sea Isle Chatter when they find one. He has crafted more than 5,000 of these turtles.

“Dolly, show Kelly my latest masterpiece, the white shell I made yesterday, the one I made for you,” he says, then leans forward. “That’s my chick,” he says of Dolly, and smiles.

Dolly laughs, turns, and before I know it, she returns with a beautiful large turtle, with two smaller ones on top that face each other as if they’re going to kiss.

She reaches out and touches his hand.

“This year will be 68 years since we’ve been married, no exchanges,” says Dolly.

I ask, “So where did you two meet?”

“We met in Sea Isle City,” Lou says proudly.

“I’d like to hear that story,” I say.

“That’s too long of a story,” says Dolly, almost blushing.

“No, it ain’t,” says Lou.

Dolly disappears once more, and this time returns with a photo album, and proceeds to show me their younger pictures. I quickly realize this is not just a story about Lou’s turtles. This is a love story.

Lou and Dolly today.

Flash back to June 1951. Lou was about to go home on furlough from the Korean War, where he flew many Air Force missions to pick up wounded soldiers. He’d been gone for 30 months.

“The girl who was my girl when I left had given me a little bit of a warning,” he says.

It turns out that girl was seeing someone else while Lou was serving his country.

“I understood,” he says, “but I made one request: that she tell him to stay away while I’m on my furlough.”

And so, when Lou returned home, the romance rekindled. And it seemed love was in the air. “I asked her to marry me, and she said yes,” says Lou. “I found out from a good friend of mine that you can get married in Delaware the same day, no residency. So, I made an appointment with the justice of the peace.”

Only Lou didn’t want to get married in uniform. So, he called his good friend Tony, the best-dressed guy in their crowd. Lou asked Tony if he could come over and borrow a suit because he was getting married the next day. Tony agreed, and told Lou to come over to the house and his sister would give him the suit.

“True enough, I go down to get it,” he says. “Dolly answers the door. And she says, ‘Hi, I’m Dolly,’ and I said, ‘I’m Louie.’ She says, ‘Here’s the suit.’ She hands me the suit.”

The next day, Lou put on the suit and went to pick up the girl he was going to marry. But when the girl’s father answered the door, he informed Lou that his daughter had left at 6 o’clock that morning, with another young man, who just happened to be Lou’s cousin.

“Turns out, it was the best thing that could’ve happened,” says Lou, looking over at Dolly sitting beside him on the sofa. After raising four wonderful children: Andrea, Mary, Michael and Joseph, in addition to doting on their seven grandchildren and four great-grandchildren, Dolly gazes back at Lou with a loving smile.

But, back in 1951, there was turmoil for Lou. His father was fighting with his own sister, who was the mother of the cousin who stole Lou’s girl. When Lou’s good friend Tony heard the news about what happened, he stepped in. Tony told Lou he was taking him on a trip to a small seaside town called Sea Isle City. Lou had never heard of Sea Isle, but he agreed and off they went.

“So, we get in the car, and we drive down to Sea Isle City,” he recalls. “And who do I meet at the door, the chick who lent me the suit. I said, ‘Here’s your suit back.’ She said, ‘I’m awfully sorry, I heard what happened.’ I said, ‘Maybe it’s for the best, I don’t know.’”

What Lou and Dolly didn’t realize at first was that they were actually pen-pals. Lou and Tony stayed for the weekend. Dolly came along when they went out to a local restaurant, Travascio’s, which later became the Springfield Inn.

Lou then returned to his Air Force duties. After he was discharged, he took the train from Oklahoma City to St. Louis, and from St. Louis to Grand Central Station in New York.

“And who do you think was on that platform waiting for me ... Dolly,” he says, then adds, “I’m almost ready to cry thinking about it.”

And so, in August of 1952, the young couple started dating under the watchful eye of Dolly’s strict, protective father, Silverio Conti. Known as “Sam,” he was a successful barber from Manhattan who opened a barber shop at a Sea Isle hotel at the request of the hotel’s owner, Louis Freda. Sam became known as “Hurricane Sam,” because he gave such a fast haircut. As fate had it, Dolly and Lou withstood Sam’s scrutiny, and in September of 1953 they married.

“That’s a beautiful story,” I say.

One of Lou Minchelli’s turtle sculptures.

“I think so, too,” says Lou.

Before I leave, Dolly brings over several of Lou’s decorative turtles.

“It makes people so happy, the little kids love them, and then there’s the time Dolly and I took 50 of them to the nursing home, the joy the people gave us, the hugs and kisses,” he says, and tears up.

Lou insists I pick out two turtles to keep. They are adorable, one is somewhat larger than the other, and I place them together as if they are about to kiss. I think of my boyfriend, and about our own love story. And I know that we will be as loving together as Lou and Dolly. And with that, I leave with my turtles, and two new friends, sweethearts that can remind us all about the power of love.