The Notebook

                              

My husband has a notebook which contains some of his favorite quotes.  Well, it’s probably important that I define this a tad bit more.  This notebook is filled with original quotes.  Yes, thirty years of inspirational sayings all in one place, for easy reference. Some people buy joke books, but in our family we have this little gem instead. You see, I am known for blurting out some spectacular words of wisdom.  They are always very clear to me when said, and delivered with a tremendous amount of sincerity.  This is always followed by blank stares from my family, then uncontrollable laughter.  

This stellar list of quotes includes, “Men are terrible with time.” “There’s nothing wrong with a forest if you live with a bunch of  children.” “You should have been here before you left.” And the ole family favorite, “The old horses are doing theirs.” When my husband walks off to go grab a pencil I know it’s another nugget destined for the quote book.

All this family bonding aside, there is actually one quote that seems to have withstood the test of time.  There’s nothing confusing about it.  It just means what it is and is what it means: “There’s nothing like a herd of wild horses!” Decades later it has been whittled down to a mere, ‘Nothin’ like it!” Truth be told, it simply sums up a most reverent reality for me:  Being around horses renders me speechless.  I am in awe of their beauty, intelligence, power and grace. They speak to my heart in profound ways.  If reincarnation is true, then so is Cowboy Darrell.  Being a part of the American Frontier and living on a horse ranch during the Wild West often seems imprinted and, frankly, nothing short of oddly familiar to me. 

As a child growing up outside Boston, this love for horses was a wee bit of a problem.  You could see the city buildings from our home on a hill, and the houses next door were so close you could hear the neighbors sneeze.  Yet there was no amount of logic to counter my determination that a horse could easily live in this back yard. Our yard was the size of a postage stamp.  In 1962 this consisted of a newly built, cement terrace which was bordered by a steep drop to the neighbor’s backyard.  This horse deathtrap didn’t deter me one bit and I pleaded my case often to my parents.  To counter this obsession, every birthday and sick day for years were filled with gifts from my family about horses - books, jewelry, magazines, toys, stuffed animals and a notebook for my sketches of horses.  Every week the TV was faithfully tuned into Mr. Ed, Flicker, The Rifleman, High Chaparrel, Gunsmoke, and the beloved Bonanza where it seemed horses were important to these TV families.  They were integral to everyone and respected by all. They landed someplace between being a loved member of the family and reliable transportation out back. Little Joe and Hoss Cartwright on the Ponderosa were my fantasy brothers and we all took care of the horses.  It made sense that perhaps Paw could use a daughter on his Testosterone Ranch.  “Maybe someday,” my parents regularly chanted to anesthetize my dream of turning our yard into a Wyoming prairie despite its pesky driveway, swing set and manicured flower gardens.  Eventually I resorted to buying horse statues instead. 

Aunt Nettie regularly took me into the city on the subway to go shopping and while she knew nothing about horses she knew everything about making little girl’s dreams come true.  Saturday mornings were meant for sauntering up and down the creaky, old wooden aisles of Woolworth’s Five and Dime. There were trinkets, troll dolls, rubber balls, rings, key chains, handkerchiefs and doll clothes as far as young eyes could see.  Nettie loved the art of browsing and keenly taught me its finer techniques.  She was always dressed to the nines, complete with heavy makeup, a wig, long coat with a fox collar, big jewelry, high heels, gloves and a stylish hat.  Aunt Nettie looked more suited for the Kentucky Derby than Kid’s Day.  We took command over every aisle and picked up every item.  Touching things seemed essential to professional browsers.  The morning was set aside for buying important things like doll clothes and pencil holders, but after lunch in the afternoon, well, the afternoons were all about the horses.  The most perfect horse statue had to join the others back home on the bedroom shelf and be given a most perfect name by dinner. This new horse had to be the right color, size, and breed not to mention cast in the right pose.  I would dutifully spend weeks later trying to draw them correctly into my sketch notebook, and look up their breed for distinctions.  She made me the horse statue shopping expert and gave me free reign.  Yeah, she was that cool.  My Aunt Nettie was a niece’s dream come true. 

In time my horse collection grew considerably but the backyard stable dream faded completely.  My mother was now driving me to stranger’s stables on Saturdays instead so we could stop along farm roads to feed the horses over the fence.  While other people had typical things like maps and tissues in the glove compartment of their cars, we always had a box of sugar cubes.  On these Saturday stable excursions my mom would park the car road side, overlooking the pasture, and I would run, run, run over to sit on the fence.  Trusting and waiting were key.  It was in that patient moment, when everything became clear. In the quiet and stillness eventually the horses saw me, and one or two would always saunter on over. Looking back it now seems reckless as this was a gigantic, strange animal being fed and petted by a small, naïve child.  But back then, it just was.  Paw, Little Joe and Hoss had taught me well.  It seemed it was all about communicating together in the respected silence and understanding an animal with your intuition and heart.  And a whole heck of a lot of trust.  I took mindful notes that lasted me a lifetime.

Finally, a day came when my mother suggested that perhaps riding lessons were now in order.  She drove us to a tack shop located someplace way outside the city for my first and only pair of riding chaps.  The inside of this shop smelled like leather and rough sawn cedar, and all things were shades of brown, tan and black.  There was a bell on the door that rang when you entered, horse shoes placed above the doorways, saddles everywhere and bridles hanging high above.  It felt like home back in the Ponderosa, minus the huge fir trees and plus the distraction of honking traffic outside.  Soon thereafter I seemed stylishly ready and we drove one weekend to a stable for my first riding lesson.   Once inside, everything changed dramatically. 

I was petrified.  I knew nothing, no one or any actual important thing about riding a horse.  The view was completely different, on every level.  Sitting on top of a horse can be life changing, and certainly requires knowledge. No amount of appropriate apparel or hobby hoarding helps. In addition, these horses and their leads all seemed old, stubborn and slow.  It was shocking and nothing like on TV. No one looked happy and there was very little teaching going on. I was told what to do when with little regard for why or how.  Parallel to this passionless teaching, it seemed these horses landed someplace between passive slavery and unreliable machines.  No one was communicating, even when grooming and saddling in the stalls and every living thing was always looking down.  It seemed like drudgery teetering on the threshold of Disney’s Dumbo, horse style.  They all were just going round and round and round and round tethered to a lead, slowly and in circles for hours without speaking and without purpose.  I was disillusioned, disappointed and done.  “The old horses are doing theirs.” Yes, apparently as a money making business in cheap stables across the country for young, suburban children.  I robot-rode like that for a few years, but eventually I dismounted that childhood dream forever. 

Until one day, many years later, I met a horse whisperer.

“A lot of times, rather than helping people with horse problems, I’m helping horses with people problems.” “A lot of this is just about being scared…If you are always demanding – negative, negative, negative - and giving nothing in return then you will have only a contrary relationship.”

Amen, amen, amen to that, I thought.  I may have even said it out loud but I wasn’t entirely sure.  I was sitting in a cold, aluminum bleacher seat in a Kentucky horse arena outside on a very windy, fall day.  I was listening to the horse training wisdom of Buck Brannaman and completely enthralled by every minute in which he spoke.  Buck is a practitioner of “natural horsemanship” and a full-fledged Horse Whisperer to some. He had become an idol to me.  It was my 56^th birthday.  I had grabbed my camera and driven five hours from my home with the intention of giving myself a solo vacation centered solely on two of my passions, horses and photography. 

A few weeks earlier, my husband and I were in a movie theatre watching a documentary called “Buck” about which we knew nothing much before seeing.  After a mere ten minutes the wide screen was filled with horses running full speed in the lush valleys of Wyoming and my husband leaned in to say, “Nothin’ like it” and gave me a kiss on the cheek.  I was in horse heaven all over again. 

Buck’s compassion for these magnificent creatures and love for understanding their way is nothing short of being utterly inspirational.  His personal story is poignant and powerful. As a child he survived severe child abuse and foster care, but went on to become a thriving adult who helps horses who have been misunderstood or hurt by people. Buck was trained in this art of intuitive communication and mentored by Ray Hunt, who is known to be the quintessential Horse Whisperer and whose biography I had read over and over.  Buck teaches the biology, psychology, and social framework of each horse and their environment as well as the dynamics between each and their owner.  In essence, Buck Brannaman is a social worker and educator, for horses.  In reality, I am a social worker and educator, for humans. 

By the time we left the movie and were in the parking lot, my husband and I both were speechless.  Finally he broke the silence and said, “Ok, I’ll say it first:  I can’t believe how much that movie had your name on it.  Seriously!  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a movie where every single minute is so you.”  He was right, and I was reeling from the realization as well. The next day began with me doing research and taking copious notes.

I learned that Buck has been called, “the Zen master of the horse world.”  He lives in Wyoming as a horse trainer but travels the country educating owners who have ornery and “problem” horses on their hands. He was the actual inspiration and trainer for the Robert Redford movie “The Horse Whisperer” which further fueled my fire as I have seen that movie more times than I care to admit. Within days I had a long list of ranches where Buck would be teaching that fall, with the intention of calling them one by one for more information, and yet no idea why I was doing this, how I might afford it or if I would be able to attend.

The phone rang so many times I was about to hang up but just then a man picked up and gruffly blurted, “Hullo.” 

“Um, Hello…Yes…Well…is this the horse farm?”  Really, Darrell?  'The' horse farm?  I was struck with how ridiculous I already sounded.  You’re calling Kentucky, not Times Square, I thought …it’s a state filled with horse farms…not to mention horse farms don’t talk, Darrell.  How grammatically incorrect, my left brain reacted.   I wonder who he is, my right brain countered.  Move on, they both urged, this man is waiting and he doesn’t sound patient.

“Hi, well, I want some information regarding the Buck Brannaman arena show that will be at your stable on October 14th.” 

“Yup.” Silence.

“….Ok.  Well… Um…Can you help me learn what time it will begin, and how long it’ll last?

“It’s a two hour show.  I’m thinkin’ we’ll start about 10.” 

“How much is it?”

“Twenty-five dollars.”

“That’s it?  Twenty-five dollars, for Buck Brannaman?!”

“Yup.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope.”  I was now stuck on wondering if he was being sarcastic or serious, but plowed onward...

“Can I make a reservation?”

“Do you have a horse?” Long pause.

“No.”  Longer pause.

“You don’t have a horse?  But you want to come to this horse trainer workshop?”

Ridiculously long pause.  “I like horses, does that count?”

“I guess I really don’t care, Mam. Either way we don’t take reservations.”  I was not sure who was leading whom and feeling like this was a riding lesson of a different kind.

I took the lead, “What if it’s sold out, how will I still get a seat without a reservation?” 

“Well, I look at it this way, Mam:  We’ll sit half of you in the front at the beginning and then half way through I’ll just ask for everyone to switch.”

“Switch?”

“Yup.  All those sittin’ in the back and standin’ will come down front then all those down front sittin’ will move or stand in the back.”  My mind wandered to think how ridiculous this would be if we all did that for a football game in a stadium. This man was very logical and making me work hard at being smart.

“That’s very smart of you.  You know… Buck Brannaman is like a horse whisperer and he just put out a documentary. There may be a lot of people attending.”

“Yes, mam.  I know Buck well.” 

“Oh. Of course.”  Oh, my.  Darrell, you really have to get off the phone soon before you say something spectacularly stupid.  “Well….What about lodging?  Is there some kind of hotel nearby or a place I can stay?” 

“Yup.  I have a list of places right here on a piece of paper.  I can mail it to ya’.”

“A piece of paper.  Um, well, can you e-mail me that list instead?”

“Mam, I’m a cowboy.  I don’t do e-mail.”  Right.  

What was I thinking? What was I thinking, indeed.  This adventure was wrought with childish dreams and very short on sensibility.  But, my cowboy friend was true to his word and mailed me the information. That next weekend I was traveling by myself back to the future, with a camera and a notebook in hand.

Once in Kentucky, everything changed dramatically.  It was transformative.  There were horses everywhere and the vista was breathtaking.  “Nothin’ like it.”  Beautiful horse farms, rolling pastures, barns, stables and white horse fences as far as your eyes could see for miles and miles.  Horses were freely running, grazing, sauntering and still all while underneath the clear, blue sky that day.  It was magical and my childhood dream come true.  My senses were now fully guiding my way through memory and fantasy all at the same time.  

As it turned out, there were plenty of seats and Buck’s training began in the center of an arena just feet away from where most of us sat.  It was exhilarating to be so close.  He was funny, charming and a gifted teacher in every way. In front of us for hours he worked with strangers and their challenging horses with calm and grace.  Their behavior changed immediately and he preached the value of practice, practice, practice.  He gently caressed horses to calm them, and strongly gave them direction when he needed. He never stopped relating to them.  It seemed clear we were in the presence of something important and the words of wisdom he spoke made sound sense. These inspirational gems flowed out from him sweetly like honey.  He was a lot like Pa on Bonanza.  He steadily taught us by example, guiding us back to being our best possible selves as we experience this world together, appreciating our challenges and differences.  It brought me back to when I had been a social worker with victims of violent crimes and witnessed how hope and time can heal all living things.  “Horses need to know that you’re saying ‘I’ll make sure you’re safe and won’t let you get into trouble” “You just gotta get them in balance.” “Abused horses are like abused children. They trust no one and expect the worst. But patience, leadership, compassion and firmness can help them overcome their pasts." “All horses need a job.  Any job, but they need a job.”  When the training ended my notebook and heart were full.

The next day was Saturday.  I drove up the road to browse stranger’s stables all afternoon and be with  horses by the fence.  Stable hands would greet me kindly, and let me roam freely, from stall to stall.  Some of these men chatted a lot with me, while others nodded and quietly let me be in solitude.  I wandered for hours and met horse after horse that day. By late afternoon, one ranch hand came over and asked me if I owned a horse.  “No” I said, “But, I always wish I had.”  He smiled knowingly and offered a kind reply.  “You know, each horse has a story, would you like me to share one with you?”  I nodded yes as he brought me over to a most beautiful mare standing near the fence. She had cozied on up closer to us the longer we spoke, and I was aware that he had noticed her eavesdropping.  “We go back together a long, long time,” he reflected while patting her gently.  “She knows all about me in ways no one else ever will.  She had quite a harsh history before she came here to this ranch, but I think she’s pretty content now.  Right, Old Girl? What a sweet Old Girl you are… sweet, sweet, sweet…” he said as he gracefully stroked her neck with comfort and love.  “Oh, and by the way, she’s camera shy so don’t be upset if she turns her head when you take that picture.”  Right then I clicked the shutter but she turned her head away on cue.  She repeated this action-reaction three times in a row before I got smart and put my camera away. 

This man, this horse and I stood by the fence in blissful quiet for a very, very, very long time together.  It was peacefully still and perfectly present.  The wind blew gently and a small bird flittered and then landed on the fence with us.  The Old Girl snuggled on up closer and nudged to be petted.  I heard Buck whispering his words of wisdom: “Nothing happens out of the blue for horses.” "Horses are incredibly forgiving. They fill in places we're not capable of filling ourselves. They've given people a new hope, a new lease on life. A horse really wants to please you, to get along."

“You possess what every horse wants:  Peace and Comfort.”  Cowgirl Darrell was finally home. 

Bonsai

 
This older man was mesmerized by the Bonsai trees which were all around us.  He seemed content, his eyes were closed and his presence seemed very far away.  It was as if he was having a communal conversation with the plants, silently.  By the calm he was emanating, it would appear all was super groovy in Plant Land. 

I, on the other hand, was not having a meditation fest.  I had just rushed on over to this art museum workshop on a complete whim.  One minute I was home doing nothing and the next I decided to be here at this Bonsai demonstration workshop.  My sudden love for spur of the moment was about as baffling as my sudden love for Bonsai trees.  I was just trying to go with it. I had no idea what I might find but for now I was just trying to find a seat.  By the time I finagled my way into the last seat available, and had annoyed just about everyone I crawled over getting there, I sat beside Mr. Zen.  It was then I noticed him but also realized I was trapped in the middle of a row with barely enough room to even take off my coat. This whimsical excursion seemed to be turning into an expedition of inept juggling.  The seats were uncomfortable, the place was noisy, I was squishing my coat under the chair, my large bag was at my feet and in everyone's way and I was now wondering if I had to pee. My serene, new chair neighbor was now fully present beside my uncomfortable, very annoying self. 

We were surrounded by Bonsai trees and I was beginning to wonder why. 

I closed my eyes to bring it all down ten notches in my head.  Then I took a deep breath. It was then I realized Mr. Older Man was actually now talking to me. For some ridiculous reason, I felt like I had known him for years as if we were picking up where we had just left off in a conversation.  This casual closeness to a stranger and the way our seats were arranged, somehow irrationally took me back to the city subways of Boston.  I was thinking about the acting teacher I had when I was young who had suggested we ride the subways to practice being different characters, fully with accents and mannerisms different from our own. I actually used to love doing this.  My current spur of the moment self thought I might try that all over again now with this man, but when he began to share more intimately, I stopped myself.  His eyes were kind and his story important to him, so I left the subway behind.

I learned that when he was young and in high school he loved the art of Bonsai trees, "but that was a very long time ago," he reminisced.  He went on and on about how it changed him, and kept him out of trouble.  He looked down when he shared that the world seemed so simple back then, and he looked away when he admitted  how baffled and full of regret he was for losing this from his life. This man seemed to be having revelations about his past relationship with Bonsai like it was a lover, and I was now sole witness to it all.  I didn’t have the heart to admit my actual reason for attending this workshop.  I mumbled something about having heard it advertised on Public Radio that morning but in reality, it was Mr. Miyagi.   How utterly embarrassing, I thought.  Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid inspired me about Bonsai Trees and this man beside me dedicated years to learning this craft all on his own and it changed him forever.  I’ll just stick with telling him my reason was on a whim, I thought.

He couldn't remember how or why he began.  I wondered if there was more meaning in the reason why he had stopped.  If we were real friends I would have asked.  He nodded his head slowly each time he remembered more details, and his eyes faintly twinkled as he started putting pieces together for himself out loud.  In the forty years that had passed, he had actually been to Japan for his job "so many times I stopped counting" but he still hadn’t connected himself back to the art of Bonsai.  He found that absolutely ridiculous, a complete and utter lost opportunity. We both laughed loudly, and nodded in complete agreement and I threw in a “that’s unbelievable!” for good measure.  That seemed the friendly thing to say.  This man and I were having a reflection conversation.  He talked, I echoed.  "I guess I am looking forward to re-learning what I once knew when I was young!"  “Yes, learning what we knew when we were young can be important,” I repeated.  Just as the class began this stranger friend was now telling me about all the supplies I would need, as well as some Japanese terms to remember. 

He shared that Bonsai simply means, "Tree in a box." 

As the teacher set up his table and told us he would need just a few more minutes to prepare, my Bonsai Buddy and I began to talk about the possible philosophy within Bonsai and the understanding of its unending lessons in patience, especially now that we are older.  "One tree, so many lessons."  Yes, I thought, far beyond what I seemed to take away from the Karate Kid.  "Wax on, Wax off" is so unfortunately seared into my brain.  So many lessons, literally at your fingertips.  I was now reflecting to myself.  One word guideposts for a lifetime:  Work, Caring, Determination, Fortitude, Balance, Harmony, Nurture, Stillness, Loss, Acceptance, Beauty and Peace.  Or at least that is what Mr. Miyagi seemed to be teaching us in his quiet, grieving state and Hollywood stereotype.  My new familiar friend and I were now both ready for the class to begin.

Ironically, our Bonsai teacher talked a lot.  He seemed a fast train on the wrong track.  He chatted non-stop. He clipped, wired and pruned his way on a small part of a pine tree toward a workshop deadline, while answering questions as he quickly worked on his creation.  It was like a pine tree poetry slam.  All that said, I really liked him.  He was informative, talented, very experienced with a dash of humor thrown in.  He was just in a gig that created a constant state of words located in what seemed to me to be a space designed for quiet.  This disconnect was reverberating loudly.  How wrong it was that I gave these artists a label and this art a typecast.  Damn Hollywood. 

At some point, everything around me started to take a new shape.  No one here looked the part, or was perfect and certainly not me.  Our teacher was saying something about having killed many a tree for years before learning this craft, and how his master teacher twenty years ago had been a farmer, who drank beers and smoked cigarettes while he did Bonsai in an old barn.  Mr. Miyagi was now defunct, and we were being opened up to new, more accepting Bonsai horizons.  Just then my workshop buddy leaned in and whispered, "Where did you first learn to love Japanese Bonsai?"  My silence jarred me.  I didn’t have the answer I thought I would. I turned to him, and said nothing for several beats. 

I was remembering all those Bonsai trees from my childhood. 

This man who loved to chat had no idea his query had catapulted me into time travel.  I blinked a lot, slowly and took another deep, cleansing breath.  "Home," I heard myself reply.  We held the sweet silence respectfully between us as this is what friends do.  "My home."  "Well, that's lovely," said this smiling, gentle man who innocently just gave me a gift. Why had I never put this together before?  I mustered a bit more, “My mom, she loved Japanese art.”

For reasons I will never know, as no one in my family was of Asian descent, my mother seemed to love the Japanese and Asian cultures.  As I sat in this Bonsai workshop I began to remember it all.  I hadn’t forgotten I just hadn’t put it together.  Perhaps the earlier subway ride had taken me back to my childhood home.  It was there we had living room tables and chairs of dark teak wood with beautiful in-laid Japanese designs.  Bonsai trees were in them all, they were everywhere in my home!  Our dining room table, buffet and china cabinet were also a Japanese style.  Our fancy dishes were square and had Asian floral and tree designs.  For twenty years a tall, white porcelain, delicate Japanese Geisha statue was in the middle of our coffee table surrounded by bamboo trays.  She was a goddess of breakable proportions for me as a young child, and so I never once dared to get too close. This specific décor list goes on and on, from room to room.  As a young child I lived surrounded by all these fanciful images from some place called Japan.  Back then this translated to me as being long ago and some place very far away.  It was where art was filled with red, black, white and quiet, peaceful beauty. 

In my childhood home on our living room mantle there were three figurines of people who were Asian posing in what seemed like life moments: A man fishing, an older woman feeding a baby with chopsticks, and a younger man balancing a yoke of wooden pails.  Above them was my mother’s pièce de résistance - an art print of a scene from the opera Madama Butterfly.  There we were in the middle of an Irish neighborhood on a small street overlooking Boston and my mother is filling our home like we lived in Kyoto.  To this day, I haven’t a clue what inspired her or what it all meant.  It just was.  My mother Claire was unique. Her décor was parallel to her personality, eclectic and artistic.   Our home also had Americana gilded eagles, a gold piano, Kennedy memorabilia, fake brick, wooden shutters and prints of Monet, Van Gogh, and Degas.  Clearly my home was a museum of a different kind. 

The afternoon sun was now streaming down fully from the glass ceiling above and warmly embracing us all as the workshop came to a close.  I could see now that the Bonsai Trees which were placed all around us in the room seemed still and powerfully peaceful. Their styles were exactly as our teacher had just taught us. Each was purposefully nurtured, balanced and patiently designed to take shape only after years of waiting.  My timeless friend and I were now only quiet.  The teacher dismissed the class and we rose slowly from our chairs.  We gathered our belongings and respectfully began to leave in completely different directions. On a whim I turned around to return to him and gently put my hand on his arm.  “Thank you."  He smiled peacefully.  "I really enjoyed sitting beside you today." 

Today I was with the Bonsai and the Bonsai was with me. 

Ugg A Mugg Chugg Bug

“Ugg-A-Mugg-Chugg-Bug!” loudly exclaimed Mr. Vitarelli one day to our 6^th grade class.  One minute Mr. V was teaching us something about communication and sentence structure but I wasn’t paying too much attention.  Suddenly the next minute this teacher of ours, in the trim Beatles-like suit jacket, seemed to be channeling his inner, primitive man.   I was lost, very lost.  But this was 6^th grade and being lost was my Modus Operandi.  I rarely caught on to things quickly so I survived by observing my peers for clues first.   

In this moment, one by one, everyone in the class burst out laughing.  He continued, “So….this is how I imagined cave men talking to each other:  Ugg-A-Mugg-Chugg-Bug!!!!” He used a deep voice and contorted his face, then smiled and let this sink in for us, “What do you think?”  Detective Darrell looked around and saw that classmates were smiling, and asking questions.  Perhaps our teacher hadn’t completely lost his mind after all but I wasn’t yet sure.  I had been distracted by day dreaming about the children John Lennon and I would have someday and didn’t understand the point of this repeating cave-speak.  Despite my dramatic imagination and irrational fears, it seemed that our classroom had innocently become a community of cave people.  A cacophony of Ugg A Mugg Chugg Bugs were being joyfully discussed in animated conversation around the room.  I began to feel brave and hear my own voice join in.  We were very awake now, in the moment and thinking again.  I had not given cave men communication one iota of thought at the ripe old age of eleven, but in an instant Mr. Vitarelli transported us back in time, and inspired me forever.  

This was the year that was. It was 1965 and the Beatles, an assassination, Civil Rights, NASA, Communism, Vietnam and Cuba were consuming our outside world.  In the inside confines of this small, safe, Greater Boston classroom we were consumed with other, more important things.  Mr. Vitarelli was our first male teacher, ever.  We had no idea what to do with this information.  But, it seemed all we talked about, every day.  The boys were relieved and relaxed for the first time, ever.  It was like they finally had a buddy in the front of the classroom. The girls were obsessively tittering and convinced our new teacher looked exactly like Paul McCartney.  Because I was in love with and convinced I would marry John Lennon, I hadn’t entirely noticed. In reality there was not one thing about this man that resembled The Cute Beatle.  Nothing whatsoever, only that he wore a suit coat with thin lapels, and had a swooping haircut.  That’s it.  A coat, and some hair.  The principal could have walked in and it’s entirely possible the girls would have thought he was Ringo Starr.  Sixth grade was not about logic, but instead raging hormones and distorted dreams.  This was a school year destined for the metaphor of changing perceptions and seeing the world through a creative lens.  This was a time before a nation’s assessment obsession controlled the heart and soul of a teacher’s day.  

Mr. V started his day talking with us, not at us.  This was a teacher who seemed to like and value us as humans and future people of the world.  He integrated art, music and the news into our lessons and applied real life creatively into just about anything we were learning.  We wrote a lot and he cared that we do better.  One time he drew portraits of each and every student and gave them to us as a gift. Suddenly I loved going to school for the very first time. 

He was also a story teller and nurtured us to tell our own.  “He’s HYSTERICAL!  Did you see him do that impersonation of ...” We were enamored with this man who was newly married and had a baby.  His morning tales about Baby Douglas were the funniest we had ever heard.  As an only child this was my first glimpse into what babies really did at home.  I was mesmerized by the comedy of spit up, the pratfalls of learning to walk and the parental horror of a baby pulling down an entire bookcase.  As a burgeoning adolescent this was a teacher who simply seemed to be funny and nice.  Now as an older adult I realize he was compassionate, patient, creative and very smart. He effortlessly built community, taught boundaries and instilled trust all the while being responsible for the education of a tinder box of eleven and twelve year olds.

By winter my ever growing Liverpool fascination now included the purchase of white Go-Go Boots, and Yardley lip gloss which I would sneak on during the bus ride going to school.  By spring break I was wearing white eyeliner, straightening my hair with large rollers and combing my bangs stylishly to the right over my eye. I sincerely thought my parents hadn’t noticed.  I was a Fashionista Train Wreck consumed with Sweet 16 magazine, troll dolls, going to Harvard Square and this new thing I just had to have by the spring dance:  Panty Hose.  Photos from that year confirm that I had the grace of a bear, and finesse of a goat.  But in Mr. V’s class we were all perfectly ok the way we were.

We traveled that year, too.  Once we wrapped and painted papier–mâché over milk cartons to resemble the art of the Aztec civilization. Another time we trekked to a nearby local stream to see, scrape and smell what our science books taught.  We visited the Boston Globe to watch papers be printed and the Schrafft Candy Factory to learn about industry and how things were made. Then there was that visit we took down the hall to see this thing called “a computer.” Someone had brought this monstrosity in from MIT which took up an entire four walls of a room, from floor to ceiling.  We walked in single file slowly and circled the room quietly to take it all in.  As we left Mr. V told us that “someday everyone will have one of these in their homes!”  I left trying to imagine why on earth that was going to happen, not to mention how.  I went home and adamantly told my parents, “We are gonna need a bigger house for this computer thing when everyone has one someday.”  I thought their smiles meant it was a done deal and we would be moving soon.

At some point, we all moved on.  I have no memory of that moment.  Eventually sixth grade just ended and Mr. Vitarelli faded away.  The Beatles broke up, we landed a man on the moon and the draft took many of those boys very far away. I stopped wearing make-up and let my hair go natural.  I eventually found grace.  Decades flew and the sights and sounds of my past became muted. 

Then one day it became now.

I was on a computer the size of a book when Mr. Vitarelli and I once again crossed paths.  It was forty-eight years later.  He was 72 and I was 58.  

“..your son Douglas guided me to sending you a note, as I am looking for the Mr. Vitarelli who was a 6^th grade teacher outside Boston in the 1960’s..if this is not you, my kindest apologies…” my email went on to let him know I was writing on behalf of our class.  Several classmates and I wanted to thank him after all these years for how he had inspired us.  He wrote me right back, confirmed the details and noted, “Great detective work!” 

And there we were, trying to communicate within a new language all over again.  Ugg. 

It was like time travel to a familiar and yet long ago, distant, foreign place.  The words all sounded familiar but the context was jarring and we looked so different…  A Mugg. 

A child had become an adult…   Chugg.

And a metamorphosis had taken place.  Bug!

He was actually an artist, a painter and a writer who left teaching long ago. “…I went on to become a managing editor…I've lived in Europe, been in publishing and public relations…I hope you are well; tell me something about yourself…How wonderful to retrieve a bit of the happy past with a letter out of the blue like yours..I am truly humbled by your letter..”  

Robert and I wrote back and forth several times for a week before the portrait of whom we had become was current.  He learned that my parents had died long ago, I had gone on to college and now had two degrees, moved far away, was happily married for many years and adored my two adult children.  We were an artistic family and I was proud to share all of this with him.  He reflected similarly and listened with care.  

“I'm retiring in February and have no idea where my imagination will take me…” I had no doubt it would be joyful.  When Robert did retire I sent him a copy of our 6^th grade class photo to mark the beginning as being important and related to the end.

Last spring a student of mine posted a photo on my Facebook page of me proudly standing beside him and his dad at his graduation ceremony.   He wrote a touching tribute of thanks for me having mentored him and the appreciation for that lifelong gift.  I was truly humbled.  Robert read it and immediately wrote to me, “Wow! So wonderful. In a very small way, I feel a part of your successes. Brava!!!”

To which I replied, “Robert, yes, indeed, you are a part of mine!!!! The Butterfly Effect Theory in its most beautiful form. :-) Thank you for your kind words.”

Rest in Peace, Mr. Robert Vitarelli.

Wherever you are now, I hope you are as Snugg as a Bugg in a Rug.

 

Long Distance

Recently while we were in Boston staying with our daughter for a couple of days, we decided to walk to Harvard Square for breakfast.  It took over an hour.  It was a really hot day.  The city was especially noisy and I was not in a great mood.  I was really hungry.  I can't even remember why now, but for some reason we had skipped dinner the night before. Now we were way past my breakfast time and I was ravenous.  I had been taking photographs the entire vacation, but this morning I was sleepy, in my head and not thinking about art.  Just breakfast, dammit. My daughter and husband walked in front of me for a long while, chatting, laughing, having fun.  They apparently don't need dinner and breakfast to be civil, or to hold a conversation.  It took me a long time before I got present. 

But, at some point, I remembered how.  And that I should.  So, I looked up into the present world around me.  And let it go.  I got out of my head and I began to see again.

We crossed the bridge, walked by the Charles River, past M.I.T. and trudged up Mass. Ave. on and on.  Eventually we were in all those neighborhood Squares, one after the other, before we got to Cambridge and entered Harvard Square.  This walk was actually the first time I even understood the word “Square” after Harvard and realized it was parallel to saying Central Square and Inman Square!  When I grew up, it was just that place I hung out, down the street from my high school called harvard square. 

Along the way beside us all the cars were in traffic, and at endless stoplights, block after block. Buses were dropping off and picking up on every corner, delivery trucks were double parked and always in the way, and people were rushing.  Everyone was everywhere. But everyone seemed so much younger now.  Had this always been just a college area and I never even noticed?  It seemed to now go from being a neighborhood of MIT directly into one of Harvard.  My heart remembered older people everywhere.  Once upon a time there were corner bars, local coffee shops, and old fashioned drugstores and older people were in them.  My grandparents ran errands here, and my dad worked up the street. Everything now teetered on trendy.  Because I was so quiet, I began to see the layers of it all.  The past I once knew was now lacquered with the present.  I was struck with how connected I once was to that area and how much I was remembering as a result, and how much had changed.  Each Square triggered a family story for me, as well as my husband, and our daughter listened patiently.  My senses were on overload but I was finally enjoying the trip of it all.  It was pretty wonderful to be back.

I began to slow down on purpose.  ‘It wasn’t actually that hot,’ I decided and ‘surely I’ll eat soon.’  How alive everything around me in this moment was, and how wonderful we were able to take this family walk together - in

our daughter's city. 

It was then I glanced to my left and saw an old, abandoned pay phone.   I couldn't even remember the last time I used a pay phone or saw one on a street. They seemed to just disappear one day.  One by one.  This disconnected pay phone was stuck uselessly now between a garage and a building along the sidewalk on which we were walking.  I bet no one had even looked at it in ten years. It was like a sci-fi movie where the director places a few historical relics to help us grasp the concept of past and future perfect colliding.  I walked over to the alien phone, and took in the graffiti.  From far away it looked like something or someone had burned it, but up close it was all just meaningfully tagged.  It was then I noticed that the receiver was gently placed on its side on the silver, metal shelf below - sleeping.  It was like someone had left for just a minute to go get a pen, or find more quarters for the call - twenty years ago, and never returned.  Or they got sucked up in the vortex where all those other pay phones now live.  My mind started thinking about that last call on this phone, and who made it.  Who received it? Where are they now?  I then stepped back to place it all in the here and now.  That’s when I saw the sticker someone had placed on the bottom: "OH, the Humanity of it All."  Perfect. 

I used my cell phone and took a shot.  That metaphor of was not lost on me.

Parking Garage Jesus

The image of Jesus has been known to appear suddenly and without warning in many modern day places. Apparently even in Bloomington. My world favorite has always been when someone sees him in their food. I personally seem to remember only those that include cheese. There was the grilled cheese sandwich with the toasty face, the Cheeto shaped like Jesus, and the famous burrito, which surely must have had cheese in there somewhere.

But no matter what part of the food pyramid Jesus has decided to light, I can never seem to wrap my head around why the son of God would go out of his way to appear in what we are about to digest. Etcetera. It seems risky, inefficient and certainly a non-sustainable plan, at best. (It’s right up there for me with how I can’t accept that TV commercial where M & M’s are into flirting and dating humans. Am I the only one who finds that odd? Jesus.)

My personal favorite before today was the one on the iron. Someone ironed their clothes and then saw the face of Jesus on the bottom. I found that particularly disturbing and could never wrap my head around the squish and burn factor. Clearly I have severe issues with being literal. (But if it’s any consolation as you read this, I am actually a very spiritual person with a tremendous amount of faith and respect for Jesus)

But today, well, today it is clear that Jesus is saving us right here in the Bloomington Poplars Garage. Who knew? He is fully adorned with his crown of thorns right up there on the wall, on the third floor stairway on the southeast corner. Quietly. I guess he’s protecting us from parking sins.

It took me a few weeks to notice. It was the new paint that gave it away. Every month or so the parking garage stairway graffiti and tagging are cleaned up and painted over. You can tell by the sudden deodorizer and the smell of new paint in all the shades of grey (ok…don’t go there, people….no, not 50…Never read it…and certainly not putting that book and Jesus in the same essay, ok?) But it was today when I realized that this one spot has never been painted over. All the other graffiti is regularly covered. Week after week. But this one, this one stays. It took a few walk-bys for me to take it in and wonder why. Then I saw it. It’s Jesus. Carefully drawn by someone with a marker and purposely not covered over by anyone who has that job to do. I guess it would be quite a responsibility to be the one who defies and defiles. So, if you live in Bloomington, be forewarned. Finding parking just now became a miracle for a completely new reason.

Spar Wars

Every day for 15 years I swipe my parking Thing-a-Ma-Jiggy into the university parking garage drive up What-Ja-Ma-Call-It, to enter and leave when parking my car. It's a routine I could do in my sleep.

Today I was leaving work, and swiped that card as usual. It took me a few seconds to realize, it didn't work. I waited for the Barrier Gizmo to rise up and let me out. Nothing happened. It's embarrassing how long I waited before I realized this. Apparently I sleep leaving work just like when I arrive. So, I tried it again. Nada. One more time, I thought. Just in case I'm having a stroke or something.

Just then I saw that the parking attendant was in his little ... place. Space? What on earth do they call that area where they sit? To call it a room is way too luxurious. An office? Well, that seems ridiculously lofty.

 

Anyway, I drive the car forward a whopping five inches. Now I can speak to this man. I am struck with how we are suddenly very similar. He is sitting in his small box space surrounded by windows and so am I. I have never had this revelation before. We both slide and glide our windows open. It's like really boring choreography for robots.

"Excuse me!" I have clearly interrupted him as it looks like he was reading a book. "Sir? My parking thing won't work. Can you help me?" He takes a big sigh, and he even throws in a small huff at the end. He puts the book down slowly and gets onto his computer. I've clearly interrupted a good chapter. A few clicks, and it seems he has found my problem, "Mam, did you take a ticket this morning when you came in?" "No." He gives me a very exasperated look. "Why not?" he questions. "Well, now...why would I do that? I am an employee. I don't pay daily as I have this parking ...thing. I pay $300 a year for this and I have used it every day for the past 15 years!"

I now realize I am giving him way too much information and I am coming across as being annoyed. He just asked me a simple question...surely I can work on being nicer. "Why do you ask?" I muster, and I throw in a small smile. "Well, Mam, this shows that your car has been here all night." Silence. I laugh. He doesn't. He's serious. "Hah! That's funny. Well, that surely didn't happen!" "Well, Mam, my computer says it did." "Well, your computer is wrong." "No, Mam: Your car has been here all night." I hate it when people call me Mam and somehow I think this guy knows it. "SIR: You are incorrect. I went home with my car last night. After work, and I used this parking ..thingee... in this meter slide thing here.. to get out and that is NOW not working!" This could easily become a new sport: People sparring from inside glass boxes. The car team would never win. It's a forever block.

So what do I do? What every parent does when their child won't do what they want. I resorted to "the look." I just stopped and stared at him with every inch of my age. I am a "Mam" after all and can use it when needed I guess. He sighs loudly, shakes his head and presses the magic button that lifts up the barrier to let me out. I am free! Well, philosophically, I think we just learned neither of us is free.

Train of Thought

I was driving from errand to errand, and not paying a whole lot of attention to details all around. After all, it was a Saturday. And sunny. And I do details for a living. I'm pretty much over it by the time the weekend rolls along. Anyway, there I was - super relaxed, and on my way to buy a Joe Bonamassa CD. He's my new music obsession. He pushed Eric Clapton to the back of the line, and made Garth Brooks seem even more passe.

I'm at this intersection at a red light and thinking about pretty much nothing. Well, that's not true. I was driving after all. I guess I was just doing that train of thought thing I do. All day long. And I think this time it went something like this: "Oh, a silver SUV is beside me...I remember when we had a silver SUV...that was a really long time ago...wow, I'm old...huh, that mom is texting and foofing her hair...I never texted when we had that SUV..I wonder if I foof my hair in the car too much...Oh, look - two young children in the back seat...how sweet...two little children...huh..I really am old....hey, they're all being so quiet in that car...we were never quiet when we had that SUV... this whole family looks so perfectly peaceful...oh, the older child is reading...I think Kate used read in the car, or was that Greg?. And the little boy in the carseat is ADORABLE... I so miss that age...Oh, now he's looking at ME....maybe I'll smile Hello..."

At which point he gives me the finger.

My automatic reaction was to do the same in return, but luckily my adult brain kicked in before I got arrested.

The light turned green, this kid is still flipping me off and the perfect family in the silver SUV quietly drives away.

Lost and Found

It was 1958 and I was 4 years old. My parents were watching Archbishop Fulton Sheen on TV as he spoke each week from the Archdiocese of NY. Every member of my Catholic family watched each week from their home in Boston. His sermon that day was on “the poor children of the world.” I am told that I stopped everything to listen to him. And then began to cry. My father shared that I wouldn’t stop and began asking questions. I wanted to know how I could help. My father said he gently took me in his arms, grabbed some paper and wrote a letter for me, in my own words. He then donated some money on my behalf.


Today I found Archbishop Sheen’s reply letter, again, tucked away in a drawer. 54 years later and it moves me each and every time I read it. But not because of anything I did. Because two adults chose to listen with grace and give me a voice. “My dear friend – all the grown-ups consider you a child.. as you grow older in years may your generosity and kindness grow accordingly; may you always remain as young as you are..” I’m working on it, Father Sheen. Some days are easier than others. But, I’m working on it.

Hovering Hairdryer

I pulled the plug today on my hairdryer. Time of death: 10:23 a.m. EST, March 6th, 2013.

It died a dramatic and violent death, in my hand - complete with flames. Note to self: Apparently that WAS a mini-stroke, or transient ischemic attack, a few days ago when the motor stopped but then whirred slowly back to life. I sure wish I had paid attention to the warning signs. It would have saved me a whole lot of pain today.

Condolences to our bathroom floor which now has a burn hole in the linoleum, and to my hand which is sporting two, small burn blisters. And a moment of silence for our dog Kramer who may never recover from watching me yell and swear like a truck driver.

Eavesdropping

The entire time I was browsing in the University Bookstore there was this drone of conversation somewhere in the background. Sort of like Muzak, but real. I wasn't really listening as I was lost in that sweet state of payday. You know, that bliss that lasts for a few hours after you realize you have money again. This first of the month I was in a deep debate in the shirt section between Me who had a budget, and Me who wanted to splurge. I did a lot of circling back to the rack, spinning the hangers aside and facing mirrors. I guess there's a lot of choreography involved when I shop. I know there's a whole lot of neurotic. Anyway, at some point between "I don't need this whatsoever" and "I must have this now" the conversation drone got much, much louder.

I looked over and realized it was coming from these three young men in conversation over by the sweatpants. They seemed to be doing their own debate and dance. The tone was somber and they looked like they might be back as alumni but not having a good time. "....Yeah, dude, seriously, me too. I know just what you mean...Like I wake up, like, every night...I can't sleep either and, yes, I know but it's definitely not anxiety...it's just, I don't know.. it's got to be just life, man, right? We got these families and kids and responsibilities and, like, I haven't slept in like a year now and I just not sure I can take this much longer, know what I mean?" Long pause. "Seriously dudes...I think this means I have to let it go. I am just going to have to find a way to be happy with only two million in savings now. I am gonna have to forget about the million I lost so I can sleep again." We all were speechless. They in quiet agreement and silent support; me from another planet who spoke a different language.

I decisively grabbed two shirts and bought them immediately, without one bit of debate.

Darrell, Darrell and my other brother, Darrell

I walked into the room and was introduced to everyone as the guest visitor. "Hello, so nice to meet you, my name is Darrell." "DARRELL?! Seriously? Your name is Darrell?"

There it is - there's that moment. The one where no one can possibly process a woman with this name. That moment where everyone thinks they heard "Carol." Or they ask me if my parents wanted a boy. Sometimes I care to entertain the crowd of disbelievers further by sharing the true fact that I was drafted into Vietnam by mistake. Other times I tell them how I was called down to the boys gym for physicals every year.  Also true. My favorite story is the man at the mall who yelled at me and told me it was sin to have his name. I asked him why, and he angrily told me because he was "a hard working farmer, god dammit," Ok. Sure...

Anyway… Tonight after I say my name a woman stands up and exclaims loudly, “OH MY GOODNESS, I have to tell my daughter how I finally met a woman named Darrell!!!! We have talked about this her entire life! I need to call her!! This is so unbelievable!”…

“Excuse me?”…My brain is now rebooting a lifetime of rehearsed replies.

“YES! Surely you were named after the Mallory Tower children book series from the 1950’s, right?!! I loved those books and the main character, you know, the young girl named Darrell!”…Now everything is in reverse and I am the one who can’t process my own name.

She continues, “She had all these wonderful adventures! I so wanted to name my daughter after her – but didn’t.” I am speechless. Not only have I never heard of these books but I am out of my element here. I have never met anyone who shares such glee and reverence for my name. I irrationally find myself thinking how relieved I am to learn that this character was known for being adventurous and wondering what other fantasy attributes I can latch onto for inspiration. My mind eventually returns to the now, “So, what did you end up naming your daughter?” “Mallory.” Oh, as in the tower that housed the awesome fiction Adventuress named Darrell.

A fiction adventuress named Darrell...I am inspired by storytelling and the gift of a name all over again.