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.