Hail, Noble Teachers

Yes, 'tis National Teacher Day. Note how they get around the nasty apostrophe controversy by using the singular. Crafty folks, those teachers.

I'm sure somewhere, cards are being sent, gifts given. No more apples on desks, I guess. They'd have to be hermetically sealed. What I think teachers should get is a 20% raise, across the board.

How's that sound?

I'm betting in more civilized countries (like those without Applebee's), teachers are actually honored, every day. Here, it's: "Wow, Joey was so smart in school. And he's only a teacher," and "You've got it easy. Summer's off!"

Just a teacher. Yes, teacher and ...

• Counselor
• Psychiatrist
• Prisoner of absurd policy
• Stationery, arts and crafts supplier
• Security Guard
• Responsible for Ivy League admissions
• Role model
• Parents' whipping targets
• Disciplinarian

... and, as they say, many others.

The real teachers are dedicated professionals, responsible for hundreds of kids, motivators and a zillion other things. Too often they are shackled by absurd, self-absorbed administrators who truly believe their jobs are to elevate standardized test scores. And they are paid less than the union guy who puts cigarette lighters in cars.

Nearly every quality teacher I know warns of the inanity of common-core testing. Just the fact that kids from Convicted Felon High and Appalachia Academy are subjected to the same strictures as the student-scholars from Fancypants Prep in Saabport is ludicrous. Don't get me going on that.

Most teachers throw their heart and soul into their kids. It's a job necessity. Out at 2:30? Sure! Then correcting tests, making up new ones, lesson plans, and hours upon hours of useless "workshops," which are actually lectures, since no work is accomplished. At one of these a teacher I know filled in a response card, asking feedback on the day's activities. The teacher wrote: "Put us back in the classroom where we belong." Although the remarks were supposed to be anonymous, guess who got called on the carpet?

^^^

In my case, my two best teachers came into my life in grades eight and nine. Both came from the Stalag school of discipline. An iron fist for them would have been wimpy.

Sister Regina, brought into St. Ann's to run roughshod over us, did just so. That year, they actually separated the genders into two classes. That's how hard-to-handle we boys were. On the first day, Reggie lined us up in the hall by height. As a great candidate for HGH, I automatically went to the front of the line. Sister got right in my grill.

"Stand up straight, Mister!" she spat.

I managed, "That's as tall as I am, 'ster." Wrong answer.

WHACK! A Bruce-Lee-worthy chop to my right ear. "DON'T YOU SASS ME BACK, MISTER. I'LL SEE YOU AFTER SCHOOL!" Maybe a world record. Detention before the first class.

And so it began. Reggie worked us long and hard. She was determined to send as many of us to Fairfield Prep as possible. She even held extra after-school classes to coach us for the grueling test, the sole criterion for entry.

Eight of the score of us attended there the next year. I wonder if she smiled when she learned this news. Nah.

Father John Dunston "Dusty" Kelly, Society of Jesus, was my homeroom teacher that following fall. I had him for English, Latin and Theology. He strode into the classroom, gray-haired, red-faced and ready to kill. The Boston accent you could cut with a chainsaw, maybe. He made Whitey Bulger look like Don Knotts.

"AWRIGHT, MISTAHS. RULE NUMBAH ONE: FAWGIT EVERYTHING SISTER MARY HAUGHT WADDUH BAWTTLE TAUGHT YOU!"

He rode us liked rented dromedaries. No work was good enough, and, if you dared flag in Latin, The World's Most Important Subject, "there will be the weeping and guh-nashing of teeth, misstahs."

Four years later, at Villanova, the weight of hours of homework, teachers who lectured without taking questions, term papers and other extracurricular work didn't seem that tough to me. Some of the guys in my dorm were crushed by the workload and couldn't cut it.

In fact, my freshman Latin teacher said to me, "Let me guess, Holleran. Jesuits?"

^^^

Two other teachers, among the many I know, stand out.

One woman (if I even allude to her name, she would have me drawn and quartered), after a few tough years, became a high school art teacher. Not only is her own work fabulous, but she draws these talents out in her students. I am amazed by how she throws herself into her job. Yes, I am biased, for I fell in love with her some eons ago. Now we are friends; she is one of my harshest critics. She'll come after me tooth and nail when I deserve it. All the while I continue to be amazed by her talents.

Taz, once my bandmate and possessor of a velvety-rich baritone, met the lady of his life while in college. They married and both became teachers. Now retired, he still gives back to his Board of Ed. I visited him and his class one year on the final day of the term. Ever see urban fifth-grade boys cry on the last day of school? I did. The memory still moves me. I'm sure if he had stayed in music, he would have also shone there. But I'm betting there are nigh a thousand kids who are glad he didn't.

To the specialists who care for my son, to the subs who subject themselves to slings and arrows, to the "lifers" who couldn't think of another profession for a nanosecond, a humble writer salutes you.

A Life of Laughter -- [May 5]

In my earliest memory, I am part of a joke. It's true.

My mother knew the details. She said that I didn't walk until I was almost two. She was distraught that I was speaking in complete sentences and still crawling.

As Mom would tell it:

^^^

The doctor said, “Look, Mrs. Holleran. I hate to say it, but your son's lazy. And smart. There's nothing wrong with his legs. He'll walk when he feels like it.

You were always entertained by the TV. We'd have it on for you for hours; it would keep you calm. We didn't know that you were memorizing commercials.

So, your father would take you to the market. The cigarettes were up front at the register. Daddy would lift you up and say, “Hey look. My kid isn't walking yet, but he can read.”

At first people would scoff. Dad would let them. Then he'd point to a pack of cigarettes and you would say the brand: “Pall Mall … Viceroy … L&M.” People would be astonished.

^^^

That was my father. Dinny, as folks would call him. I never thought of him as funny. He was just Dad. But the older I got, the more I realized that humor wasn't an odd occurrence in the Holleran house. It was a staple.

He had special horn in his Ford; he would activate it with a foot switch. Usually he'd wait until an elderly person was crossing the street as we pulled up to a stoplight. A well-timed step and “AOOOOGAH!” at a pre-Hendrix volume level. When people turned to look, Dad would be brushing his hair or executing some sort of “dunno, my hands aren't on the wheel, must be somebody else” business.

Afterward, he'd allow a slight chuckle. One of the best things was that Dad never guffawed at his own jokes.

One of my biggest identity crises as a kid was the mystery of why other kids' fathers weren't funny. One day, when Tommy Schulz's mom got new linoleum in the kitchen, I asked him, “Is your dad all set?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Doesn't he have the fake vomit ready?”

All I got was a bewildered look.

The gags were many. To my brother: “Eat your vegetables. Don't you want to grow up and be big and strong like your mother?”

He had a realistic-looking woman's hand, made of rubber. It had polished nails and even a ring. There was a flap at one end that would be hidden. The best mounting place was a refrigerator door. When we went visiting and I heard a shriek from the kitchen, I wasn't surprised. My father would just wink as my mother would throw him a mean look, saying, “Dennis!” It was a tone we kids would hear often.

Dinny made friends nearly everywhere we went. If we were at a restaurant, he would meet and greet every family within earshot. Sometimes total strangers would end up sitting with us over coffee. I thought all of this quite normal.

Dad enjoyed his little jabs, too. One target was my mom's brother Doc, who was far from the world's best carpenter. One day, as Dad arrived home from work, Mom said, “Oh dear, Doc fell off another ladder today. But it wasn't his fault. He's gonna sue.”

“Really? Whom is he going to sue, Issac Newton?” Dad was a stickler for grammar. So you can blame him when I berate poor syntax.

My brother was Dad's best sidekick. Once, when we were on our annual jaunt to the town where I now live in Coal Country, we stopped at a diner in Jersey. The walls facing the lot were all glass. Perfect. My father would park as closely as possible to a window and cue Tom as we were getting out of the car. He just ducked down on the car's floor.

My mom was oblivious to all this. My father gestured to me—with plenty of onlookers—to go back to the car. I would open the rear door and my brother would fall out onto the macadam, his tongue out, seemingly injured … or worse. I would go shove him back into the car and close the door. The entire side of the diner stood up, gasping and pointing. One woman spilled soup all over herself.

My father would go in and get food to go, and we'd repair outside to a picnic table on the other side of the building. Soon enough, my brother would sneak out of the other side of the car and come join us.

Life wasn't a cabaret for Dad. But it was a pretty big damn party.

It wasn't unusual on a summer Sunday to arrive home from church and have Dad announce, “It's gorgeous today. We're cooking out.”

He would then make a couple of phone calls. By about 2 or 3, our backyard would be mobbed. Beer, food, grills, what-have-you seemed to materialize from nowhere. Tons of kids, playing dodgeball and throwing water balloons. Uncle Frank Burba, my godfather, would arrive with his guitar, a battered axe with at least three strings, and lead ham-fisted sing-alongs as twilight stole. I was saddened when I smelled the percolator; I knew people were leaving.

On my first day at Villanova, our Bel-Air cruised in a queue up to Corr Hall to deposit my things. When we were stopped, Dad flagged down a passing Augustinian. "Hello father," he said. "I'm Dennis Holleran of Bridgeport, Connecticut. In the back is my son Tim, an incoming freshman."

I said, "DAD!"

The priest was nodding and smiling when, out of the blue, my father grabbed him by the front of his cassock, almost pulling him into the car. Dinny exclaimed, "Please, father. MAKE HIM A GEM!!"

Dad must have delivered one of his patented winks to the cleric, because they both got a good laugh out of this.

I was on the road in West Palm when my father passed. July 4, 1973. I flew home the next day, angry and confused. When I reached our crowded house, my mother just said, “I'm through crying.”

It two days to wake Dennis William Holleran out. Politicians, musicians, more cops than I had ever seen. Red-faced Irishmen dabbing at eyes.

Back in the lounge, Luckies and flasks were produced. I could hear the laughter as men, supposedly grieving, were telling Dinny stories. Somehow, this seemed fitting.

I don't remember the funeral Mass. The clot of cars that stretched up to the cemetery required hordes of extra police escorts. From two towns.

All I recall of the graveside service was Father Sean Flynn, remarking in his thick brogue, “An' all mourners are invited back t' the Holleran house at tree farteen Midland Street to pay their respects.”

Yikes!

My brother, all of 19, looked at me and said, “Holy shit, Tim. We didn't plan on anything afterward.”

In the limo, my mother comforted us. “I wouldn't worry, boys. I'm sure everything is taken care of.”

And so it was. There were already tons of cars parked around our Cape. In the backyard, groaning boards full of food. Charcoal fumes shimmering in the blue perfection of the afternoon. A skatey-eight-foot-long aluminum tub held a largess of lager.

Somebody ran up to St. Ann's to get more folding chairs for the masses. By midafternoon, no sentient passerby would know that this was a post-funeral gathering.

As Father Flynn, hoisting a jar of his own, said to me, “This is a celebration of a life, Timmity.”

My old friend, Lynda Johnson, stood by me the whole day, making sure I was fed—and pleasantly drunk. I will never stop thanking her for this.

Uncle Frank whipped out his guitar and began to bellow. I stood along with the grown-ups and sang, “Heart of My Heart” and “It's a Sin To Tell a Lie.”

I don't remember the party ending. Is it morbid to have a favorite funeral? This was certainly mine.

Rather than regret the laughs and drinks I could have shared with Dinny, I cherish the ones we did.

^^^

POSTSCRIPT: It is no accident that, after my father died, my mom came out of her shell and took on his role as humorist, emcee and entertainer. Read about it right here next Sunday, Mother's Day, in “I Remember Maga.”

Boys and Girls [May 4]

Disclaimer: Throughout this screed, I am simply using the words boys and girls. You'll see. I am not being sexist or P. C. These terms both work in the context of the piece. So, please, unknot your shorts.

"ALRIGHT!!! ENOUGH!!! WHOSE BOY IS WHOSE BOY???!!!"

These words were spoken by the immortal Seeds as he sat at the head of table. The venue: The Cask & Flagon & Sword & Chainsaw Steakout, circa 1986. Some fifteen boys had gathered for a boyish (see?) night of salad-bar dueling, cowflesh and hogsheads of alcohol.

The conversation had turned to Mancuso (who was a guest of the state at the time). A lifelong check-kiter, embezzler and bad guy. But we all knew him.

Wooie had led it off. "Hey, Shitwood. Isn't Mancuso your Boy?" [I capitalize Boy here for a reason will become apparent.]

Shitwood: "Mancuso is NOT my Boy!"

Meat: "Yeah, well, Mancuso's brother is Pipe's Boy."

Pipe: "Yeah, well I guess so."

Wooie: "You can't guess about being Boys. He either is or he ain't, Pipe."

That's when Seeds burst in, flushed, almost irate. A huge goblet of wine in one hand, a steak knife in the other. Bovine blood on the napkin tucked into the collar of his Izod. In short: a portrait in red.

This had to be settled before the cheesecake arrived.

Doodoo: "Buck is Ace's Boy."

Me: "That would be correct."

Motley others joined the fray.

"Can you have more than one Boy?"

"No, he's not my Boy; he's just my buddy."

"Well, Patsy's my boy, but he's not my Boy. Y'see?"

I realize that the argot shifts with geography. But almost everywhere I've been, boys have different terms for friends. In Bridgeport, Connecticut, being Boys was serious stuff.

As a friend (not my Boy) once related, "Your Boy is someone you call when you're pinched for DUI at three in the morning, and he's got your back, no questions asked."

As a firm believer in the Jesuitical Bifurcation of the Sexes, I don't think girls have an equivalent. Girls have friends, relatives and people they work with. This latter group changes with jobs. If you are a boy partnered in a long-term, you'd better get used to this about girls.

In addition, as she shuffles the "work-with" friends, you will be forced to meet their boys. Most of them will be assholes. They will invariably have better jobs and more cake on the hip (sorry, Bridgeportese for money) than you do. You will be forced to hang out with them at social functions. At such gatherings, the girls will immediately cordon themselves off and, taking tiny sips of pedestrian Chardonnay, gasbag about work. After you tire of the boys' stories about the new BMW 9 Series and timeshares in St. Bart's, you will slink off in search of the keg—and most likely, brown liquor. She will have to drive home, and you will listen obediently to her philippic about Brenda-Snyder's-godawful-skirt-and-how-she-doesn't-have-the-legs-for-such-an-outfit.

This is not the girls' fault. They have to talk about Work. It as essential as Shoes to them.

It's unfair, but girls just don't have Girls. They have given up on that, traipsing around, following your career, taking care of you, picking up the shit you leave lying around. Boys never give girls the chance to cement friendships with Girls.

Besides, girls have something stronger. Families. If you decide to be with with a girl of substance (and a lucky boy you are), you had better get used to Family. This is an institution so rigid, it makes Alcatraz look like a luxury, Jacuzzi-laden, all-inclusive resort.

Yes, you will visit her Family on a regular basis. Dinner will be at 6:09, give or take thirty seconds. Her father might have a beer with you, but all the while he's thinking, "If you disrespect my daughter, I will rip your throat out. By the way, get a better job."

Her mother will ignore you.

At dinner (which is always excellent), the entire group will discuss boring family minutiae as if you weren't there. This gives you ample opportunity to feed the filet-of-Converse roast to the family canine, who smells of neglect. He will be your only friend in the Family.

There's a coin-flip chance that her brother will be a decent guy and not an asshole with a BMW 9 Series. Pray.

And then there's the Sister. It is an ironclad rule that when multiple sisters are present, one of them rules the roost. She's the Sister. She will make all important decisions, especially about clothes. She—nor any other member of the Family—has ever been wrong.

Now if you're a girl, beware the presence of your boy's Boys. If you're out somewhere and one of his Boys shows up, your evening is shot. Best bet is to find another girl nearby who isn't wearing leather and Spandex. Maybe you can talk about Shoes.

He won't have a clue. It is far more important for him to engage in a two-hour polemic concerning the Yankees' pitching rotation. And it's April. You will cease to exist until you tell him it's time to go. Do this one drink before you really want to leave. He will suddenly turn wuss and entreat you for "one more." You reluctantly agree and go back to your corner with the other girls. By now, you've abandoned the bar's piss-water Chard in favor of a few Rumchatas. And you're ready to go out and get that leather-and-Spandex ensemble.

Back at home (or his slovenly place), you're too sloshed for bedroom hijinx. This is your best way to remind him what a douchebag he's been. The next morning (and he had better make you breakfast), just say, "Honey, I had no one to talk to, so I drank too much." Studies show that this ploy has a high margin of success.

Yes, the whole system is messed up. Girls should have Girls. If they did, boys would smarten up.

I will close with advice to boys. In my seventh decade, I feel I am entitled.

Here's what you do. On a random Saturday, ignore the phone call from your Boy, even if he has front-row tix at the Garden. Ask your girl for a date; if you've been married for eons, even better. Girls love this. If you two are single, offer to come to her place because your flat is a rank sty. When asks, "Where are we going [and she will]?" produce a couple of prime filets, a DVD and the requisite Chardonnay. If she'a an ovo-lacto-sprouts crusader, adapt.

Make sure that, in your car, you have salad (a must) and a premium bottle of a pert, insouciant red for afterward. The meal must be perfect (I have other tips here that I will divulge before the month is out), the movie should be one that she loves and you can endure. Leave your cell phone in the car.

Most importantly, hold her. There are approximately thirty-eight women on this planet who do not like to be held. Okay, if you have to take a tinkle break, hit that Jaeger bottle you have hidden strategically. Then resume holding her. You will love the movie.

Then you will discover, after a brandy you serve her with some fresh strawberries, that the Sealy calisthenics will occur naturally. As you slip into postprandial, postcoital slumber, you will realize this:

She is your Girl. And you are her Boy.

Studies show.

That Kiss [May 3]

A Sunday night, a warm one. Living free and easy in my home 'hood of Black Rock, the far-west thumb of Bridgeport, Connecticut. A friend had mentioned of a dram or two at the Castle. I moseyed toward The (Fairfield) Ave.

The Black Rock Castle was a fairly new establishment, standing where once was The Colony, a shot-and-beer haven for local foundry workers. Now, it was a semi-upscale rendezvous for hipsters, yupsters and the like. The exterior had been rehabbed to that of a crenelated castle; inside was a riot of dark wood, darker walls and uninviting furniture.

However, one could find a decent pint there, which I did. A voice beckoned from the rear of the room, “ACE! Over here!”

Some friends sat a large rectangular table in an area even darker than the bar. I found the one open seat on a corner, plopped down and joined in the bar banter.

I didn't see her for about five minutes. Sitting next to me. Suddenly, she turned and said, “Well, who's this here?”

I don't know how long I stared. She was a bit short, not a pixie; slender, but not skinny. Skin that God chose to give to the people of Erin. A complexion that made peaches and cream look like Elmer's. Dark brown hair of a medium cut. And the eyes—dancing eyes, minty eyes (either blue or green), eyes with their own smile. She allowed the smallest of grins from a narrow, full-lipped mouth.

“Well,” she said, her velvety brogue feathering my ears, “ya must have a name, dontcha? I'm Aideen.”

Eye-DEEN. The silvery syllables toyed with me. She extended a hand. Alabaster, but warmer.

After an eternity, I released her hand and felt words tumbling from my yap. Sheer babble ending with “Tim.” I think.

She said, “Well, it's nice ta meetcha, 'uh Tim.'”

And then the rest of the room seemed to collapse, far from visual and aural accompaniment.

The conversation coursed swiftly and easily, a newly crafted stream, crystal clear and sparkling. I assayed some humor, remembering Joanne Woodward's quote: “... a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, that's a real treat.” Aideen was quick with that laugh, throatier and heftier than her build belied. She inoculated me with it.

She said, “So, I 'spose you're one of those Yanks who says they're Irish.”

Quick, Tim. Gin up something clever. 

“No. I am an American who happens to have Irish ancestors.”

Bingo.

With this, she laughed again. And, ever so lightly, touched my left wrist with her right hand. A soft current careered through me, a delicious one.

That's when I noticed the band on her left ring finger. And Aideen noticed that I noticed.

She drew away slightly, clouds forming on her brow.

She said, “Now listen, Tim. I don't wantcha lookin' at that, y'hear?”

I nodded, feebly, “But ...”

“But, nothin'. Willya promise me somethin'?"

The Eiffel Tower? A bottle of Dom? A suite at the Ritz?

“Sure.” Somehow a sere sirocco blazed through the room. My collar tightened.

She said, “I just wantcha to stay right here, as long as you can. If I can be witcha tonight, that's all I ask.”

I was glad I was sitting, for my patellas had turned to Silly Putty.

And so it went. I wish I could remember the topics we covered; they were many. But laughter threaded the conversation, warp and weft. She kept touching my wrist, which had become almost numb. When I excused myself to use the men's and get some drinks, she admonished me to return quam celerrime.

That's when she must have done some homework.

On my return, Aideen purred, “Soooo, I see I'm keepin' company with a rockstar and a game-show genius? Is that it?

I so didn't want to go there. But I did, just to please her. I tried to turn the conversation to her homeland. I don't know how long we talked. Time pulled a Claude Rains.

Aideen had a better view of the front of the house than I. Suddenly, the storm returned to her visage, much darker and angrier than before.

I turned to see four big lugs tromping back toward our table. Lumps and linebackers all. Loud and loaded for bear.

“Jaysus,” she said. “It's me husband.”

[Insert a fusillade of silent curses colliding in a writer's already-addled noggin.]

I began to rise, wondering if discretion was the proper tack. She grabbed my left hand forcefully, hauling me back down.

“You're not goin' anywhere, Timmy. He don't care, the gobshite.”

I didn't know what the word meant at the time, but hubby was all of that. He barely acknowledged the rest of the table, his wife included. He and his mates had been overly served at an earlier stop.

He was bullet-headed and bull-headed. A neck like my waist. And he seemed to have a problem with his construction job. “Pakkies,” he yelled. “Fooking Pakkies takin' away our work.” At least he ignored us.

By now, Aideen, fully grasped my hand under the table, our fingers interlocking, thighs touching. I think I saw a chiaroscuro on the wall in front of me. It was Sister Hilda, wielding her yardstick like a scimitar, hissing at me, “Mr. Timothy, you are cavorting with a married woman. That is a thousand mortal sins.”

Get lost, Hilda. You never liked the boys, anyway.

Finally, Gobshite announced, “C'mon, we're leavin' this dump. Get ready, woman.” It was a command. I tried not to seethe. The lumps and a few other people made a move.

Aideen whispered, “Oh, I doan' wanna go, Tim. I wanna stay here witcha. But I can't.”

When she got up, I almost had to. I felt welded to her.

No this can't be happening. Think fast, dumbass.

I wanted to morph into James Bond and whisk her out to my Aston Martin, take her to my private jet and find a faraway turquoise place for us to live. I wanted to don a Cloak of Indesctruction and go beat the snot out of Gobshite and his minions.

Instead, I followed her meekly to the door. She stayed a good distance behind the men and beckoned me to follow her. It was all I could do.

On the street, the men took the lead down The Ave. to a group of cars.

Aideen once again grabbed my wrist and spun me around. We were close to the side of the restaurant, in relative darkness. I could see the tears, glimmering in the sea of her eyes. She pulled me close, melding her litheness into me.

Then she kissed me. Not a friend-peck, but a full-blown, fuel-injected, turbocharged kiss. It lasted five seconds. Or five hours. Finally, she said the last words I would hear from her, “I'll never forget ya, Tim.”

She wrenched herself from me, turned and fled. I stood as if pinioned to the Castle wall. She stopped once, hesitant, and looked back at me, then covered her face in her hands. Then she was gone. 

After drying my own eyes, I returned to the table, where a few people remained. Jen the Hen, my friend and bête noire said, “Well, Ace, you seemed to get along well with that girl, whatsername?”

I could barely squeak it out, “Aideen.” Time for some detective work.

Before I could ask, Jen said, “Yeah, she came in with that other girl, Sheila something. I don't really know her. Does anyone else?”

Heads shook around the table.

No clues, Sherlock. And so I drank. Too much. Shots?  Sure. Why not? Soon, my mind was too scrambled to think of where Aideen may be—or how I could reach her again.

Somehow, I ended up on a bench at Saint-Mary's-by-the-Sea. Looking out across the speckled Sound, I dreamed I could see Ireland. I dreamed of her hand in mine.

And then I cried. Long and hard. A parting cry. A cleansing cry.

I didn't have to dream of That Kiss. I could still feel it.

In fact, as I pen this long-locked-away story for the first time, she's kissing me now. 

########################################################

I did whatever research I could to find Aideen. This was not her real name, so if by a zillion-to-one chance she ever reads this, she won't be embarrassed. I will say this, without reservation: Those couple of hours with Aideen meant more more to me than entire relationships I've been in. To those women, I proffer my apologies. To Aideen, I fell in love with you that night, sure as the fields are green whence you came. To people (especially guys) who think you can't love someone that fast … you have no idea.

Spill the Wine [May 2]

At age 26, I was firmly embedded in the music business. I caught a break from a well-established Boston band called Orchestra Luna. This required a location changed. My mother was used to this; for years my only address was hers as I gallumphed around the world.

[To read more about this fabulous octet, please see The Best Band Ever under the April posts in right-hand column]

I left my gig as musical director at a small theater, packed everything I owned in my van and headed from Connecticut to The Hub. This, once again, was no big feat. I had already traversed the country (to LA) twice in this fashion. I didn't buy my first piece of furniture until I was almost 30.

My contract with Luna included housing. This was provided by Diana Reddy, who was the band's publicist. I was to board with her mom and stepfather in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

I had my van, my drums, my meager Hab und Gut, a few bucks and a slip of paper with an address on it. Done. Oh, plus the true spirit of dash and recklessness. The house was a gorgeous old colonial, a few blocks from Harvard Square. Diana welcomed me and showed me my digs. I had my own atelier on the third floor, perfect.

Diana's mother, Sigrid, also welcomed me. She was a delightful woman, one who had traveled the world with her parents, who were missionaries. She told me that my rent (paid by the band) included my run of the house, including the kitchen and fridge. Summing up, she mentioned, "We have dinner every night, which you are welcome to share with us when you are in town. Tonight, we shall have cocktails at half five and dinner at six. Thereby, you can ablute as you wish."

Ablute? What?

Well, I abluted--then fretted over what to wear. I may have had a sport jacket at the time, but certainly no tie. I struggled trying to find a collared shirt. Arriving downstairs at the appointed time, I noticed that Sigrid and Diana wore dresses. The majordomo, Dr. Paul Watson (a professor of psychology at Harvard), sported a blue blazer and charcoal flannels with a crease worthy of a Bavarian cutlery maker. I have thanks that he didn't wear a tie.

We assembled in the living room. A largish sidebar was festooned with all sorts of alien-looking bottles and an assortment of mixology accessories. The Doctor shook my hand and said, "A cocktail, perhaps?" A cocktail? Up to that point, I was experienced in only beer and cheap wine.

"Er, I'll have what you're having."

Sigrid bustled in and out of the room, readying our repast. Heady fumes of strange foods wafted from the dining room. The conversation was muted, devoid of controversy. I silently thanked the Jesuits for boosting my vocabulary.

The dining room could have been conjured by an Impressionist. A huge crystal chandelier provided a muted glow, augmented by candles. Linen everywhere, plus an assortment of heavy utensils that looked like they came from a surgery. In my semi-wobbly state, I was grateful to have Diana on my left, who guided me through the meal, particuarly the myriad hardware.

I had never been in a restaurant this soigné, much less a domestic dining room. A largish silver vessel sat in the center of the table, warmed by a candle underneath. "A light consommé ," said Sigrid, as she doled out ladlesful of a clear broth into ridiculously delicate china bowls.

Then she said, "Oops. The wine. I think we should let our star boarder do the honors." A swaddled bottled sat in a sweaty, silvery ice bucket. Unsteady, almost doddering, I got up and made my way to Sigrid's side of the table. I cradled the Pouilly-Fuissé as if it were a newborn. The gods were with me as someone had already uncorked the wine and attached a silver spout to it. Diana also pitched in, pantomiming keeping the napkin under the bottle to avoid spillage.

The silence in the room was oppressive, I think the lights dimmed. Sigrid slid her glass toward me.

I was still in foreign territory. I tried to dispense the fluid gingerly. Despite the spout, I managed to dribble a little bit on the damask.

Nooooooooooo! Had I botched my first test?

Sigrid assuaged my fear. Gently pulling my elbow, she leaned toward me and whispered, "Pour boldly."

And so I did, effecting my job without error for the rest of the meal. For the next nine months, I sat with the family for a score or two of dinners. Viands from around the world: Asia, India, Africa and more. I learned to become a passable sommelier: uncorking, chilling and pouring.

Sigrid, thank the Lord, is still with us. Diana, who has lofted herself from roomie into the staunchest of lifelong friends, is somewhere in Indiana.

My checkered past has morphed into a cloudy future.

But those two words continue to serve me well.

Andy Dipitula -- [May 1]

Fore words: This is the first in attempt to deposit daily scribblings—at least for this month—in this space. I certify that each story is true, as best as this tattered brain can remember. Names are rarely changed. Some of the pieces might even entertain. Per usual, brickbats and treacle welcome.

I was hoping for a quick game—and got one. Two Senior League baseball teams, one visiting from a tiny upstate hamlet of which I had never heard. Senior League is what it implies: Little League for big kids. I was umpiring the bases on the “big boy” field: 90-foot bases, etc.

Per usual, I didn't care who won. Even here, in the state tourney, my job was safe/out, fair/foul. Maybe ringing up an unchecked swing. Unlike Little League, few spectators showed. Clots of sturdy adults, folded into flimsy chairs, looked on indifferently. Seems that when little Shannon starts with the Shick, he's not worth the effort.

Good, I thought. No screaming, espadrille-clad moms spieling their Saab stories at us arbiters. And so it went.

As was my gig, when the sacks were empty, my station was Slot A, in foul territory past first. When the visitors took the field, I strolled away from first, lest I get conked by an errant warmup toss by Mason, Logan, whomever.

I used to wonder, when did parents begin using surnames as given names?

But this bottom of one was different. From the first pitch on, I began to hear a buzzing, almost apian sound from my right. Between pitches, I reconnoitered for insects—truly an umpire's enemy. The coast was clear.

Finally, a batter reached first. This caused me to pivot into the infield grass, between the second sacker and his base: Slot B. The sound intensified, this time from my left-rear. The pitcher made a couple of paltry pickoff attempts, requiring me to turn and take notice.

As I spun, the buzzing became words.

“ANDAAAY! ANDAAAY! ANDAAAY DIPITOOOLA!”

What?

The “buzzer” was the second baseman. His incessant infield chatter bounced around my ears. The voice was that of a baritone Munchkin.

After an out was made, the visiting manager exhorted his team to watch for a bunt. Some infielders, including the second baseman, hustled to the mound to confer with “Andaaay.”

As the second baseman returned to his post, I got a first good look at him. It was hard not to eyeball, taboo for an umpire.

The young man stood five-two, maybe -three. He looked like a character Tolkein might have dreamed up after a night of bad plonk: a head like a prone almond on an unseen neck; nigh-Vulcan ears flopping lazily in the twilight; impossibly short arms akimbo on a high waist; stockinged sticks stuck from uniform pants. I didn't want to examine for tufts of hair peeking from a shoe tongue.

Yes, his voice matched his body.

The game wore on in unremarkable fashion. But my little buddy did not waver in his support. At times, he sounded like a sportscaster: “THAT'S ANDAAAY. ANDAAAY DIPITOOOLA. HE'S ANDAAAY!”

After one break, I confronted the commentator: “Say,” I said, “what's that pitcher's name? He's pretty good.”

“That's Andaaay. Andaaay Dipitula.” On cue. A small grin, to boot, revealing tiny, well-spaced dentition.

I trotted to the scorer's booth and peeked at the official book. There stood the actual name: Andy Deptula. Given, of course, its own inflection by his teammate from another planet.

In the middle innings, I was hoping for a home-team runner to reach first, just to better hear the patter. This was truly bad form for an umpire—losing focus. Luck smiled on me; there were no close or controversial calls the entire game.

The intrigue ended in the last frame. As the visitors, up by three or four, entered the field, I noticed a new pitcher. I couldn't wait for the inning to start, to catch what spin Gregor Samsa would impart on the chucker's name.

And all I got was: “Joe. C'mon Joe.”

The Baum voice was subdued, perhaps down a half-octave, almost disinterested. I felt my shoulders sag. Three quick outs and we were done.

Following umpires' tradition, my partner and I left the field via the winners' dugout. I caught the eye of the second baseman and winked, pointing to Andy.

He winked back and then proffered me a full-blown smile, the corners of his mouth seemingly reaching pointy ears. He said, one last time, “That's Andy. Andy Dipitula.”

I never found out the second baseman's name.

The Best Band Ever

I can blame it all on one Karla Jayne DeVito. She of Mokena, IL. A friend recommended that I go see her in concert with a band called Goodnight Louise. She didn't take over the stage that night. She owned it. A high-stepping, song-belting vamp on one hand; sonorous balladeer on the other.

Some months later, she called me from Boston. She was involved in another project. They needed a drummer. Would I like to give it a shot? I would play with her in a vial-laden alley in Bed-Stuy.

I trundled up 95 to The Hub. I met Karla and six others sardined in the dining room of a three-decker on a Saharan day. The band didn't show me any songs, but, in their wisdom, snipped passages for me to assay: regal rock, gnarly punk, hints of funk. Plus skatey-eight other feels. Three excellent instrumentalists, plus four on vocals.

This was Orchestra Luna.

That night in Kenmore Square, I received my first dose of Luna-cy. Not just music, but poetry, dance, costume changes. A mêlée on stage. Songs about Tennessee Williams and kids on the short bus. I was sold.

The band arranged for me to bunk in with their publicist, Diana Reddy, and her mom, the learned, soigné Sigrid Watson. I had made some "cheat sheets" for the songs, trying my best to decipher them from board cassettes. The pieces defied musical notation. Sometimes, I'd have to wait for a body to fall (or wings to flutter) before we would launch into the next part. I ended up with a sheaf strewn with arrows, doodles, arcs and covenants. It presaged a Hogwarts textbook.

Somehow, I ended up absorbing the myriad movements. A few weeks into my stint, we played at CBGB, the dung-infested home of new music of the day. As I schlepped a hi-hat and music stand into the venue, a vulpine-looking guy from the Tuff Darts said, "What the fuck is THAT?"

The band, at the Rusty Nail in Amherst, MA: Seated, far left: Peter Barrett•; arc in rear, l-r: Rick Berlin (nee Kinscherf, Bob Brandon, Liz Gallagher, Steven Paul Perry•, Karla Jayne DeVito, the author; groveling: Chet Cahill•
• deceased

The gigs rolled in. We were the punk/theater/vagabond/commedia dell'arte darlings of the eastern seaboard. I learned to deal with songs that careered through multiple grooves, sometimes skidding on the edge of the road, but never falling off the cliff.

The octet itself was a clump of Legos. If Gumby had designed them. The parts would meld together in an odd formation, then split apart and reassemble, sometimes within the same piece.

Bob Brandon, years before a reliable electric piano was invented, held down the keyboard end masterfully, jumping from etude to rag to Jerry Lee. Chet Cahill stood tall with a Rickenbacker bass that could at once soothe, keen and growl. Steven Paul Perry simply shone on guitar. He was one the few players I knew who could play melodically and then kafkafy magically into a death-metal reaper.

Peter Barrett, up with our "front four," could be a wife-beater in one song and a failed Superman the next ("flattened on the sidewalk like a frying pan"). Weighing about as much as a damp jockey, he would contort, distort, bug-eye and slither through traffic jam onstage. Liz Gallagher, often the sultry soubrette, supplied the musky alto voice, rounding out OL's harmonic mishmosh. She served as the perfect foil for the brash, impulsive Karla DeVito, who could kick a Camel from an onlooker's maw at any moment.

Front and center, this seemingly rudderless ship was masterfully guided by Rick Berlin (nee Kinscherf). Lanky, lean and full of gusto, he wrote many of the songs ... and sang them as if he had to leave a part of his soul onstage. Able to move his limbs and hair in five different directions, he would grasp the mike as if it were a lifesaver, barely able to stay afloat within the tune. His boundless energy and willingness to work without a net set the standard for us other seven.

Holding us together were Lennie Rosengard on sound and Mike Scopino on everything else. Still, during my first few weeks with the band, not everything was smooth sailing. Especially offstage. Enter one Billie Best, a longtime friend of Karla. Instantly, she became our drill sergeant, fixer, tampon finder at 3 am, bully and dear friend. I subsequently met tour managers and other staff who couldn't come close to matching her nerve, guts or organizational skills.

Somehow, we made it to our gigs. Big shots would come see us. Max's Kansas City. The Ocean Club. And nearly every club of note in Beantown and Cambridge.

Then we were selected to be the pit band and chorus for the Jim Steinman play, Neverland. A rockish Peter Pan musical, the event was slated for preview at The Kennedy Center in D. C. I didn't realize that when we were playing songs like "Bat Out of Hell," millions would be listening before long.

However, the album deal that had loomed so large on our horizon never materialized. I had recently flown out to LA to play on a friend's album. This is what I wanted to do. In the hardest decision I've ever had to make, I gave the band my notice.  The parting was teary, bleary and difficult. I was glad that the best gig came last: a memorable concert at Alice Tully Hall in Lincoln Center.

After moving to the Coast, I got my wish. Sessions started coming in, along with tour work. No more lugging my drums around. Playing in stadiums. Limos, autographs, women. My own road digs ... and not in a ramshackle hotel, where OL would pancake four to a room.

I rubbed elbows (and worked with) Ronstadt, Rebennack, Midler. I drank with Tom Waits. A record went gold.

But something was missing. As OL soldiered on, through days of Luna and The Berlin Airlift, I often reminisced about the band.

We lost Peter Barrett, Chet married Billie, but also left us too soon. Steven also succumbed recently. Karla, you know about. Rick's Nickel & Dime band out of Jamaica Plain continue to amaze. I think his spark is indelible. Addendum 4.21: Karla has informed me that Mike Scopino passed some years ago. He of the sharp wit and the "get it done" attitude.

I am grateful for the photos and other ephemera that have resurfaced. I write now. The picture above served to jog my memory and force me to sit down and tap out this little piece.

I realize, now more than ever, that I will never recapture the magic, the verve, the sheer effrontery and especially the art that was Orchestra Luna. Luna was, simply, the best band I ever played with.

And they ... were ... fabulous.