A Good Life

It had been eight years since I last saw my uncle. It was at the memorial for my mother, his sister. He was driven by one of his sons and his wife the three hours from Long Island. He was slightly stooped over and walked slowly. After the service and my eulogy, I spoke with him off to the side of the room. He told me I did well and started to tear up. I put my arm on his shoulder and told him I understood. Over the next eight years, I called him for his birthday and Christmas. A couple of weeks ago we attended a fiftieth wedding anniversary. It was only a half hour away from my uncle’s house. My wife Maureen encouraged me to visit him. He is ninety-two years old now and I didn’t know if I’d ever get a chance to see him again.

I texted his oldest son who lives near my uncle and cares for him. I told him I’d like to stop in for visit, but I didn’t want to cause any stress. He welcomed the idea and we agreed on a time. It was a gray, overcast day. He lives at the end of the road next to a state park. He has about three acres. The yard was covered with a blanket of leaves. I tried one door. No answer. I went around to the other side of the house. As I was about to knock, my cousin showed up. He lead me through a sliding glass door into the kitchen. My uncle entered the kitchen from the other side. I was stunned. He was hunched over ninety degrees from the waist and shuffled slowly. He had to look up to see me. I shook his hand and guided him to a chair at the table. His son said he would leave us alone to visit. He asked me to call him when I was leaving. He said he had heard all my uncles stories many times.

My uncle was a strapping six feet tall. A big Irish face with wavy hair. His eyes were still clear. He wanted to talk about his life. His father was an alcoholic and they didn’t have a very good relationship. My uncle went to the same Catholic elementary school I and my mother attended. He told me he was asked to leave. He said by the eighth grade he couldn’t read or write. He went to the nearby pubic school and then a different public school for troubled kids. Back then it was called a school for juvenile delinquents. It was a full of tough kids. He said he did learn to read there, but he dropped out at sixteen. I asked him if he just didn’t like school, or if he may have had a learning disability that was not recognized in 1930s and 1940s. He didn’t have an answer.

He went to work in the stables at Aqueduct race track. It was there he found his calling that shaped the rest of his life, horses. He learned everything he could about them. Riding led him to meet his wife. He told me, “I knew I was in love with her before I met her. When I saw her, I knew she was one in a million.” They met at riding stables in Brooklyn, and married a few years later. His two years in the army made a big impression on him, He said the army would give you instructions that always ended with, “You will Learn.” He joined the airborne division and jumped out of planes. I asked him if he was scared or nervous. He said it was “thrilling.”

My uncle got a job as a trainman on the Long Island railroad where he worked for decades. But he needed the horses. He found out there were lots for sale and he found one. I remember going there with my father. My uncle wanted to show us the lot. As we sat at the kitchen table, he told me he drew a diagram of what he wanted the house to be. He found an architect, and got his dream house. He had a stable with about ten stalls and a corral. He would board horses, including race horses and give riding lessons. There were riding trials in that state park next to his property. He said he knew many people who helped him get business. He said his reputation was so good, he never had the advertise.

My uncle created his own world that most of us only dream about. But he had troubles like many of us. He told me he was an alcoholic. He had gone to meetings over the years. I said your son said you quit at eighty-nine years old. He said he just lost the taste for it. Two of his sons had drug and alcohol issues and his youngest son suffers from Parkinson’s disease. He and his wife raised their grandson. Who is married, lives down the street, helps him out, and made him a great grandfather.

As we talked, I could see a picture on the shelf behind him. It was him and his wife in much younger days. About fifteen years ago the biggest blow was delivered. His wife was leaving a gym. She slipped on ice and hit her head. A couple of days later she died. I couldn’t imagine his pain. But he carried on. He’s now living alone in the place he created and loves. His son and grandson are checking on him everyday.

My uncle is one the most memorable characters in my life. As a kid, I used to look forward to seeing him because I knew he would make me laugh with one of his stories. He he would bring stories to life with a keen eye for detail and even sound effects. I brought a picture of my uncle with my mother and his young brother on a Fourth of July over thirty years ago. He stared at it for a moment and just said, “beautiful”.  It seemed like memories were flooding back to him. He told me he felt many people helped him through his life. He said, “It’s been a good life.” As I was leaving, I took his hand and bent over to hug him. He pulled me closer, kissed me on the cheek and said, “I love you, Michael.” I told him I loved him too.