I was taking out the trash when I got the call that Uncle Sal was gone. It was my father who told me. I don't think I had ever heard my father cry before that moment. His voice trembled on the other end of the phone as I returned from dumping recyclables outside my Brooklyn apartment. "Uncle Sal died."
Then I was the one crying. Collapsing. Overtaken. My life has never been the same. None of ours are. Because you never get over it. You never forget. This piece of you that can never be replaced.
Two days later, I'm in Tucson. In the desert, saying a final goodbye to my uncle -- the guy who left the concrete jungle for cacti and coyotes when I was just a little kid. I sat at a hotel room desk and wrote Uncle Sal's obituary. I cried some more. I shaved, I put on a tie. At the funeral home, I handed my cousin a CD-R -- the soundtrack to my uncle's funeral, a death mix tape. Jimi's "Red House" kicked it off. By the second verse of The Beatles' "In My Life," I was a sobbing mess all over again.
My uncle and his younger sister (aka 'Mom') - were my middle class hippie heroes. They had seen Hendrix live. I would eventually borrow (steal) all the 45 rpm records that Mom had stored in the junk room of my parents' basement. Dad's and Uncle Sal's were down there too - Steppenwolf, The Stones. The Doors and Fleetwood Mac. Treasure.
Then I was the one crying. Collapsing. Overtaken. My life has never been the same. None of ours are. Because you never get over it. You never forget. This piece of you that can never be replaced.
Two days later, I'm in Tucson. In the desert, saying a final goodbye to my uncle -- the guy who left the concrete jungle for cacti and coyotes when I was just a little kid. I sat at a hotel room desk and wrote Uncle Sal's obituary. I cried some more. I shaved, I put on a tie. At the funeral home, I handed my cousin a CD-R -- the soundtrack to my uncle's funeral, a death mix tape. Jimi's "Red House" kicked it off. By the second verse of The Beatles' "In My Life," I was a sobbing mess all over again.
My uncle and his younger sister (aka 'Mom') - were my middle class hippie heroes. They had seen Hendrix live. I would eventually borrow (steal) all the 45 rpm records that Mom had stored in the junk room of my parents' basement. Dad's and Uncle Sal's were down there too - Steppenwolf, The Stones. The Doors and Fleetwood Mac. Treasure.
Uncle Sal was an explorer. He drove cross country more than once. He loved to go camping, he loved to cook (he hated to clean), and -- especially in his later years -- he really seemed to love his life.
He moved to Arizona when I was 7, the first in a close-knit Italian-American family to give up the spoils of city life. By 'spoils', I mean he worked in a candy store under the el train just a few blocks from where they filmed the show open to Welcome Back, Kotter.
Uncle Sal broke up the band, and I loved him even more after that. His annual Brooklyn visits were calendar-clearing events, beginning with the traditional pizza devouring contest, our dining room table covered with "squares" from L&B Spumoni Gardens. We would go to Coney Island, The Museum Of Natural History. Uncle Sal would take Mom and I to Chumley's, a West Village speakeasy frequented by writers like e.e. cummings and John Steinbeck during The Prohibition. Even as an out-of-towner, Uncle Sal was my tour guide. He taught me that you could love New York without living in it.
In the desert, Uncle Sal played host, his new life forcing his reluctant family to step outside the door and actually see the world. The house he had built with his own hands in the middle of nowhere was filled with junk, vinyl records, musical instruments, animals, and more junk. A proud hoarder was he.
He saw wonder in the mundane, and in doing so, made it seem more valuable.
I returned home after the funeral, back to 'Real Life'... whatever that was now. Feeling robbed. That is still the predominant feeling today. I've been cheated. The feeling we get when someone we truly love departs. What about all that stuff we were gonna do?
I think about Uncle Sal every day -- a man I sometimes never saw nor spoke to for weeks, or even months, when he was alive. He is still the coolest, he is still so special. But he is something more.
He is my constant reminder that things can get better.
That's what a butterfly is. It's the caterpillar that crawled through the mud, then emerged from a cocoon, soaring through the skies. It is transformation. It is magnificence. It is rebirth.
I was crawling through the mud in the years after my uncle's death, then my world was washed away by Mother Nature. I wasn't baptized by those dirty ocean waters, but I was awakened. All at once, I had to deal with all this hard shit, and it was just mine this time - mine and my dog's. Buttons, the lovable nut whose own comeback from those dark and homeless days has strongly reflected my own.
You don't get through the toughest times overnight, but it happens. Because life is an uphill battle, always. Growth is evolution, it's a constant thing, otherwise it's not anything at all. You can take that adversity and use it as fuel -- a commitment to do better, to live better, to be better. To become braver, tougher.... more grateful for what you have. But there are always higher mountains to climb.
I think about Uncle Sal every day -- a man I sometimes never saw nor spoke to for weeks, or even months, when he was alive. He is still the coolest, he is still so special. But he is something more.
He is my constant reminder that things can get better.
That's what a butterfly is. It's the caterpillar that crawled through the mud, then emerged from a cocoon, soaring through the skies. It is transformation. It is magnificence. It is rebirth.
I was crawling through the mud in the years after my uncle's death, then my world was washed away by Mother Nature. I wasn't baptized by those dirty ocean waters, but I was awakened. All at once, I had to deal with all this hard shit, and it was just mine this time - mine and my dog's. Buttons, the lovable nut whose own comeback from those dark and homeless days has strongly reflected my own.
You don't get through the toughest times overnight, but it happens. Because life is an uphill battle, always. Growth is evolution, it's a constant thing, otherwise it's not anything at all. You can take that adversity and use it as fuel -- a commitment to do better, to live better, to be better. To become braver, tougher.... more grateful for what you have. But there are always higher mountains to climb.
I went back to the desert after Uncle Sal left. I was there last Labor Day weekend, making music with his son, Cousin Mike. Growing another inch on my wings. Later the same year, I traveled to Europe with Uncle Sal on my mind. Making new memories, making a new album.
The life span of a butterfly is only a few months, sometimes even a few weeks. Only so much time to experience the wonders of the world, the magic in this life. Uncle Sal did that, too - rafting down The Nile, trekking to Egypt, traveling to Italy to trace our family ancestry.
But Uncle Sal's greatest transformation was borne from love -- someone who put a twinkle in his eye, who renewed his lust for life. He crawled out of the mud and this romance was his reward. It's not until we get ourselves right that we can truly be right for anyone else. That we've earned the chance to get more than we deserve.
The life span of a butterfly is only a few months, sometimes even a few weeks. Only so much time to experience the wonders of the world, the magic in this life. Uncle Sal did that, too - rafting down The Nile, trekking to Egypt, traveling to Italy to trace our family ancestry.
But Uncle Sal's greatest transformation was borne from love -- someone who put a twinkle in his eye, who renewed his lust for life. He crawled out of the mud and this romance was his reward. It's not until we get ourselves right that we can truly be right for anyone else. That we've earned the chance to get more than we deserve.
Uncle Sal loved outwardly in his later years. With gusto. Big bear hugs. Always an "I love you." He seemed at ease - with himself, with the universe. He was a hippie jester with strong opinions and a soothing tone to his voice. He told great bad jokes, could fix anything you put in front of him. He was a flawed human being who made good choices and bad ones, who seemed to have learned something from them all.
In his final chapter, my mother's brother seemed larger than life - gracious, happy. I was only getting a brief glimpse of that life - a snapshot of it - but it felt genuine. Uncle Sal wasn't a rock star, he was not rich nor famous. He was a science teacher. He loved his job and was admired by his students, his peers and of course, his family.
In his final chapter, my mother's brother seemed larger than life - gracious, happy. I was only getting a brief glimpse of that life - a snapshot of it - but it felt genuine. Uncle Sal wasn't a rock star, he was not rich nor famous. He was a science teacher. He loved his job and was admired by his students, his peers and of course, his family.
Uncle Sal's motto was Carpe Diem. He seemed to have truly seized the day, figured it all out - and then *poof*....he was gone.
He left on Labor Day Weekend but he has never really left. He is still every slice of L&B pizza, every trip to Coney Island. He is still -- and will always be -- the desert. He is always there, and he is not the only one. There are butterflies everywhere, reminding us that we have to crawl before we can soar, even if for just a little while. That we should do our best to enjoy the journey. That we have to lose before we can appreciate what winning is. That we can always do better, can always reach higher.
Thanks, Uncle Sal. For taking me on the path.
All these years later and you're still showing me how to fly.
He left on Labor Day Weekend but he has never really left. He is still every slice of L&B pizza, every trip to Coney Island. He is still -- and will always be -- the desert. He is always there, and he is not the only one. There are butterflies everywhere, reminding us that we have to crawl before we can soar, even if for just a little while. That we should do our best to enjoy the journey. That we have to lose before we can appreciate what winning is. That we can always do better, can always reach higher.
Thanks, Uncle Sal. For taking me on the path.
All these years later and you're still showing me how to fly.
