The Road Back to Uncle Jackie

My mother was the eldest of her siblings in NYC; though she left us at 56, her three younger brothers are still living, and Uncle Jackie is in the middle. They are into their 80s; Uncle Jim will be 90 soon. Uncle Malachy is the youngest.

For years, I've been wanting to see them, not just at funerals here and there when our Irish family gathers. I will always have my memories of three tall, charming, successful men with arresting smiles at backyard barbecues and First Communion parties, but I'm sad I don't know my uncles now--and I'm also keenly aware that they collectively hold the story of my mother's youth, and beyond.

For all my girlhood, I studied their framed, black and white wedding photos, retreating to my grandparents' quiet bedroom in the garden apartment. The place was decorated sparely, so if I wasn't flipping through the New York Daily News, I was gazing at the folds in the white satin wedding gowns, the cut of the tuxedos, Uncle Jackie's striped wedding necktie, the bouquets--and the hopeful grins on those young faces. One of my favorites, the family photo from my parents' 1951 wedding, showed my beaming mother, handsome father and all three younger brothers, Jackie in a suit that seemed to swim on his lean, lanky frame.

So. Sis and I started today with Uncle Jackie, who reached out with a card to her after Don died. He lives with his daughter [our cousin Theresa] and her family out on the Island, in Ronkonkoma. When I take my day trip to Southampton every summer, I pass the signs on the L.I.E. for that town and think I want to see Uncle Jackie. But the Hamptons drive is already so long that I can't do both.

We hopped in Sis's Chevy Malibu at 10:40 a.m. in Montclair and arrived home in CT by 8 p.m. It was fun to see Uncle Jackie for five full hours, to hear him talk about the family's heritage, to remember our grandparents and our great aunts and uncles, to get a peek, again, into our mom's family of origin. They lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Mom used to tell us they'd spread bacon drippings [no butter] on bread and think it was a treat. They ate a lot of potatoes; Dad said Mom was in charge of buying a big bag of potatoes on her walk home from school.

My grandfather was a doorman for some time and in another phase, worked in the Post Office across from Penn Station. My mom wouldn't want me to say it, but my grandmother said she often had to "go to the saloon to get his paycheck" before he drank it up. He being the Irishman with the thick brogue and twinkling light blue eyes, the Grandpa we loved, the one who carried a roll of peppermint Lifesavers. When I heard this as a girl, I pictured a saloon with swinging doors, something out of "Gunsmoke." But my grandmother must have been brave--and determined, with those four kids to feed and rent to pay.

Uncle Jackie has always been friendly and kind and very, very smart, like my Mom and her other brothers. He had five kids and then went back to school for his law degree. He was a U.S. government attorney--trying customs cases, working in NYC--for many years. He is upbeat and cheerful. My cohort, his son, Stevie, died tragically, bike riding, when I was in sixth grade. Jackie's son John died before his time, too. Aunt Mary is gone.

But Uncle Jackie is the picture of Irish resiliency, wit and humor and I am so happy we saw him today and whiled away a late June afternoon chatting and laughing. I saw my mother in him; I did. And I have his number in my cell phone now. Good night.

TCOY

1. Blueberries w. yogurt and almond extract for breakfast.
2. Connecting with family and chatting w Sis on the long drive.
3. We also walked her sweet dog by the marina; saw a snowy white egret; a mama duck and her eight tiny ducklings; Canadian geese; a cottontail bunny; and a sherbet sunset.
4. Had a white peach with cottage cheese.