Sands of Life

“Death in my hand” By Vincent

In 1985 I married into a family that never really communicated. When they did, it was usually through the voice of the Crone,,,my mother-in-law. On the surface, she seemed like a nice woman, but in reality, she was a real_______(you fill in the blank). If there were a picture next to the definition of entitled, her miserable face would be right there. She only worked two weeks in her entire life, while my poor father-in-law,,,an incredible man,,,,worked hard for General Motors, then nights as a liquor store cashier, and weekends cutting grass at the local cemetery or doing odd outdoor maintenance jobs. It took three jobs to keep his war machine tuned up and happy.

But this story isn’t about the unmentionable. It’s about her uncle, Uncle Nat.

Born on Christmas Day, his middle name was Natalie,,,an Italian tradition for those born on Christmas. Edward Natalie Vetrano was a cool dude. I loved him, even though he was the nicest pain in the ass you’d ever want to meet. The perfect combination for a life in politics and real estate. Uncle Nat was involved in Westchester politics for years. He was mayor of Tarrytown and had the honor of opening the Tappan Zee Bridge when it was completed in 1955. The bridge spanned the widest part of the historic Hudson River.

Uncle Nat knew early on how to delegate, schmooze, and be diplomatic. He used to say to me, “Diplomacy is the art of letting someone have it your way,” and boy, did he wear that well! He always managed to get everyone else to do his dirty work or handle the things he didn’t want to do. 

Classic diplomat.

I often hung out with Uncle Nat at his lake house in Silver Bay, New York, on Lake George. He bought the property right after his discharge….a small cabin just a stone’s throw from the water’s edge. I remember sitting on the back porch in the mornings, having breakfast, looking out at the somber sparkling water at sunrise quiet, serene, maybe a sailboat or two, or even a family of ducks swimming by. Legend has it the name Silver Bay came from that very scene: the wide bay north of his house shimmering silver in the morning light.

Uncle Nat loved football, baseball, and golf,,,,and he never walked the course. He always had a cart. Lazy? Of course. Status? Even more so. But he was a gentle, giving man.

Every Columbus Day weekend, Uncle Nat would head to the cabin to take in the Adirondacks’ fall foliage. As he aged and became more of a pain in the ass, fewer people wanted to go with him. But I did. I was the kind of person who’d call you out on your shit from a young age, so I had no problem telling Uncle Nat to go shimmy up a gumball machine when he was being difficult.

One week before Columbus Day, he called me up. “Hey Humperdink, (everybody had a nickname) you wanna go to the lake this weekend?”

I asked, “Who else is going?”

“No one. Just you, if you’ll take me.”

By this time, Uncle Nat was in his high eighties and fading. No one wanted to deal with his routines and difficulties.

“Sure, pro. I’ll take you up,” I said.

Off we went Friday morning. Saturday it rained, so we stayed inside reading, talking and watching TV. Sunday was perfect: clear blue skies and highs in the 70s.

After breakfast in Ticonderoga, a few towns north, he said, “This was nice. Let’s go back to the cabin.”

I looked at him with a mix of disgust and “fuck you” and said, “Nope. It’s a beautiful fall day—perfect. I’m not going back to the cabin.”

He said, “Really?”

“Correct. If you want to go to the cabin, you can start walking. My vehicle’s going for a ride. You can either come or start walking.”

“Is that so?” he replied. “You seem so fucking confident about that!”

“Yep. Whatchu gonna do about it?”

“I guess I’m coming with you.”

I looked at him and said, “Diplomacy.”

We laughed like hell.

Heading north on Route 8 toward Speculator, NY,,,,where I have a remote cabin,,,,sunroof open, windows down, Frank Sinatra on the Bose sound system, I heard Uncle Nat singing, smiling, soaking in the sun on his face. He looked alive and vibrant like I hadn’t seen in years.

We stopped in the town of Speculator to grab coffee and take a piss, then onward to the woods, ½ hour from center of town to the entrance of Perkins Clearing. Uncle Nat had heard stories about “the camp,” so I figured, why not show him?

After 10 miles of logging road and we finally pulled in, got out, and he walked over and sat on the garbage can—-No Cane! He looked around and said, “I get it now.” The seclusion, the sanctuary-like vibe: birds, bees, a bubbling brook nearby, and the silence were all the sounds one needed.

“Not my thing with no electricity,,,,but I respect it,” he said.

We hung out another 20 minutes or so, then headed back to Silver Bay. Not much was said. “Tony Bennett” played on the tunes, more Sinatra. 

Finally, we arrived back to the cabin.

That night he bought me dinner at The Club where he played golf.

Monday morning we woke, had breakfast, and had to immediately leave. Why? Because that’s what he’d done for 45 or 50 years. Before the Adirondack Northway was built, the only two ways back to Tarrytown were Route 9 or Route 22, both winding roads with thousands of traffic lights—five hours minimum. The Northway cut the trip to three, but I guess he didn’t notice. He was a quintessential creature of habit.

When we arrived in front of his house in Tarrytown NY, he looked at me before getting out and said, “Well Humperdink, this was an amazing weekend—one of the best—and thank you. Remains to be seen if I’ll see another Columbus Day up at the lake.”

I said, “Pro, you’re too miserable. The good Lord doesn’t have room for people like you yet.”

We laughed.

That was Columbus Day weekend, 2004.

Uncle Nat became quite sick after that. He never made it back to the lake for Columbus Day again. The following year was very challenging for him. It got so bad for him that senior living was in order, moved his belongings in, but he never spent a night there. Day before he was set to move he went into the hospital. Shortly after into hospice care.

On the evening of March 2, 2006, we were called to his hospice room. The hospice nurses told us it wouldn’t be long. Family (the Crone) and others sat by, waiting. But it didn’t happen quickly enough for them. Around 10:30 that night, they all decided to leave…they were tired. I stayed.

My wife asked, “are you coming?”

I said, “The nurses see this every day. It’s close. I’m staying.”

Off they went.

Uncle Nat was out of it, caught between the drugs and the sands of his life washing away. I briefly fell asleep in a lounge chair. Around 1 or 1:30 a.m. on March 3, I was awoken by a gasping sound.

It was Uncle Nat, he was struggling for air.

I sat by his bedside, holding his hand, talking to him.

“Can you hear me, Pro?”

He squeezed my hand so weakly.

“Do you know who this is?”

He squeezed again.

“Are you scared?”

Another squeeze.

“It’s okay. I’m with you all the way. Not to worry. I’ll get the ball into the end zone for you. Everything will be okay on this side. Not to be scared, you’re in good hands.”

Moments later, his chest rise was substantial, he was taking one bigger gasp, a pause and slowly expelling the capacity of his lungs until his chest no longer came back in the other direction, He had calmly passed over.

I sat there, his hand still in mine, gazing at him. I’m not sure how long, time stopped…I had never been with someone the moment they passed. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling as I just stared.

Eventually, I watched the spider veins around his nose disappear. The ruddy color of his face faded. His reddish hand turned milky gray, then his head, chest, and arms followed.

I sat, observing, then thought, “Where have I seen this color before? I know I have.”

Then it hit me hard: that was the color of the skin on my two children right out of the womb the moment they entered our world , and just before they took their first breath with oxygen starting to flow through their tiny lil veins.

Full circle.

It was then that I broke. 

I waited about 45 minutes or so and called the unmentionable to deliver the news.