The Last Birdhouse

The Last Birdhouse 12/23

Active days have long settled into memories for my parents as well as their large group of siblings and their spouses. As members of America’s “greatest generation”, they made a valiant effort not only to accept, but also embrace the many challenges of life, often saying, “Old age is not for sissies!”

Unwilling to bear the brunt of harsh northeast winters, nearly all of them opted for much softer, southern exposure, but spring’s awakening brought them back home, in and around the boroughs of the big city. To celebrate life and their return, everyone, with the exception of Uncle Tony and Aunt Esther, attended an annual rendezvous in Atlantic City. Tony and Esther’s long ago transplant to far away Arlington, Vermont (coerced by his less sociable, non-Italian wife Esther) created a fairly large rift as well as a sense of sadness amongst the entire family, especially for my mom. You see, my mom and her brother Tony were the closest of all the siblings. Born only minutes apart, Mom was first to debut.

It seems Esther; a fine blend of Scot, German, English and Irish had a higher regard for the bottle than the subtleties of the large, purebred Italian family. During the family’s traditional Sunday gatherings at the Brooklyn home of the Grand Matriarch, Tony and his wife Ester remained several states away. These weekly gatherings glued the family together but sadly, after grandma’s passing, the once, ever strong family bond deteriorated. Though trips to Brooklyn became history, mom continued her family service by spending Sunday afternoons (after our macaroni supper) into early evenings, on the telephone speaking with as many of her seven siblings as possible. Calls to her twin brother were by far the longest and from my viewpoint, the most joyous. Mom and Tony talked for hours through the overstretched coiled cord with the receiver tightly wedged between her tilted head and lifted left shoulder. This technique allowed mom the freedom to do whatever was necessary in and around the kitchen.

During a routine mid-December Floridian afternoon, after returning home from Tuesday Bingo with her sister, Mom received a distressing call from a social worker from Vermont’s Office of Aging. It seems there had been several complaints to local authorities involving her brother Tony’s driving. One incident involved Tony nearly backing into the town’s fire marshal in broad daylight while he was walking to his car in the town hall parking lot. When confronted, Tony didn’t apologize. He saw no need, denying anything happened. Everyone in town knew Tony, and it was obvious to the marshal that he was no longer the crack Navy pilot he often boasted about. The marshal escaped injury but for Tony’s sake, and the safety of everyone else in town, he filed an order to have his license revoked. Though Tony was losing touch with reality he had the sense to hire a lawyer and in doing so, he managed to keep his right to drive. Since his driving had become such a serious issue and threat to everyone’s wellbeing, there were several conversations amongst all those who knew him about how to get him off the streets by taking his license or his car away. Though Tony was indeed losing his grip on reality, Mom quickly learned that there’s very little a person can do to revoke or suspend someone’s driver’s license in the state of Vermont.

Automobile accidents are understandable. They happen, but so many in such a short period of time (when there were none for years), screamed out something serious was going on. Mom, along with everyone who knew him, felt it was only a matter of time before something terrible would occur. Though he’d never admit any weakness, inability or health condition, Tony was becoming a danger to himself and others. Losing his way, the 85- year- old should not be living alone in the mountains of Vermont and certainly shouldn’t be driving. Anytime anyone challenged him about anything, especially his ability to handle a car, he’d retort, “I’m a Navy pilot for goodness sake!” If he said it once, he said it a thousand times. And by the way Tony, you were a Navy pilot.

In fact, the former Navy aviator with his “eagle eye vision, and razor sharp reflexes” (as he playfully and often boasted) was indeed involved in a rather serious automobile accident. Unlike his former, minor fender benders and brushes with the law, Tony totaled his car by sliding off an icy mountain highway. Landing his Saab wagon in a drainage ditch, the 85-year-old Navy pilot, perhaps a true “man of steel”, was lucky enough to walk away with just sprains and bruises. Perhaps the perfect time to stop driving, but without a car, Tony deemed himself totally useless, just one step away from being dead. Not having the ability to get around the mountain and into town would snip his Navy wings for good. Familiar with his old wagon, he quickly replaced it with a newer one.

At this point Tony’s wife Ester, along with her bitching and over consumption was long gone. Tony alone, so far away, was insane and dangerous, but he adamantly refused Mom’s most gracious offers to share her home. Before Tony’s mind and body began slipping, he belonged to several social groups and had many friends and acquaintances. They looked after each other, but as he became more detached from reality; one by one, they dropped away. Having received several intermediary calls from caring friends concerning his memory loss, knowing he’d never move to Florida, Mom did everything she could to get him to consider a local assisted living facility. Lovely tours and lunches were arranged. To Tony, though he himself had little hair and what little he had was pure white, any home that housed what he referred to as ‘grey hairs’, was not for him. And even crazier, he staunchly denied his age claiming he was at least thirty years younger. Tony refused to entertain any ‘grey hair’ housing options.

Upon receiving another call, this time from a state trooper, Mom immediately called her brother.

“Hello Tony, it’s Melina, is everything OK?” Mom always spoke with a beautiful smiling tone when talking to her family.

“Who is this?” Sounded a disturbed voice, as if awaking from a nap.

“It’s Melina, Tony, I just got a telephone call from a trooper from the State of… “, before finishing her sentence Tony interrupted.

“Who is it?” he abruptly repeated. As if the person calling was evil and looking to steal his money. This was not the twin brother my mother knew.

She said much more slowly and deliberately, “Tony! This — is — your — sister — Me-li-na.”

“Ohhhhh! Helloooo — — my sweet, blessed, beautiful, wonderful sister Melina. So how was your week?” The sound of my mother’s voice must have knocked Tony clear into Sunday afternoon, the day she would always call. “Time sure can fly when your havin’ fun but I can’t seem to find my new ski boots. They were expensive and I just bought them. I’ll bet they’re still in the trunk of the car.” At that moment nothing mattered to Tony but his missing ski boots. Tony loved sales, he’d buy anything knowing he was getting a good deal, but he hasn’t been on the slopes in many years. Still convinced it was Sunday it wasn’t until Mom asked him about the Mass sermon when Tony realized he hadn’t gone to church and it wasn’t at all Sunday. Tony was a devout Catholic, once an altar boy. When Mom finally explained her reason for calling, Tony, either pretended or really had no idea what she was talking about. No one will ever know for sure. Continuing his charmingly smooth, brotherly manner, he completely skirted around anything and everything that might have painted a negative impression of him, including the issue of an accident. He recalled some of the minor incidents, but insisted that none were his fault and everything was just hunky-dory. Reiterating belligerently, “I’m a Navy pilot for Christ’s sake!” It wasn’t at all like Tony to act so nasty or use God’s name in vain, especially when speaking with his beloved twin sister.

Realizing his nasty tone, he calmed down. “You know Melina… we’re getting close to 6o.”

“Noooo Tony, you may be able to fool some people, but you can’t fool me. We’re both going to be 85 on the 24th of March.”

Quickly losing his calm demeanor, he grunted, growled and sputtered, “I’m not 85!” His feeble mind truly led him to believe he was much younger. Refusing to accept the truth about his age or anything else for that matter, he returned to his missing ski boots. “Where the heck are they! They were expensive!” Everything was expensive to Uncle Tony.

Chapter 2

Unlike my siblings who showed little concern for Rizzo family news, I kept close tabs and there was no better day for catching up than Sunday. If Mom didn’t call me, I’d call her. Getting a call on any other day of the week meant something serious was up, like the time years ago when my dad fell off the roof and broke his leg. I dropped everything to take him to the local upstate hospital.

Her Tuesday call was very concerning. Not only did her greeting lack effervescence, I could tell mom needed me. She’d never want to burden anyone with her problems, but I knew something was up when she couldn’t hide her weighted tone.

“ You know Bobby, of all of the Rizzo family members, you’re the only one who hasn’t been able to receive one of your Uncle Tony’s birdhouses.”

“Ahhhh, yeah, that’s right, Uncle Tony’s birdhouse.” It was something that often entered my mind but would often disappear as quickly as it came. I had to get to it. It’s not that I didn’t want one. I really did, but I somehow managed to put it off for years. I fully intended on getting one, but as a school teacher/business owner, dad and workaholic, I really had little time to spare.

“Well… If you’re not too busy Bobby, do you think you can take a little ride to see him?” It wasn’t a little ride but Mom never asked me for much. I interpreted her gentle request as, “Get in the car and go!” Had she and my dad not been in Florida for the winter, they’d surely make the trip.

Who isn’t extremely busy during the busiest time of the year? Between teaching and performing at Christmas parties with my band, there was hardly time to shave. To ask me to go to Vermont was a huge request. It was probably the last thing she would force me to do, but then again, she was desperate to help her brother and, for some reason, I was the only one yet to receive one of his award-winning birdhouses.

Chapter 3

Tony’s infatuation with flight began as a youth. While the others were playing stickball and hanging out in the street, he spent his spare time in local parks studying birds. At an early age, this led him to build shelters for his fine-feathered friends. In fact, the eventual name of his birdhouse company was just like Tony, simple and to the point, “TONY — BUILT”. Tony’s birdhouses began as a childhood hobby. Kids taunted him calling Tony “Birdboy of 42nd Street” but it easily rolled off his feathers. Tony knew exactly who he was and where he was going.

Mom once told me that Grandma’s backyard fig tree was once covered with his handicraft. Though I’d never seen the ornamented tree, I do remember his Brooklyn workshop. We were little kids at the time and forbidden to go into Grandma’s basement, but when the coast was clear, my cousins and I would sneak down into what we imagined as a medieval dungeon. The worn, push button light switch was in tiptoe reach. Dirty, dark, gloomy and spooky we held tightly to the twin metal pipe railings. Each steep step of stone was of a different height and width. Ten awkward steps later was a dusty, uneven and dry dirt floor. A solitary light bulb lit the entire space as it hung over Tony’s, once Grandpa’s, workbench nestled in the corner adjacent to a very angry sounding converted coal-fired furnace. Along the stone foundation walls stood several large glass bottles, the ones once used to store Grandpa Rizzo’s homemade wine. The area above the workbench had shelving coated with dust and cobwebs. One wall held an assortment of glass jars, each containing a specific screw or nail. Another had silhouettes of every screwdriver, plier, hammer and saw, along with a variety of birdhouse building templates.

Chapter 4

Since birds and flight captivated Tony, there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that he would one day take to the sky. When the war broke he had every reason to be first in line for Navy flight school. Mom later insinuated that Esther seduced her brother to become pregnant to guarantee marriage. She knew alter boy Tony would always do the right thing and marry his pregnant high school sweetheart.

During the war, Tony was stationed on Attu, one of the western-most Aleutians off the southwest coast of Alaska. His primary operation involved bombing raids over Japan. His successes and injuries led to receiving a purple heart and some other medals. Oddly, as a man of the war generation, Tony never drank alcohol or smoked cigarettes. Always health- conscious, he ran miles long before the invention of running shoes. If he had any vice at all, it was smoking those little crooked Italian cigars during the holidays, just like his dad. Though Esther hated the idea of cigar smoke in the house, there was nothing she could do or say to break that family tradition.

After the war, Tony smoothly segued into commercial piloting out of Albany, New York, the closest major airport to his Vermont home. Flying for several airlines kept him where he wanted to be, in the air away from Esther for weeks at a time. This alleviated much stress, strain and the possibility of confrontations with his annoying drunk wife, who, may I add, was very easily bothered. Although Tony always kept this burden to himself, everyone in the family was keenly aware of Esther’s drinking and sharp tongue. They highly disapproved of the manner in which she spoke to their beloved brother. Anytime there was a layover in New York City, Tony grabbed a cab to either Grandma’s house or ours. If it was on a Sunday, all of the family felt blessed by his solo appearance.

Esther was negative, the type who saw little good in anything and was big on complaining. Someone once heard her grumble that her ice cream was too cold. Towards her nieces and nephews, however, Esther always managed to conjure a sweeter side. Mom was painfully aware of her sugarcoated disguise that could easily dissolve and become bitter in an instant.

Mom knew Esther came from an alcoholic past and was probably jealous of the simple non-alcoholic pleasures Uncle Tony was able to derive from life. Fortunately for Tony, ‘bittersweet’ Esther passed away about six years into his retirement. Regardless of the quality of his marriage, the quality of Tony’s vow was rock solid. Uncle Tony was a devout Catholic and a man of great integrity.

Upon retiring from the airlines he wasted no time developing his long-lived birdhouse hobby and spent most of his time in his garage workshop. There wasn’t a gift shop from Bennington to the Canadian border (along Route 7) that didn’t sell a “Tony- Built” birdhouse. Through piloting he had seen the sights and experienced almost everything life had to offer. Uncle Tony was extremely content never to go anywhere ever again. Tony was characteristically independent and set in his ways, but old age made him increasingly so. Unless he could find a woman in her 30s who would appreciate him he wanted to live wife-less and simply in the Vermont countryside building birdhouses. Since the day of his wife’s funeral, he had been repeatedly asked to move in with any one of his many generous siblings. Vermont was home for his heart and business. It was where he needed to be.

Tony and mom really loved each other. I often wondered why he never accepted her offer to share her home. Perhaps something happened between him and my father. Did my dad remind him of Esther? Possibly, but I don’t suppose Mom would ever tell. Anyway, Mom persevered but eventually gave up altogether.

Chapter 5

As the first-born son of his twin sister, I had been doubly endowed with “most favored nephew” and godson status. Among our long list of Rizzo cousins residing in the New York City area, I lived in Connecticut, and closest to Uncle Tony. My status allowed me to get away with lots of stuff, including being the last one in the entire Rizzo clan (too many cousins to keep track of) to be gifted one of his prized birdhouses. The birdhouses for his family were custom built and intricately designed. He refused to ship his handicraft. The only way to get a birdhouse was to pay him a visit at his Vermont home and you couldn’t get it when it was convenient or during picturesque seasons of summer or fall. Tony only gave them away during the Christmas season, when travel was difficult and lives were much busier. This long family tradition meant that not one Christmas season passed when my mother didn’t tell me which of the Rizzo clan was making the trip to see Uncle Tony. Though these birdhouse announcements were well intended, they always made this godson-favored nephew feel a tad guilty. But, Tony’s birdhouse give-away scheme reassured a family member visitation during the holiday season.

Knowing how much my visiting Uncle Tony meant to my Mom, I felt fortified enough to forfeit my feelings and those of my very own family. It was Christmas time and was indeed his godson’s time to go. After all, at the amazing age of 85, the days of making Tony and my Mom happy were limited. As much as I wanted to stay cozily home, I had no choice. The decision was made. Since I was committed to a visit I had to get the most bang for the buck, and I decided to go on a day that would make the greatest impact on everybody. But from the time I made the decision, until I was about half way there, I repeated this conversation with myself.

What?! Christmas fucking day?

Sure, Christmas day. There is no better day.

What’s wrong with you? You should be with your family!

Nah… I’ll have plenty of time to be with my family.

Who knows how long Tony will be around? It’s called love and sacrifice. After all, that’s what Christmas is all about? — -Right? Right?? RIGHT???!!!

Chapter 6

I awoke Christmas morning reminded once again of so many enchanting but often disappointing visits. Everyone in the house was dreaming of sugar plum fairies as I gazed through our bedroom’s huge picture window serving as the headboard for our king sized bed. Searching for Santa’s sled trail among the frozen stars stilled in silent darkness, the dark night sky was beginning to shift as moonlit cumulus clouds gently flowed from north to south. Fresh snow blanketed every inch of forest floor surrounding the property. Shadowy black leafless trees against the white snow and early dawn sky left me feeling a sense of sadness, pity and loneliness for myself as well as for Uncle Tony.

There was work to do. To leave the cozy comfort of my warm bed I counted down as I usually do. Upon reaching zero I’d launch into the new day with the impetus of a rocket ship. Nothing could hold me down. That morning however, just like at NASA, the countdown stalled several times for improperly functioning systems. I stared at my beautiful wife, as she lay asleep, snuggled deeply in our fluffy down comforter. Contemplating the ramifications of staying home, the thought of disappointing my mother along with Uncle Tony’s anticipation of my arrival initiated an unbearable sense of guilt which was plenty enough to restart my engine and get me up and out.

I quietly dressed and bid my wife farewell with a gentle kiss on her forehead. Her eyes softly opened but I hushed her back to sleep. Once downstairs, I nuked and slugged down a cup of leftover coffee, bundled up and without hesitation, stepped into the chilled air to warm my car and to scrape the snow and ice from my windshield. Bone chilling temperatures instantly crystallized my deepest nostril hairs. The car idled as I rhythmically repeated with every forceful stroke against the heavily frosted glass — — I can’t be- lieve I’m do — — ing this, I can’t be- lieve I’m do — — ing this. Ten miles north of home before the car supplied enough heat to thaw my fingers and melt my feelings of regret for leaving my beautiful family on Christmas day.

My wife, not being a blood relative of Tony, had every right to stay at home to enjoy a peaceful Christmas with our son, his new wife and their new little puppy. It was to be our first Christmas together since their marriage. I pretended all was well, keeping my struggle to myself, never implying any need for her to join me and leave the comforts of home. I knew she’d come along if I wanted. Tony on the other hand was alone with no one of his huge and distant family to visit. When his wife died, their only child decided to move to North Carolina to make her way and to eventually find a partner. The details of her leaving and sexual preference were always a deep secret.

Rationalizing details did little to help surrender to the fact that I was leaving my new little family on Christmas day. Shouldas, wouldas and couldas plagued my thoughts throughout Connecticut and into Massachusetts. Had I not gone Tony may not have known the difference, but my mother and my conscience surely would.

Music always had a way of easing my pain, so after a couple Sinatra albums, a James Taylor album (for the ride through the Berkshires) along with the Beatles’ ‘Sergeant Pepper, the blizzard of regrets eventually subsided to a gentle snowfall.

Nearly there, I hoped to feel God’s reassuring “that-a boy” pat on the back. As I crossed into Vermont, the winter rich clouds allowed the sun to valiantly peek through a mostly dreary sky. Its appearance gave me the sense of promise that I was hoping for, maybe that pat on the back, but shortly after, a palate of varying shades of grey quickly swallowed all hope for a sunny rescue.

Chapter 7

Displayed on opposite ends of my mom’s bedroom dresser for as long as I could remember were two sepia toned 8x10 studio portraits in gold plated lace frames. On the right side were mom and dad with huge smiles in their wedding day attire, and on the left was a portrait of my Uncle Tony in his Navy uniform. In the middle, atop of a heavily starched doily, stood a 12-inch statue of the Virgin Mary. Above the dresser was a mirror of equal width. Growing up I would find myself studying the portraits while looking deeply into my mirrored reflection searching for visual clues of my connection. The resemblance between my uncle and mother was uncanny, and mine wasn’t far behind. Their mannerisms were as identical as was their unconditional love for each other. They shared a sense of humility and love that I found in very few people, and for that I aimed but certainly, I couldn’t compare.

My parents married immediately after the war. During my early years my father was away from home a lot working long shifts on a tugboat in New York harbor. During his time at work my Uncle Tony did his best to help out whenever his flying schedule and Esther allowed. Unlike my dad who could easily become difficult if everything didn’t go exactly his way, Uncle Tony was always pleasant. My dad had an alcoholic father who, when he drank, showed tremendous discontent. Through no fault of his own dad was handed a torch also fueled by alcohol. Sadly, those three simple words that say so much that everyone longs to hear never parted my grandfather’s or my dad’s lips.

In Uncle Tony’s house Esther did all the drinking. Uncle Tony rarely drank and when he did, he just became happier, bursting with even more warmth. Unlike my dad, raising his voice or expressing anger was never a part of his chemistry. Conversations with him went much deeper than all of my other uncles. Uncle Tony cared. Perhaps it was his deep sense of faith and religion. If loving Uncle Tony was very easy for me, I could only imagine what he meant to his twin sister.

The whirlwind of my life has selfishly given little consideration to anything or anyone outside the needs of my immediate family, so it had been years since my visit north. However, the few times I made the trip created beautiful lasting impressions. The first time was at a party for Uncle Tony’s retirement from commercial flying. The second visit was years later when my wife and I went skiing at one of the many nearby mountains. As I got closer, distinct memories of those visits flashed across my mind as if it were just yesterday.

Centered in his front yard stood his monumental sugar maple tree. On each of its limbs hung at least one “Tony Built” handcrafted birdhouse painted in an array of earth-tone colors. “Tony-Built” was clearly defined and easily recognized with a sign nailed to the tree for so long that its bark had begun to close in on its edges. By now I imagined the entire sign to be swallowed up. The massive maple along with its assortment of birdhouses was a “must see” for anyone passing through his quaint little town. Many stopped to take a photo in front of the ornamented maple and then couldn’t resist purchasing a “Tony Built” of their own directly from his garage workshop.

Next door to Uncle Tony lived Nick, his life-long Brooklyn buddy. When the next-door property came up for sale Tony contacted Nick and within days Nick made the decision to leave the city for a life in the country with his old buddy. To keep busy, he quickly began a small business selling maple syrup. Tony and Nick made up for lost time with lots of bird watching, fishing, camping and helping each other out whatever way possible. They also traveled the New England Craft Fair circuit together to sell their wares. They benefited greatly from each other. Along with every birdhouse sale came a discount coupon for Nick’s “Vermont Pure” maple syrup and vice-versa. Mom said they behaved like long lost brothers. When Tony’s wife was alive she did her best to drive a wedge in their loving relationship. After Esther passed, Nick and Tony were free to enjoy each other’s company until Nick’s passing, too soon after.

Chapter 8

As I exited the highway onto Old Route 7, chimneys billowed shades of grey into a bleak, cold, cloudy winter sky. Though my windows were closed, the scent of burning wood muscled its way into my sealed automobile reminding me of the reverence Uncle Tony had for wintertime and his wood-burning stove. During the first oil shortage back in the early 70’s, Uncle Tony was the first in his neighborhood to obtain a wood stove. Three hundred dollars bought an original Vermont Castings with all the accouterments. His reverence made such an impression I purchased one of my own the first chance I could. Whenever we talked, wood, chain saws and splitting mauls became the topics of conversation. What kind, how much and how dry seemed to be important information to share. Tony was always well prepared for winter by gathering, cutting and splitting at least four meticulously measured and stacked cords of New England’s hardest variety.

Within ten miles from his house I called Uncle Tony from my cell phone so not to surprise him, but there was too little cell service for the call to go through. After a second call moments later, his answering machine picked up.

“If you’re calling 3067, you got it.” That was his entire message. He left out the other numbers figuring the sound of his voice combined with the last four were enough to make the match. Uncle Tony was always to the point and didn’t mince words only saying what was necessary.

“Hey Uncle Tone, this is nephew Bobby. I think I’m about 10 minutes away. You’re probably outside shoveling the sidewalk or getting some wood for the stove, so I’ll see ya soon.”

It didn’t take long before my mind flooded with all sorts of negative thoughts and possibilities. Great, now what? All this way for nothing? Hope he’s home. He better be home. Hope he’s OK. How long do I wait if he’s not? Maybe he’s skiing. What if this, what if that??

By now my fuel tank was as empty as my stomach. With the exception of some modernized gas pumps, pulling into The Arlington General was as though I had driven into an era when the height of technology was the electric light bulb. The landmark store with its steam dripping windows along with its gabled portico with peeling paint appeared in the nick of time. Tucked into the gable’s exterior was an old clock. I doubted it worked but double-checking with my phone it was the right time, 11:30. Below the clock was a deteriorated, but legible wooden sign with faded green letters reading, The Arlington General, Established in 1922.

The streets were empty and all was quiet as I pulled up to the newly installed self-serve gas pumps. I was thrilled to see the pumps lit and operating. Upon opening my door a gust of frigid wind showed absolutely no mercy for this weary southern Connecticut traveler. As possible and per the pump’s instructions I inserted my credit card, removed the nozzle, pressed the high-octane button, inserted the nozzle into the tank, squeezed the trigger and ran into the steamy store. Pushing the heavy wooden door open, an old leather strap lined with brass sleigh bells greeted me in full holiday regalia. I looked around. Immediately stealing my attention was a large, heavily stoked, potbelly wood stove, which sat very comfortably in the center of the store. On top was a cast iron pot of boiling, steaming water. Alongside was a large decanter of mulled apple cider. Due to all the salt and sand used throughout the years, any finish that might have been on the wide-planked floor surrounding the stove was long gone. Every step I took had an accompanying creak or squeak. On any other day I’d have loved to spend an hour or so browsing the many turns, nooks and crannies the store had to offer.

While stomping the loose ice, salt and snow off my shoes I said, “Merry Christmas”.

The clerk was busy finishing up with a customer. Before he could respond I hovered over the stove, rubbing my hands together.

“Mind if I get some cider?”

“Go right ahead. That’s what it’s there for. Where you from?” asked the Arlington General who was dressed in blue overalls, a red flannel shirt and a green knitted hat, probably the one that his wife handcrafted.

“Connecticut, southern Connecticut. What a trip. Would you have a restroom I could use?”

“Sure.” The Vermont gentleman directed me through an assortment of turns through this maze of a building.

Upon returning, I noticed I was one of only three in the entire store. “Yeah…I’ve come up to see my Uncle. Happen to see Tony Rizzo around?”

“You mean the Navy Pilot or as some like to say, the Birdman of Arlington?”

“If you say so. He’s my uncle all right. See the resemblance?” I offered a profile view. I always thought he was a pretty good-looking guy and was kinda proud to look like him.

Shaking his head he said, “I ain’t seen him. Tony used to come by nearly every day, but not lately. He was always in for something or other building up his monthly tab. As a matter of fact, I need to pay him for some of his birdhouses that sold over the past month. They make a great Christmas gift you know. The last time I saw him had to be two or three weeks ago. Coulda been a month.”

“By the way, I’m Bob, how do you do? Isn’t that one of Tony’s houses there?” I pointed to a real fancy deluxe high rise that came with a steel, adjustable mounting pole.

“Sure is, just a little too expensive for folks ‘round here. Pleased to meet you Bob. I’m Jake and doin’ just fine. Yeah…In fact — I do see a resemblance… there’s something in the eyes.”

“Through the snow and all, I just drove five hours to finally get my birdhouse. Well, not just to get my birdhouse… He won’t send them out you know?”

“Yeah, I heard something like that.”

“Yeah, so, I’m the last to get one in my whole family. I’m a little ashamed, especially since I’m his godson. Oh well, better late than never right?”

“Yep… That’s what they say.”

“So how’s my uncle doing? I haven’t seen him in such a long time. Is there anything you heard, anything you can tell me? Anything I should know?”

Miles from home, not knowing what to expect I’d take any information I could get.

Jake replied. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. As I said, it’s been a while, but other than the fact that he’s had some car accidents recently,” he then lowered his voice and said, “this is a small town ya know, word gets around pretty quick and you probably already know about his dog dying.”

“No, tell me. When did he die? I didn’t know he had a dog.”

“It all happened around the same time as his big accident. Maybe one had something to do with the other. Tony loved Blackie very much.” Strangely, he never mentioned anything about Blackie to my mom.

“Wow — -Well, that’s kinda why I’m here, to check up on the old guy, make sure things are OK and of course, get my birdhouse. Anything else you can tell me?”

“Nah, not really, except he used to sit at the same counter stool every Sunday after church to have his four course breakfast. We got to callin’ it the ‘Hungry Pilot Special’. Look there, see the sign.”

He pointed to the wall behind him, next to a Norman Rockwell military print that hung over the cash register.

Hungry Pilot

Coffee

Orange juice, banana

Cereal

Two Eggs with bacon

Toast or Bagel with Butter and Jam

$7.00

“That guy could knock down some food, and as a matter of fact, he probably gained twenty some odd pounds over the past year or so.”

“Speakin’ of food, I’d like to pick up a couple of sandwiches and maybe some cake to bring over. You know what he likes?”

“The pilot likes just about everything, but I’ve got some nice fresh turkey breast he may love, and I know he’s real big on chocolate and he loves his pickles. Here… Bring him home some of this chocolate cake. We call it “Devil’s Revenge,” he’ll love you forever. Cake’s on me. Tell him Jake said, ‘Merry Christmas’.”

“That sounds great — — Two turkey breast sandwiches and a big hunk of Devil’s Revenge to go. Thanks a lot! Oh –“ I pointed to a big glass pickle jar that was sitting next to the register. “And let me get two pickles please, the biggest one’s you’ve got. Thank you.”

As he prepared the food, he continued, “So as I was sayin’ — — he’s gotten pretty big lately. He used to keep himself so trim and boy… he loves talkin’ about his navy days. If I heard it once, I heard it a hundred times, but what the heck. It makes him happy. He could tell some story. His details were like it was yesterday, but then — — he’d forget my name after I’d correct him just thirty seconds prior. And… You see I’m not a churchgoer, but I know he is, or should I say, used to be. I don’t think he’s gone to church in the past month or so cause I ain’t seen him. The last time I think I saw him was when he was lookin’ to buy some bullets.”

“Bullets!?” I asked in a surprised manner, “for what, hunting, protection, around here?” I couldn’t imagine what he needed to protect himself from. “Had there been some robberies in his neighborhood?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, things just ain’t what they used to be. Times have changed quite a bit, even ‘round here. It’s been all over the news about some house being held up. They called it some sort of invasion. That’s right — — a home invasion. I think it was somewhere in Connecticut as a matter of fact. So why couldn’t it happen here? What about all them crazy people? And all them school shootings? All kinds of people come up here to ski. And a lot from Connecticut. They’re just crazier than ever. Holding up a house like it’s a bank or somethin’. Killin’ little kids. That’s enough to make anyone scared, especially if you’re old and living alone. Arlington is not a likely place for such a thing, no. But you never can tell. Neither was that little town in Connecticut. You never can tell.”

“I guess not. I just never really heard anything about Uncle Tony and guns. I didn’t know he had a gun.”

By this time he had finished bagging the food.

“That’ll be $10.50 please and don’t forget to wish Tony a very Merry Christmas from ol’ Jake. Remember, tell him the cake’s on me.

I reached into my fanny pack for some cash. “Thanks a lot. How late are you open?”

“You just made it. Today being Christmas and all, we close at noon.”

I reached into my fanny pack and handed him exactly ten dollars and fifty cents. “All right, thanks again.”

“Take care now, Merry Christmas.”

“Alright Jake, nice meeting you. Merry Christmas.”

The store was a stone’s throw from Tony’s turn off up the mountain road.

Chapter 9

I pulled up to what I thought was Uncle Tony’s house but had to recheck the address to make sure. Nothing was the way I remembered, and I couldn’t imagine Uncle Tony or anyone for that matter living in such shambles. The landmark maple tree that held his handicraft and once shaded his entire front yard was gone. All that remained was a rotted stump. Shrubs were overgrown. Sections of gutters hung away from the fascia. Dark mold had overtaken the once brightly painted, beige clapboard exterior. There wasn’t a light on, in or outside the house. The only sign of life was a flickering TV that glowed from his living room through a sheer linen drapery.

I sat in the car for a couple minutes to call mom to let her know that I arrived safely. The terrible cell service interrupted the call so I kept the conversation short and sweet and never mentioned anything about what I’d learned at The Arlington General. As far as she knew, Tony was expecting me. During my time on the phone I hoped Uncle Tony would notice me in the parked car. I expected the burly northerner to come out to greet me or at the very least open the front door, but he didn’t.

I took a deeper than normal breath and got up the guts to make my way to the door. The sloppily shoveled icy walkway and front steps were difficult to navigate. I nearly fell before reaching his railing. I knocked and waited then knocked again. There was no answer so I slowly shuffled back to my car to get my cell phone to call him. Just as I completed dialing his number, he opened the front door.

He looked at me as though he didn’t know who the heck I was. Mom said that she’d call on Christmas Eve and again Christmas morning to remind him of my visit. Uncle Tony pretended to recognize me, but I don’t think he did. After all, why should he? I hardly recognized him. It had been many years since we saw each other. My memory of him was nothing like the overweight, crooked man who badly needed a haircut, shave and shower and could hardly stand firmly enough to open the door.

“Hey Uncle Tone, it’s me, Millie’s son.”

“Who?” He said while clearing his phlegm-coated throat.

“Millie’s son, your favorite nephew. You know… your godson.”

“Ohhhh, Millie’s son, my favorite nephew, that’s right.” His voice sounded as if it hadn’t been used in weeks. He cleared his throat again, hocked and spat into the foundation bushes outside his door. “Yes, yes, your mother told me you were coming. So how are you, Richard?”

“Richard!?” My brother Richard and I look and sound similar, but by no means was Richard his favorite nephew. Richard never gave Uncle Tony or for that matter, anyone, the time of day. How he even remembered his name was kind of crazy.

“Close, Uncle Tone, but I’m Bobby. Melina’s first born son. You remember — — — your favorite nephew. You said so yourself.”

“Of course — — Bobby — — -I was just jokin’. Come on in, come on in.”

At that point I was pretty sure he knew exactly who I was and was relieved.

“So how are you Richard?” I shot him a look. “I mean Bobby?”

His disheveled appearance made me think he wasn’t expecting any visitors. His house was equally messy, stinking of stale cigar smoke and fermenting urine. The wood stove that I expected to be cranking was ice cold while the oil fired heating system was turned up to what felt like 85 degrees.

“Well… I finally made it Unc.” I said with a big smile. “Here it is Christmas Day. I finally made it.”

“Made what?” he said, wondering what the hell I made.

“You know — — the birdhouse.”

“You made a birdhouse? I make birdhouses too.”

“No — — you made a birdhouse. I finally made it up here to get my birdhouse, remember? You made it especially for me a couple of years ago. You said the only way to get it was to come up around Christmas. Well here it is Christmas day. It’s the last birdhouse, and I’m finally here Uncle Tone, finally. Mom said you had it all ready to go, packed, wrapped and everything, with my name on it.”

“That’s right. That’s right. It’s been sitting here waiting for you for quite some time. You know Bobby… you’d have been a great navy pilot. Were you ever in the military?”

“No, I wasn’t, but never mind that stuff Unc. Here I am. I made the trip on Christmas day just to be with you and to finally get my birdhouse.”

“You look good. What took you so long Bobby? I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Unc. If I told you how very busy I’ve been you wouldn’t believe me. It’s ridiculous.”

“Busy huh?” I could tell by the sound of his voice that he couldn’t understand how anyone could be too busy to visit dear old uncle Tony.

“I know it’s no excuse, but I always looked forward to coming up the first chance I could. I was waiting for the perfect day, when my life was much simpler, but so far, that’s still a long way off.”

“I’m not so sure if simple is such a good thing Bobby. My life is so simple, some days I don’t know if I’m comin’ or goin’. I’ll be honest with you. Most of the time I have no idea what day it is. I watch the clock, remembering very little and looking forward to very little. I guess I’ve got a really bad case of CRS.”

“CRS. Sounds serious. What’s that?”

He smiled and said, “You know — — Can’t Remember Shit.”

I laughed, “OK, if you say so.”

“But I do remember your birdhouse. It’s been sitting in the box over there ever since I finished it. I don’t know how many years ago.” He pointed towards the wood stove. “It’s been there so long sometimes I forget what’s in it, but I know it’s yours.” Bobby was boldly spelled in black magic marker across the top. Below my name read, “Melina’s son” and below that, “my godson”.

His woodstove was covered with stacks of old Wall Street Journals, magazines and L.L.Bean type catalogues. In his day Tony kept up with all the financial news pertaining to his investments.

“What — No Christmas Day fire Uncle Tone? And where’s your woodpile? As I recall, it used to be on the side of the garage.”

“I haven’t burned since the end of the old maple. I used whatever birdhouse material I had left for kindling. Those days are over my boy.” I think he was afraid he might burn the house down.

Tony never willingly divulged his mistakes, but Mom had a way of finding things out. She once told me about a small fire that Tony admitted was due to his carelessness. He left the front door to the wood stove open for a second to grab some firewood from outside when a hot ember jumped onto some nearby newspaper. Luckily it happened at a time when Tony was quick to react. That lesson was well seared into his memory.

“Would you like me to go out to get some wood for ya? I saw some bundles for sale at the general store. It might be nice to get a cozy fire goin’.”

“No Bobby, don’t bother. That’s too much work.”

“O K, If you say so.” I really didn’t want to go out again and could easily get by without a fire, but I couldn’t get over the fact that his revered old maple was gone. It was such a beautiful tree that meant so much to him.

“I hope you’re hungry Uncle Tone. I picked up some pretty fancy cake and some nice sandwiches for us. The only thing I put in my stomach today was some coffee. I’m famished. Let’s eat. What do you say?”

“Sure, sounds good!”

“Oh yeah, old Jake at The Arlington General sends his best. The cake is his Christmas present to you.”

We made our way into the kitchen. I did all I could to ignore the fact that the place looked and smelled awful. Probing around a bit, I opened the refrigerator and nearly gagged. It was chock filled with long expired items like old meat, half eaten sandwiches, rotting broccoli, sour milk and wrinkled old fruit. The only things that appeared edible were some fresh dog bones tightly wrapped in cellophane, but old Blackie was gone.

“Hey Unc… Do you have any candles around, any of those pretty scented candles maybe?” I thought it might be nice since it was Christmas to set the table in a festive fashion and smother some of the permeating stink.

“Yeah sure, I think so. Let me look.” Uncle Tony searched every one of his kitchen cabinets and then very slowly made his way down to the basement to look for some. While he was downstairs, I quietly snooped around to give my Mom a full report. Every room was cluttered, dirty clothing and old papers strewn everywhere. There were layers of dust, cobwebs and dog hair in every corner. The pantry closet had at least a dozen boxes of a variety of breakfast cereals, some old and some more recent along with many cans of expired food. A pile of soiled sheets and clothing overflowed the hamper in his bedroom. Other than a detailed list of all his brothers and sisters, along with each of their children’s names, that hung on the kitchen wall directly next to his telephone, his once meticulous, ship-shape home was a mess.

The list of names detailed every one of his birdhouse gifts. Exactly who received what model as well as the Christmas year they were given. My name was the only one missing a checkmark. As I heard him slowly clomp his way up the wooden cellar stairs, I had plenty of time to return to the dining table.

Looking totally confused and out of breath at the top of the stairs he asked, “Now why the hell did I just go down there?”

“To get some candles, but forgedaboudit,” I said using my best Robert De Niro. “Come on Unc, let’s eat!”

“Sit here Bobby.” He pulled out one of his dinette chairs and removed more piles of old New York Times, Wall Street Journals, some magazines and store catalogues that filled every chair. He then cleared a small area on the table to place the food.

I opened the bag and divided our Christmas dinner on his rather dirty, cluttered table. After opening both sandwiches on the napkins they were wrapped in, I removed the pickles from the bag.

“Mmmmm… pickles. This looks real good, did you bring it from home?”

Before I could answer he began telling his war stories.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I was flying over Japan and the engine began sputtering?”

“No Uncle Tone, tell me.”

As he talked and ate, pickle juice and bits of food fell to his shirt before hitting his lap and then the floor. The corners of his lips were now filled with neglected juices and tiny food particles.

“Here’s a napkin, Unc?”

“Thank you Bobby.” He graciously accepted the napkin, wiped his mouth and blew his nose before he continued.

“We were seven hundred miles away from the base when enemy gunfire came through the….”

At this point nothing mattered other than allowing him to find a sense of joy in telling his story. I prompted him with all the right questions and allowed him to talk as long as he wanted.”

“Wow, you had some serious balls, Uncle Tone. I don’t know how you did it. You’re my hero.”

“You’d have been a great navy pilot, Bobby.”

“You think so, Unc?” I was honored. What a compliment. He was always a teaser, but at this point I think he really meant it.

Then he said, “They’re all dead Bobby.”

I had to think about who was dead for a second and figured “they” were the members of his squadron. After an uncomfortably long pause he collected himself and added, “So how’s everything in Connecticut? And how’s your Mom?”

I was surprised he remembered I lived in Connecticut.

“Mom’s fine and you know — all is well with me. The usual go to work, come home, eat, go to sleep, go to work, come home …”

He began fading in and out during our conversation, always trying his best to look and act the way he remembered himself in his days of glory. We small talked and ate for about an hour or so before the conversation slowed to a stop. There really wasn’t much left to say.

“And how’s your Mom?” He asked as if it was the first time.

I replied, “Oh she’s just fine, Unc, just fine.”

“Wanna watch some TV, Bobby?”

“Sure, Uncle Tone.”

“I’ve got this video from someone in the squadron about a year ago but I haven’t been able to hook it up. It shows the island of Attu, the place I was stationed during the war. Do you know how to run that thing?” pointing to his vintage VCR player. “What do you say we pop it in?”

“Sure, I’d be glad to.”

Close by was a plastic bag. It took a while to find the necessary wires to make the proper connection. We then sat and shared a very special part of the pilot’s past. He explained in detail, everything on the video as if all happened yesterday. Remarkably, he remembered just about everyone’s names in the squadron. As it concluded, I once again commended him on his service and bravery, explaining that I didn’t think I could never do what he did.

“Oh sure you could, Bobby. I know you could.”

Again, I was honored. Clear out of the blue he said, “Well Bobby, I think you better go now.” The plan was that I’d maybe spend the night, but I didn’t question him. He walked over to the cold, cluttered wood stove where the box with the birdhouse patiently waited.

“No more burnin’, huh Unc?” I said in a sorrowful manner. Preparing wood for the winter heat was such a big part of Tony’s life.

“Those days are gone, it’s much easier to turn up the thermostat,” he said as he slowly bent over to pick up the package. “Here Bobby, this one’s for you.”

“For me?” I pretended I didn’t know.

He handed me the package and walked me to the front door.

“You got the last birdhouse. I hope you like it. I made it a little more special.”

“Should I open it now?”

“No, no, wait ’til you get home, Bobby.”

His welled up eyes touched my soul, but there were no tears. He reached out to shake my hand and gave me his traditional Uncle Tony “grip of steel.” I gave him a man hug with my free arm and thanked him with all the sincerity I could find in my sad and humble heart.

“I’ll put it up as soon as I get back.” I said.

The look in his eyes was one of quiet resolve as he smiled an empty smile. I hated to leave him in such a way, but he wanted me to go.

“As I said before Unc, you’re my hero. Take good care of yourself, I love you.”

“Love you too Bobby — — and please — -tell your mom I love her.”

I slowly made my way down his crusted snow covered steps with one hand on the railing and the other clutching my Christmas present.

“I’d be glad to clean this up for you Unc. It’ll only take a minute.”

“No, no — — that won’t be necessary. I’ll get it later. Don’t worry about it.”

The sun’s last hurrah was closing in. It wasn’t long before the winter night sky would swallow another Christmas day. But this Christmas day was one I’ll never forget. It was the day I got the last birdhouse.

At this point light freezing rain began descending from the bleak Vermont sky. I carefully skated my way along the icy driveway. My car once again was a frozen mess. As I placed my hand on the car door handle I looked back for another farewell wave goodbye. Not only was he gone, the front door was closed. I started my car, turned the heat and defroster on full blast and waited. As I once again began scraping the icy snow off my windshield, I heard what sounded like a gunshot from inside the house. I dropped the scraper and ran to the front door only to find it closed tight and locked. I ran to the large living room picture window, peaked through drapery and saw Uncle Tony lying in his fully reclined, Barcolounger with the flickering light of his favorite cable TV news channel reflecting off of his tired, used up lifeless body.

After quickly calling 911, the police and rescue services arrived within minutes. They broke the front door lock and ran to Tony’s side. The gun he used was his Colt M1911 semi-automatic, his military issue pistol. It lay on the floor directly below his drooping right arm. A single shot to his right temple restored the dignity the Navy Pilot could no longer maintain. After some very gentle police questioning, I was told I was no longer needed and free to leave. While the coroner addressed Tony’s body I walked to the refrigerator for a bottle of cold water and glanced at Tony’s list of birdhouse recipients on the wall next to his telephone. Every one of the names now had Tony’s checkmark of completion along with the date of delivery. Mine was the last: December 25, 2013. The impeccable timing of the former Navy pilot proved true once again. The last birdhouse finally had its home. Mission accomplished.

Chapter 10

Calling Mom to give her the news was extremely difficult. Fortunately, she knew far more about Uncle Tony’s deterioration than she led me to believe. Had I known exactly what she knew about his condition, I might not have gone and she knew it. Mom also told me about a recent dream she had that involved her dear brother glowing in his Navy whites, climbing an infinite flight of stairs. By the time the police arrived to investigate, it was too late for this weary soldier to drive back, so I spent the night at a motel planning to leave in early morning. When I called home to give my wife and family the news they offered to drive up but it wasn’t necessary. All I needed was a good night’s sleep.

Exhausted as I was, throughout the night I tossed and turned as my mind spun contemplating the day’s events. “What ifs” ricocheted across my mind like a game of Ping-Pong. Had I not gone to visit would Uncle Tony still be alive, was the big question. Should he be alive, was another.

I eventually fell into a deep sleep during early morning hours. I awoke to a beautifully lit morning and a brand new day. The best thing I could do was to get home to my family ASAP. I gathered my few belongings and headed back to The Arlington General to pick up a piece of fruit, a buttered roll and coffee for the trip. Coincidentally, according to the portico clock, it was 11:30. It had been exactly 24 hours since my last visit. Expecting to see my new friend Jake I learned he had the day off. News of Tony’s death was abuzz across the entire breakfast counter.

A brightly lit blue cloudless sky accompanied me through the entire ride, “CAVU” as Uncle Tony would say, a Navy term meaning, “ceiling and visibility unlimited”. Although my good friends, Frank Sinatra, James Taylor and The Beatles were by my side ready to help, I didn’t listen to one note of their music. The events of the previous day were enough to occupy every second of the four-hour trip.

As I pulled into my driveway, sweet little Zecca jumped to his lookout perch atop our overstuffed leather chair overlooking our picture window. His affectionate and joyous greeting momentarily erased all of the events of the prior day. Dogs have a way to do such a thing.

I was delighted to find all gifts exactly the way they were when I left, fully wrapped under the tree. Honoring our long time Christmas tradition, one by one we rotated through each of the presents, saving Uncle Tony’s for last.

By this time all I really wanted was to do was to sit in my own leather recliner next to my stoked wood stove, light up a $10.00 cigar and sip on a glass of Jack Daniels, and I did. After opening all the presents, one remained, the last birdhouse.

Praying silently, I held the package in my trembling hands and slowly removed Tony’s wrapping from the box, one piece of tape at a time. My eyes welled with tears, as did the others in loving empathy. I opened the box and removed the crumpled sheets of old New York Times. A tag tied to the perch read, Tony-Built Handcrafted Vermont Birdhouse. Above the entry hole were my initials. Between the perch and the hole, made to look like an address, was the number 1130. It was actually the 1,130th house he had made. To everyone’s surprise, rolled up inside the hole was a handwritten note.

Dear Bobby,

I’ve flown many bombing missions over Japan and have come very close to death. Flying out, I never knew if I’d return and many of my buddies didn’t, but I’ve never been as frightened as I am now. Lately, I find myself doing things I don’t understand and every day brings more and more confusion. I’m afraid that very soon, I will no longer be able to take care of myself the way I need to and the last thing I want is to burden anyone, especially your sweet mother.

I have been blessed to see more than most have seen in ten lifetimes. Although I have days with some clarity, they are becoming rare. It’s time I relieve everyone from the pressure of worrying, including myself. I know that God is merciful and that I will be forgiven. Please take good care of your mom. I know you will Bobby. I know you will.

Yours truly,

Uncle Tony

For my sweet Melina

I’ll always love my sweet Melina

please my twin, do not cry

I’ll soon get brand new wings

and once again shall fly!

I’ll see you in Heaven sweet sister

Your loving brother,

Tony