Memories of Uncle Tony - July 2, 2007

The Mill Pond on Cape Cod was always chilly, causing me to dawdle down the barely-visible path. There was no hesitation in Uncle Tony’s eager stride, however, as he waded through the tall grass to the water’s edge, towel in hand. Molly, the chocolate lab, was already paddling towards a group of ducks on the far shore. “Go ahead,” Uncle Tony offered, but I followed behind, uneasy about what lurked beneath the surface. Gliding into the water, aquatic plants tickled my legs and goose bumps prickled my skin. By the time I had reached the other side, however, caution had given way to wonder, and Uncle Tony and I waded ankle-deep through the marsh watching birds dive for fish or boats navigate the channel.

This was a familiar scene when visiting the Buschi cottage in East Orleans: Daily explorations of spectacular natural design. Uncle Tony peppering an excursion with nuggets of history, botany or personal experience. Deepening understandings of the complex human connection to place.

We would run along the beach to the inlet and if we had timed it right, we could walk along a sandbar finger until we felt we had reached the middle of the ocean. The salty wind would turn my ponytail to straw and the crashing waves would make conversation impossible. We would just stand there, searching the waves for seals and fishing boats and feeling the raw power of nature.

We would return to the house along the beach path lined with roses and honeysuckle and reaching the yard, Uncle Tony would show me a new perennial flower bed. On those vacation days of sun, adventure and recreation, the late afternoon hours would serve as a time of individual retreat and reading. Whether stretched out in Adirondack chairs watching the dusk descend or curled up in a country quilt on the couch, books reigned. Uncle Tony exposed me to worlds through the words of Bruce Chatwin, Wallace Stegner and Alice McDermont. We would peruse his bookshelves and he would hand me his favorite novels, asking in his gentle way, “Kelly, have you read this book? This is a wonderful book.” Rainy days spent inside the cottage did not disappoint, as it was an opportunity to read a literary treasure from cover to cover.


I sliced through the water, my arms extended like paddles. Taking breaths, I could see soft clouds dotting the cobalt sky, and bursts of sunlight brightened the water. I had just learned that Uncle Tony had passed away and as I swam between the boulders of our backyard pond, reflections of our relationship rippled across the surface of the water with the breeze. The time we visited Charlottesville and Uncle Tony proudly showed me the nesting bluebirds in his garden. The summer I took the train to visit the Cape for two weeks and stayed for four, during which Uncle Tony and I witnessed the strength of Hurricane Bob as water lashed the windowpanes and littered the beach with debris. How grateful I was when Uncle Tony rescued me after I ambitiously tried to ride my bike to Providencetown and back (an hour after we were supposed to go to a play together.) The dinner we cooked at the cottage when I stole away from my friends while camping in Truro (and was thankful for a bed and shower). The graduations, weddings and childbirths our families have celebrated together over the years.

The sobs took me by surprise. My goggles filled with tears but I continued to swim, feeling the water cradle me, soothing the sorrow at the loss of my inspiring godfather who influenced me in life-long ways, the swooshing sound of my strokes reminding me of the joyous sense of wonder about the outdoors and literature that he emanated, the sparkling sunlight offering hope that I could pass on the same generous legacy to my sons.