Sudden horror shatters a haven

By John M. Angelini

I was 9 when my cousin Joe went up in flames. More than 70 years later, the vision lingers.

I was raised in the shadows of five-story tenements, so my weekend visits to Uncle Ambrose's were a journey into a wonderful new world: open spaces that smelled of wild flowers, freshly turned loam and trees heavy with fruit.

I remember strolling under a canopy of trees whose bursts of sunlight filtered through the branches like exclamation marks. Blackbirds feasted on corn stalks in vast fields bordering winding dirt roads that led to neighbors too far away to chitchat with. Billowing clouds sitting on the horizon, like frosting on a cake, completed a memorable image.

Uncle Ambrose's farm was my haven. To me, he was Paul Bunyan and Johnny Appleseed wrapped in skin as brown as a newly plowed field, his hands as gnarled as the roots of an ancient oak tree. Beneath this rugged exterior lay a warm and gentle soul.

His farm was a gathering place for family members, where Aunt Marie's Old World Italian recipes were served outdoors at a long, handmade wooden table under a grape arbor. It was here that the wonder and mystery of adult talk filled children's ears.

One unusually cool summer day we all donned light pullovers and jackets. Cousin Joe, the family handyman, scoffed at us, claiming that the grill he was about to light would provide all the warmth he needed. But Uncle Ambrose coaxed him into wearing a cardigan.

Joe added a layer of charcoal to the simple round container, put the grill in place and added the fuel. With a flourish befitting a cocksure man, he tossed a lighted match into the bed of charcoal.

Nothing happened.

Annoyed by his initial failure, he added a good measure of fuel, tossed in another match. A flame erupted, accompanied by an odd swooshing sound. Joe's anguished cry brought every member of the family to attention.

His face was contorted in horror, his eyes stared, beseeching help, and his arms flailed in desperation. We all gasped as his cardigan caught fire. My father, the learned scholar of the family, stood petrified, his gentle upbringing failing him in a crisis.

Aunt Marie's and my mother's screams pierced the air and sent chills over my body. They both shielded their faces and turned away. I watched the others, both young and old, relative and friend, as stiff as marble statues and unable to assist Joe.

Then Uncle Ambrose rushed toward Joe and without hesitation threw his arms around him, smothering the flames with his chest. Joe seemed in a state of shock, his body rigid with fear until Uncle Ambrose patted his cheeks and gently whispered, "Giuseppe, Giuseppe." Above the pulsebeat of my throbbing head I heard what sounded to me like voices emerging from a cave.

"Bravo, Ambrose, bravo."

Cousin Joe's and Uncle Ambrose's burns were superficial, soothed by a magic Italian concoction. Aunt Marie trimmed the singed ends of Joe's eyebrows and Uncle Ambrose's mustache. My mother gathered the burned, smelly garments and threw them into the trash.

When everyone finally calmed down, Uncle Ambrose decided it was time to celebrate our good fortune. Glass tumblers were lined up on the dining table. Uncle Ambrose filled the glasses with homemade red wine, passing each around, including a half-inch measure for me. I felt proud and important.

Uncle Ambrose raised his glass and said, Per cento anni (for a hundred years), before drinking it down.

As I grew older, my visits to Uncle Ambrose's farm became less frequent but always created fond memories. In 1960, at age 78, Uncle Ambrose died of prostate cancer. My pain remains. I lost a father for the second time. One was a scholar whose influence taught me the beauty and glory of culture, the other a farmer who helped me to realize the meaning of love and the importance of God's earth.