Sometimes, and I could not figure why, he would skip the second step and go from first to third with a world-class move. With an ever-present cigar stub tucked in the corner of his mouth, its smell pervasive, a reliable box of Dutch Masters on the visor, he pushed the clutch, pulled the shift into first, stepped on the gas, wound it out, pushed the clutch, shifted into second, stepped on the gas, wound it out, pushed the clutch, shifted down to third, and toe-tapping the gas, he spun the wheels, the chains shrieked, and off we went. It was exciting to watch him maneuver the clutch and the shift.
GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE - SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLAST But grumbling was not an option in Uncle’s world. The whirring heater’s fan was gasping and cranking.
Hard drops of sleet whacked the windshield. We jumped into his ’49 Dodge two-door truck. As I struggled to clasp the thousands of buckles on my rubber boots, he bellowed up the stairs, “C’mon, c’mon. Staying at home during a “Nor’easter” was simply out of the question. He had no fear, and so at thirteen, neither did I. Snowstorms thrilled him, and he blended that thrill with a desire to help people. Uncle Carlo was married to my mother’s sister, Della, and they lived in the same tenement house his family on the first floor, ours on the third, grandparents, of course, on the second. In fact, notwithstanding its beauty and sometimes adventure, I don’t want any snow at all.
No, never mind, I don’t want a blizzard, and I have enough excitement. In a rare moment of weakness, I (almost) hope it happens again so I can relive the excitement. It was he who helped me revel in big snow when mounds of it lined the sidewalks. As winter tracks us and we come closer to those extraordinary snow days of childhood, I think of my Uncle Carlo and his adventuresome spirit.