a generation lost in space

uncle phil with gram. it will surprise no one to learn i have no idea what year this was taken.

It’s been many years since we could say, “there we were all in one place,” but the line came to me shortly after I hung up the phone with my cousin, Mike. His dad, my Uncle Phil, was gone. 95 years and six months after he was born, his body had enough.

Uncle Phil was my grandmother’s last remaining sibling, and I swear I thought he would live forever. He was always on the move. And his mind was as active and fit as his body. I remember as a kid, we would hang out in the Gagliardis’ basement home gym, which was later repurposed as the cheap seats for many Dirty Blond “house shows.” They named the room “Muscle Beach” and painted the walls accordingly. I used to watch Uncle Phil, Rick, Chris, and Mike work on the punching bag I could never figure out. Still can’t.

The truth is I spent more time at Uncle Phil’s than I did at my own house. Most of the time, we’d just hang out and watch hockey, or play hockey in the driveway while Uncle Phil and Aunt Evelyn sat on their porch with lemonade or iced tea. I remember laughing like the little kid I was every time one of us missed a goal and Uncle Phil would make that fart sound. What’s it called, a raspberry? Why would anyone name a fart sound after a fruit? I guess it doesn’t matter. He loved to make that sound. And we loved to laugh at it.

Uncle Phil was the kind of person you wanted to pattern your life after. I know I did. Like Uncle Barty, he was strong, successful, and unassuming. I wouldn’t go as far as to say he was silent. When he cared about something, he let you know. And he sometimes came off a bit grumpy, but in a lovable way. I guess we all have that in us. Maybe not the lovable part, but certainly the grumpy.

Uncle Phil gave everything for his family, and that extended to us. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his children and grandchildren. And he never expected a thing in return. He didn’t do what he did for credit or adoration. He didn’t keep a mental ledger, and he certainly didn’t ask for recognition or praise. He only wanted his family to be safe and happy. He was a parent. A great parent.

Growing up next door, it seemed like the Gagliardis were the family who had everything. Philly was grown and gone. So were Lynn and Kim. We were our own thing—Mom, Gram, Marc, and me. But across the little gully that separated our yards, I saw what anyone would describe as a complete family. Now, of course, I’m older and wiser. At least enough to know families come in all shapes and sizes. They all work and don’t work. And, like I’ve written before, sharing blood doesn’t necessarily make you family. But we did share blood, and their house always felt like home to me.

They had lots of things, too, but I don’t remember Uncle Phil ever buying something for himself. It was always for the kids. Little things like volleyball nets, basketball hoops, pogo sticks, giant inner tubes for the pool, and other games. They were the first people I ever knew to have Jarts, before good sense prevailed and stores stopped selling them. At least I think they did.

The Gagliardis—my Gagliardis—were the only people I ever knew who owned a unicycle. Rick, Chris, and Mike used to ride it around our neighborhood. They rode it over our homemade ramps and did tricks on it as though it had more than the one wheel. It was like watching tightrope walkers who looked like they were just walking across their kitchen floors to grab a snack from the fridge. Mike taught me how to ride it—Mike taught me a lot back in those days—but I could never do much more than a straight line without losing my balance. And if my one career yoga class is any indication, I couldn’t even manage a straight line on it anymore.

Uncle Phil also gave us experiences. We built a baseball diamond. We built an ice rink. Our first “nets” were chicken wire around small poles. Those didn’t hold up well against real hockey pucks, so we eventually replaced them with steel pipes and chain link fencing. They worked much better, but they were heavy enough to make the ice crack during the edges of winter in Lockport, NY.

Uncle Phil didn’t buy go-carts or minibikes for his kids. He got the parts and showed his kids how to make them. Or maybe he made them, himself, down at the Wobble Shop. Marc and I weren’t officially allowed to drive them, but of course, we did it anyway (sorry, Mom). We were kids having fun. You know... like kids. I still remember young Mike walking around saying “Wanna buy a minibike for thrrreee dollars?” in a funny voice I could never replicate.  

I’m sure they had their disagreements and fought like everyone else. Like the time Mike was trading pranks with Chris and Chris balanced a cup of water on top of the side door. Only instead of Mike coming out and getting an impromptu shower, it was Aunt Evelyn who went in, with a full basket of fresh, dry clothes she had just taken off the line outside. She was less than pleased.

It’s been a long time since we all got together. That generation—Aunt Eva and Uncle Barty, Uncle Cam, Aunt Evelyn, Gram, and now Uncle Phil are gone, and we’ve scattered to different parts of the country. We haven’t had a family reunion in ages, but we do have memories. Some of my fondest are of the old days at Christmas Eve. We looked forward to seeing each other because there was never any pressure to be a certain way. No eggshells to walk on. We just enjoyed each other’s company. Their house was always filled with music, light, and laughter. And a hockey game if we could find one. Which wasn’t hard, since it was winter and we were so close to Canada.

1940 (i only know because it was on the back).

Uncle Phil loved hockey. I don’t think he ever played, but he loved the sport more than most people. And he loved watching Mike skate. I guess that’s the one thing—if there’s anything—missing about the incredible life of such a wonderful human. After too many years, Mike is being inducted into the Lockport Hockey Hall of Fame. If the ceremony had happened when it was supposed to, Uncle Phil would have been able to see it. But, like many ceremonies and celebrations, COVID had other plans. COVID is a real asshole.

Two years later, Mike’s name is going on that wall where it belongs. Uncle Phil won’t be there in his green plaid pants. There won’t be any fart sounds when someone says something he doesn’t approve of. I’ll be the one watching Mike on the stage, channeling his love and pride through my eyes. It’ll be an almost perfect day.

Death comes to all of us. I don’t know about you, but each time I experience it, it feels a little different. Often it comes with intense sadness. Sometimes it brings relief. Other times it’s anger. This time, it brought a flood of memories and a little bit of melancholy because it occurs to me that three of the men I admired most—Uncle Barty, Mike Kelly, and now, Uncle Phil, have caught that last train for the coast.

I have a feeling I’ll taste plenty of whiskey and rye in the next few weeks.

Cheers.