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May 11, 2005

Uncle Steve

I stood in the crisp, midnight air, filling my lungs with the scent of lilacs and wet earth, pivoting cautiously, watching the carousel of giant trees dance under the brilliance of the starry sky. A bush rustled and I spotted an opposum balancing on the thin ledge of my fence. “Aaw. How cute,” I couldn’t help a sigh.

So happy to be back in my garden, after a Mother’s Day visit to Canada and a ride home through the sunlit Pennsylvania hills. “Charlie,” I suddenly recalled my son’s slim fingers rubbing the satin surface of Maddalena’s dust jacket, half keeping the book shut, half wanting to open it, “Charlie, I’m not sure if this is up your alley, but ... ”

Amazing! Maddalena is one of THOSE books that even my cool young man will read with pleasure. What a Mother’s Day gift!

I crossed the terrace to touch the white anemonies at the edge of my spring flower bed, firm, moist, almost as if made from glass, glistening in the carpet of pinks, mauves, and purples.

“How are you, Uncle Steve?” I reached behind, for my new laurel tree. Its hemlock-green, almond-shaped leaves felt firm, the spine erect with the sheer pleasure of being in my garden. “I know,” I mumbled. “You’re just great.” Even in the dark air, the tree’s new shoots appeared to be spurting before my eyes.

Laurels are for victors. Maddalena is for me.

Why name a tree Uncle Steve? In Slovakia, where I grew up, it was unheard to call any adult by the first name. It would have been impolite. The relatives were “Uncle Peter.” Or “Aunt Mary.” My mother’s best friend was Aunt Helen. And then, there was Uncle Jack, the magazine kiosk vendor, and my grandpa’s budddy, who always slipped me a small piece of rock candy with his newspaper. I picture Uncle Jack’s face, smooth but for the sea of wrinkles on his forehead, puckered with a quick new gossip. Those days, when I couldn’t read yet, I thought he was one of the cleverest of people, besides my grandpa and my father. He was so much fun!

So is Uncle Steve, who deserves a laurel tree. Darn bright and darn kind. If you want to meet him, click at the bottom right corner of my home page on authorbytes.com. If it weren’t for Uncle Steve, I wouldn’t be telling you about starry nights and new uncles.

Posted by Eva Siroka at 04:01 PM | Comments (1)