I’d walked so far west from the East Village that I’d reached Seventh Avenue and Fourteenth. The universe had obviously landed me at the 1 train station for a reason. I knew exactly where I wanted to go. I hopped the 1 downtown and took it to the end of the line at South Ferry, where I got onto the Staten Island Ferry.
Grandpa isn’t one of just four coddle bird siblings. They also have one rogue tribesman: Great-Uncle Rocco, their other brother, who no one talks to except when they have to, because he’s not very nice, and he lives in that outer, outer borough known as Staten Island. He might as well live in Connecticut for how far away Staten Island felt. Nobody likes Great-Uncle Rocco, and the feeling is mutual. I always made it my mission to like him, because somebody has to like the people no one else likes or the world would just be hopeless. And the best way to extract holiday cheer, I’ve found, is to spend some time with the most curmudgeonly person you know, and their grump can’t help but force you into feeling good, because it gives you perspective and balance. Maybe that’s why I love—I mean, very much like—Dash so much.
Maybe I should have corralled Dash for Lily’s Day Off, but everything we did together lately seemed to lead to disaster. A lone, rogue trip to Staten Island was probably a safer bet.
My mom calls the Staten Island Ferry “the poor-woman’s cruise,” and I could see why. For just the cost of a MetroCard swipe, travel grandeur was achieved. As the boat pushed forward, I marveled at the convergence of rivers and city skyline, and felt my mood immediately brighten. I waved hello to the Statue of Liberty and, as always, worried about Lady Liberty. Her arm must get so tired. I wish she could switch arms sometimes to give the one holding up the torch some relief. Her torch arm is probably way buff, though. Don’t mess with her, bad guys.
I was surprised how much I reveled in the aloneness of the day. I so rarely spend time with just myself. The coddle birds who coddled me were probably right. I was delightful, at least on a day like today, with no phone to trap me, no responsibilities, alone with my thoughts and the wonder of the water. It was almost Christmas! I could feel the organic inklings of excitement as I remembered one of the poems Mom used to read to us at this time of year, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart,
When the full river of feeling overflows;—
The happy days unclouded to their close;
The sudden joys that out of darkness start
As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
White as the gleam of a receding sail,
White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,
White as the whitest lily on a stream,
These tender memories are;—a fairy tale
Of some enchanted land we know not where,
But lovely as a landscape in a dream.
Once the ferry docked on Staten Island, I took the S62 bus to the island’s most important destination, Joe & Pat’s, for a most perfect slice of pizza, just as Grandpa taught me. Then I walked over to the gas station on the corner, which is also an auto body shop. Uncle Rocco owns the business. I’ve caught Grandpa and Mrs. Basil E. reading the Yelp reviews of Uncle Rocco’s and laughing. “Crook” is the most common word used in the reviews, but customers also proclaim they won’t go anywhere else, because no other shop does as good a job, even if Uncle Rocco price-gouges them.
Uncle Rocco was sitting on a chair outside the auto body shop, wearing a mechanic’s uniform and smoking a cigar, despite the regulatory signs on the gas pumps stating that smoking was not allowed on the property. “Hi, Uncle Rocco!” I said. His face scrunched, trying to recognize me.
Even though it was warm, I hadn’t been able to resist wearing my favorite red winter hat with the red pom-poms dangling from the ears. I think that’s how Uncle Rocco finally placed my face, because I always wear that hat on the one day of the year the family sees him, November 29, when Grandpa and his siblings go to visit their mother’s grave in Staten Island, on the anniversary of her death. Thanksgiving followed by that annual cemetery trip are what usually kick off the Christmas season for me, but we hadn’t made the journey this year. No one even remembered.
Uncle Rocco frowned. “Did someone die?” he asked me.
“No, but Grandpa had a tough year,” I said.
“Hmmph,” Uncle Rocco said. “There any other reason you’re here?”
“No.”
“Then be on your way. I don’t give discounts, if you’re needing a gas fill-up.”
“I don’t!” I said, exhilarated. “Merry Christmas!”
Finally. The season had begun.