Letters

Every year in mid-August, my dad had a ritual, with him and others, and it became more special in the late summer of 1992, his last summer, and two months prior to cancer taking him out too early in the game.

Dad would anchor himself in the long outdoor lounge chair with an old-fashioned glass on the small table to his right, and my homemade Sinatra tapes singing to him from the grass. For Dad, not a man of Eastern thought, that was the perfect moment.

I would walk up to him and sit beside him on the Sinatra grass while Dad pretended not to notice my arrival. His head and eyes were focused on the huge tree that stood for the 30 years that we lived in Southampton Shores. As he focused on the tall tree in his gaze, Dad would point to a cluster of branches high in one of the clusters of trees, trees that stood tall despite Dad’s and my lawn mower gouges at the base bark.

This tree was very close to another big tree to its right. The space between the two trees was very close to the width of whatever push or sit-down lawnmower we had during those years. However, the space was never wide enough for any of our mowers.

But this never stopped Dad or me from trying to get through the two trees so that we did not have to go to the garage and get the never-in-20-years-sharpened spring clippers.

Back to Dad’s focused stare. Dad would say, “Do you see them?” Every year, around third week of August, they would be there. It was a branch up high, with over 12 small tributary branches and leaves. But those leaves were unlike the other summer green leaves that surrounded them. This annual spot had deep, intense red to maroon leaves.

Dad would then say, “When I see that every year at this time, I know that the end of the summer is near and that autumn will soon be upon us.” For those leaves, that spot was not the summer but was the fall.

Dad lived in a world of tough people, and he had to always be tougher, but in his soul were a poet and a big man who could cry unchecked when it came to his family and his love for them.

That is the part of my dad that he passed on to me more than any other hereditary trait. He knew that I had this gift and that it would be a great gift but also a great burden.

Joseph A. Chiarello

Southampton