A Glass of Uncle Paul's Wine

They didn't like misleading anyone, but Peter and Theresa wanted one last night at their modest cottage perched near the edge of the Norton Reservoir. It was Labor Day, the day everyone packed up and went home for the season. They followed their annual routine, just like their neighbors, but they always seemed to have a few more things to finish. When others asked what time they were leaving they simply replied "a little later."

The real world would have to wait for them until tomorrow morning. Instead of leaving in the late afternoon like the others, they would sleep in Norton tonight and jump in the family sedan shortly after dawn. Peter would make the drive north up Route 1 and jump on the MTA at Forest Hills. He would take the elevated railway to his job at the construction site in Boston’s rapidly expanding downtown. Theresa would make the short drive from Forest Hills to the family’s triple decker in Roslindale. Once there, she would spend a few minutes downstairs with Peter’s mother making sure that everything was OK and then would labor non-stop upstairs until her home and family was prepared for the fall and winter ahead.

One by one, the other families pulled away, leaving another Norton summer behind in their rear view mirrors. The plan worked. They had the shoreline to themselves.

The children, Michael and Angela would rather have headed home with everyone else. School would be starting soon, and they wanted to catch up with neighborhood friends and their summer adventures. Who wanted to sit and look at an empty lake? Michael was 16 and was fully expected by all to join the Union like his dad. He had other plans. Angela was 13 and knew she was going to make the world a better place. She just hadn’t taken the time to figure out how. They both knew that complaining about staying one more night would lead to swift and sudden judgment with a predictable and unpleasant outcome.

Everyone quietly went about their business. Father and son were outside, securing the dock, gathering any stray items on the small lot, locking up the rowboat and bicycles. Peter fiddled with the new transistor radio, hoping to pick up some of the Sox double header. He gave up as the signal just warbled in and out, one of the downfalls of remote country life.  Mother and daughter kept busy inside, cleaning and stowing away all the household items that would not see sunshine until next May.

As the sun began to set, even cynical Michael could appreciate why his parents wanted to stay. It was a perfect evening and they didn’t have to share it with anyone.

A September chill began to take hold and everyone put on another layer, good warm sweaters produced just a few miles away in the textile mills of Fall River and New Bedford.

Next Michael and Peter set about building the fire. The fire pit was meticulously built three summers ago out of carefully selected salvaged bricks. Peter collected them for years from various jobsites throughout the city of Boston and his masterwork was the envy of the Reservoir. 

Peter would bring the used bricks home to Roslindale two at a time in his empty lunch pail all year and transport them every spring in the trunk of the sedan to the cottage. He sorted the bricks by size and shade with all the inherent skill of a European craftsman. Sitting on the cottage porch at night he produced sketch after sketch by moonlight. After eight years he had enough bricks and a suitable design to create his masterpiece.

He settled on a low, slightly elevated circular design that accentuated the view of the water from the cottage. He selected the location that optimized the sunset for as much of the summer as possible. It was surrounded by four low arching benches of brick topped with slate. It snugly seated eight adults, two per bench. Peter insisted on building it all himself with only Michael to help move the bricks. Construction took an entire summer of frustration, passion and sweat.

On this Labor Day, the evening fire seemed to thrive on the cool air lightly coming in off the water. Soon there were red glowing hardwood coals giving off perfect warmth to the ideally positioned benches.

All the work was complete. Peter went to the cupboard above the sink and stretched for a bottle of homemade wine encased in a woven straw basket given to him earlier in the summer by his Uncle Paul. Good strong stuff, just like his uncle. He grabbed an old mason jar for himself and the only wine glass in the cottage for Theresa. He took a juice glass and poured in a little water from the sink. For his hard work and growing maturity, Michael would share a carefully diluted glass of wine tonight. Peter had a bottle of root beer put aside for Angela that she would drink straight from the bottle. He put them all on a worn wooden tray that proudly showed years of faithful service to the family.

As he went from the kitchen to the backyard, Peter rested the tray on the porch rail and pulled the dinner bell which had more recently become the signal to neighbors that the fire pit was open for guests. Tonight there would be no guests, just family.

Theresa grabbed light blankets she had left on top of the chest in the bedroom, just in case, and brought them to the fire. She handed one each to Angela and Michael. Usually Theresa and Peter sat across from one another on different benches but tonight she deftly slid in beside her husband as he poured her wine.

After a few minutes of light conversation the moonlight and the glow of the fire began to take over. Peter began to hum lightly. This was a ploy to encourage Theresa. She had a beautiful voice that she usually only shared as she washed dishes or very softly in church. Taking her husband’s cue, she transitioned his humming to a gentle song. It was an Italian love song, a favorite of them all. They looked out to the Reservoir and reflected along with the beautiful lilting melody.

To young Angela the song was a treasured lullaby that her mother sung to her as a little girl. Tonight her thoughts skipped like hopscotch. She thought about how she missed her dog, she thought about the nuns at school and hoped they would be nicer this year, she hoped that next summer the 14-year-old boy from the next street over would notice her more instead of just playing stickball with Michael.

Michael resisted the collective warmth of the ballad, the wine and the fire. He looked at his father. He wanted to blurt out he wasn’t joining the union. He wanted to shout out across the reservoir that he was going away to college. He desperately wanted to tell his father that he was proud of him and wanted to honor his example of hard work by blazing his own new path. He knew he wouldn’t understand. This conversation would have to wait. Now was not the time. When would it ever be the right time?

Peter had his right arm around Theresa’s shoulder and slowly flexed his left hand. The pain in his fingers was getting worse. He looked across at his children and worried that the ever increasing pain in his joints would strip him of his livelihood. He needed to get Michael established in the Union and Angela married off to a good man from a respected family. How could he do that without his trade? Would he be the strong husband that Theresa deserved when their years of raising the children were over? He forced the fear deep inside himself safely stored alongside a lifetime of other fears and secrets. He sipped slowly from the mason jar and began thinking of tomorrow’s workday.

As she sang, Theresa allowed herself to turn back to her youth and her family. She thought of her brother who went off to the War as beautiful young boy. He returned a hero but a different person, inside and out. She longed for the days when he would tease her and joke with her and also protect her. Now he was the one that needed help and protection. She thought of her mother, the woman who taught her the very song she was sharing with her family. After raising children, she had to take care of her ailing husband and was now burdened with caring for her own grown son. Theresa looked out beyond the moon. She took comfort in knowing that her mother would receive her reward someday. She would be rewarded for all her good works over the course of a very hard life.

The fire dwindled and the children went off to bed. It would be sleeping bags on bare mattresses tonight. Theresa went off too and urged Peter to come inside soon. Peter took a stick and slowly pushed the coals to the center of the pit. He poured what little remained of Uncle Paul’s wine around the outer edge of the surrendering fire. He looked out to the Reservoir and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Peter rose from the bench and walked slowly to his cottage, moonlight on his back.

Summer was over.