Last week I was interviewed for hours regarding my Uncle’s and my father’s murders in 1968 and 1982, respectively. The discussion went far longer than anticipated because the interviewer wanted to understand how Massachussets, Pennsylvania, Florida, Cuba, and Venezuela all “connected” so extensively with our family. 

This morning I enjoyed coffee with an acquaintance who also asked how my grandfather, whose fathers had lived and died in Massachussets since the 17th Century, ended up in Cuba and then his offspring went to Venezuela. I was happy to give him the 60,000 foot overview.

The fact is that all families have interesting histories. The problem is that relatively few take the time to describe or narrate such to their children and grandchildren, who, if experience is any guide, would be positively delighted to know them and would never tire of hearing them. Who doesn’t remember seeing little ones wanting to know what their fathers or mothers did “when you were little”?

My father would often tell us about his brother, Uncle Max’s antics in Cuba. My father was an excellent baseball player, Uncle Max was an excellent swimmer. My father only beat him once: a marathon swim in Santiago Bay (if memory serves) where Uncle Max committed the cardinal sin of over worrying about another swimmer who was supposed to be his greatest competition. 

As Uncle Max kept looking over his shoulder to see where his “competition” was, my father pulled away and beat him. Everyone — especially my father! — knew that would be a once in a lifetime. And it was. But that didn’t stop my father from teasing Uncle Max about it for decades.

Uncle Max was a firecracker — full of energy and stamina. Retired in Miami, well into his 70s and into his 80s he swam 100 laps, and later, 50 laps every day. I am convinced that exercise regiment forestalled his succumbing to Parkinson’s Disease in 2007, his 91st year.

That energy and invincible good humor was on full display early one morning, again in Santiago Bay. Only this time my father and Uncle Max along with two other friends were in a boat fishing. Uncle Max’s line tensed suddenly and the boys realized he had caught something terribly big! He worked the fish, but eventually ran out of fishing line.

Yes, he jumped into the bay and kept working the fish! I laugh as I write this. I always think of Uncle Max when I see the beginning of The Lord of the Rings where Peter Jackson depicts Déagol, Sméagol’s cousin, hooking a large fish and jumping into the river after running out of line. It is there that he sees the One Ring to Rule Them All and … well, you know the rest of that story.

In Uncle Max’s case, his friends and my father rowed while yelling at Uncle Max to “Let it go!” They caught up with him and laughed until they cried. I believe it was a giant Grouper, but do not remember. This story was last told me many years ago.

My cousin Eileen once told me that when she understood that her father, Uncle Max, had fought in WWII in the Philippines, she climbed on his lap and asked him, “Did you die?” I was not there but can easily see my uncle laughing uproariously.

It’s not easy to choose one’s “favorite” Uncle Max story, but I suppose it would be the one where, again in Cuba, the boys, including my father and Uncle Max were swimming back and forth and jumping or diving in, just having the time of their lives.

They did not notice, or rather, they ignored a large yacht moored nearby. 

Soon a crewman, in bright whites, came to the dock where the boys were diving and swimming and called Uncle Max to him. 

“My boss would like to challenge you to a swim. Would you agree?”

“Yes! Yes! Tell him yes!” — It is difficult to convey Uncle Max’s energy and enthusiasm with mere words.

So the gentleman on the yacht approached in a dingy and introduced himself by name.

They agreed to the natural markers for their swim and dove in. Uncle Max won.

As they caught their breath and congratulated one another for a good swim, the gentleman again stretched out his hand and asked, “Do you know whom you just defeated?”

“No!”

“You just defeated the Jamaica Olympic champion. Congratulations!”

None of that ever went to Uncle Max’s head.

In 1984, at my wedding’s reception held in a military base in Puerto Rico, someone came to me and whispered, “You have a call.” 

A call? 

I followed the gentleman to an office and picked up the phone which was lying on a desktop. 

“Hello Ricky! Congratulations!” said the voice on the other end. It was a voice and a laugh I so easily recognized. It was Uncle Max and his wife, my Tía Carmencita.

May you rest in peace, Uncle Max.

Uncle Max, far left; my father, center. With cousins in Massachussets, circa 1920

Uncle Max and his sister, Aunt Sarah, circa 1975

Uncle Max and Tía Carmencita and Aunt Sarah and Uncle Luis (“Wichy”) came to see us at the gate at the Miami International Airport while we were on a layover on our way to Venezuela. Uncle Max is second from right. Circa 1989. 

Middle row, left to right, Cousin Sarita, eldest daughter to Uncle Max and Tía Carmencita, Tía Carmencita, Uncle Max. I am in the back; the rest are five of my children. Miami, Florida, circa 2002.