Uncle Tony, Fairview NJ, 1979. My mother was the youngest of five children, born to Italian immigrants. When they came to America, they all lived together in a big house, so I really grew up with that larger-than-life, Italian New Yorker side of the family. Uncle Tony wasn’t blood, but he might as well have been. This big, strong man with hands that could span both my shoulders when I was a kid. He’d take me on these walks, teaching me life skills in the way only someone who’s lived can—someone who’s had to survive. He’d say things like, “If you ever get lost in the woods, watch what the birds are eating. What they eat, you can eat. Don’t eat berries if the birds don’t eat them.”He had this huge scar on his face from a workplace accident, something straight out of a movie. No fancy plastic surgeons back then—just raw, lived-in features, every crease and scar telling a story. When I photographed him later, I was drawn to the same hands that taught me dandelions were edible. His hands—open, strong, weathered by life—said more than words ever could.
