My Al died in his sleep on July 15, 2021. We were planning on helping him move that Friday morning to my Ma's house and celebrate his birthday that Saturday. It was supposed to be a new beginning. Instead, I had to move all his things out for good.
Albert Metrano. Alberto, Albit, Albet, Alburt. Al. Everytime we talked, the first thing he would say was, "Hey, Willie!!" joyous and teasing. Sometimes, "Wilbur!" Growing up, I hated being called Wilbur but loved it from him. I called him my stepdad but really he was the only father I ever knew. He and my mother were together and not together for almost 50 years. He was a constant man in my life. I think he knew that although he wasn't blood, he was family. I told him, often, that he was my real dad, but he was too humble and always changed the subject. I can recall one conversation where we talked deeply about it. I told him I was proud to call him father. Of course he brushed it off, but I insisted, and the tone in his voice changed. I told him to own it and he finally did, proudly.
He was a soft and kind man. Funny, quiet, weird, awkward, hardworking. He cared deeply for the people in his life and would break his back to help in any way he could. I can say with certainty that my memories of him are all good. From water-skiing for the first time at nine years old, behind his leaking wooden boat, with a 15hp motor on Milton Three Ponds to watching him play with my daughter and all of the grandkids, nieces, and nephews. He came to every show, so proud. A gentle proud. Nary a harsh word and oh so giving. He seemed to always know I needed money for gas and tolls so I never had an excuse not to visit. Slipping me a $20 and a couple of rolls of highway tokens. For you young people, tokens were old timey E-ZPasses. I'll bet when I go through his things I'll find some. He never threw anything away. He still has what's left of the stereo he bought in Thailand during the war.
Al was a Vietnam Veteran (Air Force recon) and, although he hated war, he was proud of his service and the people he served with. He looked after his buddies (some interesting characters to say the least) and his door was always open to them. Some were outcast, damaged, and troubled. Didn't matter to him. He saw the good in them and made sure they knew they could always depend on him - unlike the VA, which he fought his whole adult life to get the services he earned by putting his life on the line for his country. Although, in the last few years, he finally got what he was due. He talked a lot about how lucky he felt to have VA health insurance for all the major surgeries and medical procedures, and the vet benefits to pay his bills and retire with dignity.
He was still trying to slip me money, even the last time I talked to him. "You guys good with money? I know you're doing a lot of work on the house."
"We're good, Al."
"Well, if you need money..."
It might seem superficial but to poor working class schmoes like us, that is a sign of love. He worked his knees off laying carpets for decades after his service and squeaked by like many of us, so money was always tight. Sometimes our belts were tighter. Mostly, he showed up. That is the real currency of love. Showing up. A lesson that took me far too long to learn. He showed up without a sense of obligation, but because he wanted to. That's love, y'all. I just hope I can continue to do the same.
I have so many vivid memories of Al - some of my earliest are of him. When he and my Ma first started their relationship, he would come to the house only on the weekends. Magically filled weekends of lake living, mountain climbing, camping, fishing, and trips to the dump. I remember, when I was 4 or 5 years old, one Sunday night Al was leaving Milton (the house I grew up in) to go back to Mass to work laying carpets for the masses. I stood at my darkened second floor bedroom window, crying my eyes out, quietly begging him not to leave. "Don't leave, Al! Please stay!" There were a few of those until he settled with us and became a part of our family. I'm feeling that right now. Come on, man, stay just a little bit longer. Grief, regret, so much more to talk about and experience. But I am also full of love and joy. So much of who I am is because of him. We talked a lot in the last few months. I'm really grateful for that. In the last, I don't know how many years, we would always end a conversation or a visit with an "I love you." In fact, that was the last thing we said to each other.
Al loved his family, friends, Ma, and the lake in Milton. Man, did he love Milton. We all did. So many great times - swimming, waterskiing, jet skis, fireworks, cookouts, birthdays, holidays, fishing, and epic games of wiffle ball. He also loved the Red Sox with an unapologetic fever pitch. He loved baseball and never let contrived rivalries get in the way. He was an old school scholar of the game and knew every player, stat, and roster. He took me to my first game when I was in my single digits. Season dugout seats borrowed from a friend. I remember leaning over and getting high-fives from the likes of Fisk, The Yaz, Remy, Pesky, Evans, and my favorite growing up, Jim Rice. I love the game of baseball because of Al and passed on the tradition of the Fenway experience to my own daughter. Field of dreams for sure. Thank you for that, Al.
He had a lot of health issues, mostly his heart. He had a bout with cancer a few decades ago. But it was his heart that finally gave out. Quadruple bypass a few years ago and then another complicated heart surgery a few months ago. I like to imagine he used up all the love he gave and his heart was done. I thought about him dying in his sleep and was having trouble trying to express myself to my wife, Paula, with words I remembered from a poem. "He just slipped the bonds of Earth ... or something." She corrected me and I looked it up. It was a poem by John Gillespie Magee, an American aviator and poet. Magee served in the Royal Canadian Air Force, which he joined before the United States entered the war; he died in a mid-air collision over Lincolnshire in 1941.
-High Flight-
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, – and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air…
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew –
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
We love you, Al. I know I speak for so many when I say, I am a better person because I knew you.
Born in Woburn, MA. Son of Albert J. Metrano and Catherine Meeham.
Al is survived by his loving partner and companion of 48 years, Deanna Butler. He is loved and missed by his sister Carol Milton, of Milton, NH and Venice Florida, Scott Milton, nephew, of L.A. Calf., nieces, Renee Surrette of North Port, Florida and Michelle Surrette of Venice Florida and great niece Savannah Westra of Venice Florida. The Butler family: Lorraine, Deanna, Judy, Kenny, Billy, Paula Place, Jesse, Kaitlyn, Rayne, and Emily. He is predeceased by his sister Ellen.
Calling hours will be held Monday July 26, 2021 from 10 am to 12 pm at Peabody Funeral Homes and Crematorium 15 Birch Street Derry, NH a graveside committal will be held immediately after in Forest Hill Cemetery with military honors. In lieu of flowers, please donate to Wounded Warrior Project in Al's memory:
https://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/