This week, I learned that my beloved cousin Peter Ambro died last year, and I want to let others know about this good man and influential person in my life.

Reflecting on the times I shared with him, I realized that Peter was my first true male role model. About 10 years older than me, he was the son of my mother's brother, Peter Sr., and his wife, Henrietta. Both were reporters for the Associated Press in New York. After Peter Sr. died (shortly before I was born), Henrietta mostly split her time between their apartment off Fifth Avenue in midtown and a cottage in South Egremont, Massachusetts, where she retreated on weekends.

When Peter was in his mid-teens, she allowed him to live at the cottage during the week on his own, taking the bus to school in that one-traffic-light country town in the Berkshire Mountains. He even had his own space in a small shack a few yards from the cottage. As a young boy, I found that arrangement so cool, and throughout his life, Peter maintained this admirable, sort of "do your own thing" independence.

My sister Mary and I, with many dogs, including Peter's German Shepard "Satchmo,” at the bottom of the stone stairs at his family’s cottage in South Egremont, Massachusetts.

From before I was born, our family would visit there, mostly during the summers. I remember fondly the games we played on that wooded, one-acre property at the foot of a ski-lodge mountain — my sisters Mary and Maureen, Peter, his German Shepherd "Satchmo," and a beagle named "Sherry." Our aunt and parents barbecued, and we'd all gather around the picnic table on a flat slab of rock outside the cottage's kitchen door. Those trips are among my most cherished childhood memories.

My mother with my sisters Maureen, left, and Mary, and Peter at Bash Bish Falls in Massachusetts.

When I was about six, my family moved from Brooklyn to South Egremont, and we got to see Peter and Henny more often. There was one evening in particular — he was about seventeen, sitting in a chair in our living room — when I distinctly remember observing how cool he dressed and looked, the way he carried himself, and his calm demeanor as he engaged with others. He already seemed like a mature adult to me, and I thought: I want to be like him when I grow up.

After about a year and a half in Massachusetts, my family returned to New York (Queens), and as we moved into our teens and twenties, we'd still periodically drive up to visit Peter and Henny. After my aunt died in the mid-1980s, I remember going up to visit Peter, now very much a man and an even more admirable person. The cottage was all his own, and he redecorated it with his artworks and books. He listened to jazz, wore finer clothes, read The New York Times, told tales of his trips to Italy with his girlfriend, and served wine with his home-cooked meals. He worked as a chef and bartender at fine restaurants in the Berkshires, which was becoming a popular destination for New Yorkers looking to escape the city. In short, he had become a more sophisticated version of the teen I'd always looked up to. Yet he was still the same Peter — good-natured, smart, and funny, with a wonderful wit and a warm, distinct laugh. I found I still admired him and wanted to be like him.

Peter, left, at my sister Mary's wedding, with my sister Maureen, mother Rita, and me, in 1986.

Years later, when my mother, Rita, was gravely ill and in the hospital for months, Peter drove down to see her one last time at her bedside and stayed at our house. The next morning, we walked together to a local deli, and I recall how easy it was to talk with him as we shared our love of sports and interest in politics. It was comforting to have him there, and wonderful to spend time with him despite the grim circumstances.

Peter, left, and I in his cottage, getting ready to watch a Dolphins-Patriots game together over a fine meal in October 1999.

As the years went on, I would drive up to the Berkshires to visit him roughly every five years, often with friends, including a weekend with my girlfriend. Peter cooked us a beautiful meal at his cottage: squash ravioli with red wine, as if we were at a five-star restaurant, while we watched the Patriots and Dolphins on his small television. On the drive back to New York, she expressed how surprised and touched she was that he had remembered her mentioning she loved squash ravioli and had quietly made it just for her. But I wasn't surprised. That was just Peter.

In more recent years, I drove up to see him a few more times. On one visit with a friend, though, we arrived to find the cottage abandoned. For a moment, I feared the worst. But when I stopped at a restaurant where he used to work, the owners told me he had simply moved to a nearby town. What a relief! We found each other, hugged, laughed, and shared a good meal and a few drinks at a cozy pub he frequented.

The last time I saw him, I brought my father, who hadn't seen Peter since he was a teenager. We went out for a bite and had a wonderful time reminiscing. That visit came not long before my father died in 2020, and even then I noticed Peter wasn't looking well. I reached out to him a couple of years after that, but hadn’t heard back.

When I learned of his death this past Thursday, I felt sad in part because my sisters had been talking about driving up to the Berkshires this fall, hoping to reunite with him. Little did we know he had already passed.

The obituary my sister found online and sent to me captures him well, and I hope this remembrance does, too. Peter Ambro was my first male role model — warm, calm, smart, sophisticated, funny, and just an all-around good man. I hope I've been able to cultivate some of his best characteristics. No matter, I will always be grateful that he was part of my life.