DIVINE REMEMBERING a novel, of sorts, by michel demetria tsouris 2014

DIVINE REMEMBERING  a novel, of sorts,  by michel demetria tsouris 2014

GENERATIONS ON THE CLIFF, ikariotikos

My foggy memory confounds me.

Squinting, I peer over my shoulder.

I glimpse the formation of what appears to be a line.

There are figures forming.

They are both familiar and indistinct.

I recognize my self, as a point on that line.

It’s my family.

But they all appear in a tangle.

I catch a glimpse of them swirling around like clouds in a reflecting pool.

When I finally decide to quit entertaining the voices in my head,

a beautiful thing happens.

A crystalline image arrives, just like he said it would.

Each character emerges, a procession and then a dance.

This is the invitation I needed, now I begin, to remember.

My cousin, Kosta taps me on the shoulder.

I picture him often. He is smiling, nodding his head in approval. He is a big knowing.

He is floating somewhere on the edges of life, or just on the other side of it.

“We live under a shroud, honey, until we learn to see,” Kosta told me.

“We’re in hiding?” I asked him.

“Yes but one day we will emerge in a burst of light,” he said.

“A gift of age?”

“A gift from the gods,” he corrects. “Access, by invitation only.”

‘’Will I be invited?”

“Of course!”

“How do you know?”

“Because you question. That’s your ticket in.

You venture half way to the experience and it meets you there.”   

“And make a space,” he continued.  

“Make a big vacant space, everyday. All sorts of muses drop by when the stage is clear,” his head tilted and a quick wink was sent my way.

I remember his father’s house. I was a small child surrounded by tall trees moving around the rooms, speaking a language that was liquid one moment, staccato with the sound of k’s, t’s and x’s the next. Warm limbs with large hands dangling from their edges reached down to pinch cheeks, tussle curls, launch us into space. The rooms were fragrant with oregano, olive oil, amaranth and dark greens boiling in kitchen pots. The furniture was solid and dark and old as the trees. Some pieces had come here by boat, like we all did, others came in the door, freshly made in America.

Kosta’s mother served us those hard toasts. We called them buxamathia, it was the first word we learned to speak. We spread them with goat cheeses, or dipped them in our coffees. Coffee was served throughout the day, in small porcelain cups with saucers. It was served even to the children. There were plates of fruit from his father’s garden: apples, peaches, figs, grapes. And the  glyko visinno, the dark morello cherry dessert, it transported us out of our bodies. Eyes, without warning, erupted in streams of sheer joy, when it was served.

In those days, in that house our family extended itself through their customs. They were deeply satisfied by the pleasure and the pain of each other’s company.

When the air ran out of the room due to the sheer number of lungs occupying the space, and when the space became intolerably small due to the number of arms flailing in expressive dialogue, the children would abandon the house. Generations of children repeat the practice. Climbing down the cliff behind the garden, crossing the railroad tracks and disappearing into the park.

“Pou einai ta pathia” “where are the children?” this phrase was a mantra and it rolled through rooms full of relatives. It was sometimes uttered with degrees of concern. More often it was uttered out of habit of uttering. One eye was always cast in our direction, someone always knew where we were. Worrying was left to those whose specialty it was to grind their teeth, wring their hands, tap their feet, and finger the carnelian beads.

Everyone else carried on weaving their lives together.

Kosta’s father, my great uncle Nick, the head of the clan, had two walls of windows looking out over the park. In that room with the family collected and with so many eyes watching over us, we felt safe.

Trees everywhere, as human bodies and as flora, always an umbrella always a promise of more to come.

DOWN-UNDER, 1957

In uncle’s house the volume of voices rose steadily throughout the day. Before I was old enough to join the gang in the woods I stayed inside with the tall house-trees filling the air. When I needed a reprieve from the din, I retreated to a favorite and private playground.  I crawled under the dark mahogany table. It was the table that routinely provided places for ten or more. It owned the center of the room. The room held another ten or so perched at the edge of upholstered chairs, coffees in one hand, the other free to add to the conversation.

On the day that we learned Kosta would be leaving, I remember calling to him from down-under. Although I behaved as any four year old might, something elusive, yet powerful was nudging at my subconscious that day.  That was the day I began to understand that the world was full of layers. Most of the layers could not be seen or touched. What I didn’t understand at the time, was that the intangible layers would have the most profound effects.

"Oh yeah Erdie like you knew."

"I knew" she proclaimed with no explanation offered, in her mind none needed.

"Cousin Kosta!" I called out from underneath the table.

Kosta often looked as if angels were whispering in his ear. So it took several minutes or maybe it was a decade before Kosta shook himself out of his dreamworld.

His mental wandering was widely accepted in our family. A chorus of impressive ah-hems  drifted through the house to bring Kosta back to earth. After a very long while, Kosta responded to the tug I had given him. He dropped to the floor, laid on his stomach pressing his right cheek against the old floorboards.

Screaming and shrieking rang out from underneath the table.

"What's the matter under there?"

Erdie, Pompernickel and I were suddenly hysterical.

So much time had passed since I had tried to get Kosta’s attention, that we had forgotten about him. From our perspective a cyclops had descended from the heavens. Kosta waited for the hysteria to subside. He studied the scene cautiously. His eye fell upon an ocean of blonde curls, a four year old in corduroy overalls and a holster packing two pearl-handled firearms. A ten-gallon hat lay upside down creating a grand canyon. Around the rim were armies of cowboys and Indians, horses and teepees, and several pieces of bazooka bubble gum, still in their wrappers.

A huge smile galloped across his lips.

"Ti kaneis pouliki mou?" "What are you doing my little bird?"

"Erdie says you're leaving." I kicked the floor for emphasis then fell flat on my back in a submissive puppy pose, I looked pleadingly into his eye.

“And me and Pompernickel aren't happy about it, neither's Erdie!”

"Eddie?" Kosta asks not at all sure who Erdie is.

"Yeah she says you and Thea Sophie, Nick and Georgie, are leaving us."

Kosta understood the problem. He didn’t want to talk down to me. That was not his manner. He considered his options carefully.

“Who’s under there with you?” he asked, his eyes pulling into each other trying to get a clearer view.

I pointed to my friends and Kosta tried to follow, but his eye just kept on moving out from under the table and straight on out the door, no Erdie no Pompernickel to be seen. Kosta nodded his head and offered his hand, just the same.

"Pompernickel says howdy." I told him. But he still seemed to be registering a blank.

Kosta disappeared for a short while. I heard him address Sophie, his wife, but they were speaking softly in that other language and it was too difficult to track.

Kosta’s eye reappeared under the table. "You understand honey I have lived in this house for many years. My whole life I have been surrounded by my parents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Now I need to go away.

"I will be back you know, I am not leaving forever, you do know that right?"

The sounds from above grew loud and soft in waves. Little earthquakes of coffee cups jiggling in the shaky hands of the old relatives, added a percussive quality. Sometimes I heard my name spoken and would notice the big tablecloth waving and lifting just enough to afford someone a quick peek into my world.

A small bag slid underneath the table. It was a red pouch and very lumpy. Pompernickel reached for it, but Erdie intervened. “Let Mischa open it!” she scolded.

Kosta felt he had not done a good job consoling me, and he disappeared again.

A second consultation with Sophie was in order. And the consultation soon grew into a meeting of the extended clan.

I heard the voices of my parents, my grandmother Archondoula, my great aunt and uncle Kostia and Nick. There were now so many voices overlapping, it was an impossible knot they had tied, and I could not decipher a word of it.

After a short while my little threesome resumed our afternoon: staging bank robberies; playing filling station; rounding up cattle; smiling at the swirling colors in our new bag of marbles.

SOMETHING IN THE AIR, 1957

On the morning that Kosta left I asked  “Erdie, did you hear thunder?”

THE NAME DAY, etc 1951

“Kαλημέρα, μητέρα.” “Good morning, mother.” Kosta came down from his third floor apartment and kissed his mother on the cheek. “You are up extra early today?”

“Aλήθεια, παιδί μου!” “Thees true, dear!” She smiled back at him.

“Today,  xyou father’s name day, xyou remember?” she continued.

“Oh yes, mother, no one forgets father’s name day,” he offered this teasingly.

“Where is father? Gone to pay his morning visit to the poor men at the newsstand, I suppose?”

“Oh xyou know xhe love that exercise.” Kostia made an unintentional pun and they both laughed.

“Can I help you in the kitchen? What are you making?”

“Nai xyou start bake the bread, ees ready go xin oven. Don’t forget put the oil on top, very lightly, eh?”

“That’s a small job, for a grown man, what else can I do for you?”

“xYour thea Archondoula has made the spanikopitas, and thea Fio made the kouroulikia, may be xyou go collect them for me?”

“Με θέλετε για να πάρετε τις θείες μου ή τα τρόφιμα;” “You want me to collect my Aunts or the food?” he joked with her.

“Go xget them all the Theas, the food, the cousins, xgive them ride in your father’s car, they like thees.”

“Even Fio, mother she lives just across the street?”

“xYou know she love go for ride, peeck xher xup, take xheer to Archondoula’s and then xyou go around collect the cousins. It make fun for them.”

“And pass by thee newsstand and remind xyour father be nice to men today, for  change, it xwill do xhim good. Tell xhim it is good luck to be kind on holy day. xYou tell him, message  from  wife who xloves xhim, despite xhis argumentative ways.” She was half-serious, the bigger half.

“He was particularly grumpy this morning, eh?” Kosta asked.

“Oh xhe excited thees morning, xyes, something about job Dimitri xhis doing, and xyou know xyou father love to cry weeth the speilled milk, in the paint too.”

The painting company his father owned was the pride of the family, and also a thorn in everyone’s side. For Nick, Kostia’s dear husband, found his rare moments of satisfaction in the mistakes his men would make at work. It gave him an opportunity to prove his superiority in matters large and small.

“Ok mother, I will do it with pleasure, I just hope my head is not chopped off before the party, it will be difficult to eat your delicious food!” he loved to cajole her and he meant every word of it.

“Who is coming today?” Kosta asked

“Kosta, xeveryone come today, xall the family, and maybe xwe have  xhundred people in and out  xhere today, I xwill no be surprise. You father xhe important man to many families xhere, xyou know that. They love xhim, and sometimes, not so much, but they come bexcause they respect xhim, even xhis bad side, they respect,” she reminded her son, knowing there was no need, but she did it to remind herself as well.

“I hope thea Stomatoula will come, I haven’t seen her since father’s last name day celebration.”

“Oh xyes honey she ees xcoming, and everyone in xher family ees come too.”

“How about the Moraiti from West Virginia?”

“Yiannis, yes and Rosie, and Nicko, Eleni, I think cannot come, but all the others, xyes.”

“The Mougiannis?

“xYes they come.”

“The old lady, I forget her name, the one who always drinks a little extra krasi, and dances with cousin Teddy?”

“Oh xyes.”

‘’And all the Nicolas and all the women named Nicolettas, they will all come to celebrate their nameday with father, as well? No?’’ Kosta asks, already knowing the answer.

“As many as we make fit in xhouse!”

“How about cousin Michaeli, he brings those big photo books with the funny pictures, all out of focus? Then he insists we all study them as he recites stories about each one.”

“xYes xhim too, xhoney and xhis wife and xhis five children, all grown now, but they all come together.” “And I’m xsure the books with the piktures too, coming.”

THE PATRIARCH 1940

Nick walks to the corner for the morning papers. At the newsstand are all the regulars.

It is seven in the morning, they’ve been there an hour, had their first coffees and their first set of discussions. Americans would say they had been arguing fiercely but, among their own tribe, it is merely a friendly discussion.

The air is thick with smoke, from the blast furnaces lining the river banks, and from the stacks of American tobacco dangling from the lips of the cafe’s patrons. Nick, who would only choose a cigar, moves his nose in multiple directions, expressing his discagreement.

The men are quieted when they notice Nick has arrived. The mood shifts, the men brush off the dust and order their thoughts back into line. Everyone greets him with measured enthusiasm. Nick surveys the group, his moustache stretches taut, his lips purse.

He questions one of them about plans for the day. The man has no plan. Nick knows this, but likes pointing it out.

The man stumbles for an answer “I take the wife to doctor today,” he mutters.

‘’Good, good, and xwhere xyou xwork now, George?’’

‘’The mill,” this he submits with an odd hesitance. 

‘’Good, good, so today they geeve you day off?’’ Nick’s voice rises into the air along with his eyebrow.

“ Well I no there yet, no xright now but soon they promise bring me on, maybe next week.’’ ‘’So, my friend, ἀποχαιρετίζω, good to see you.’’ George offers as he moves quickly away from the Nick and hurries down the street.

Nick decides to take a small cup of coffee with the men. Someone tucks the deck of cards into their pocket while Nick adjusts his chair to the table.  He studies the news in the old country and the new. He addresses the group professorially, picking up mid sentence where he left off yesterday morning “xyou are fools to no grab the opportunities een front xyou now, xhere, in America. Do xyou read the papers, do xyou know what continues in our old home, the war the deceit, the torture, the poverty?”

“βέβαια βέβαια Niko.” ‘’True, true.’’

“Then tell me xwhy, I find xyou xhere every morning, idle, carefree, no direction?”

“I am xwork now Niko, I am handyman for my landlady, I get thee free rent, now!” he tries to defend himself.

“Free rent! What is free rent? Thees ees no work thees no labor thees no make our America better. xYou fool, xyou xhang on breasts of the lady, stand up like a man, Demo, get a real job, make us all proud of xyou.”

The men were hushed now by the conversation, they felt ashamed, and this was expected.

“I come xhere to remind xyou of the great culture of which xyou are the sons. I don’t come xhere to buy my papers; I could send my cheeldren out for thees papers. I come xhere to tell xyou men; we are one body, all parts one body. If one arm broken, the rest suffers. You men are broken by lack of passion in xyour lives. You know show thee ambition. Don’t xyou see what xyou are making? You are making a big xhole in the xheart of our body, big black xhole. Think what xyou will do today, think past that deck of cards in your pocket. I know xyou xhid them Spiro, I saw xyou.

Now who thinks he like to learn paint a bridge today?”

On the way back from the newsstand Nick takes the long way home, through the park.

He wants to think, be alone. He questions his motives. He knows he oversteps boundaries, he is just not sure why he does it, not sure how to recognize it. This is why we marry, he muses. My wife, she sees through me. I think I am behind a bush crafting a clever way to coerce a man into doing a job he doesn’t really want to do; she sees me a mile away, clear as day.

‘’O Nicko επιδέξιος eisai,” he hears her voice haunting him.

‘’A manipulator?’’ he asks the voice in his head, ‘’you think of me that way?’’ ‘Theese men  raw, naïve, they have just arrive here, they looking for father figure,’’ he thinks to himself. ‘’I xam a father, the patriarch, for sure,’’ he continues. ‘’Or am I bully? Both maybe, but thees  what xthey need. Thees  what I need, too. Strong young bodies, aimless without my direction, it ees my place to put them in their place. If I no get to them now xthey wheel lounge their lives away.”

“They no understand, they in America n o w, life it wait for them xhere.

They need to be pushed so they can dive into it. I push, that’s all, until they dive.

Okay yes sometimes too much, they gasp a little, but eventually they all swim. I tell them ‘you are no longer on that island so far away, the island that hold so little promise for any of us now. The future is good xhere,  promise ees xhere. The only way you can enjoy the promise, ees to work. You have to make those strong arms and legs swim to the prize. Thees country is a body of water and you must learn to navigate thees water. I swim xcross the body of thees country on xyou back, so xyou wheel know xhow to stay afloat. Sometimes I choose to build the bridge across the water. This is what I have done, I build the bridges and I use xyou to xhelp me do it. Yes occasionally I throw xyou from the bridge, it is the lesson plan, it is for xyou.’”

Satisfied with his answers he cuts across a wooded path and heads back home.

There is coffee and bread, cheese and fruit laid out for him to enjoy. His wife is waiting for the paper, the one in her language. She is interested in news from Europe.

Nick’s wife is devoted to him but has not lost her sense of her own purpose. Her mind is agile her hands gifted, her spirit soft and kind.

She intends to walk lightly through this world but also to impress upon it the need for kindness and its free expression. In this way the two have found balance in their world. Nick busily sets out to acquire power through ownership and she acquires power through the commerce of gifting her family with grace.

In their home you feel the tensions. If you do not look closely you can easily mistake them for discord. They are not in opposition. They exchange foundations for each other.

They grow more and more together as they age. They are married in a profound way.

The children know this without speaking about it and it is passed down. It is passed down to their sons and it is passed down to their nieces, nephews and cousins just the same.

They call us to their home often, and in large groups. We are their witnesses. We are the family, we were not thrown from the bridge, but given many lessons on crossings.

‘’Kostia, pou einai Dimitri, twra?”

“He left for the school, Niko, he has the examinations today,” she answers.

“He is going to be the brains of thees family eh?” he suggests.

“All the boys bright Niko, thees ees  great gift we xhave, our children.”

“Well they have the Larda kai Moraiti in them, this is what is expected,” his tone a bit indignant he notes their ancestral roots.

Kostia delivers him a quiet but sharp glance ‘’I consider eet gift, not demand place on them. The xcheeldren make they own decision in end, thees is what I wheel admire in them. We show them the ways to find their life’s purpose, but they make choose. You theenk what xyou like Niko, but you mistaken.”

Nick accepts this tone from his wife, in private, in public, these words would never be spoken. “I do ekxspect the boys will be part of my stable of xworkers. I ekxspect them to build my company xwith their brains and their faithfulness to their family,” Nick reminds her.

“I know what xyou ekxspect, and I believe they xwill try their hands at thees, but xyou xremember, they must follow their own passion as they discover it,” she reminds him.

Nick takes this advice and his coffee to a seat near the window, away from the table he and Kostia have shared. He stares out the window, many plots criss-cross his crafty mind.

He likes to be right, and he is sure his boys will satisfy his desires. Women only know so much about these things, he mutters under his breath.

Kostia catches a word or two of the muttering, ‘’ ti eipas” she asks, “what did you say honey?” 

He answers her “Tipota, pathi mou,” “nothing, my dear”

He calls to her from his window seat, “and Kosta what he ees doing today?”

She answers with a smile on her face, “he is re-write poems from last week, xhe must feenish for class tomorrow.”

“Eh? Really? And Kimon?” he continues.

“Kimon has go to the art class again today. They in park paint all day,” Kostia reminds him, her pride sounding through every word.

“xYes he xwill be the best painter, for sure, I need xhim to be the best one in my crew, I can count on xhim for that, I know,” Nick pronounces.

Kostia is silent.

In her mind’s eye she sees her son, sitting in front of a tall glass wall, the landscape outside is rolling hills and waterfalls, there are animals grazing. Kimon is poised, brush in hand, in front of a large beautiful wooden easel.

A big smile forms inside her belly and radiates out to her lips.

Nick does not notice.

Upstairs there is movement. The borders are awake now and descending the back stairs.

Kostia has made them a plate of food to start their day. Nick grunts as they enter the rooms.

He pulls his watch from his vest pocket. He gives them both a nod.

“xYou go to Youngstown thees morning, with Jimmy and Gus. xYou prime the I-beams xyou forget to do xyesterday. xYou feenish by lunchtime and xyou come back and clean shop. Kataleveneis?” ‘’Understand?’’

 “xYes of course, Kirios, we will feenish that for xyou today,” their answers are identical and only slightly out of sync. This is the chorus of obedience, music to Nick’s ear.

Nick directs them to eat quickly, Kostia hands them each a napkin full of braided

butter-cookies and a hunk of goat cheese. They smile and hurry out the back door.

The men have been in the United States only two months. They have no papers, no family here, no English. They are known as the ship-jumpers. They are at Nick’s mercy. They feel lucky to have been brought here, to this generous house, with warm beds and food. Work is waiting for them every morning.

This is what they hoped for, a new beginning. They are willing to do whatever is asked of them. They walk a few blocks to find a Jimmy or a Gus waiting for them in an old stake-bed truck.

Jimmy and Gus have worked with Nick for many years, they are team. Every month or so Nick finds reason to fire one of them in a storm of impatience, always the next day they are –re-hired, as if nothing ever happened, the uproar swept neatly under the bridge. They greet each other laugh and joke about the day ahead. They load the heavy scaffolds onto the truck, the compressors and the hoses, the cans of paint, and they are off.

Someone passes out cigarettes. Someone sings a folk song out the window. Someone mentions the beautiful cloth of Nick’s suit and the shiny gold watch. They are young and strong and longing for the day they will have their own nice house, a sweet wife and a tailored double-breasted suit.

MANOLIS 1934

On a spring morning the winds that sweep across the bridge are soft and slow.

The men are relaxed as they begin again the staging of their scaffolds. The wood and steel pulleys handle the thick ropes with ease. The planks are raised and lowered giving every man the access to the beams and girders. The heavy compressors stay below on the deck of the bridge. The hoses and spray guns are hoisted up along with the men. Their buckets loaded with lead paint, and it is metallic silver today. The sky the guns the cans the paint the beams and girders, everything is silver. The men see this as a good sign. The silver portends well for the future. The future looks golden to them. First one precious metal surrounds them and slowly they work their way toward the most precious one. Gold the color of Nick’s watch, the color of their hopes, a rich yellow gold.

These men know how lucky they are to have this work. So many people are still without work in America, the depression still in its act of recovery.

Their good friend, Manolis, has met them here today. He is their foreman now. He had a restaurant in a neighboring town, but with a dwindling number of paying customers, the restaurant had closed. He had built a fine business, and had a devoted following. The food was good and plentiful, the room always alive with conversation. The walls decorated with family photos, the ones his customers had brought in for him and they were displayed willingly.

Manolis provided what he could to anyone who could not afford to pay full price.

Manoli Tsourees, Manolis in English, was my grandfather and Archondoula’s husband.

My father told me that at lunchtime his father would serve a porterhouse steak with potatoes, bread which Manoli himself baked fresh each morning, a salad of tomatoes and cucumbers, goat cheese on top, a cup of homemade soup, a cup of coffee and for dessert a big piece of peach pie. This entire meal he served for fifty cents. He loved to cook and to serve his customers: coal miners and steelworkers, bakers and shop owners of the small town. He loved the simple conversations that sprang up each dawn. He looked forward to details of the patrons’ workday when they came in for coffee or a small pastry at night.

He loved hearing about the children and the wives, although the stories were often

colored by sadness, disappointment and loss. He loved to listen to them talk, their language reminding him of violins and clarinets, bouzoukia and minor melodics. The town bordered Appalachia. Home to many families living in valleys, called hollows or in mountain villages, not unlike the one in which he was born. The small enclaves of families in Appalachia had their distinct dialect, their own music and folklore handed down in the oral tradition. Writing and reading were not among the populations’ accomplishments.

Five thousand miles of separation but poverty and isolation from the broader culture defined both communities. 

“Ella ella mesa, come come inside” Manolis voice, a safe haven to those who crossed his threshold.

“Got moornin’ Manolees, what ya’ll cookin’ up hear theis moornin?

“What it ees xyou plesuure, sir.” his kindness slightly embarrassed the men, unaccustomed to being addressed with politeness.

“Shure would luv somma yer black coffee.”

“Ahmeh, certainly, it couming right up.” “Xyou look tired, Zjack, you not sleep good?”

“The lil fellow’s gut that thar bad cough, agin. Keeps me n Zilly up all night long.”

“I make you nice warm brrekfest, xyes? Somthing make xyou feel good today.”

But, despite the best efforts of so many immigrants, the depression and its slow recovery

re-routed the course of many lives. Some for better, some for worse.

In the spring of 1934 Manolis shuttered the doors to his passion and joined his brother-in-law’s crew. The men handled the bridge as if it were a big ship on the sea. They swaggered on the gangplanks, sang and teased each other mercilessly.  Manolis was the elder in the group, then Jimmy then Gus, then any two boat jumpers. The boat jumpers would meander in and out of the team, according to Nicks dictates and or the immigrants fancy. So to name them here would be pointless, the names changed often beacuse the men were like a river running through the clan. Only a few were ever invited all the way into the family business. For the most part the chain of command was established by their ages. Being willful men, they had to negotiate this daily, it was one of their many practiced feats. Acrobats and jugglers of will, they rose high above rivers and bays, daring, brave and reasonably cautious.

“Whos xhave the turpentine, Kosta, xyou took?” the ship jumper asks.

“No xyour friend Zjimy xhe drunk it for breakfast, accentdentally, I am sure.”

Jimmy, sober each morning, was prone to late night carousing, womanizing and more than moderate imbibing. His friends never missed an opportunity to torture him on these points.

“Zjimy Kost tell me xyou dtrink the turpentine again today, xyou go get more for me?

“Te les, vre? What do xyou say fool? Very big funny guy, xyou and Kosta, too. xYou jes jealous I xhold my whiskey too good, I dance all night with pretty girl, xyou wish you were so lucky, me!”

The other ship jumper, the one they sometimes called Pouliki, the little bird, as he was delicate and spoke more sweetly than most other men, was waving to the men from high above. He was performing for them, and scaring them to death at the same time.

“Oh Zjimmy, does thees look familiar to xyou?” he teased. His back was turned to the men and all you could see were two hands embracing the Pouliki’s back. “I dance with a prettiest girl, eh?” he swayed rhythmically on top the arching span. He was on point, a ballet dancer in workboots and paint splattered overalls, a fisherman’s cap cocked to one side.

“Να το διάβολο, προσέξτε, να κατέβει από εκεί! To the devil, and be careful, get down from there. ”

“Zjimmy Zjimmy, drink all night, dance with girl, until day light.” Pouliki sang this to Jimmy still feigning a woman’s embrace and skipping across bridge girders. On the long rides back home, Pouliki sat behind Jimmy and intermittently would hum or sometimes whistle the tune, until Jimmy would erupt in mock anger, threatening to eat his first born child.

Fools on the high wire were not tolerated by any of their bosses. This would include Nick, their wives if they had them and their mothers if they were bachelors. There were no day time drinkers in the crowd, no man held any deep anger that would rise up and surprise the others. There were no jealousies lingering, at this time. The men were confident that their work was being done skillfully, and thus afforded themselves a few antics to spice the day with fun.

The men expected Nick to be proud of them. Occasionally he was.

Although Nick did not often come to the job sites, he had an elaborate chain of command.

He trusted his closest relatives to describe the progress of each project in detail. And they did. Many though suffered through his outbursts of temper, which were normally short-lived, but effective in keeping every man quite on his toes.

“I hear xyou no feenish the north end of that span today, xam I right?” he would question.

“Oh Nick of course we do what xyou ask, it feenish.”

“Completely feenish?” he would press for confirmation.

“Yes all xfeeniscsh ecept one lettle spot need a touch up we do tomorrow.”

“So it no feenish, eh, like I say?”

“Like xyou so say, yes no feenisch, and like I say, feenisch ecept for one teeny lettle spot!”

“xYou try and make fool from me?”

“NO, Nicko, never make xyou fool, we are the fools, not xyou, eh?”

“What you mean by theese? You try to make fun with me, thees not funny, ees seerious. When I say feenisch, I mean feenisch, today not tomorrow. For to make feenisch tomorrow what xyou could make feenisch today, ees big mistake for you. And one big meestake is like a forever preganent woman, it give the birth to one other and then one other big meestake.”

For Nick, making mountains, in fact volcanic mountains, from molehills, was a specialty.

He liked to begin his questioning in the early evenings, setting the tone for the night, where the men could, if they so chose, redeem themselves with sufficient groveling.

Nick was a sort of perfectionist with regard to his standards.  He saw himself as meticulous and thorough in judgment and action. He liked to see himself as egalitarian, gallant and munificent.

I have known of several exceptions to this, of course. There are tales of his hesitance to spend money. His cleverness in devising ways to surreptitiously achieve this goal was disdained and admired with equal intensity. Nick trained his men to stretch a can of paint into oblivion, to save a few dollars every day. This left more than one customer shrieking at his foremen.

“How many gallons the paint you take with you this morning, Manolis?” this sentence ushered forth from Nick without forethought, as it had been repeated thousands of times and often at the same hour of every day.

“We take fifty xyou tell us to take, Nick, fifty jes like xyou say.”

“And how many feet of bridge xyou paint todays?” Nick was making notes as Manolis recited his numbers.

“No more?” incredulous no matter what the number. In fact the words ‘no more?’ usually darted out of his mouth before Manolis had time to give his answer.

“Is very very important xyou make the paint go much much more far than thees Manolis, very very important, for our profeet depend on xhow far xyou make paint cover the steel.”

“xChes Niko, I know, the men do the beest they cen for xyou, do xyou know thees, too?”

“I keep wonder,” Nick spouts, having the last word, which is more important than the facts.

 In accepting a list of hours worked by his painters, he often transposed numbers, and made interesting summations, which confounded even the best mathematicians.

“Now, xhouw meny hours xyou Pouliki work today?”

“He worked nine hours, Nick, same as everyone else.”

“Nine hours?” “Is this the truth, xyou say to me?” Nine hours, xyou say?”

“xChes Nicko nine hours for Pouliki, nine for Zjimmy, nine for Kosta, nine for the other ship jumper, and nine for me, too.”

“You not count load the truckee and the drive to job, no?”

“Ches we count load the truckee, but no count drive to job, yes.”

“So xyou want pay for load the truckee at same money I give for make the painting?” every day the same set of questions roll over Manolis or whoever the unlucky foreman might be.

“xChes Nick we all like to get the pay for the xwork xwe do, it is the right thing for xyou to do, xyou know thees, why xyou make me say same to xyou every day? To load the truckee, thees too ees work, xyou no think load truckee ees work, maybe tomorrow xyou come load the truckee, eh, then xyou decide if ees work or no work.” Only once did Manolis have to say this to Nick. And only once did Nick’s sister Archondoula, Manolis’ wife have to repeat these same words to her brother. After that day, Nick found other more subtle tactics to use at days end. Making sure to side step the wrath of Archondoula, being of utmost importance.

THE TAP DANCE 1935

We affectionately refrred to uncle Nick as ‘company-store’. He had a hard time actually letting the money move from his pocket into the worker’s pockets. Often he would hold their money for them, if he thought they were not being careful about how their spending.

This irritated everyone and benefitted just as many over the years.

“Today Zjimmy I owe to xyou, for the work xyou say xyou do thees week, ches?”

“Ches, Nicko, xyou owe to me my wage for the week, ches.”

“Now Zjimmy, xyou xremember, las year when I give to xyou big bonus, eh?”

“Nick, I sorry to tell you but no I no remember big bonus.”

“Well Zjimmy maybe xyou forget but Nick no forget. Anyway I give to xyou and nex thing I xhear ees xyou go buy ena (one) new ice boxi.”

“Nick, I by ice boxi, because my wife say our ice boxi no work, it no work, xwe xhave the bad food, and I must go get new ice boxi, xyes I did do thees, what xyou say about thees, I not understand you. What does my week wage have in common with my ice boxi?”

“Well I say to xyou that day, why no give the boxi to Petros, he fix for xyou, like new, and no cost so much money. Thees way Zjimmy is xhow we save thee money, so xwe xhave the money. Katelavenees, do xyou understand now?”

“Ches Nick, I understand, now.” Nick does not detect the patronization, but takes his compliance as proof that the speach he is now poised to deliver, will go over with a big resounding splash of gratitude at the end.

“So Zjimmy with thees in mind, I decide that thees week, I take one half xyou wage, I put in bank for xyou, and make bigger, so when xyou really can use the money, eet xwill be there, more, and in the end xyou thank me, xyes?”

Jimmy, disappointed by the news, but not surprised, as periodically Nick would make these pronouncements from high on his regal post.  Zjimmy surrendered. He thanked his boss for the paltry sum that did exchange hands, and walked slowly back to his own home.

In the end, Nick played the fairness card, but reluctantly and not without lecture. His bravado was most eloquently displayed when the conversation turned to making money. He taught men how to work, and if one of his men had the desire to start his own business, he supported his venture in every way possible. And that man would never forget the favor. Godfather? Yes perhaps he was. Benevolent dictator? Yes that too. Man with a vision? Very much so.

ARCHONDOULA

My grandmother, Nick’s sister, Kosta’s aunt, Manolis’ wife, her name is Archondoula.

Archondoula raised her brothers Nick and Chris. They were young and dangling on the edge of a cliff in an unforgiving landscape. They were born on an island clouded by years of war and betrayal. Their mother was gone, their father worked long hours repairing boats, building walls or digging wells, anything to bring some food for the table.

Archondoula, at any age, gave the appearance of a woman who could and would do anything she intended. If one found oneself in her path, make way. She was bullheaded, determined, tenacious and persistent. Still she was loved and admired. This was her gift.

Men and women marveled at her energy and her entusiasm for life. 

She had the strength and stubbornness of a pack of mules. Nothing moved yiayia, if yiayia didn’t want to be moved.

When she gave a direction....everyone followed it. Sometimes, if they were safely out of earshot, her brother’s called her ‘the general’. This made them laugh and laugh and then they would, very quickly,  swallow the words back into their mouths. The brothers knew their sister could catch their secrets it in the wind. They perfected the practice of extreme whispering.

Archondoula made sure her brothers had everything they needed to survive and thrive. Most importantly she pointed them in the direction of them selves. She was firm with them and she loved them both fiercely and they knew it most completely.

‘’Vre Nocola pu eise to athelfos sou, where is your brother?” Archondoula asked.

“O Chirstos eena apano sto vouno, Chris went up the mountain.” Nick offered this in a rather muted tone. He knew it would not meet with a pleasant response from his sister.

“Ti les? What deed xyou say? xHe go up thee mountain, alone?  xWhy xyou no go with xhim? xYou know he too leetle to go by heself. Vre to the devil with you, ella, come. xWe go geet xheem!”

‘’Nicola! xHoney!” allowing her sweet side  a moment of freedom.

‘’xYes sister!”

“I xhave something for you and Christo, ella, come!”

Their sister would deliver to them a delicious piece of freshly baked bread.

Or she would make a meal for them of fresh fruits and cheeses.

Other times she called to them so she could tell them a story. She loved the ancient myths and repeated them often, opening her brothers’ imaginations

Sometimes she would lift them up on the donkey and steer them down the mountainside. She would walk beside them letting them enjoy the ride.

Archondoula would take the boys into Agios, the main village and buy them a small candy;

take them to the ocean for a swim; introduce them to the fishermen; arrange for a short trip on a boat to go round the island.

When they traveled to America to find home they left their island laden with memories of wars and deprivations, lost mothers and lost lives.  No one knew exactly where they were going or what to expect. They invented their futures and watched them unfold.  The family reflects on this often. My father chiseled it into granite, so we would not forget: Our parents, they were members of a noble caravan settling as strangers in a new land that their children might enjoy the gift of America.

Kosta revered Archondoula as I revere him. I learned about his admiration for her when I was still quite young. It was in the form of two books. One was a translation from the villages: The Mourning Songs of Greek Women; the other his own poems: In Him Too In Us. These books were inspired, in part by his aunt’s bottomless sorrow, for Archondoula experienced great loss in her life

The depth of her sorrow left its mark on Kosta, a mark that fueled some of his early work. He went on to write many books that reflected back at our fiery ancestry.

My parents brought these out for my sister and I to see. To us his writing is precious.

It is an archeology of our culture’s passions and its sufferings. My sister and I have argued over who should be the keeper of the books. She usually wins, being older and feeling more entitled. Today, however, I have those books.

I have them in my library, and the library has windows all around, overlooking a garden and then a sea, a snow covered mountain in the distance, chickens in the yard, a goat keeps the weeds mowed clean.

I no longer tether the goat, and I have un-tethered myself as well.  Freedom, my cousin, by his example, taught me something about that.

And Kosta, writing about Archondoula’s father, set language free.

In so doing he also gave us a set of wings:

My father’s father at the head...

And proudly bore the breaking weight...

He smiled, for he was proud of his youngest blood,

And prouder still, of his burning years...

And in that hell was heaven flaming also;

Under him and on. And heaven’s conflagration

Entered in him, too; and burned its mark on us.

Our family, we succeeded here. We had the will, we had the embrace of the clan and at our core we had compassion. We found the heaven of earth, and recognized the fires from both above and below, were one in the same, and for all of this were grateful.

The family watching over the children in the park below, this I hold in my fog of childhood memory. The fog is warm and floats around easily. I never have to struggle back up the cliff to my uncle’s house, I float, we all float. This is how I see life.

From above, I see, I oversee. I look out not just from my eyes, but I look over the whole picture which contains us, watching my family watching me watching them.

BLACK GUS, 1925

And into every family is born one if you are fortunate more if you are not, a μισάνθρωπος. A naysayer, dooms-dayer, worrywart, malcontent, or more directly a misanthrope.

The first and most insidious one to enter into our mix was Gus. We did, behind his back, call him the MauvroKosta, Black Gus. There were other names we gave him as well. The Accident, God’s Stomachache, the Beast, were a few I can remember.

He was a cousin but his exact lineage escapes us and for this, we are thankful. His entrance into any scene set off a recoiling response, as if we had noticed a snake entering the room.

With our mono-brows furrowed and lips pinched we loosed the many names for this grouchy old fellow into our grey-blanketed days. We did this under our breath and this amused us to no end.

The comfortable collection of family, in the big house affording lovely views, where my precious cousins lived, was often disturbed by Black Gus’ loud knock on the screen door.

In the words of Lord Byron ‘’all men are intrinsically rascals and I am only sorry that not being a dog, I cannot bite them all.’’ A book of Byron’s works always tumbled to the ground when the knock came at the door. The old ladies crossed themselves three times, ran for garlic, and spit on the floor.

‘’Those children are running wild out there,’’ we could hear his proclamation rush through the rooms of the house, and out over the park. The thick grove of trees would muffle the sound, but would not snuff it out.

‘’What is it? Oh, it’s Gus, is that you Gus? Come in for coffee,’’ someone would call.

‘’ Pas κατά διάβολου.’’ ‘’To the Devil!’’ he would mutter, along with a string of other unintelligible objections to everything.

Because he was our cousin and because somehow we hated him but loved him at the same time we never closed the door on him. If he chose to enter the house, a hush would fall over the crowd. If he looked as if he would speak again, the voices of the family would rapidly reach a fevered pitch in hopes of drowning out his missives. Often he would spin around, using his chewed up old cane as a fulcrum, and hobble back down the porch stairs. When his hand was on the railing, he would raise the cane above his head and shake it viciously.

mauvrokosta, was a piece of the drama that wove through our long theatrical plot. We feared him and also depended upon him to balance us out and fill our bellies full of laughter once he was safely out of earshot.

Alongside of our dread of his presence there was a sense of compassion for his pain.

And so we swept him up, the good the bad and the curmudgeons were all folded into the mix. No one was left behind.

THE COFFEE KLATCH, 1925-1975

At home, Kostia was always busy. The house was always full of children and borders and visitors and the extension of the family was sometimes incalculable. Kostia made everyone welcome and comfortable. Their gardens supplied them with vegetables and fruits that lasted the entire year. Preparing food was an ongoing event. The women would arrive intermittently throughout the day and join her in the kitchen. They loved cooking together. Someone always had a better recipe for the lamb pies or the baklava, the avgolemeno or the tarama. The recipes were never written down, that would be a sacrilege. The only way to share them was to show up and cook together. When the children were young the rooms were filled to maximum occupancy. They listened and learned from the women. They women talked incessantly throughout the day. They sat in the sun porch most afternoons and knit. Sometimes they would read to the youngest ones and sometimes they read to each other. And as was their duty, they would worry about the possible outcomes of everything. Their rituals all neatly balanced against one and other, they were enjoying their lives. Sisters, cousins, mothers, daughters, οι συγγενείς  τους , the relatives, enjoyed sharing everything. Even the intimate details of their marriages were shared. No one’s family was an island. The island from which the clan had come was re-located to America. The sun shone on them here, even through the thick industrial atmosphere of the city.  

“Kostia, how xyou get my brother to be easier on xyour boys?”

“Thees, Archondoula, is my life’s xwork, but I xam making progress. xYou know with Nick everything xhas to be xhis big idea, xyes? So I get xhim to believe, my way ees xhis way and then xhe content, and xhe leave thees boys alone.”

She continues, “Ah but thees ees work only for a day or two, and I need start all over.”

Before Archondoula can reply, she adds, “xYour sister in law xhas become very clever! No?”

“Aλήθεια!” they consent in unison, “The truth!”

The women have beautiful smiles that give birth to laughter, filling the room agreeably.

“I take my Theodore to thee doctor, yesterday, deed xyou know?” Rose says.

“Tι είναι? What is it?”

“I say Teddy, I xwant xyou go to doctor and tell xhim, xyou xhead ache every morning, thees not good for xyou.”

“Eh, and what the doctor tell xhim?”

“xHe probably tell him xhe drink too damn much.” Fio interjects smugly.

“xWell, the doctor say, Mister Tsuris, xyou drink too damn much!” Rose consents.

The nods are rapid throughout the room, the words Metaxa, Retsina and Ouzo are batted back and forth in rapid fire.

“And then o ιατρός, thee doctor say,” ‘a little whiskey ees good for xyou Teddy, a lot, well I don’t recommend for xyou.’”

“So my Teddy lights up one of those big fat cigars of xhis and jumps to xhis feet, xhe shake the doctor xhand real xhard, and xhe give me a big wink, grab my xhand, and we go out the door.”

“I love xhim, xhe ees a devil and I love xhim too much, xwhat can I do?”

Athena Karrafas comes to the door, her arms full of vleeta, an abundant weed she has spent the morning gathering for her cousins. In English we call it amaranth. The women’s eyes widen and they run to help her with the harvest. Gorgophoni Kontoyiannis is in the kitchen, but hears the magic word “Vleeta” dancing excitedly in the room, she grabs the biggest pot she can find, fills it with water, lemon and salt, puts it to boil. She starts chopping garlic and onions, finds the olive oil and begins to sauté her spices.

“Athena! Ees this all from xyou garden, xhoney? So much, xhow good!” someone asks.

“No I stopp by the Kefaloses, the Moraitis, the Aivioliotis, the Pappas and the Papandreiou, all the gardens on my way xhere, and I take a little from each one, it ok!”

Mrs. Kratses’ lips curl hearing the legacy of the greens, she knows at least two of those families would not be pleased to have their vleeta set free at the hands of Athena. Mrs. Kratses  knows Athena has reputation for overstepping the garden lines.

Fio scolds her, “more than once xyou have been chased by the victims of xyour thieving. And everyone knows xyou always bring the goods to Kostia’s house. We should expect an unhappy visitor anytime now. Morro! What ees matter xwith xyou?””

“Remember xwomen, o Nick will scare off any threats with ones of his own. Thees ees a good use of xhis machismo.”  Amelia reminds them, and the ladies all agree.

Vassiliki Saphos is a regular with the klatsch, and she has stories, too. Her husband Yorgos, he follows her around the house all day long. He never sleeps, or very little, works at night in the mill. He is a foreman at work. But at home, “xhe follow me like a little lamb, every xwhere I go I look and xhe ees right behind me.” Vassiliki voice sounds like a complaint. “I can no get my xhouse work done, xhe is hungry and then we want go for  walk, xhe needs a drink, xhe asks me to make him bath, xhe ees xhelpless alone. I wonder xhow xhe can be so big boss at night and all day long xhe my third baby!”

The ladies are not sure if Vassiliki is making a funny story or registering a major grievance.

Sensing this she qualifies her tale, “But, I tell xyou, I no trade Yorgos for anything, xhe my good man, even when xhe a baby man.”

All are relieved; her story comes to a good end.

They all, with the exception of Black Gussie and Fio, are intent upon painting a better picture of their lives, they know they can paint in and paint out, until they get it just right.

WOLF AT THE DOOR, 1928

One afternoon, a loud familiar knock came to the door.

‘’Most likely I know from thees knock,’’ Kostia announced to no one.

Byron’s poem Prometheus, floated to the ground.

‘’xHey in there, I know xyou are Xhome, open up!’’ a gravelly voice, like a poison dart, squeezed through the screen’s metallic mesh.

Kostia’s coffee klatch was alarmed. They recognized the voice, but only vaguely.

The fact that the language it carried was their own, gave only a modicum of relief.

‘’What ees it? Oh Gus, ees that xyou, xhoney?’’ a sweet voice responded.

‘’xCHes it ees me, Gus, I xhave something to tell you, very important!’’

‘’ Προέρχονται προέρχονται μέσα,’’ ‘’ έλα έλα.’’ ‘’ Come inside, come come.’’ she welcomed him.

The screen door slammed behind him, so much about him was loud, scratchy, rough. His clothes were not, they were always pressed, shirts starched. He wore no tie but his collar was tight around his neck. Some proposed this was one source of his tenacious irritability. He wore no cologne, prevailing instead was the lingering layers of smoke from small cigars, which were a fixture in his dry lips.

‘’xWhere’s the old man?’’ he demanded.

‘’xYou mean my Nicko?’’

‘’ches xyes, but xhe’s not yours, xhe’s mine until xhe pays me back for the paper I give to xhim!’’

Archondoula stepped in between the two. ‘’Are xyou come in xhere to complain about two cents, in the middle of the day? What do xyou have, what’s the matter with you? Nicko is not xhome. and eef xhe is owe xyou two cents, xhe xwill tell me and tomorrow xyou come

and I geeve to xyou. ’’

‘’I xhave more news, it’s not just the three cents!’’

‘’Well xwhat is it then? And try to lower xyour voice, the babies are sleeping, xyou fool.””

“Three old greeks got xhit by a streetcar!”

The mood in room fell at the speed of light, crashing onto the hard wood, not even softened by a landing on the wool rug. “Tι είπατε?” ‘’What deed xyou say?”

“One lostx his leg, there xwas blood all over the tracks.”

The repetition of the sign of the cross stirred up the air in the room and a chilled breeze blew the small print dresses like flags in a hurricane. “O θεός Dear God!” the woman cried in chorus.

“OH IT’S UGLY UGLY. THOSE THREE NEVER MIND. THEY ALWAYS TALKING NEVER LOOK WHERE THEY xWALK. IT xWAS BOUND TO HAPPEN.”

“Gus, say, say, xwho xwere these men, do xwe know them?”

“xHOW SHOULD I KNOW, IF xYOU KNOW THEM? I KNOW THEM!”

“Come on xhoney, tell us please, so xwe can know too,” Kostia coaxed.

Gus dragged out the telling for as long as his wind allowed, which fortunately was not too long. Compromised by the daily assault to his lungs, by cheap cigars.

“xWELL ONE xWAS MAUVRONICHOLAS, AND THE OTHER TWO xWERE POLES.”

“xWhich Mauvronicholas?’’ the ladies request for information was more urgent.

“I CAN’T REMEMBER xHIS FIRST NAME, FOOLS, JUST AN OLD MAUVRONICHOLAS.”

“You said three old Greeks got xhit by a streetcar, now it is one Greek who we don’t even know, and two Poles xwho we don’t even know. xWhich is it?”

“xYES THAT’S IT THAT’S IT. I THOUGHT xYOU xWANTED TO KNOW, NEVER MIND, FORGET I xWAS EVEN xHERE. AND IT xWAS THE ONE POLE WHO MAYBE LOST HIS LEG.”

With that he made his abrupt exit, leaving behind a dull odor of habitual cynicism.

The crossing and re-crossing continued throughout the afternoon. The babies were now all awake and in a foul mood. The dinner that evening was tinged with a sour herb, no one remembered using, but everyone knew where it had come from.

DIMITRI  b.1925

Dimitri was the eldest son of Nick and Kostia. He was named after his father’s father, as is the custom. He married his first language and the fire of the affair never died. His second language he acquired in order to conform. Nonetheless, he considered it to be the inferior tongue.

His life was long and comfortable. He held on to his childhood curiosity, his books, his desire to examine the underside of every stone. His inquisitive nature wasn’t well understood by his aunts and uncles whose education ended in grade school. But Dimitri  was undaunted by their occasional misgivings. He waved their words off with ease, his dream was to question. Some considered his time would have been better spent engaged in physical labor. He preferred intellectual labor and exercised that privilege daily.

He did it with diligence, until he ran out of questions. Now that I think about it, it may have been that he ran out of answers, but he would never have made that admission, to anyone. The etymology of words, the history of man, the sciences, philosophy, mathematics and economics these topics held him captive for a lifetime. His nature was to be stubborn and tenacious. This caused all around him no end of annoyance. His saving grace was that at bottom, he cared deeply about everyone. There were some exceptions to that rule. He wanted to know about everyone’s lives, their interests, their studies, their work. But when it came to the subject of the Jews, Dimitri transformed his love of mankind into love of mankind with one exception. No one in the family likes to discuss it, but we do indignantly and behind his back. Of this we are not proud.

He tried often and vociferously to convert all around him to his prejudice. He blanketed us all with ‘the facts’ of why we should fear the Jewish Industrial Complex. No one ever listened to him. We forgave him his lack of vision on this point. And fortunately he never acted on his words in this matter. The whole issue was an enigma to us all. We assumed he had encountered an argument against the Jewish culture in some tome he had read and it drove a deep trough in his neuronal pathways. A trough, which was impossible to re-route. So his lifelong antagonism against the Jewish community continues to confound us.

Despite this flaw in judgement, Dimitri’s home was open to everyone. Greeks, Arabs, Poles, Jews, Germans, Slovaks, African Americans everyone was welcome.

When he married Evangeline, they took residence on the second floor of the house his father owned. They lived in a university town and embraced the great diversity of cultures that influenced their city. When his children were of high school age exchange students were a regular fixture in their home. When Dimitri married Evangeline his heart opened to art and beauty, rounding him and grounding him forever. But it would take him several decades to know what he knew on this subject.

Evangeline was a gifted painter and ceramic artist. Her nature was soft and she lived in a realm that Dimitri had never known. She could reach inside of her subject’s soul and her hands delivered that essence easily for us all to see. Evangeline was a relative of Theo’s I have come to believe, she was always there and not there. She was capable of leading you to an ethereal place. Not many people understood her gift.

After thirty years of marriage, Dimitri woke one morning, in a room that he had never seen before. It was the room of his wife’s unfolding. A huge weight lifted from them both.

Their union was that day, made, not in the church on Forbes Avenue, thirty years prior.

“Evangaliki mou, I have not been kind enough to you over the years, I am afraid.”

“Excuse me, Dimitri, what did you say?”

“I am making a declaration, now dear, please do not interrupt.”

Evangeline fell silent, and was comfortable in her silence, also curious to hear what her husband’s pronouncement would hold.

“I have been taking a long look at myself, and am not liking what I see. You have been a good wife, and a good mother, and a good friend. You are an exceptional artist. You have many gifts I have overlooked. And today Evangeliki I vow to you, I will make a change.”

Evangeline took his words deep into her heart. She looked down at the cup of tea she was holding in her hand, tears came and she collected them in saucer. Dimitri reached over and took the saucer to his lips, drinking the sorrow which had been between them. He stood up and went to her, wrapped her in his arms.

Dimitri escaped the long hand of his father’s reach by remaining in school for his entire life.

Summers, he would be coerced into joining a painting crew for part of a day and spend the balance, computing numbers in his father’s office. Kostia sung his praises, his pursuit of knowledge pleased her enormously. Eventually she convinced Nick to set him free.

“O patera mou, father, I tell you that man exists to question his existence!” Dimitri often addressed Nick in this way, encouraging a dialogue with the patriarch.

“Η αλήθεια, the truth!” his father always replied. Then he would lay down his own

philosophy, qualifying his agreement. “But xyou no forgeet, that thee man xhave to xwork xweeth hees xwhole body, eef xhe is to understand, the meaning of his existence!”

“Only those Frenchmen, so foolish to beleive that just to theenk ees thee definiteeshon of the existence. They no no from hard xwork, like xwe do! xWe make body strong and mind strong, togeether, etsei eina, it’s like this! then eina? isn’t it?”

“Ofcourse, father, as you say. Now let me ask you, why do we exist?”

Nick looked at his son with incredulity. “Dimitri, everyday xyou ask us, thees question.

xYou head going to explode one day xyou get so full of answers. xWhy don’t xyou tell me today, xwhy eet is xwe exist?!”

“Well patera, i do not think like you do, that we are god’s creation. I think instead we have evoloved and will continue to evolve into more and more creative beings. I think one day, we will be god! I think there was a cataclysm of astronomical proportions and a brilliant mixture of chemistry and electricity, energy and light. Our arrival in this form that we now occupy, followed from that great event.”

Dimitri’s father pushed his chair back from the dining room table, his fist fell upon the hard wood, the plates rattled and shook. Kostia was stopped in her tracks as she entered the room to discover the source of the increasingly passionate conversation.

Dimitri, was not afraid of his father’s reaction. In fact it was his intention to create

a big reaction, so he felt victorious before he even heard Nick’s reply.

“My son, xyou make a very beeg pronouncement for such a young man, maybe xyou better, theenk on that some more before xyou deliver that message outside of thees house!”

Dimitr’s eyebrows raised, his head truned at the diagonal, signalling agreement with his father’s suggestion. He rose up from the table, and walked off, shaking his head at himself and at his father. “Tomorrow, I will ask him again,” he thought to himself.

WHAT LINGERS, the odiferous Black Gus, in the Beginning.

When Black Gus, would show up at dinnertime, he was always welcome to join them. He accepted when he was particularly full of ire, needing someplace to unburden himself. Their table was an ideal setting. He filled everyone’s plate with his commentaries. When he left, Kostia, would wash away his off-putting remarks with very hot water and strong soap.

“xYOU PEOPLE, EAT A LOT OF FRUIT IN THIS HOUSE, GIVES ME THE GAS!” he would say when what he really meant was ‘thank you for inviting me’.

In fact, Gus considered himself to be an indispensible member of this clan. By contrast his bleak outlook made everyone else seem radiant. This included, most importantly, the woman he loved.  It was she, and she alone who forgave him, over and over again, his many transgressions. He relished any opportunity to goad Nick into fiery reactions, knowing Kostia would chastise him for his lack of compassion when they were alone. The thought of this gave him one of the only pleasures he allowed himself.

His lifelong love for Kostia sprang up when they were children playing on the rocky beach just one kilometer from the village that brought them into the world.

Black Kosta, by the age of six, was already strangled by his parents sins. There were years of infidelity, cowardice and betrayal haunting him. His mother and father were married by decree of their parents. Gus was an unwanted child of an unwanted marriage. His ancestors were shameless followers of ruthless leaders. His people who were angry with themselves, and clueless about forgiveness. When either of his parents were at home, he would make himself scarce. If he wasn’t home his request for affection couldn’t be thwarted. The abuse he suffered at the hands of both parents was an unspeakable embarrassment to him. He discussed this with no one, but everyone on the island, even those who lived on the far side, even villagers on the adjacent islands, everyone knew the story of Black Gus’ family.

“Tell the buffoon to go away, woman, he is bothering me,” his father would bark.

“You go tell him, fool, he your fault , not mine,” his mother barked back.

When Black Gus found himself away from his home, with the warm sea air filling his lungs, with the sounds of children’s laughter swirling around him, the sun baking them with love, when he found himself here, he found peace.

This is where he also found and lost the love of his life, or so he stubbornly believed.

It was on this beach he watched her moving in and out of a circle of children. The girls with their thick shiny braids swayed with abandon. The boys dark now from the long summer near the water, performing like peacocks, their black curls tossing in display. Their chests puffed as they posed and teased, competing for the prize, the prettiest girls. Black Gus sat on the periphery of the group of children, looking in. He would say that he chose this position. Truly he was cast out for his sour moods and cynical commentary. He made everyone uncomfortable, and as children, they were not merciful. They were not able to see that all he wanted was to be included. They did not understand that he was a product of his ancestral background and that they could help him escape. But they didn’t help him, they hurt him more.

Black Gus tried to become a part of the collection of village children. Every attempt seemed to distance him further, result in more disdain for his presence.

“Eh Kosta, you big baby, come out from behind that tree,” they would taunt him.

“Eh little Kostiki, your tongue turn black from all your complaining, come let us wash it out for you, you little scoundrel.”

“Eh Kostantina, your mother is calling you, she wants you to jump into the sea and swim away.”

For years he watched the other children, was the brunt of their own discomforts, and forced to remain on the edge of the group. He grew increasingly more dreary, his face hardening with each passing year, his chances of being invited in, growing dimmer. He watched the boys fall in and out of love. He watched the rise and fall of emotion and began to be pleased only by the diminishing hopes of the lovers, never by the crescendo of love’s ascent.

It was during these years, he was a bystander to the nascent spark between Konstantina (Kostia) and her beau, Nicolas. Kostia was the only girl he ever thought about, ever really desired. He watched her fall in love with a boy he considered to be pompous and not nearly as handsome as him.

He followed her home from school when there was no one around to chase him away. He carried her books. He told her elaborate tales of bravery, with himself of course cast as the hero. He slipped love notes into her skirt pocket. He tried to win her over, but he failed.

He was the recipient of her kindness, always, but never her love. That, she had promised and given to Nick. This he considered her grave error. He devised ways for Nick to make retribution for this injustice. Kostia became, in a dark way, his muse. Black Gus became an expert at disrupting their relationship. The trail of tears he left behind him however were his own. Byron’s My Soul Is Dark, fell from the sky wherever he set foot. The island was covered with thousands of copies of the poem by the time Black Gus was twenty years old. The villagers, having exhausted the forests’ wood, used them all as kindling.

KOSTA  b. 1928

Kosta the second son arrived three years after Dimitri. Both he and his cousin Dimitri Tsouri were said to be born under a cawl. The family considered this great good fortune. This good fortune follows the cousins still.

Kosta shared his older brother’s love affair with their native language. His devotion to literature and poetry took hold before he learned to read. Listening to his parents speak or read, the language was symphonic to him. He became a great listener with an insatiable need. “Tell me more Mama,” he was always asking.

Kostia started reading to him when he was still an infant and she has been reading for over 100 years now. Still Kosta, does not tire of the sounds mixing in air, arranging and rearranging themselves. He never grows tired of the origin of the sounds, deep in the belly of the speaker, pushed up by the diaphragm, air playing the vocal chords like chimes and church bells, always beckoning always a Siren to him.

Everyone’s gift begins somewhere. Some say it begins as stardust, the big bang of expansion that carried us all here. Some say we can pinpoint a place and time and say

‘’here, in this place, this particular seed was planted and nourished.” I say it was in that room with great open views of maples, oaks and elms, past the gardens’ colorful fruits; on a day when the sun actually chose to linger and bathe the steel city; with a woman whose reading voice was scored in a language whose forms were still a mystery; in a room heavy with furniture made carefully by hand; with the kitchen delivering the intoxication of the loaves it promised; with the ambient sound of a cardinal looking for his mate. I say it was on that day, with those particular combination of rhythms, and textures. That day wrapped the child in what would be his life’s cloak, the robe of a poet, his entrance into his good life.

Kosta’s father had his sights set on his son joining his company one day. He saw him in the office on the phone with the vendors. He saw him neatly dressed in three-piece suits dining with prospective new customers, the steel mill executives: the Carnegies and the Mellons; the Scaifes. He saw Kosta engaging them all with his charm and intellect. He could see his son convincing the great powers of the city to throw the favors of new work in the lap of the family business.

Kostia and Kosta had other plans. The long reach of the patriarch Nick, would be foiled again by his wife’s own ambitions for her sons, and by their sons’ own sense of  life’s purpose.

KIMON  b. 1937

Kimon was the third son of Nick and Kostia. He was not the third child but the fourth.

Kimon was the youngest and therefore escaped much of his father’s scrutiny. By the time Kimon was born the family business had grown steadily. Nick’s idea of passing his

empire down to his son’s was under constant threat as Kostia never let up her mantra, “the boys each one will find his own way Nick.” From infancy, Kimon was free to express his desires as swiftly and as prolifically as they occurred to him. Kimon was a radical child, indulged and full of himself, but only in the best ways. The strict imposition of rules that had hung over his brothers, their father’s dictums, were lost on him. He challenged every one in the family to keep up with his youthful energy, his tantrums and taunting, his refusal to acquiesce. He was a difficult child, but so adorable, no one could refuse indulging his every whim. This included his father, who carried him on his shoulder everywhere he went. Despite the constant pulling of hairs from this father’s ears, the tickling and the demands for candy, Kimon was Nick’s constant companion. And despite the boy’s demands for the front window seat on every trip, despite the jumping up and down until the balloons were purchased or the circus attended, Nick, Kostia, Dimitri, Kosta and the entire extended family, took great pleasure in pleasing Kimon at every turn.

These acts of altering the rules of the house, to accommodate the youngest child, these acts were frowned upon by many of the cousins in the clan. “Unruly’’, they would complain.

‘’How could Nick let this happen under his own roof?’’ they would gossip. ‘’The boy is wild, a wild animal, άγριο ζώο” they would repeat this under their breath, especially if they had to sit in front of the child during the three hour church service on Sunday.

At the social hall where the large clan gathered twice a month, all the children ran free.

The hall was a labyrinth of wide and narrow wooden stairways and hidden passages, an amusement park from another time and place, a Narnia for southern Europeans. But when Kimon was added to the mix of children, the adults would gather in groups like male penguins, and try to protect themselves from the winds the boy would whip up around them.

But it was Kimon’s great good fortune that his clever childhood disobediences were indulged. It was perfect for him to have been catered to like a small prince. Because by the grace of his angelic mother, Kimon grew up to embody the soul of a fine and humble man. He is an artist, a kind father, and a man with unwavering commitment to the family who paved his way.  And aside from fetching water for the painters one summer when he was 14, Kimon found his way to art school: away from the bridges and the mills, the rough edges of a hard life; and toward the soft edges of his interior life.

It is by this family which Kosta is embraced, and to which he is proudly bound. He tells me that he cannot imagine a more perfect childhood for himself.

He had access to all the city affords while being held in the arms of trees at the park’s edge.

LAY OF THE LAND 1941

The brothers were, as Kostia predicted, destined to follow their individual callings.

And although the boys were close and loved each other, they spent their days in search of

the meaning of life, in idosyncratic ways. Kimon lived in a box of paints, Dimitri in a book and Kosta lived to explore the city peering inside for its secrets.

In a childhood which seemed extravagantly long, there were no city streets Kosta left untraveled.  They handed him countless stories: of great architects and the gifts from quarries; of trains and their passengers; of the waves of immigrants - their languages and customs; stories held inside the grand halls of libraries built by the man the city loves to hate and hates to love but does; stories of long hours in coal mines, loading coke ovens, battling the blast furnaces, forging iron and steel into form; stories of the ambitious construction of pylons and piers, cable suspensions for the 446 bridges spanning the rivers, creeks and streams of his city. The cobblestone streets inlaid with steel carried him on trolleys. He loved to watch the framing and re-framing of the sky by the fine lines of wires that fed the trolley from above.

The city was built on rolling hills and steep slopes as it descended into its valley once rich with the lives of indigenous tribes and later the productive farmland of British, Scottish and Irish settlers.  Kosta saw back into the landscape, discovering the lives of the Iroquois Nation, Onondaga, Cayuga, Oneida, Mohawk and the Seneca, with their great leader Queen Aliquippa. They lived at the confluence of the Monongahela, the Ohio and the Allegheny Rivers. They lived up and down the rivers, in the hills around them, and in the thick woods rich with game. They built palisaded villages for efficent use of the hills. Other tribes made their home at this confluence as well Tuscaroras and tribes of the Shawnee Nation. Twenty thousand years of history, before they ceded it into foreign hands, this he learned looking back into the landscape.

Kosta was fascinated with the Iroquois, their stories so close to those handed down to him. The image of a person defying  custom and subsequently falling from the sky, was his favorite and he took every opportunity to re-tell the tale.

This is the Iroquois Creation Story:

In the beginning there was no world. No land, no men, no creatures. Just a great ocean occupying space as far as anyone could see. Residing above that ocean was a great void of air. In that air lived birds and fish. Far above that world there was a Sky-World.

Here lived gods who were not unlike the Iroquois people.

In the Sky-World there was a man and a wife. The woman was expecting a child and became hungry for all kinds of strange delicacies. She kept her husband busy to distraction finding the foods she craved.

In the middle of the Sky-World there was a Great Tree, unlike any tree the Iroquois had known. It was huge and had grown there forever. It had enormous roots that spread out form the floor of the Sky World. No one was to mark the tree in any way. It was a sacred tree that stood in the center of the universe.

The pregnant woman wanted bark from the root of this sacred tree, and hounded her husband until he finally gave in to her desire. He feared this action, he knew it was not right. But he dug down to expose the roots of the Sky Tree and found the floor of the Sky World was not very deep and he had broken through the floor! All he could see was empty space. Now the man was terrified and he refused to reach down and disturb the roots. The wife urged him, but he completely refused. The woman then bent down and saw an ocean far far beneath them. No one is sure how it happened, if the woman fell through the hole or if the husband pushed her through, but the woman fell from the Sky-World. She fell through the opening.

As she past the roots of  the Great Tree she grabbed onto to them and collected them in her hands. She then fell through the vast expanse of air. The birds saw her and collectively made a pact to unite their wings and brace her fall. A sea turtle floating on the ocean below agreed to receive her on his back.

The woman landed safely but she was frightened and told the animals there that she was afraid she would die. They said they would help her in any way she needed. She suggested that if she had soil she could plant the roots she had gathered and begin to grow food. A muskrat agreed to dive deep into the ocean and look for soil on its floor, no creature had ever been there before, but he offered himself for the adventure.

When he surfaced the muskrat had a paw full of soil and the woman was grateful.

She placed the soil on the turtles back and she began to walk in the direction of the sun.

In this way the earth grew. As it grew she took the roots and planted them in the soil.

The roots took hold and created the plentiful earth

When the woman’s time came, she gave birth to a lovely daughter. The two of them continued walking around the earth and thrived on the plants and roots.

Kosta loved the similarity of this tale to Ikaros’ fall, and to Eve’s bite of the apple.               The imaginations of peoples over time, always overlapping, repeating the parts of stories

that fascinated them most. This he suspected was done to keep the wondering alive.

He saw the migration of the native tribes from the west, white men with guns and ammunition from the east. The whites of the Europeans’ eyes red with determination to stake their claims. Small communities of milder men negotiated a share of land, to clear and farm for themselves. Whichever route carried them over the Allegheny Mountains, it delivered the white men into a land requiring hard labor and many sorrows before it would be tamed. The sorrow was spread from white to red and back again. Kosta often wondered if there were any lands that were free of this history.

He knows his own father’s land was spared no pain. Centuries of struggle seem to be foundational to all peoples. “Is this our nature?” he often questioned. ‘’Are we born into struggle and disagreement or are there other ways?”  “It’s our ego” he often remarked anwering his own question. “Even the preganant woman in the Iroquois tale, even our own Ikaros, slaves to the ego. The ego which carries with it ‘thanatos’ its desire for death, while tricking us into beleiving it is on our side!”

Crossing the city on foot he was afforded other eyes into the city’s past. The rivers were its early lifeblood, this he understood. After the wars and the tangling over territory the city was decisively acquired by the white men. The lucrative business of wooden boat construction and later of shipbuilding would foreshadow the coming era. The transformation of a fertile valley into a center of industrial power was set into motion. Looking at the city from his walking tours, Kosta saw back to the roots of the complex evolution. He felt the earth shaking underfoot telling of decades of coercion. The earth gave up her treasured resources, but not without sacrifice to all who were intent on the conquest. The coalfields seemed unending, there was natural gas, petroleum, lumber, marble, granite and slate. The earth gave up her load and men made iron, brass, glass and its climactic alchemical feat would be the creation of steel.

The weight of all these developments, some days, became oppressive to Kosta. His father’s words would give him another perspective. “The great news from this city’s past was the great news of America’s possibilities.”  The desire to grow by invention of means was a desire which had become a faint memory in his native land. Centuries of war, losses to the conquering armies, co-opting of their culture, had expressed the air out of their passion.

His father felt there was no future in a land so beaten down by unspeakable atrocities.

The desire to begin again was here in America, here in this city. The progress would

always come in measure with loss, but the promise for change re lit the fires in the belly of his father and some days, in him too.

LEAFY GREENS

In the years that Kosta rode the trolleys and walked the stone paved streets he felt free to talk to everyone he met along his way. He inherited the gift of conversation from his father. He was trained in the arms of his mother to be a fine listener and collector of stories. From his aunt Archondoula he inherited wanderlust. Also Archondoula taught him the disconcerting act of disappearing without notice. Both he and his aunt were experts in this art-their constant practice made them perfect. If the right wind blew by, either of them was likely to follow it with total disregard to their families. In the case of Archondoula she was most likely to turn up at a relatives house with a shovel in her hand. She came prepared to dig up their backyard and start her annual ‘’this is how my vegetables grow on your land’’ campaign. Rarely did she announce her visit or her arrival, someone would happen to look out their kitchen window and see a round sphere wrapped in a dark, small-print cloth moving through the grass. Attached to the larger sphere, they would notice a smaller one cloaked in a lighter cloth. The top sphere was adorned with faded flower petals, its edges flapping in the wind. And in the air around the spheres they would notice sprays of brown-green-gray in rhythmic patterns rising from the earth and landing just behind the moving spheres.

All this would occur before they had their first coffee and before they had their distance glasses in position. This vision created many early morning frights from Ohio to the Gulf of Mexico, and on occasion Long Island got the shock. Archondoula’s relatives included more than a few drama queens and also kings. So, the pre-dawn exclamations emanating from the kitchen windows up and down the eastern seaboard, echoed through neighborhoods, stirring even the natives to arms. Archondoula dodged more than her fair share of bullets in her practice of this escapade. She was mistaken for burglars, a gypsy, a wild animal, and a lunatic.

Of course she truly was a gypsy, but she was a gypsy bearing gifts.  Her spheres would  quickly flatten and drop down into the grass when under direct fire. Only once was she grazed by the small missiles. She prized that scar, still does. When the screams from the houses subsided and when the gun fire ceased, you could hear the sound of her response for a good quarter mile. She minced few words in correcting the alarmists’ perceptions.

“να σας ξεγελάσει, να πάτε στο διάβολο, τι είναι σας τρελή, τι κάνεις για μένα;, δεν μου βλέπετε, kάνω μας κήπον να θρέψουν τις οικογένειές μας, θα το κάνω για να ομορφιά, τι νομίζετε μωρό, προσπαθείτε ή θα με σκοτώσει.’’ Simply translated, ‘’what are you trying to do you fool, kill me, go to hell.’’ After the smoke had cleared from all sides Archondoula would reform her flattened body, first into her set of shperes and then she would starighten up fully, emerging from the grass and weeds, shovel reaised above her head, her kerchief tied to its end, a huge smile running across her face, and with her free hand she would wave wildly to her her audience ‘’ καλημέρα, ξάδερφος! Good morning cousin!’’ Thus the ancient drama came to life in America, the overgrown yards her stage, she was in all of her elements.

The question of how Archondoula got from point a to point A to point B remains her big secret. If you should be so foolish as to ask her, her face and body will visibly tighten up, she will trun her head away from with a force that risked her verterbae’s health each time. If you ask her a question like this, she would eventually reply, after her body had already fully delivered the answer, just to put the finer point on it ‘’no of xyou damn business.’’ She never said this to the children, she reserved this show for the adults, it was her way of taking up her space, her assertion of self. To us she would simply smile and reply, ‘’same xway I get everyxwhere, my child.’’ No further explanation would follow.

On very rare ocassions, when it was clear her mode of transportation would be uncovered, she would fess up to have hitched a ride. I have recently learned she had on more than trip taken a ride with complete strangers. My grandmother, itinerant farmer and practiced in art of hitchhiking.

Since Archondoula saw the world as her garden, she took it upon herself to teach all the grandchildren to share her view. At a very early age, I became her right hand girl, for   spring raids of suburaban lawns. Our quest was for the freshest dandelions and a lot of them. Our tools were simple, two longhandled screwdrivers we would snatch from my father’s toolbox, two small print aprons from my mother’s kitchen, two large white hankerchiefs from anyones laundry line, and a five gallon paint bucket and four brown grocery bags, with handles. It is in this disguise I would roam the streets of my neighborhood, setting free any dark leafy green with a medium yellow flower. Yes we left many holes in many lawns. But we were eco-friendly weed killers. Robins hoped around us gleefully waiting for the worms we uncovered. Additionally we provided entertainment for the entire community of Protestants, who had never witnessed anything quite like it before. Over the years, fewer and fewer doors would open, fewer cutains would part, fewer families would gather at the picture windows to watch the spectacle. We became part of the fabric of the suburb. This was due in part to the annual repetition of our performance, and in part because we repaid the neighbors for the luxury of having the dandelions, with fresh baked bread that made strong men weep.

Unfortunately in high school  I discovered that we had become the leading characters in more than  a few 16mm home movies. To say that embarrasment followed me around during my childhood would be a mild description of the suffering I endured. But this is not about me, it is about Kosta, and how he came to own his wanderlust.

WANDERLUST  1942

As for Kosta, he did spare his family the worry that Achochondtoula routinely created for hers. Until he was eighteen his tours were confined to a territory traversable in one day. At six o’clock he was at the dinner table, no exceptions. In a city that was not large in area, he was able to cover a lot of ground each day. The geography lent itself to an impressive collection of small enclaves, each with its own unique flavor. The immigrants from Europe had come in waves and established themselves in areas bounded by hills or waterways. He loved exploring each one carefully listening to the languages, and noting the similarities to and differences from his own tribe.

Kosta’s family home was in the most densely populated part of the city and offered him a taste of many countries. Traveling  just a block from his home he could hear the passionate romance of the Italian language. The enthusiasm of the Italian speakers was one of his simple pleasures. To him they sounded excited about every detail of  life. Their sentences were filled with great expectaion, fireworks and symphonic passages. The Italians were bordered by the Lebonese and Syrians, and they by the Irish. The Scots lived a wee bit further up the next hill. A few blocks and you would find the Jewish neighborhoods. The Polish had their own hill as did the Black community, neither by choice both by dismissal to the margins, but nonetheless they had their own. The Czechs, Slovaks, Lithuanians, Ukrainian, the Croats and the Serbs, found themselves across the Monongahela River tucked into narrow homes built for the massive labor force the mills had steadily created. The Germans, having migrated to the city much earlier, nestled into hills across the Allegheny River. Up and down those two rivers as well as the great Ohio which met them at the edge of the commercial district, small communties, attached themselves to the huge engine of the city. Wherever the language in the air began to shift, Kosta would notice that the industries in the adjacent blocks has also shifted. The immigrants lived close to their workplaces, few owned cars, nor would they choose long rides across town.

One of the luxuries Kosta enjoyed in his travels around the city, was the mix of cultures in the air. The German sausages, the Polish kielbasa, the Italian sauces simmering all day long, the Jewish bakeries, and the smothered pork wafting over the hills. Garlic, oregano, peppers, cabbages and slow cooked meats with sauteed onions, kibbees and kebabs, dumplings and pierogis,  roasting lambs, Irish stews, coddles and champ all filled the air of the city. These flavors from the women’s kitchens beat back the smells of industry pushing its way up the streets. These flavors drew the cultures together. The rich aromas pulled people in before they realized what they had done. The line you dared not cross, you would  cross, as you followed your sense of smell incapable of turning back. A German would find himself at a Jewish bakery, buying up loaves of warm ryes. An Italian would find himself seated next to a Black man weeping with delight at the tender juices the porkchops surrendered. An Irishman would find himself arm and arm with the cook at an Italian restaurant in a neighborhood two hills and one river away. All this food made Kosta very happy. He began to form opinions of his fellow man based on their ability to cross

cultural and geographical barriers with a simple act of good cuisine.  And this solidified his lifelong appreciation for women and the many ways in which they express their superiority to men.

At seven A.M., on Meyran Avenue, while Kosta was on his way to the trolley stop he was lured passed the open window of the Spagnelli’s kitchen. Mrs. Spagnelli was well on her way to preparing the evening meal. The family was from the tip of the boot, so he could breathe in the artichokes, wild mushrooms, red onions, chickory, and an occasional roast goat, as he passed by. Mrs. Spagnelli seemed to live at that kitchen window, and spoke to Kosta almost daily, “Ciao amico mio, whera youa goa now?”

“Buoingiorna Kyria Spagnelli, I am going to see America!” Kosta would let all three languages marry in his greeting to her.  They would laugh and wave to each other, it was a ritual they kept for a decade or more.

As Kosta traversed the neighborhoods of the city, he encountered men, sitting alone, on street corners, park benches, at trolley stops, in coffee shops. He would take note of their clothes, dirty and ragged on the edges. Their shoes were worn through, the soles of their feet touching the hard pavement. They wore heavy coats, even in warm weather. They smoked the small remains of other men’s cigarettes, or begged a fresh one from a passerby.

His heart broke for the men. He began to make a habit of carrying with him, food from his mother’s kitchen. He sought the men out, and quietly made his offerings, wishing them a good day. They felt his mercy, and for this they had something to be thankful.

‘’Little Kosta,’’ Johnny Forbes, called to his friend. His name given to him by Kosta, because the man lived in front of John’s Department Store, and it was on Forbes Avenue.

‘’Good morning, Mr. Forbes.’’

‘’You little sir are a good man.’’

‘’Are you hungry this morning Mr. Forbes?’’

‘’Guess what, Kosta, some good fella bought me a big breakfast this mornin. I was a with the Irshman last night, and well I guess we got a lil bit carried away with the whiskey...’’

‘’So you feel better now?’’

‘’Oh I feel no pain, son, no pain. Now you give that bread you brought for me, to some other poor soul, eh?  I be seeing you around, son.’’

Kosta learned the culture of the street, as well as the multitude of European cultures that defined the enclaves around the city. The lessons his daily forays provided, made lasting impressions. He wrote about the men and women he encountred, and shed light in the dark and light corners of life in equal part.

All this, he discovered on his exploration of his city. He found it preferable to reading the news of Europe, which his brother Dimitri, his father Nick and most of the men in his life, were consumed by at this time. He overheard the daily conversations in his father’s dining room. The newly arrived families could give first hand accounts. The others devoured the news from the papers, what they didn’t read they invented. Despite their ancestral tendancy  to exaggerate Kosta suspected their accounts were frighteningly accurate.The radio and news reels brought stark images of war and human malevolence, and these were undeniable.

He avoided the discussion as often as possible, and continued his day long forays of neighborhoods, following closley in Archondoulas footsteps. He chose to judge the world through persoanl encounters.

.

HELENA 1943

One time Kosta described for me an encounter with an old woman he had met on a trolley ride to the southside of the city. I should say on a trolley ride which he had hoped would deliver him to the southside.  The woman he met was named Helena. After a short struggle with her bags she climbed the steps into the streetcar. The driver reached for the mechanical arm to close the door behind her. She bent down to retrieve her pocketbook from one of her bags and an alarming string of sounds poured forth from the front of the car. Her coat was trapped in the door and she began to lose her balance. The vehicle which ran on the the thick steel rails and was tied above to the electric lines, provided a smooth ride, except on starts and stops when it punctuated the change with short jerking motions. On the slopes the motion was particularly brutal, abrupt and capable of small whiplashes to the neck. The city was populated by nothing, if not by slopes. It was on one of these impressive hills that Helena had boarded. The driver, oblivious or indifferent to her dilemma, continued  lurching the machine. The sounds from the front grew more dire and it was impossible to discern the exact content, the language was untranslatable. The impression, however was unmistakable, there was an urgency that was not to be denied.  The driver was unflinching in his total disreagrd of the drama unfolding right next to him. Not one to condemn a man easily, Kosta concluded that the driver was both  blind and deaf.  Upon further evaluation, however, he declared him a sadistic imbecile.

Kosta walked toward the disturbance and quickly ascertained the extent of the trouble.

He tapped the driver on the shoulder and motioned to to the door which was clasping the old lady’s coat in its rubber jaws. The driver raised and lowered his head an imperceptible amount and slowly took hold of the door lever, releasing the poor woman. She wobbled about on the edge of the step and Kosta reeled her into the first seat, which was always reserved for the handicapped or the elderly. She had been both, temporarily. Helena graced Kosta with a broad smile, nodding her head in gratitude. She motioned for him to sit beside her, and he obliged. ‘’Polanski’’ she uttered, pointing to her self, ‘’Do-roh-thee Polanski,’’ as her hand came out from her wide sleeve to find his.

‘’Good to meet you, Helena,’’ he replied with a smile equal in breadth to the one

she had sent him. Helena had been waiting in the rain on Bigelow Boulevard between Polish Hill and The Hill. The trolley was now making its way up antoher steep slope en route to the tailor shop on Forbes Avenue in the Lower Hill. She told Kosta she would be working as a tailor and that she had just arrived in America this week. It was her brother’s shop, and most everyone in the family was now in America, and working together in the shop. ‘’So you came here from Poland?’’ Kosta said. ‘’Welcome to America.’’ 

‘’Yes Poland, Poland, yes!’’ the first part of the sentence held pride and the second a palpable regret. ‘’How you know, Helena Poland?’’ she wondered aloud. Her English was spare but Kosta had much experience interpreting broken English from many parts of Europe, it was an art form with him.

 ‘’Your name, and also your features, I have many Polish friends here in the city,’’ he answered hoping she woould understand him. He gestered to his own face, pointing to his hair, his eyes, his nose, when he used the word ‘features’. She did seem to understand.

‘’You no Polish, but you very good man,’’ she instructed.

‘’No, not Polish, and thank you. You needed help and he,’’ pointing to the obtuse driver, ‘’was not seeing you, not helping you,’’ Kosta clarified.

‘’Yes but you help me, and I help you now,’’ she told him with a wink.

‘’No, no, not necessatry Helena, I am fine, I was happy to help you, it was my pleasure,’’ he let her know.

‘’You come my brother shop now, I want show you something,’’she insisted.

Kosta agreed to go there with her, something about the older woman intrgued him. He had no intention of taking anything from her, his kindness had been given freely. But he was suddenly curious to see where she would begin to make her way in this new country. Helena was, in his estimation, in her late fifties when they met, Kosta was fifteen maybe sixteen at the time.  She would have been the age of the grandmother he never knew.

As trolley made its way to the top of one hill and to the bottom of another until its final descent into downtown. The two sat comfortably side by side, smiling at the space between them which had encountered no obstacles in bringing them quite close to one and other.

‘’You born America?’’ she turned to ask him.

‘’Yes America, ‘’ he nodded.

‘’You father and mother America too?’’ she pursued.

‘’No they come here from Greece, we are Greek American.’’

‘’Ahh I know the Greek in Poland marry Svetlana my friend, they go Greece, no see now.’’

He smiled and nodded again.

The trolley rolled to a stop, this time it resisted tossing its occupants back and forth.

Helena put her hand on Kosta’s leg, patting him she asked, ‘’you come brother shop now?’’

‘’Yes I will, thank you.’’

Just before they rose to leave the trolley, Helena turned suddenly and looked Kosta in the eye. He wasn’t sure if he had perhaps offened her somehow, without knowing. She had a determined look, almost accusatory look possessing her face.

‘’I no know your name!’’ she exclaimed.

‘’Excuse me’’ he said ‘’I forgot to tell you, I am Kosta Lardthas.’’

‘’Kosta, good, good, Kosta.’’ and she was relieved to have been introduced.

They left the trolley together, Helena required no help on the way off. She handled her three shopping bags with ease and began to walk at a pace that was quite brisk for a woman of her age. In fact Kosta told me, he worked to keep up with her. He preferred to saunter through his city adventures. He had no push behind him, just curiosity. His form of curiosity was best satisfied with long patient inhales of the life around him. Helena on the other hand was aware of the clock that marched her life so quickly forward. She was an old woman holding on to the young woman she knew only too briefly.

When the door to the shop swung open her people were all there to greet her. A quick collision of Polish words clashed against Kosta’s ear. When the clatter died down all eyes fell upon the young man, who smiled warmly at the group. Helena pulled him closer into the center of the circle that had formed, pointing and to each relative and reciting their name and position in the family, ‘’brother, Paul, brother wife Jana, brother son John, sister Katerina, sister son Mika, and turning to her new hero, Helena friend Kosta.’’

Helena’s sister brought them both chairs and they sat next to one and other.

Katerina then went to the back of the shop and emerged a moment later with two cups of tea, a loaf of bread and a small round of cheese.  Of the family members, it quickly became clear that Helena arrived from Poland with the best command of English. Katerina’s son Mika was close behind her, the rest woefully incapable of expressing themselves with any English words. Kosta commented to Helena about this and praised her for her progress. She told him she had studied very hard and that her reading and writing was much better than her ability to speak. She said she had many reasons to leave her Poland behind and was very motivated to learn English, which she considered the first step necessary to getting out of her country and into America.

After a short try at conversation with the whole group, Helena seemed to tire

in her role as translator.

She was also well aware of her brother needing to begin his work day, so she said to Kosta, ‘’we have for you something.’’

Kosta reminded her that he need not be repaid for the favor.

She told him that she had made a wool vest for her nephew John, when she was still home in Poland. She had forgotten how fast young boys grow. She had made it too small for him, and wanted to make a present of it, to Kosta. She said her family agreed and wanted him to have it. Helena reached into one of her shopping bags and handed him a small package wrapped in brown paper.

Kosta was embaraased and also very grateful for the gift. As he unwrapped it he saw how rich the fabric was, how carefully made and how handsome the cut. He put the vest on and beamed with delight, they all joined him.

He thanked everyone  shook the men’s hands, and hugged the women. He asked Helena if she would take his address and if she was in his neighborhood, to please stop in and meet his family. Helena appreciated the offer and took the address willingly.

Kosta wore the vest almost every day for a month, he was proud of the way in which he had made a new friend. He loved the look and feel of the cloth. He felt grown up and even handsome in the vest. One afternoon, he was admiring himself in a window while passing a storefront downtown. He was watching his hands explore the many pockets in the garment.

There were so many he felt like he would soon discover a secret passageway in the vest.

And then he did. He was reaching into one of four pockets sewn on the inside of the vest. The last one he found, was partially stitched closed. He was able to push two fingers through the opening, but no more. Afraid to rip the cloth of the pocket, which was a shiny dark grey satin, he thought he should try and find a pair of scissors. Before he could retract his fingers, though, he felt something in the pocket. It felt small and round and heavy considering its size. He thought perhaps it was some tool or piece of sewing equipment that had fallen into the pocket, unnoticed. He urged the object up to the opening and light bounced off of its surface. It was a very striking yellow color, hard and round but with nothing in its center. It had a pattern etched into it, a repeating pattern of circles and intermittantly a vertical line separated the sequence. He held it in his hand for several minutes in awe of his discovery. Finally it occured to him. It was a beautiful gold ring.

He thought he had felt something else in the pocket as well. He remebered a sound slipping into his subconsious. The sound of paper perhpas. He reached back through the small opening and found a a folded note. It was difficult to pull it out without tearing it, so he was patient and perfromed the operation slowly. When it was finally extracted he opened it and was surprised to find it had been handwritten, in English, and addressed to him! 

As he read he became confused by what he saw.

Kosta, I make leave to Amierica one week. I send you ring I hold for you, now. And I want you know, you tell Greek, all Poland people not same like you saw. Good you go home and take my friend from here, you live long happy life with her. We Poland lost so much, but you tell Greek we take the Jews and help them go away from army. My family do this. My father and sister husband killed for this. Not all Poland like you saw. You write me, in America. Love Helena

Kosta remembered the story he heard on the trolley, Helena had a friend who married

a man from Greece, and he had taken her home with him. This letter was meant for him.

The next day was a Sunday. The trolley service was not as frequent, so Kosta decided to walk the few miles from his home to find Helena. He left early in the morning, stopping for a short while to say hello to the men gathered at the newstand. Many of the men were known to him, they worked for his father, and many were also his cousins. One of the men offered Kosta a ride, but he wanted to take the long walk and enjoy the quiet Sunday morning atmosshpere. The trip took one hour and as Kosta was approaching the shop, he saw Helena leaving it and heading further downtown. He started to run and call to her.

She turned sharply to see who was calling her name. At first she was startled then her eyes were smiling at the site of her friend.

‘’Helena, good morning, wait for me, please.’’

‘’Halo halo young man, what you do here, now?’’

‘’Helena I found something in the vest pocket, I am sure it belongs to you.’’

She immediately knew what he meant, and threw her hands to the sky.

‘’I forget I forget, how did I forget this?’’ she questiioned herself.

‘’I put there to make safe on boat, when come over.’’

‘’And you think it for you, it wirte to you name, eh?’’

‘’No I know it is not for me, it is safe though, here it is.’’

‘’Thank you thank you thank you son.’’

Kosta had the ring and the letter in a small brown bag and he handed it to her.

‘’You walk here from your house?’’ she asked.

‘’Oh yes it was a beautiful day and I love to walk.’’’’Helena, can I ask you about the letter?’’

‘’I write to Svetlana Kosta, tell him, what he saw, not all Poland like what he saw, we have many good Poland.’’

‘’The war is terrible, Helena, I feel so badly for everyone who has to be in Europe now, the Germans are terrible and no one can stop them.’’

‘’Yes and they find many people who will torture for them, many many.’’

‘’You lost your father and your sister lost her husband?’’

‘’Kosta, we have lost so much and the Jews, our friends, they lost everything, I can not tell you how much. Maybe someday I can tell you more, but now it is too hard. Just tell you people that not all Poland bad, some good very good, try to save Jews, you tell them, ok?’’

Kosta made a promise to Helena. What he made was a friend who would teach him

the true meaning of compassion. Kosta had closed his ears to the men in his father’s living room. Their loud discussions about armies and soldiers, dead and wounded, conquering and looting, overwhlemed him. He saw it as an abstract story that should never be told. He didn’t want to beleive what he was hearing. He convinced himself that the men were inventing this story, nothing could possibly be this crude, this evil.

But when he met Helena, and she began to share with him a personal side of a very painful life in the midst of war, he knew he had to allow himself to feel compassion and to make a big space in which she could feel free to tell her stories.

The two friends found their way to each other once a month. They made a habit of walking together in the park, sharing their stories. Mostly Kosta, listened to hers, she was giving him the gift of knowledge from the heart. He was grateful for the lessons.

TEDDY 1930

At home on his porch, Nick was reading the evening paper, when his friend Theodore passed by, waving to him with his cigar in one hand and a plaid fedora in the other. Nick raised his head and beckoned Theodore to come sit.

‘’ Kalh idea,  filos mou.’’ ‘’Good idea, my friend!’’

Theodore, who was affectionately called Teddy by his many friends, was a happy man who carried few worries around with him. Nick, known to his friends as N.D., had some firm opinions on the subject of Teddy’s carfefree ways. He loved to invite him onto the porch so he could deliver a few of his favorite lectures. Work ethics was one topic which breezed in Teddy’s right ear and quickly out the left. N.D. was fond of the exercise and so took pleasure in repeating it as often as the two met, which was quite often. Teddy lived just two blocks further down on the same street. Teddy never took offense at the oratory, he found it amusing. Also Kostia always appeared at the door with coffee and a plate of food, to interrupt the monologue when it reached a certain pitch. The visitor would rise from his chair and open the door for her. He would take the tray and make a loud fuss about how sweet she was to bring the drinks and the food for them. Kostia liked to place two small glasses of ouzo on the tray, so the men could enjoy it with their coffee. She also knew it would make the lecture go down more painlessly. Usually the banter between Kostia and Teddy was enough to suspend N.D.’s long list of points and the drinks sometimes punctuated the end of the list for the day.

‘’So Teddy, tell me xwhat ees it xyou have done on thees fine day?’’

‘’Today?’’

‘’Chyes I am ask xyou, xwhat xwork xyou make today?’’

‘’xWell Nicko, today, I visit, Yorgos and xwife, xwe xhave the breakfast. Then xwe sit and talk until the lunchtime come. I no want to be rude to Yorgina so of course I stay xwith them for the lunch. It was so good, that xwoman can make a fine patsitsio, eh? Have xyou had her patsitio  Niko?’’

Nick continued to look at Teddy as if he was speaking Chinese.

‘’Then after the lunch Telly and hees friend Franki Delallo from the leetle bar on the corner they come by, and xwe take a xwalk.’’

‘’I go to the grocer store and buy some meat for dinner, and take to Rose.’’

‘’Oh chyes and then I took a nice nap on the front porch, and Rosie she read me the paper.’’

‘’And?’’ Nick said, tilting his head toward Teddy and raising his eyebrow and moustache for emphasis. He had hoped for a description of some morsel of productivity from his friend.

But nothing came.

‘’xAnd, now xI am heer xwith my good friends having the coffee.’’ Teddy finished, quite satisfied with the day’s recap.

‘’Teddy Teddy I xworry for xyou. What impresseion xyou make on you schildren?’’

‘’My leetle gerls? They love me jes like their mother love me, I make good impresseion on them I theeink.’’

‘’But Teddy they no see xyou xwork. They see xyou go around all day make visits.’’

‘’xYes I take them too, xwith me sometimes.’’

‘’xYou are not seeing the point xI xam try make here Teddy.’’ N.D. ‘s voice raises up two decibels, his hands squeeze the chairarms and his moustache begins to flare out from his lips.

Teddy smiles and sips his ouzo. To his mind Nick’s work ethic is grossly overated. He always listens with his ears closed. He does it surreptiously enough that Nick does not take notice.

‘’If xyou girls not see xyou xworking hard for them they xwill learn nothing about the xworld. They xwheel grow up and only know xhow to play, nothing about to xwork. Do xyou think thees is fair for them?’’

‘’Oh Niko you know Rosie she shows them xhow to do all the xwork at the house.’’

‘’But they no see their father go out brave into thee xworld and take on the big job of providing for them. And after day of xwork they do not see their fatheer come home and tell them about the accomplisment he make. My boys see me get up early, put on the very good suit, go to my office and order my men to do their jobs. I go find more companies to make the contracts. I bring them home the stories of xwork so they xhave good role model, xyou understand?’’

Teddy, not having heard Nick, shook his head in total agreement, thus putting the harangue

to rest.

The real reason N.D. liked to lecture Teddy, was not that he saw him as a failure, but because he knew Teddy had discovered his own way of accumulating a fortune. And this made Nick a bit jealous. Teddy’s way was to enjoy every minute. He liked to visit friends, play cards, smoke long cigars, have some drinks, gamble a bit. His gambling bets  regularly allowed him to acquire small pieces of real estate. And being  blessed with hovering angels his real estate investments served him well. Apparently the angels also loved a good game of pinnocle, this provided plenty of capital for ‘re-investment’.  After many years of this formula he amassed a significant portfolio. The ease with which he did this, made N.D. more than a little envious.

In addition to educating anyone who would listen, on the subject of working hard and saving money, Nick loved to be the hero. He loved to be the one who men would turn to when they were preparing to start their own business. He loved making loans and feeling the importance of his role as community banker. Teddy never asked him for help, not for a favor, not for money. Teddy made his way using his charm and his good luck. Nick felt this was a type of cheating. Nick felt like the formula he himself had come to believe in was the perfect one, and he took it quite personally when it turned out otherwise. Nonetheless he and Teddy continued their routine talks on the porch that wrapped around Nick’s four-story brick home. They shared stories of friends and family. They remembered their villages and the people they had left behind.

At this time the men were not aware that in a few short years the they would become συμπεθερος, relatives by marraige. But then again, it was a safe bet, considering how intertwined the whole group of transpanted villagers had remained.

Kostia sits now with the two men and the conversation mellows.

‘’Do you remember the old man from Lefkathes who wore the skirt to the church?’’

Teddy laughed with the picture of the man in his head.

‘’And hees wife she wore the pants, eh?’’

‘’I talk with Petros and Spiros last week, they say about the Therma hot spring and the missing goat, do you know thees?’’

‘’No, what?’’

‘’Some old fool get mad with Antoni from Koundama and he steal goat in middle of night, and dump the little animal in the hot spring.’’

‘’They xcrazy those people.’’ Nick declares.

‘’But story have good ending, the goat he jump out the spring and knock old fool in water.’’

‘’Did you xheer about the gambro they find for the Stamatoula?’’

‘’Which Stomatoula honey?’’

‘’Stamatula Kopetas, they bring husband for xheer last week bring from island.’’

‘’Who is  xthey send for xheer, some big fellow better be.’’

‘’Oh they send a great big fellow for xher, xhe from way way up mountain.’’

‘’Not too smart, eh?’’

‘’Oh he smart enough, but he twice the size of Stamatoula if you can picture thees.’’

‘’That ees big, big big.’’

The men laugh now, and relax into the evening.

Kostia smiles, pats them both on the hand and goes back inside. The screendoor makes

its familiar creaking sounds. The heavy wood from which it is made feels smooth and

solid in her hand. There is a sense of safety in that door, on the porch,  even in the men’s posturing. It all makes her feel safe. Her smile broadens as the door closes behind her.

And it was always at Teddy’s encouragment that the conversation ended on the topic of their wives. The men both had married women who adored them, and whom they adored in return. Teddy was always the first to bring this up, because he was not afraid to show his affection for his wife and eager in fact to tell anyone about it, anyone who could listen. Nick learned to listen and learned to speak about Kostia. He considered this a luxury, one most men denied themselves. After all his lectures were over, he discovered that it was Teddy who had been his teacher, not the other way around.

BLACK GUSSIE c 1942

In our configuration of a family which had tentacles beyond numeration. We had a habit of  labeling our kin. When someone succeeded in or succumbed to being so anointed, their wife or husband would be given a matching epithet. Black Gus, his wife Stamatoula, was known to us as το MαύροKostaki, the Black Gussie. It was unusual to see them together, as they were so much alike, even they could not often bear their combined presence. But one thing they both enjoyed was a quick spin around the block to take stock of the day’s troubles. A quick spin for them might consume an hour or more, for there were many activities afoot on their turf, to which they felt compelled to respond. If Black Gussie approached the family alone, there being few famous female misanthropes in history, no books or poems would alert them. But blue skies often clouded over, the grey ones darkened further, this was the sign that prepared them for her solo onslaughts.

On the rare days they were together, grey skies and the distant sound of voices reciting

The Siege of Corinth, floated by.

            From Venice – once a race of worth

 His gentle sires – he drew his birth;

But late an exile from her shore,

 Against his countrymen he bore

             The arms they taught to bear; and now

             The turban girt his shaven brow.

             Through many a change had Corinth passed

             With Greece to Venice’ rule at last;

             And here, before her walls, with those

             To Greece and Venice equal foes,

             He stood a foe, with all the zeal

             Which young and fiery converts feel,

             Within whose heated bosom throngs

             The memory of a thousand wrongs

The poem’s tone coats the air with doom and our misantropes make their presence known.

.

‘’xWHY xYOU KIDS PLAY xWITH THAT BALLO IN STREET, xYOU GO KILL xYOU SELF?’’

“I GO MAKE xYOU DOG DEAD, xYOU NO KEEP IN xHOUSE!”

“xYOU BOYS MAKE TOO LOUD NOISE, GO AWAY xHERE, GO, GO!”

“OH MRS. SPANGOLI, xYOU SISTER, I SEE, GEET FAT NOW, EH?  ANOTHER BABY? TOO BAD, TOO MANY BABY NOW, xYOU SISTER, GOD xHELP xHER.”  When the tearful Mrs. Spagnoli had passed MauvroKostaki, would continue, to herself and to Black Gus, “AND GOD HELP ME, xWITH ALL THESE TSCHEELDREN ON THE STREET, TOO LOUD, TOO NOISY, TOO DAMN MUCH!”

The other activity the couple enjoyed, so to speak, was to walk past Nick’s place, to see if he and Teddy were on the porch having their coffees and ouzo. They did not mind being invited to join them, took the coffee, never the ouzo, and packed a few cookies or some cheese into their pockets. “FOR LATER, WE TAKE.” Pursing their lips, tossing their heads up at a slight slant, saying “AHMEH,” “THAT’S RIGHT... FOR LATER.”

Teddy, easily entertained by the characters of life, took pleasure in their short visits. He knew that Nick would get the brunt of their derisions. Teddy and Kostia were more likely to be spared. Teddy would sometimes, excuse himself shortly after they arrived, leaving Nick alone to spar with the duo. Listening to the banter from behind the screen-door, his moustache would ripple with delight at the digs to Nick’s ego.

“SO xYOU BIG BOY NO xWORK YET EH?” the pair would wink to each other, an elbow surreptitiously poking at other’s arm.

Nick would be silent.

“HE STILL GO SCHOOL, GO AND GO AND GO EH?”

Nick would begin to steam.

“xWELL SOMEDAY HE GOT TO STOP AND MAKE FATHER xHAPPY, AM I RIGHT NIKO?”

The small silent concerto being played on the arm of Nick’s chair, by his long elegant fingers, would gain volume and speed. He let no reply come forward, tongue-tied by the button being pushed. “And on my own porchi, I let these two belittling, busy-body, pessimists, sit and eat my food, then they barrage me with insults, goad me into a furor,” he thought to himself, but would not admit.

“Gus and Gussie, my friends, I xam sorry I left xyou, xwhat xwere yxou talking about?”

Teddy emerges from the house. He loves witnessing the patriarch up in arms, not so much from malice, but for the comic relief.

“xWE JUST ASKING OVER DIMITRI SCHOOL AND LIKE THAT, BUT OUR COUSIN xHE NO SAY MUCH TODAY,” this the Black Gus offers only slightly annoyed. He feels satisfied he has won the afternoon’s battle. The terms of engagement remain the same from day to day. So the war was waged years prior, and is fought in very short increments, almost always on this porch. When the BlackGus or his wife takes the battle to the church hall, or to a larger family gathering real fireworks are seen. Nick will not hesitate to pull out his big guns, when faced with a more public humiliation. Fortunately BlackGus and Gussie are not fond of attending large gatherings, the noise and the children, the music, the dancing...it all aggravates them to further distraction. So Nick is often spared that public display of harrasment.

For now, with Kostia and Teddy to witness the skirmish, he chooses to remain silent, hoping the Guses will get up and leave, or drop dead suddenly and roll off of his life forever. Whichever comes first, he will accept, graciously as possible under the circumstances.

When the two make their departure, it is abrupt, and for this Nick is grateful.

Kostia rejoins the two men and smiles over at Teddy, who nods to her in reply.

She reaches over to her husband, touching his cheek softly, “xYou made three beautiful tschildren, good tschildren, I love xyou for this, do xyou know?”

Nick melts with her touch, and bows his head.

“Three strong boys, smart boys, xyou a very lucky man Nicko.” Teddy adds.

Nick changes the subject so that he can hold court again before the small party disbands. “Today, the xworld is angry, and the anger is consuming everyone in its path. xHow do xwe respond to this anger, xwhat should xwe do? I xwill tell xyou, every one of these countries in this big xworld, needs to keep inside their own borders. Leave the neighbors alone. Make their own land a good one, finish.”

What he really meant, was he did not want his boys, or any boys in his family, going off to battle. So in the comfort of his own front porch he began building a sheild for them. He believed his strong intention may influence the gods in his favor, and spare the boys.

Kostia and Teddy nodded their agreement with a small movement of their heads from left to right.

And with that said, Teddy took his leave, just a little tipsy from the drinks, but also very happily he made his way one block further down, to home.

Kostia cleared the dishes and glasses from the tables and returned to the kitchen to finish preparing for dinner.

Nick rocked on his chair, picked up the paper, pictures of clouds of smoke, fallen planes, ships on fire. Motionlessly he made his resolve complete.

THE CHURCH AND OTHER EXCUSES TO EAT 1946

Everyday Kosta woke to the sounds of men discussing their jobs, plotting their route to a nearby city. He heard them speak in idioms and sometimes a poetic one would speak in metaphors. He loved to listen to them fill the room with words. Sometimes he covered his ears with his pillow so he could hear the sounds of the language but not the content. He loved the rhythm of it and the rise and fall of its tones. Everyday but Sunday, he woke to the men’s voices. On Sunday he woke to the smell of coffee and fresh bread, the sounds of his parents plotting their route to the church, reminding each other who they needed to gather along the way. Sometimes a Kefalos, sometimes another Lardthas, always their nephew named Jimmy would accompany them, but he would be up early and in their living room helping  Kostia with the coffee. Dimitri was most reluctant to rise so early on Sunday to make the trip through the neighborhood. Kosta was up as was Kimon, they looked forward to the walk and to entering mysterious hall. They wanted the incense to intoxicate them, the choir to transport them, the priest and the cantors to sing the prayers for them. They looked forward to joining the roomful of voices, the call and response of the rituals. The boys loved the gold cups and the colorful robes of the priests, the light from candles, the doors gilded with icons so carefully rendered, the ceiling’s dome echoing the prayers back down wrapping them all in the words they formed for their god. The service they would attend began at eight and continued until ten thirty. The congregnts were welcome to enter the cathederal whenever they liked. Kosta and Kimon preferred to go early, but it was impossible to collect everyone and march them to their destination any sooner than nine thirty. When Kosta and Kimon were old enough to make the trip on their own, they made a point to leave in time to witness the entire service.

In the midst of: the preists’ call and response; the rush of a lyrical language set in rhythmic lines by the choir; the spicy smells from the covered censer sending clouds of earthly gifts to heaven; the sound of twelve bells ringing as the offerings are made; in the midst of all this Kimon would notice his brother’s beatific smile. He noticed his eye lids fluttering gently and his head responding in slow nods. ‘’Brother, what are you doing? Are you falling asleep?’’

‘’I’m listening to the messages, there’s so many! So sweet!’’ Kosta answered, his head still consenting to the dispatch that only he could hear.

At the end of the service everyone would gather in the church hall for coffee and conversation. The children were free to find all their cousins and invent games that would take them into every corner of the property. They would plot ways to dodge the eagle eyes of their parents, set up traps for the elders to fall into, hide under the tables and reek whatever havoc they could manage.

‘’Did you see old Eleftheria’s big shoes?’’

‘’Let’s tie her stockings together, they’re down around her ankles.’’

‘’I put a keftethes in Yianni Chakos’ pant cuff.’’

‘’Let’s see who can get Koula to scream the loudest.’’

The childrens behavior was expected and permitted, and would immediately be followed by stern lectures on the long walk back home. The teenage children set themselves apart from the younger ones, by practicing their flirtation techniques acorss the table from their hearts desire. Many a young romance began on these Sundays, and many of those blossomed into marraige a few years further on. This was highly encouraged by the parents, especially if the chosen mates had come from the same island. If a boy from Chios longed for a girl from the Peleponesa, well, that could create a issue, tolerated by some families better than others. A worse offense would be committed if  a girl from the Ikarian clan fell for an xeni (a non-Greek). This could start a prolonged family confrontation, one requiring intervention to prevent a murder.

In addition to gathering at the church on Sundays, the children attended Greek school once a week, also held in clasrooms the church provided. At Greek school, language was fine tuned, the history and culture of their people were imparted. Greek school provided another opportunity for romance to seed. The relationships were overseen by the priests and  parents all participating as teachers.

In order to further promote the unity of the group, each clan of Greeks had organizations that held monthly meetings, dinners and dances. These groups were formed for socializing, pairing the young up in couples, and amassing money to send back to their villages.  The money raised provided assistance, roads, hospitals, docks, transportation, whatever was needed for the families who had stayed in the old country. These organizations would hold annual conventions so that the members in many cities throught the United States, could come together in celebration of their clan, hold meetings, dances, dinners and most importanly pair the young up in couples.

Several Greek cultural organizations exist to ensure that the history  of all Greek clans and thir current events continued to be shared. Ofcourse they offer opportunities for meetings, dances, dinners and the all important, pairing up of the young into couples.

Participating in all these religious and social groups assured that the species would flourish, diversity of genes would ensure the health and longevity of the group, and building community would yield the pleasure they all sought.

Kosta and his brothers participated in these activites most willingly. Everyone loved to dance and to share big meals together, to hear the bands play the familiar folk songs, passionate and driving beats, painful and joyful melodies intertwining. They enjoyed this as the backdrop of their lives. They were proud inside this picture, smiling and holding hands encouraging each other to dance, to be alive in their bodies.

THE BOND  c 1940

When Kosta met Helena, he was fifteen years old. His uncle Manolis had disappeared from the bridge over the Ohio river, three years ealier. He wanted to tell Helena about this, it was a deep sorrow in his family. He wanted to let her know, that he too understood the insistent haunting of loss.  He wanted to share this, but he found himself putting off the telling.

On Sunday afternoons Kosta would often walk over to his aunt and uncle’s house for a visit.

Archondoula and he had a spark in their eye for each other, kindred spirits, they were always happy to spend time together. Manolis was a man who Kosta admired for his quiet dignity. He loved to study him, sitting in his favoirte brown leather chair, round gold-rimmmed glasses professorily perched, reading his paper. On Sundays he was dressed in his best and most likely only black wool suit with starched white collar, top button allowed to rest. Manolis would put his paper down to greet his nephew with a hug, the boy would lean into him, kissing both cheeks and exchange a warm embrace. Manolis would ask after Kosta’s family, his parents his brother’s, his mother’s family. Archondoula would bring him a small coffee with warm milk, some freshly made kouroulikia or kourembethias, always a bowl with fruit and some cheese.

He loved to be with couple in their living room by the fire in winter or out on the porch in summer. The way they cared for each other was uncomplicated, he felt their love by extension. He felt it reach out and embrace him. His cousins were often out of the house at this time, so alone with his favorite relatives, he appreciated their pointed affections.

Archondoula was a lively mixture of calm determination and intense passion. When she was affected by something it was from the depths of her being. And she was not shy in her expression. Her temper could flare up easily when one of the children stepped out of line. Her oldest son Dimitri was often the culprit. A long undulating line of exclamations would pour forth from her lips. Hands would wave and her entire body solidified into a boulder heading right for the victom. In less than thirty seconds, the eruption would be over. First a smirk and then a big smile would re-visit her informative face. She always had that adorable glimmer in her eye that welcomed Kosta into her home.

The three would talk about the current events, but not about the war, which at the time of his regular visits, had not yet begun in earnest. Manolis would not have been interested in the war, he would have preferred to talk about the social interest stories he had read. He would prefer the story of a child found on a doorstep and adopted by a young family; the recounting of gypsies who had performed an act of heroism-and not an account of their theivery. He would prefer the reports of farmers just outside the city who were keeping bees and increasing their crop outputs two fold. He was heartened by the tale of two widows, their husbands lost to mines in West Virginia, who merged their flock of children and worked together to open a school for orphans.

Neither his aunt or uncle had the good fortune of an education past the sixth grade. Their lives back home had been re-routed by a fate that befell most of the island’s occupants. Parents had gone missing, food was scarce, money non existent. Young and old worked to keep the families fed and clothed. America called to them and their migration led them on the long journey to where they now sat. Their lack of education, did not deter them from their interests and curiosities. They allowed themselves to be added to in every way possible. Manolis soaked up information and knowledge from his workplaces. Archondoula and her women friends taught each other, and learned from their husbands. Although most of the women never mastered the spoken English language, they did learn how to read and to write, it was a freedom ticket, they bought for themselves and for their children. Archondoula was adept at reading, and she could easily communicate in English, however, due to her peculiar stubborness,  she usually withheld this information from Americans. Kosta did not quite understand her motives in this regard, but he abided them and did not reveal her secret, which he had discovered innocently enough.

One day her son Dimitri, who was affectionalely refrred to as Hollywood, and who is, my dear father, addressed a group of American boys from the neighborhood. ‘My mother is going shopping soon you all come over to my house we will play inside today.’’

 When Dimitri came into the house after delivering this message to his friends, his mother elaborated for five minutes. ‘’τη θα κανείς μωρό, xwhat ees the matter xwith xyou child, xyou know I no like all those boys in my xhouse xwhen I xam not xhome. They make a mess and xyou know better, xyou little fool’’

Dimitri’s black waves blew back on his head, shocked, he had no idea her English was so good. He wondered how many things he had inadvertently revealed, thinking she could not understand him.

Dimitri spent some nights mulling this over, and told his cousin Kosta, ‘’well I best exercise extreme caution when I am plotting behind her back. Actually she doesnt really seem to have a back to plot behind. My mother is all eyes and ears apparently.’’

Kosta smiled at Hollywodd and shook his head with exxtreme determination, helping Dimitri to put a final point on the issue, cementing into his brain.

Manolis and Archondoula lived only two blocks from Kosta’s family. In addition to his routine Sunday morning visits, Kosta often visited them en route to his city-wide forays.

He made a point to walk down their street, considering them his second set of parents.

‘’Theo Manolis, do you enjoy working on the bridges now?’’

‘’To tell  xyou the truth Kosta, I would prefer to xhave my leetle cafe again some day.’’

‘’I know you would, I can see that. My father says you are his best man though, did he ever tell you this?’’

‘’xYou know xyou father, xhe no tell me xwith xwords, but I know I make xhim proud.’’

‘’Thea, I see your English is getting better and better, eh?’’ and he gave her a wink.

‘’Maybe, xches.’’ she admitted cautiously.

‘’Your secret is safe with me you know.’’ he spoke, and not in Greek.

Archondoula’s eyes sparkeled at his words.

‘’How are you learning so well?’’

‘’The radio, teach me, xyou mother xhelp me and I xam learn to read, too, did xyou know this?’’

‘’I love you Thea.’’ he paused. ‘’And I love how you and my mother are together, like sisters, always helping each other, I love to listen to the two of you talk.’’

Archondoula and his own mother were attached at the hip. They shared many afternoons together. Sometimes Kosta would come home and find Archondoula in his back yard, digging in her brohter’s garden, weeding and pruning and beaming with delight to be held by the warm earth. On these days he and his mother and aunt would share long talks. Kosta and his mother sat in chairs under an apple tree, his aunt preferrd the grass. They would tell Kosta stories of their realatives back on the island, and of the ones who had ventured to South Africa, and to Egypt, to Australia and New Zealand, to Canada and one who left at a very young age for India. He loved these stories, and whatever part they didn’t really know, they invented. Kosta was aware of their inventions and loved how the stories always changed from telling to re-telling. He would also offer a version for them to consider, and they would sometimes agree to choose that one as the ending.

‘’Thea, can you tell me again about Demo who went to Tazmania? The one who became a ship captain?’’

‘’Oh Demo, xhe xwas somethingk. Could not xhelp xhimself from flirt with every girls.

One day xhe was try to get xyou mother to go for walk in mountain with xhim. xHe xwas make so many gyration with xhis body he trip on big rock and tumble right over edge of cliff.’’

Archondoula tightened her lips and shook her head. ‘’I saw thees xwhole thing.’’

‘’xYou mother she try so xhard not to laugh at him, but she go and look over edge of cliff and see Demo down at bottom steel dancing and carrying on about go for xwalk. She lean over and tell xhim ‘‘Vre Demo, maybe xyou no need try so xhard, because xyou keep try thiees xhard, xyou going to keel xyourself someday. I no xwant to marry dead man, eh?’ ’’

‘’O Demo xhe tells xhis friends a different story though. xHe said xhe would fly like Ikaros for one lettle kiss from Kostia, and that’s xhow he ended up over the edge.’’  Archondoula shook her head even more, pursed her lips so hard together, Kosta and his mother worried she had stopped breathing. Then a burst of bubbles came spewing forth and Archondoula’s laugh lifted across the valley. Her laughter met the tall stacks of the cloud factory in the park below and came echoing back up the hill. All three were wrapped in the joy of telling their stories.

‘’O Demo never xhe xhave girlfriend on island, if xhe no go New Zealand, xhe xwould steel be Ikaria trying to kees somebody and getting xhisself all messed up over it. xHe was a fool that Demo!’’ Archondoula continued musing.

Kostia, she kept silent on the point, choosing to enjoy her cousins version of tale.

‘’But as xyou know, xhe go away and xhe become big sheip captain and xhe make big monies. We all proud xhim now. xHe steel bachelor though! But xhe xhas gerls at many ports I xhear! Whatever! Eh?’’

When Kosta and Manolis found themselves alone he would ask his uncle to tell him about his brothers and sisters. Some had come to America, some had stayed behind. He heard most often of his brothers Nicholas, Apostolis and Antonis, about the others he had less to say. Manolis had three sisters and four brothers, three made it to America, only two stayed.

‘’We three brothers  come to America with father of Archondoula.’’

Manolis knew this place would save them from the spare lives they were leaving behind. But he was the most reluctant to leave the island, he had a new wife and they were expecting their first child, when the plans for the trip were being made. Long discussions weighing the options in front of them concluded in his agreement to go and pave a new road.

‘’Dimitrios Archondoula’s father ees like father to me too xyou know thees. In 1920, xwe land in Neaa Yorki. xWe meet there o Yorgos, o Dthemi, o Pandalee.  Our friends from the island xwho came before.

They xwork  the mines and the railroad in the Pennxstylvania, the West Virginia and in the Ohio. They xsay they xhave thee  xwork wait for us there. xWe all eager begin again in thees place.’’

Dimitrios was Kosta’s grandfather, the eldest of the immigrated tribe and the most respected for his hard work and  generous spirit. He was, like his son in law, a quiet man, gentle and soft spoken. He left many stories of the tragedies he witnessed, untold, but not all of them. In his presence Kosta always felt safe and very much loved,  affection came from him easily. Dimitrios lived with his daughter  and son in law, and so Kosta saw him often, but their most profound conversations were always unspoken.

Since his childhood, Manolis had known Dimitrios, his wife Irene and their children. Their villages were very close to one and other and isolated from the main village a few miles down the mountain. Their bonds were deep and they shared an ambition for a better life.

Kosta could always see the sadness in Dimitrios’ eyes. The story behind this sadness was recited many times for Kosta, as he often asked to hear it when they were alone. The day his wife Irene went missing from the village,  Dimitrios was in his mid thirties, his daughter Archondoula only fifteen, his two sons, Nick and Chris younger still. He thinks about her every day, and is certain he will find her still, certain beyond any doubt. He tells Kosta, this is what he prays for, reunion. He prays for all the reunions that will make men whole again. Kosta understands him and doesn’t. He begs to hear the story again and again, beleiving he will learn what Dimitrios knows.

‘’Kurios’’ ‘’Sir,’’ ‘’When you see Irene again will she be older or will she still be young?’’

‘’Child, thees somethingk I no know, I cheest know I see xher not too long.’’

And then I think about that day, in Istanbul. The day that changed Kosta’s life.  He was in his mid thirties when he got his first a glimmer of real  knowledge. He got this from his freind Theo, the man in the park, the man he reaches for, the man who helped him see beyond his eyes’ illusions.

.

TURNING ON THE LIGHT

As I look back at Kosta’s early life, I look back for clues to my own.

I began underneath that table, with the weight of all those conversations overhead.

I began trying to see through eyes like his, wide opened eyes, and not out from eyes like mine, darting and leery, worrying and scolding. My eyes were seemed too playful one moment too serious the next.

I wondered how, as a woman, I could cultivate my gifts. I wondered, will our family see the value of my work, like we came to see his. I wondered how the forces that fuels a woman’s desire, will be received. Will I be held up the way we held him up?

Kosta never feared condemnation for the feminine spirit that took its place beside the masculine. I wonder as I push my way into the world, will I be seen as over zealous, rough around the edges, my softness covered up by years of trying to fit in. He told me otherwise. He told us all. “When you feel the burning inside of you, it is your obligation to find a way to translate your passion, make a gift of it. This is why we are here.”

“Most importantly” he said “remember, you’re not alone.”

“Someone is always watching over us.” He conintued “And we have one responsibility. We must find a way to ‘’know’’ ourselves. This is what art is, and you, child are an artist.

Life and art, are the same, a mystical experience, which does not end,

but it does lead us to ourselves.”

“The artists are the translators of the soul we all share,” he told me.

“Art is the truth behind all the illusions, behind all the veils,” he told me.

Once when I visited him in New York he told me about a man he met in Istanbul.

“Was he homeless?” I asked.

Kosta insisted he was not.

“He lived in a large beautiful park in the heart of the old city,” he said.  “I have sat with him often when visiting the university.”

In classrooms around the world Kosta delivered lectures, poems to the ears of adoring students. He returned to Istanbul many times, not only to teach, but to be taught. Gulhane Park sits below the Topkapi Palace its tree-lined paths lead to the Marmara Sea, the Marble Sea. This was his friend’s office, this is where would always meet.

He called his friend Theo, I don’t remember now, was it because he considered him his uncle, or was it truly, his name?

“He was a traveler, but not of the body,” Kosta said.

“He practiced the archaic techniques of ecstasy,” Kosta said.

 “Archaic techniques of ecstasy?” I questioned.

“Yes, that is how I call it, do you understand?”

“No, but it’s fascinating, and makes me want to go immediately to Turkey to find him.”

“As you should, honey, as you should.”

“Theo saw the unity behind the chaotic curtain of this world,” he continued.

“ A seer,” he told me.

“ A shaman?” I asked him.

“Yes, that too.” “And an artist, a transporter, a conscioiusness raiser!”

“Sometimes I would put my arm around him and I could feel his strong shoulder, other times, it was as if I was embracing the air.  He was magic!”

He considered Theo to be an entrance into a world he would not have discovered

had they not met .

Retracing Kosta’s steps from Istanbul I follow his map. En route from Chios to America, I wanted to see through his eyes. I take his lead: because I believe in him. I beleive he allowed himself to feel, and to search for meaning in this life. I beleive that is what I want more than anything else I can imagine.

I know Theo showed him something divine, in Istanbul; something that he learned seamlessly and shared generously. I also know he has not mentioned Theo to many people.

So I feel I held a secret for my cousin, to help him protect it from the faithless. He encouraged me to keep my eyes open to Theo’s reappearance, should I be so lucky in my life.

“Everything we need, lives eternal,” Kosta said.

“Everything that has come before circles back and arrives in the future dispelling the illusion of time... and space too,” he continued.

Kosta spent his time looking back and looking forward, pulling all the threads of life’s big questions into the quilt.

“Our quilt, was knit lovingly in the hands of the women who gave us life,” he said.

“ And the men who question its every nuance, hauling out their tiny axes, dicing up every word that approaches their airspace?” I asked. “Our pateres, our fathers?”

“Oh yes we are the children of many lecturing fathers,” he smiled back at me, and winked.

In a distant corner of my eye, I see him in his father’s library, windows to the park, his friend floating in and out of reach. I would love to meet him. One way or another I believe I will.

NO STRANGERS c 1958

When Theo and Kosta first met, Kosta was on a Fulbright scholarship. He had published a few books of poetry, and an historical novel. His work was being considered for a Pulitzer Prize. He was in perfect form and feeling very good to be alive.  He had married a woman he admired and loved deeply, they were making a family. Ten years into the marraige he was working on a major translation of the mourning songs, from antiquity to the present. She was working with her father managing a very busy manhattan restaurant. Kosta loved to repeat his wife’s name. Sophia. Sophia was strong and independant, faithful and fearless. They were fortunate to have found one and other.

Their conversation started they day they met, and it never quieted.

They are still going at it. Questioning everything, recounting all the stories have they collected between them, taking the pulse of the atmosphere around them.

 ‘’Why do some people allow themselves to dwell in the sorrow of loss and others wall themselves off from it?’’ Kosta asks Sophia this quesstion, over and over.

‘The German culture for example. The Germans appear so much cooler than our people. Thier attitude to life’s constant flux is taken in stride. In our culture we have always been deeply affected by our experiences.’’

Sophie agrees, ‘’Cultures, like ours, feel heated, don’t they? And unafraid of feeling. We welcome change despite the difficulties it poses.’’

‘’I dont know why we do it that way, but we do.’’ she continued.

Kosta offered more ‘’ Perhaps our ancestors, influenced by the expanse of the sea and sky, allowed themselves time to wonder, imagining a great variety of scenarios. In this way they must have elicited a broad range of emotions. Some other cultures, where people are confined to more cloistered living, perhaps they see life’s experiences more cut and dry, a reflection of their environment and how they interact physically with that space?’’

Their interest in this subject grew from the stories the relatives shared with them, and the ones they knew lurked just beneath the surface, but were never fully explained.

Kosta’s long friendship with Helena also led him down this path. The people who influenced him most were always the ones who felt so deeply, that thier well of feeling seemed bottomless. This attracted him on many levels.

When Kosta met Theo on his first visit to Istanbul, he glimpsed the possiblity of  salvation from suffering. Theo’s words directed him to another way of sensing what the true myseries of this world held for us, beyond our deep sorrows, through them, to the other side.

Once when they sat together in the park, an old woman apprached them, Theo motioned to her to share their seat. Kosta was aware of a powerful connection between himself and the old woman. Theo understood.

‘’You’ve come a very long way my friend,’’ Theo addressed the woman.

She nodded and smiled at them.

Kosta could see himself in her eyes.

She offered him a piece of fruit from a burlap bag she was holding on her lap.

He thanked her, taking out his pocket knife he made two slices, three sections, one for each of them to share.

They all sat quietly on the park bench, listening to the soft wind in the trees, birdsongs, and children’s voices in the distance, laughing, carefree. A Huma was noted, an invisilbe bird whose flight never ends, a phoenix, endlessly resurrecting itself.

Sweet scents of blossoms, fresh air, the soil rich from centuries of leaves being born and giving themselves back to the earth, in an endless cycle, all this filled them up.

Kosta closed his eyes allowing his other senses to pilot him through the sounds and smells surrounding them. When he opend his eyes, Theo and the woman were gone. He had no idea when they left, he heard nothing, felt nothing. He was confused, perhaps he had fallen asleep. He allowed himself to be comforted by his certainty that Theo would be back, and he would explain.

Walking the streets and bazaars of the city, Kosta was sure he had seen the old woman in the crowds around him. This happened to him over and over again. He felt that they might meet again, and he would tell her something, he wasnt sure what. He tapped more than few old women on the shoulder, certain this time he had spotted her. Each one he approached in his best Turkish ‘’pardon me, did we meet before in the park with Theo.’’ Most of the women shooed him away, leery of his approach.  Some had a better sense of humor and smiled politely, tossing their heads back to say ‘’no you are mistaken.’’

He saw Theo a few days later. He was feeding the geese by a lake in the park. Kosta called to him, and they waved to each other. Kosta bent down to gather his jacket and books from the place on the grass where he had been reading. He walked in the direction of where Theo had been standing, and was suddenly aware, that Theo, was no where to be seen.

It was several more days before he saw him again, Kosta asked him where he had disappeared to so quickly that day. He told him he had been called away, urgently, and he apologized if he had offeneded him. ‘’Oh no you didn’t offend me, Theo, I was confused, it seemed too sudden to be...possible...’’

‘’Everything is possible young man, this is why we are here.’’

Kosta was a more perplexed by that statement, but let it go. He knew he was being taught something, and he wanted it to sink into him before he responded.

‘’I was wondering, have you seen the lady who sat with that day, the one we shared the fruit with?’’

‘’Oh I see her from time to time, yes.’’

‘’Well do you know her, know her name? She seems so familiar to me.’’

‘’I am sure she is.’’ he answered without satisfying Kosta’s questions.

‘’You are sure she is, what?’’

‘’Eh?’’

‘’I said you are sure she is what?’’

‘’Familiar to you, son.’’

‘’Well why would she be, I never met her before, I know only the people from the university and the library, and I know you. Here in Istanbul I have no family I am a stranger.’’

‘’No stranger, there are no strangers Kosta.’’

‘’No strangers?’’

‘’No, none.’’

Kosta left it alone. He didn’t know Theo well but he knew him well enough, to know when to be silent and soak up his words. Everything he learned from him was enigmatic at first, and perfectly true upon reflection. So Kosta would just wait, and see. This was the routine of their relationship. Theo established it and Kosta obliged.

HOLLYWOOD, LITTLE JIMMY AND KOSTA’S PHILOSOPHIA  1940

In addition to his brother Dimitri, Kosta had two cousins named Dimitri: Archondoula’s sons (my father); and his uncle Chris’ son. Both soon left their given names behind and opted to be called Jimmy. Archondoula’s son exchanged his Greek name for an American version at age 8 when he entered a new school. His father had given him specific instructions to go to the principle’s office and introduce himself and his brother Kosta.

When Dimitri arrived at school he obliged his father, ‘’Halo Mr. Protovski, this is my young brother, Kosta, and we are new this year to your school.’’

‘’So nice of you to come and introduce me to your brother, young man.  And you are...?’’

‘’And oh yes they call me Jimmy.’’ This Jimmy was tall and thin with thick black curls. He was full of enthusiasm and of himself. He was the first to take a dare, and lead whatever pack of boys would follow him on his adventures. His imagination was a thing unto itself, and his cousins and his school friends, particularly the girls, adored him. He and his cousin Kosta were bonded early by their gift of conversation, philosophizing and questioning of the world.

Chris’ son became know as LittleJimmy. The adults loved hearing this English phrase roll off their tongues, and it freed them from the constant confusion about which Dimitri was being referenced. We had Dimitri son of N.D. the patriarch, Dimitri (Jimmy)son of  Archondoula, and Dimitri(LittleJimmy) son of Chris. And just to remind you of the cloud of repetitious naming devices this culture abides, we had Kosta son of N.D., and Kosta son of Archondoula, Kosta husband of Vassiliki, and cousin Kosta from Steubinville.  Truly there were strings of Kostas, Nicks, Dimitris, leaves on our tree, keeping the ancestors alive.

LittleJimmy, Dimitriki accepted the diminutive, but by the age of five, he had lost his fondness for it. He found it slightly condescending. Dimitriki was born a peacemaker and so he let it stand. He was the youngest Dimitri, until all the cousins started to have families of their own. LittleJimmy shared his cousins’ love of philosophy. The three boys’  companionship was forged daily as they waved their hands at the sky asking all the big questions. They became each other’s muses. With Kalliope in his pocket, at birth, Kosta often had the floor. All three, though, sought each other out for advice. The questions of what, where, how and when of life weighed heavily on them. Each had his own perspective, together they felt supported in their eagerness to peek under the skirts of life’s deep mysteries.

“What do you suppose the grand purpose is, my cousins?’’

“I expect we can only ask God for this missing piece of information.’’ LittleJimmy said.

“I believe we are here to seek knowledge and to do that which is good for the world. I am in agreement with the Mr. Plato.” Jimmy added, and you Kosta, tell us what you think.

“I think we are here to discover all the ways in which we are connected.”

Jimmy and LittleJimmy understood their cousin, but only a bit, it would take them both several years to sharpen their understanding. Eventually, they would succeed.

THE CIRCUS 1939

The interior walls of the family homes were peppered with large flowered prints, fleur-de-lis, or when possible a Greek key motif. Keeping those clean was another task for Sisyphus. The steel-city was fueled by coal and spewing smokestacks marked the sky. Coal, coke, sulphur, metals, oil and a long list of petroleum products made pea soup of the air. The children called the buildings with stacks ‘cloud factories.’ Thousands lined the rivers, filled the valleys and held the city in a smoke-woven blanket. Writing in the 1800’s James Parton called the city ‘hell with the lid removed’. By 1939, not much had changed. The smell of war was afoot and any attempt to improve the city’s air quality was postponed. An opaque veil of smoke sometimes obscured even the noonday sun. The days were known as two, three or four-shirt days, depending on the volume of particulate matter in the air. The industrial giants of the time equated the density of the smog to the economic robustness of the city. Furthermore, they noted, smoke from the coke ovens and the coal-fired furnaces, was good for both the lungs and the crops! The city residents, all engaged in the business at hand, agreed. And they agreed to bask in the soot.

The black dust bathed every corner, literally and figuratively. It was a heavy dark cloak but it was worn with pride.

The great variations of grey and the thickness of the space around them, inspired the children. The boys wore it like a cape: imagining medieval jousts; rides on horseback. The grey garment urged visions of daring and magical feats. Armies were formed and lines were drawn, as the smoke morphed imaginatively in their young minds. They let the cloak wave behind them calling attention to their heroics.

With the war threatening, and the steady production of the mills providing a constant hum in the background of their lives, the house was full of pronouncements from fathers and uncles, laments from mothers and aunts, shouts from cousins. This primed the boys for their annual sojourn to the Hunt Armory. As a vault of war power, it promised to satisfy their imaginations about jeeps and guns and tanks and missiles. For the adults it provided respite from the realities of the day, as the Hunt Armory was also the home of the Shriner’s circus. For the daughters and nieces: they envisioned color and texture and ballerinas on the backs of elephants, bicycles on tightropes. For the girls the circus promised a full body delight.

The trip to Emerson Street was taken by streetcar. Parents, uncles and aunts and a pack of children would meet at N.D. and Kostia’s substantial living room and plot the particulars of the excursion. Tickets were purchased in advance courtesy of the patriarch. Archondoula with her Hollywood, Kosta and Vassiliki; Chris and Feio, his wife, with their Dorthea, Irene and LittleJimmy; Nick and Kostia with their Dimitri, Kosta and Kimon, would all be there.

Often there were other families in tow, relatives all. Manolis, Archondoula’s husband missed many of these family outings. He was the foreman on his brother in law’s big projects and was quietly coerced into working on those days. If he resented this, he never mentioned it. His wife and children would have preferred to have him along, but Nick always provided a convincing excuse for why he could not afford to have Manolis take the day off. On certain subjects Nick trumped his sister, this being one of those subjects.

Circus day promised everything for the children. Their excitement flew from the windows on Parkview Avenue as the family made their last arrangements for the departure. The neighbors were quite clear on their destination. Should an emergency arise, they would know to ring the armory.

“Ok ees everbody heer now Kostia?” Nick wondered aloud.

“I don’t even know xwho xyou all invited, xhoney, only xyou know thees. Look around and make sure.”

Nick, hating to have any of his own shortcomings showing, quickly concluded. “xYes xyes I see now everybody xwho ees heer, ees xheer, and xwe go.” “Kostia, you xget all thees children and Ix get everyone else on the porchi now.”

It was the winter winds that blew in to offer the visceral extravaganza known as the circus.

Our own family mobilized for the pleasure of both delighting in and being the spectacle. The latter of course was inadvertent.

“I don’t want to wear the scarf and mittens, Mother, no, I do not want them.” Kimon contested.

Archondoula approached the struggling Kostia, grabbed Kimon’s hands and mittened them. The scarf somehow wrapped around his neck simultaneously, although no one actually saw it happen. Kimon quieted down, with the implicit understanding that his Thea meant business.

One March day, the family set out under an unusually cloudless and smog-less sky. On this exceptional day, the sun itself blessed the family outing. It even went so far as to provide an unusual degree of heat! The sun, which has a history of being adversarial to our people (melting old Ikaros’ wings right when he was about to show his dad what was what), the sun that day was a friend. There was no ice or snow to contend with, and for this, the adults were especially thankful. The boys led the pack, entertaining themselves with lists of acts they were anxious to see. They regretted the lack of opportunity for snowball battles, but managed to invent plenty of ways to provoke each other into small skirmishes. This resulted in a constant barrage of disapproving but lilting paragraphs from Archondoula, always delivered with that quiet smirk as punctuation.

“I bet you can’t hit Mrs. Spagnelli’s gate from here,’’ someone would dare.

“Could too!” a younger child would defend his prowess, tossing a small stone.

“I could throw you from right here all the way over Mrs. Spagnelli’s gate, any day.” an older boy boasted, picking up Kimon and threatening to use him as a missile.

“Dimitri’s stolen my hat, Mama!” someone wailed.

“Which Dimitri?”

The chatter among the children reached a fevered pitch.

Nick cast a steady stream of stern looks at the boys, which served to calm them, but only momentarily. His sister could be heard all along the route, ‘’ παιδιά ησυχάζει ηλίθιοι, να είναι καλά τώρα, καταλαβαίνετε ακούς ?’’ ‘’children, quiet you fools, be good now do you hear me, do you understand?’’ This would quell the din of voices for a moment and the cycle would begin again. This seemed to satisfy everyone involved.

The girls in their separate clutch created a playful song of laughter. They held hands and trailed the boys by several yards to escape any potential torment. It was in this form the family most often moved through the neighborhood.

Hollywood was  the captain of the front line, being the oldest and most precocious of the children. Kimon, although the youngest of the boys stirred up the most commotion. Dorthea was the go-to person of the girls. Vassiliki floated along pleasantly until a spirit moved her, without warning, into an antagonistic stance. She would then occupy that stance until her mother, Archondoula, relatively gently, reminded her to make a different choice. Nick and his sister always the co-pilots and ultimate authority figures, reigned from the back of the collection.

“Stop pulling my hair, Demo.” a girl cried.

“It wasn’t me it was him.” and all the boys would point fingers at all the others.

“I have lollipops.” a girl would declare teasingly.

“I want one!’’  ‘’Give me one, too!’’ ‘’I want a red one!’’ ‘’I get the lime.’’ Clamoring young voices called back to her.

“Oops I guess I was mistaken, it seems I only have this one,” as she proceeded to unwrap a chocolate candy on a stick, waving it in the air to torturing her cousins.

The youngest children began to cry and some tantrums were thrown on the cold ground.

If Black Gus were in the mix that day, he would snag the candy from the child and toss it in the bushes. And no one messed with MauvroKosta on these points.

In the row houses that lined the streets leading to the streetcar stop, blinds would flip open and curtains would part in waves. So many peering eyes would alarm the younger children and also grandfather Dimitri. They were not sure if they were being admired or demeaned. The noisy flock certainly made impressions on the shadowy onlookers. Quite ofthen disparaging words were slung at them, through he cracks at the windows sills. The family’s carefully nurtured pride, helped deflect the spears. “xHoney wheen the peoples make the ethnick slurps at you, you cheest xremember you beelongk here, it ok, ignore them.” It took a lot of practice to fend off the hurtful language but most everyone managed it successfully. Nick and his sister were the role models for ways to insure the derogations bounced off them.

“That’s them stupid greece people, isn’t it Clarence?”

“When you people gonna go back to where you came from, wherever that is, we don’t need you here.”

“Hey grandma, is that your handbag or is that an old goat?”

“Do you smell something funny, Betty, Oh look its the flock of Greeces.”

Nick and his sister knew they knew they earned the privilege of America. They were all too familiar with short-sighted opinions, and they refused to take them personally.

Their response was to nod in the direction of the slur, look the culprits in the eye, smile politely, and walk on, head up shoulders back.

The trolley service was excellent when Kosta was young. For this he and his family were grateful. The wait at the corner was short.  The family easily filled a quarter of the seats in the red and white car. They could have chosen to take N.D.’s big Buick but as the dimensions of the traveling group grew, that became a moot point. And the children loved the adventure, enjoyed the walk and the ride, loved the changing views from the window seats, the sounds of the steel wheels, the mesmerizing blur of the brick streets disappearing underneath the car, the shifting of the skylines, the clanging of the trolley’s bell, the whoosh of air that ran in when the driver opened the doors. They loved to ride standing up holding the cool vertical handrails. The trolley’s rhythms tossed them from side to side and they would pretend they were on high seas, their ship engaged in battle. The younger children waved to every one they passed along the way, and if the wave was returned, they were elated. Hollywood would entertain Kosta and LittleJimmy with magic tricks, a deck of cards always available from his breast pocket.

The trolley was never heated in those days, but the traveling occupants were capable of generating warmth through their conversations. Huddled together, the tongues of Europe circulated the warm air throughout the car. The rising cacophony of sounds from a colorful collection of characters set the stage for the great Shirner’s Circus.It is the one that would feature the famous troupe of Roma and Italian performers. The circus would be yet another language to see and hear, a lesson in the world of daring. The peculiar attempt of gypsies to tame the wild animals, fascinate and terrify the crowd with dangerous acts from perilous heights, this was the circus, and today this was their destiny.

In the left hand pocket of each family member a small glass eye, iris blue, was kept for protection. The Matia. When gypsies were involved, one never could be certain of his fate, so they all came prepared. Of course, it never occurred to the family, that their vilifying attitude toward the Roma, was no different than the discrimination they were experiencing. That awareness came, for some much later. For others, we are still waiting for the light bulb to go off.

THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION, Manolis

As the family was being carried through the city en route to the Hunt Armory, Manolis collected the day’s crew and was traveling in the opposite direction. They were going out of town to work on a bridge that hung above the Ohio River. Once this was home to the Shawnee and Delaware tribes, who had migrated there to escape the encroachment of white settlers.  Some say the Delaware shared the inventiveness of Peruvian Incan tribes, and had made braided fiber cables stretch from bank to bank across the Ohio. Manolis would gather his itinerant painters at this site and walk the high wires of suspended steel cables that had taken the place of the organic ones. This day everyone was poised for feats of daring or as witnesses thereof.

MARCHING ORDERS

As the streetcar made its way through the streets of the city Nick delivered a long list of orders to the group. This was a running monologue, which consumed the first fifteen minutes of the ride. The adults steadily shook their heads in the wrong direction but also in agreement, their eyes fixed on the sights passing by the windows. The children pretended as best they could, to attend to his lecture. They soon found ways to continue playing games while appearing to listen. They were being awestruck by the magic tricks their cousin resourcefully provided.

Since it was necessary to change cars twice, in order to arrive at their destination. Nick projected his voice more loudly when the car approached a corner where they would for the next ride. The rise in the volume of his orders was accompanied by the sound of his newspaper beating on the window. Simultaneously he slapped the metal handrail with his left hand. His wedding ring created a sharp sound and the hollow rail carried the reverberations into the tiny bones of everyone’s ears.

The family was quite accustomed to Nick’s long-windedness and the decibels at which, at length, he spoke. The other riders were less impressed and more perturbed by his antics and his noise level. Pained muttering rolled through the car.

As they made there way out of the first car, they saw the next car pull up. Running for the car, the children’s liveliness was mounting. The tension was building. Parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, began the sign of the cross. They prayed for themselves, that they would be able to contain the energy of the children. They also prayed that no one would be lost in the chaos, which was beginning to form around them. Some spat on the ground and mentioned garlic.

The available seats in the second car were spread out. The entire group could not sit together. Worry spread through the usual suspects like a wind-blown fire. The children however were delighted at the prospect of being left to their own devices. They rejoiced at the possibility of being unsupervised at such close range. Nick assigned seats to everyone, insuring an adult and a child were paired up, as best he could.  A slap of defeat stuck each child who was paired with an elder, but they recovered quickly when their seating partner quietly handed them a candy. This was especially fun as the candy-givers all conspired to escape the watchful eyes of N.D. The children loved this game, and the game was played often. They loved the relatives who would aide and abet them in the crime of sweet indulgences.

SIMPLE EXTRAVAGANCES, Manolis

On the drive to the Ohio, Manolis listened to the men talk about the ships they had worked on, the viciousness of storms at sea, the close calls with the hungry waters. They talked about their most frightening experiences. Each one told a bigger tale, more dramatic, more dangerous than the last. They climbed the ladder of their imaginations inventing more and more outrageous stories. Finally Manolis called and end to the game. ‘’Men, xtell truth, juest xone time, pes mou tell me thees stories again, exscept, xtell me what really xhappen.’’

“Oh Manolis, that ees no fun.” these words were spoken, in chorus The sentence gathered into a ball and struck Manolis in the center of his chest.

“Youx right you xright, go on tell all thees stories, then, tell them even bigger.”

The cab of the truck rose with laughter as they rolled closer to their day’s work.

They talked like this, everyday. The work they did was dangerous, and they were afraid, but they were determined. They always found ways to defuse their anxiety, so by the time they arrived at the job, they would eager to take on the ominous tasks ahead of them. Humor was their very good friend.

“I go paint at top the breedge today, zJimmy, you go xwork other end, on deck,” Manolis announce when they arrived at the job.

THE MATRIARCH

By the time the family had piled into the third and last car that would take them to the circus, the children were vibrating with excitement. The adults were inhaling deeply, and holding their breath. Armoring themselves for the day. They knew they would have to negotiate the vigor of the children’s joy, with the constant surveillance of Nick’s judgments. They were prepared, they had plenty of practice, in fact it was now, a well perfected art form. The most talented artist of this form was Archondoula. She was the female version of her brother N.D. but without the bombast. Everyone knew her eye twinkled for them and they would quickly be forgiven most indiscretions. The children would be successful in their pursuits of happiness, when Archondoula was in charge. The children’s happiness, was her true desire.  She could handle her brother’s dire warnings and scoffing. It was understood, she was his mother as well as his sister. Straight speaking, in many matters, Archondoula ruled, and even Nick knew that.

On the day that Manolis heeded Nick’s call to steer the workers to dangerous feats above the river, it was his wife Archondoula who steered the family to behold the same, under the big top.

FINAL DIRECTIVES

The Hunt Armory was not located directly on the trolley line. So when the car stopped at Shady and Walnut; when the grand dominance of the Sacred Heart Catholic Church ate up all the views from all the windows; when the four-story red-brick mansion, wrapped in spears of black iron was visible from the rear of the trolley; when a long row of thirty-foot buckeye trees waved to them; the children knew, they were just one block shy of the greatest show on earth.

It was precisely at this point that Nick would deliver yet another of his famous lectures. His speech inescapably would hold hostage, both the trolley conductor and his schedule.

The trolley, on its endless tight timetable, would also be detained by the protracted exit of the family. The mass painstakingly squeezed themselves through both the front and rear doors of the car. Their exit was made in fits and starts as Nick stood in the middle of the aisle gesticulating and delivering directives in the native tongue. The instructions would strike the leg of each child, shackling them by surprise and from behind. The adults were not immune from the dictates either. There were assignments made, rules imposed, contingency plans plotted, budgets noted. A long list of consequences were made known should anyone dare get lost, whine, disobey, or spend more money than was allotted. Throughout the course of the lecture the children were alternately shoved out and yanked back into the car, for additional instructions came without warning. Everyone was expected to hear and to mind, the entire roll of commands. To force their departure, the streetcar conductor would, inevitably, have to step down from his perch, arms akimbo and stare viciously at Nick. To this display, Nick would not react nor conclude the torrent of inscrutable sounds battering the air. In his own time, as it always was, he finished, bowing to the conductor on the way out of the car, and thanking him for the ride, but not for his lack of saintly patience.

BUILDING BRIDGES, Manolis

Manolis had with him that day, three men. Ιωάννης, Γιώργος and ο Δημοσθένης.  

Yiannis, Yorgos and Dthemosthenees were known to Americans as John, George and Demo. The four would meet three more workers, three brothers, at the coffee shop one block from their office. Their office, being, the bridge, the thing that they would goad into engagement for another day’s wages.

The brothers, Stavro, Zach and Gus, arrived in America just six months earlier, and took whatever work fell their way. The seven men ordered black coffees and two freshly made glazed doughnuts. It was a delight that reminded them of loukoumathias, but clearly were not that. The honey that sweetened their pastries was replaced by white sugars, and the doughnuts lacked a sprinkle of chopped nuts. Just the same they ate the intoxicating baked goods with great satisfaction. They fueled their bodies for another encounter with the great span. Stavro, Zach and Gus lived in Youngstown, another steel-city on the Ohio River, home to many of the migrated clan. The brothers were inseparable. They worked together took meals together and at night sat at the speak-easy their cousin Pete ran. They drank and exchanged varying sums of money with anyone who shared their table and a deck of cards. The three were fearless as a group. Individually they did not function quite as well. It was as if they were truly one organism. If you would see any one of them unaccompanied by his brothers, he would often go to great lengths to either avoid meeting your eye or dodge you by crossing the street, slipping stealthily out of sight.

They formed their opinions, discovered their likes and dislikes, attempted to understand their world, through constant three-way discussions. If, as a whole, they felt comfortable, they would allow another man into their universe. Manolis had won their trust early on.

The three had visited his restaurant when they had been in America only two weeks.

Manolis fed them and engaged them in conversation. They learned that their villages were just a few miles apart, and in fact, they were indeed more cousins. They were not as easily convinced that Yahnnees, Yorgos and Demo met their unspoken list of criteria for friendship. So Manolis found many ways to build bridges between the two groups of men.

Total cooperation was vital, not only to their safety at work, but also to Manolis’ peace of mind. He had a vested interest in smoothing waters, and creating environments where he and the people around him felt included and respected. This was his nature, something his parents handed to him, something sacred to him.

‘’Hey Stavro, would you like go to movies with me and Yorgo tonight?’’ Yiannis asked.

Stavro looked alarmed. He turned quickly from side to side searching out his brothers.

‘’I no like movie, you go with Yorgo, no me.” he finally answered.

Manolis, overhearing this small conversation, decided to effect a change.

‘’Vre Stavro, deed xyou know that at movie, ees xwere we learn speak the good English?’’

‘’No Manoli, I deedn’t.”

‘’xWell let me say, xwhen Yianni invite xyou go movie, maybe xyou take a xchance and go, xyou come xhome with beeger vocabulary and ees good. xYou teach brothers the, somethieeng they no know.  Yianni try xhelp you, you understand?’’

Stavro thought about what his boss had said. Manolis took every opportunity to cajole him and his brothers into making changes in their lives. When they were convinced the act would make them blend into this new culture, they submitted. But Stavro never did go to the movies with Yianni, alone, h invited his brothers along, and together they ventured forth.

He and his brothers began to assimilate. Slowly they began to trust the other men on the job.  Slowly they began to find their individual selves, here in America. For these gifts they were forever grateful to Manolis.

The Fort Steuben Bridge spanning the Ohio connected Steubenville Ohio to Weirton West Virginia. Built in the 1930’s it is a structure, which fools the eye. A magic trick across the water, its lines rise to the top of latticed towers, its piers disappear into the depth of the river, v-lacing confirms the decks edge and wires are suspended in mid air, defying gravity, the deck sways in their grasp. 

A MURDER OF NUNS

Having finally made their exit from the streetcar, the family was clustered on the sidewalk, across from the imposing Catholic Church. A gaggle of nuns rushed at them. Heads turned, breath was withheld, crossings were made in triplicate. The children were tucked into the center of the circle, which formed spontaneously and in self-defense. Black robes pitched high from the winter gust, the nuns looked as if they would take flight.

Their heavy beaded rosaries with silver crucifixes swung wildly, cutting a path through the air, slashing its resistance. The starched white wimples pinched their fleshy faces into unnatural forms. The family circle repositioned itself at a forty-five degree angle to the earth, each member pivoting on one foot, leaning away from the throng.

The children were frightened by the overwhelming intensity of the advancing swarm. The elders were frightened remembering the Great Schism, all the differences that fell between them; the unleavened bread; the papal pomposity; the disregard for the true Nicene Creed; the sacking of Constantinople; and the most grievous of all- their cool calculation of God. The men, all students of history, knew the importance of experiencing God, healing the duality between body and soul, awakening the consciousness. They saw the nuns as the antithesis of their belief system. And the women’s dark celibacy was no consolation.  

Just inches shy of the huddled family’s perimeter, the cloud of sisters came to an abrupt stop. Smoke rose from the heavy rubber soles of their shoes. Their black wings fell to their sides. The silver chains hanging from the necks all clattered together making a Newtonian experiment come to life in midday. A conversation on momentum took place as the one cross struck another.  Then silence fell.

Suddenly, the ice between the two groups began to melt. The children considered the nuns a preview of the circus to come. They began to delight in the display.  They were suddenly wide eyed and their fear began to abate.

Uncharacteristically, the family took their cues from the children. They re-positioned themselves, now perpendicular to earth, they faced the black and white group, with poise.

There was at the head of the pack, an apparent Mother Superior, or something similar.

The woman took a step out in front, and extended her hand to Archondoula, who was at the bow of her clan. Archondoula immediately beamed the sister a warm smile, offering, in her best English, “xGood mourning xgood mourning seester.”

“May God bless your family today,” the nun delivered this prayer so quickly, it blew the group back a full two feet, and all of a piece.

One at a time but almost in unison, the family responded: “And to yours!” Thank you, sister!” God bless you too!” “Efxaristo!”

As quickly as the nuns had pulled their posse to a halt, they resumed their rapid pace, tunics flying and continued on their mission.

The last nun in the group, looked back over her shoulder. The intensity of her look didn’t fit with her young innocent face. She waved, and made the sign of the cross, eyes locked with Archondoula’s, and a fine chill ran through everyone. A murder of crows flew overhead.

WHEN IN IRELAND, Manolis

The men finished their coffees and took the loaded stake bed truck to the bridge.  Everyone knew his job, and began unloading and setting up the equipment and supplies for the day.

As Manolis looked over the contents of the truck, he noticed that they were missing

a five gallon can of turpentine. This made him immediately uncomfortable. Extra money would have to be spent the on a material they already had at the warehouse. N. D. would not be amused. The oversight, would fall on Manolis’ head in the form of a loud discourse on forgetfulness and practicality. Impracticality peeved N.D. something terrible. Manolis really didn’t want to hear the speech again. It was a speech he had heard an incalculable number of times. In fact he had it completely memorized. And so Manolis told the men to finish unloading the truck and begin their work. He would drive to the local hardware to pick up the missing supply. He would pay for it himself, and avoid the tirade. This would afford him time at home with his family and avoid time at the end of Nick’s pointing finger.

The drive was short, just a few blocks. The stake bed truck with its ancient engine, rattled and shook. It made such unusual combinations of cadenced sounds, bystanders thought a parade was forming. A crowd approached the truck from behind, with heads all at an acute angle to their bodies. Their curiosity aroused, they tried to determine the kind of parade the sounds portended. Nothing followed. They saw a dark skinned man with a puzzled look across his face, driving a rattletrap and nothing more. The crowd disbanded, disappointed and confused.

On the drive back to the bridge Manolis was witness to another crowd forming. This time in front of him, not behind.  Music was coming from the around the corner. The crowds were blocking the street. No motor cars were moving.  He turned off the engine, and took a place among the spectators. He heard pipes and drums, fiddles and song. He saw mounted police on proud Percherons and Warm Bloods. Uniformed brass bands marched in step. Dancers skipped and hopped in and out of line. Men in black pleated skirts, bagpipes under arm, created a melodic melancholy. Leprechauns roamed the streets, amusing the crowds.

They offered up treasured Irish sayings:

“May misfortune follow you always, but never catch you up!”

“Life is like a cup of tea, drink it while it’s hot, indeed!”

“Here’s to a long life, and a merry one; A quick death, and an easy one!”

Shamrocks were plentiful.  A young boy handed Manolis a three-leafed clover and a wink.

As Manolis enjoyed the festive spirit of the parade, he spied, his men all lined up on the opposite side of the road. Huge smiles ran across their faces. He could see them pointing and talking excitedly. He smiled with their smiles in sight. Suddenly though it occurred to him, the amount of work they would finish today, would fall short of what was expected. “This could spell, for me, trouble,” he thought. “N.D. would not be pleased.” He thought for a few more seconds and reassured himself, ‘’xWhenx we begin, xwe xwork faster, and xwe stay a leettle longer.”

THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE

The days that Kosta, Archondoula and Manolis shared a meal and a conversation, were  precious to them. Often they took a walk into the park after dinner. There they would serve the remains of  bread to the city birds, who were thankful for the handout. Kosta liked to refer to the birds as pigeons so he could hear his uncle repeat  “No, pigeon xhoney, these are our doves, and today they our peace of paradise, p  e  a  c  e.”  Then Manolis would laugh at the joke he was making. Kosta and Archondoula never quite got it, but it gave him so much pleasure they went along with it, forgiving him his cryptic sense of humor.

The three seemed bound to one and other by connections that reached beyond the obvious family-ties. This was unspoken but none-the-less acknowledged by each. They all knew the difference between relationships of blood and relationships of the spirit. The experiences were not mutually exclusive but did not necessarily occur concurrently either.

They felt the familial, by recitation of the lineage, the oral history repeated and transformed with each retelling. They had constant  reminders, stories and  photographs, from everyone in the clan, documenting the tree. But the unique tie, the spiritual union they had was a deep mystery to them all. They welcomed and cared for it with every meeting. It was a flame in their hearts. It was a whole body memory. It was an entanglement of energies.

They discovered that the experience of any one of them was shared by the others. In fact distance often accentuated an empathic response. When Archondoula would go missing for a whole day, both Manolis at work and Kosta in his classroom, would sense her absence from home. If she was encountering any resistance in her day, they too would feel discomfort. If Kosta was being teased for the contents of his lunch bag, his aunt and uncle could feel their own shackles rise up. When Manolis was addressed with condensation by his wife’s brother, Archondoula would show up at Nick’s door, seemingly out of the blue, to interrupt the sermon. Kosta would make sure, that same evening to underscore his admiration of his uncle. Usually he would not address his father directly, but say this to his mother, loud enough for Nick to note.  “Theo Manolis is so kind, Mama, I love to watch him and Thea together, don’t you?”

None of these coincidences escaped N.D., and several days afterwards there would be an obvious change in his attitude toward his brother in law. He made sure both his sister and his son could observe his attitude adjustment. He assumed this won him the points that he deserved.

So on the day that would alter the lives of Kosta and Archondoula forever, neither of them was surprised to remember what had happened to them that day. Both had been so happy to be making the family outing, and both equally disappointed that their Manolis could not there too. On the first trolley ride of the morning, Archondoula leaned over to ask Kosta how he was feeling. Kosta was not taken aback by her abrupt question, “I’m ok Thea, I just am missing my Theo right now.”

“Kai ego!” “Me too!”

“Can I come to your house tonight for dinner Thea, we can tell him all about the circus, and he can tell us about his day.”

“bebaio! Paiqi mou.” “Of course, child.’’ “You are welcome tonight and any night.”

This satisfied both Kosta and his aunt, but the undercurrent they felt, the disturbance that would not be named, lay restless beneath them both. Sometimes it would rise up and handle their throats roughly. Sometimes it remained a vague notion. But all day long it lived within the two, unsettling them. It drove them in and out of an ominous daydream, unformed but looming, blanketing them with disquiet.

Both, independently, assigned their discomfort to the way N.D. was trying to manipulate the group into a regimented army instead of setting them free to enjoy the outing. He could be so effective at creating a black hole that would swallow up all the good energy. They fought this force often and today was no exception. This tested their own resolve to be free of his dominance, in an essential way. At times it wore them down. This is the conclusion they drew about the disturbance they were sensing. Until they learned otherwise, this is where they left off pondering the shroud that gripped them. They buried the feeling and carried on, looking forward to the colorful circus just around the next corner.

THE BEASTS’ BREAKFAST TABLE

Tο θηρίο, the TheeRIo, the Beast, his wife Stamadtoula, H θηρίοtina, ThereeohTEEna, aka Black Gus and Gussie, were eating a spare breakfast of coffee, some olives and a cheese which would have best been discarded a week earlier. They were cloistered in their small kitchen, both feeling particularly edgy this morning. Neither of them relished the idea of being this close to each other for very long. But today something was different. They felt pulled into a uncommon union. Their conversation grew darker than usual and their voices were not as loud but more gruff. The room around them became laden with their spiny words. The day, which began with a cloudless blue sky, became overcast with a dreary envelope of grey.

 “i xhate weenter” Gus declared.

“you xhate everything,” his wife shot back.

“xyes but xweenter make me even more irritable.”

Black Gussie goaded him, “xwhy don’t xyou go away for a while, florida maybe, it ees xwarm there, maybe xyou feel better.”

“not that i think it ees really possible for xyou to feel better, but xyou could go try.”

she added.

“xwhy don’t xyou mind xyour own business,  stamatoula?”

“i was trying be nice to xyou, fool.”

“did xyou see those lardtha going off like pack of BANSHEES thees morning?” he changed the subject to avoid considering the plan any further.

“i didn’t need to xsee them, i could xhear them all the xway down the block.” she grunted.

“they xwent to circus!”  he told her.

“the circus xwent to the circus, that’s funny isn’t it.” they pronounced in unison.

An actual smile, or something reminiscent of a smile formed between them.

“i don’t xhave a good feeling about that.” Black Gus declared.

“they made manolis go to xwork you know, and the old man took everyone else, but xhim.” he continued.

“nick loves stir trouble for peoples, makes xhim feel more important.” Black Gussie spouted. “xwhoever work for nick they do everything nick say to do, they all his little slaves.”

“manolis is going to pay for this someday, niko is going to push xhim over the edge, i think the man will snap, a man can’t be pushed around forever you know.”

“nick will pay too, archondoula will xhave xhis xhead if he keeps it up, she ees no afraid of xhim.”

“i can’t xwait for that day, i xwill love that day, to see nick put in place, by his sister!, that will be something to see”  gloating, Black Gus’ eyes lit up, but just momentarily.

The two sat quietly for a while, and again, Black Gus, repeated, “i xhate weenter and i hate nick i xhope some fat elephant steps on xhim at the circus, that’ll show him, xhe ees not so big shot.”

They sat quietly for a few more minutes contemplating the possibility of such a fate befalling their distant cousin. Another snickering smile bridged the gap between them.

They looked across at one and other, and remembered, they really didn’t like the person staring back at them any more than they liked Nick. Now they both began a long voyage into their imaginations. He saw her on the flying trapeze, her partner, who resembled himself, accidentally dropped her as she reached for his hands.  She saw him, the lion tamer, whip in hand, all gussied up in uniform, epaulets dancing on his shoulders. When he turned his head to accept the kudos from the awed crowd, a lioness leapt from her perch and devoured Black Gus in toto.

THE HUNT ARMORY

The cloudless day, apparently had changed its mind and having watched the nuns’ black tunics melt into the grey, the family walked the last block of their trip, down Walnut Street and onto Emerson. They stood in front of the three-story tall doors, painted steel and glass. There were three sets of them spanning the entrance, wide enough for a pack of  wild animals. Looking up to the top of the Armory a huge eagle carved in stone with flanking horses, or were they lions, guarded the entrance. An example of classical revival architecture, that awed them and lured them inside.

The family lined up behind Nick, Archondoula fell to the back of the line again to supervise. Nick handed the over a stack of tickets and the wound-up troop marched to their seats. They tried as best they could to contain themselves while Nick was still in charge.

Inside the sounds of the crowd, the entertainers, the barker, the animals, the vendors, echoed off the huge limestone walls and filled in places of the human body, no one even knew they had.

At times the fifty-six thousand square feet of cacophony scared the younger children and they would have to be consoled. Vassiliki was one. She thought perhaps the building was collapsing and tugged on her mother’s coat. It was Vassiliki who often thought something was collapsing so no one much minded her pleas for more serious comfort. Eventually she would become distracted and desist wrenching Archondoula’s arm.

Kimon’s energy was at peak pitch in this environment, requiring the attention of at least four adults at any given moment to keep him from exploding.

This was grandfather Dimitri’s second trip to the circus, and he was still as wide-eyed as the children. Nothing in his life matched the tapestry of characters or the errant vitality that filled the enormous vault of the armory.

Archondoula basked in the children’s delight.

Her brother Chris, said little but his head moved so constantly from one spectacle to another, he would later require a large block of ice and six aspirins to soothe his overworked neck. Thea Fio, Chris’ wife, was more severe, she cast mostly disapproving eyes on the great number of strangers around her. She held her nose in a twisted pose throughout the day, a response to the animals doing what animals do. She would speak if spoken to, and was only ever relieved when her beloved sister in laws engaged her in conversation. At all other times she appeared and was in fact, dourer. “My God, it is too loud! Smells like poop in here. Too xmany people. The xchildren are out of control.” These and similar proclamations she muttered throughout the day, relentless, but mostly quietly enough that she was easily ignored. Fio’s children lingered with their cousins and at a safe distance from her humorless position. Her son LittleJimmy would find her from time to time, trying to reassure her, as he was her ever-vigilant guardian. She allowed him some satisfaction in this regard, taking some small amount of consolation from his courtesy, but not much.

N.D.’s eldest son Dimitri, was busy collecting literature and plotting the location of the various food vendors for future reference. He also plotted the exit routes, always one to pull a contingency plan from his hat.

Kosta, son of Archondoula was invariably found at his brother Hollywood’s right side, waiting to see what his brother would say and do next. Hollywood, like Kimon, but many years older, was ecstatic at the sites and sounds, the color and the music, the flood of lights, the threat of wild animals breaking free. Both cousins imaginations were in high gear this day, and they shared the contents of their flying thoughts with anyone who would listen.

As they settled into their seats someone noticed, that just two rows in front of them sat Teddy and his wife Rose their four children Alexander, Varvara, Pandelis and Esther. Nick realized that Teddy had never bothered to mention his circus plans. Teddy apparently had procured tickets for his family, never asking Nick if he might want tickets. This was mildly irritating to Nick. Thinking this through further, he became livid, because Teddy had not only gotten tickets on the sly, but had gotten better tickets than Nick’s. So on top of not being amused in any way by the events at the circus, he was now fully loaded with wrath for his cousin. And he was humiliated. Kostia would have to spend the better part of the day, remediating this condition. ‘’Nick xhoney, theenk about theese, deed xyou get thee tickets for cousin Teddy? No! xYou get thee teeckets for xyou family, and xhe deed same for xhees. What xyou so mad about?” To this reasonable set of questions, Nick pressed his lips together, chewed a little on his moustache, shook his head, and said nothing.

So with the partial exception of Nick and Fio, the group was delighted to witness the greatest show on earth, or at least in Pittsburgh, at this time, and in this place.

The circus was complete with three rings, one offering a more daring feat than the next. Something awed almost everyone. Tensions mounted with every move of every performer.

The animals disappointed almost, no one, with their beauty and grace: the true to form ferociousness of the tigers; the immensity of the elephants; the mocking playfulness of the chimpanzees; the roaring lions with manes brushing the air with authority and the powerful grandness of the grizzlies.

The heroics of the tight rope walkers, the trapeze artists, the human canon balls, spun the heads of everyone, mouths agape, eyes popping.

The jugglers, the acrobats, the clowns, the musicians, the stilt walkers, nothing disappointed the children who had gathered here this day.

The irritability of Nick and Fio became a distant memory and the clan was free to be consumed by the extravagance of the flamboyant circus acts.

Sometime in the late afternoon, Nick excused himself and walked to the men’s room. En route he encountered his sister in law, Fio. Despite their noted character flaws, and because of the similarity of their character flaws, they looked each other in the eye, shrugged their shoulders, angled their heads....smiled broadly, and said “Eh, no beat them, xthen xwe got choin them, no?”  Nick suggested “xWant let us git two hot dog, xches? And maybee coca-cola too?”  Fio smiled more, “Ah-meh, ches let’s do it!”

The circus had penetrated two of the toughest skins in town, and for that, we all were grateful.

PATTY

Back in West Virginia, Manolis took advantage of a pause in the parade and ran to other side. The whole crew reunited, they enjoyed the rest of the Irish celebration.

A small man dressed entirely in green, stood next to them, cheering fervently, as each new float passed. His smile spread across to Manolis, Jimmy, Gus and the ship jumpers. A half hour passed before the green man realized his neighbors were not speaking English. At first he recoiled at the thought they might be Italians, they looked Italian, “dark swarthy looking men,” the words echoed in his head. Finally, the small bottle he cradled gave him the exact amount of nerve required to address the foreigners.

“HELLO THERE FELLAS, YOU WOULDN’T BE IRISH WOULD YA?” he spoke loudly so they would understand him, also a band was passing by.

“Pardon me?” Manolis questioned.

“I WAS JUST WONDERING IF YOU FELLAS WAS IRISH, TODAY.”

Manolis looked at his men, and then down at the green one, “Ahmeh! xYes today xwe Irish!”

His joke flew over the short man’s head, and perplexed, he took momentary offense at the remark. “NO, CAN’T BE.” So he came right out with it, “YOU’RE ITALIANS AYE?”

“No my friend we Greeks, Greek-Americans, now!”

“OK THEN, TOP THE MORNIN’ TO YA BOYS, LONG LIVE THE IRISH AND LONG LIVE

THE GREEKS!” relieved he muttered to himself ‘’ i didnt wanna be sharing my homeland celebration with those job swallowing little dagoes.”

“YOU CAN CALL ME PATTY, THEN.”

An hour later, the leprechauns and St Patrick look-alikes turned the corner and the parade drew to a close. Horns honked, people danced in the street, the partyers reveled on, while the painters turned toward the bridge, and waved goodbye to Patty.

“I never saw anything like that before, did you?” one of the ship jumpers offered.

“No, never!” was the unanimous response.

BACK TO WORK

“Well men, we need work very hard now, to make up time xwe xhave lose,  xyou understand?” “xAnd xwe likely be xhere late today, make xsure xwe feenish everything.”

It was understood that this was not Manolis speaking, but his brother in law, Nick.

And so the men were determined to please Manolis. They knew he was responsible for their work. They didn’t want to give Nick cause to reprimanded.

Without discussion, they set about their work, doubling their effort. By noon they were  ahead of schedule. It was clear they would finish at the usual time.

Manolis, loved them for this. He knew they did it for him.

Lunchtime came and went, and no one stopped working. When Manolis realized this, he cut up some fruit and cheese and delivered pieces to each man. “Long live the Greek, eh?”

he joked with each as he handed over the small gift. “But only eef xhe eat!” he added.

Manolis as he often did, took the job of touch-up. He would follow the crew and examine the work, brushing or spraying any areas they may have missed, or where the millage was thin. He didn’t mind this job, he had a good eye for detail, and was the best man for it.

Around three o’clock the four-man crew decided to move the scaffolding to an area below the bridge deck.

Manolis still high above river was alone on a suspended catwalk near the far end of the span. He was not aware of their location change, and as was normal, the men did not concern themselves with his movements. Every one had a job, and was trusted to perform.

As the men worked to hang the pulleys and ropes that would support the scaffold from the bridge deck, they struggled with gravity. They intensified their focus to balance themselves on the steel girders. They coaxed their platform into position. While they worked one of the men noticed activity down on the riverbank.

They saw an old man and a young girl with a young child, sitting on the riverbank. Several other families were a few yards further down river. Some were fishing, others had made a picnic. The people were eating and talking, joking and laughing together. There seemed to be an ample supply of alcohol as most of the party seemed extra merry. The distinctive sounds of Irish folk music, fiddles and pipes, deep notes coming from a double bass, all this rose out of a nearby woods.

Some dancing commenced and the workers on the bridge looked on with a pang of homesickness. They remembered the frequent festivities back home. They celebrated for all the saints name days (of which there are thousands), weddings, birthdays,  baptisms, religious and national holidays, and for no reason at all. Remembering those prized days was painful. But there was no time for now for regret. They had moved on. They had to recover their thoughts and focus on the job that was now the prize.

DARING

When the tightrope walker paused midway across the taut line high high above the crowd, there was not one sound to be heard in the vast cave of the Armory. No one could believe their eyes, such poise, such grace, such confidence, hung in the space above their heads.

The audience did not share those attributes. The audience instead filled with fear, tensed like a rubber band stretched well beyond its breaking point. They were breathless and tilted back in their seats just shy of the tipping point. Suddenly the seasoned aerialist leapt into the air, twirled around not once, not twice but three times before landing back on the thin line, heading in the opposite direction. The crowd gasped. Some covered their eyes, they couldn’t bear to watch. Others fainted straight away. Just when everyone thought she would scurry back to the post where she had begun this daring feat, she leapt yet again into the air. This time she performed a triple backward summersault in mid air. But this time she did not land on her feet, she did not land with her feet on the highwire. This time her body obeying the unforgiving pull of gravity, past by the high wire. The speed at which this all happened was frightening. When she had only a split second of a chance to reach up and grab the wire with her hands, everyone in the stands slammed their eyes shut, they could not look, could not witness her disastrous fall to earth. 

As it turned out, however, there were two exceptions. Fio and Nick, both remained transfixed by the phenomenon unfolding above them. Both felt compelled to watch, no matter the fate of the young girl. If she was to splatter herself on the ground, they wanted to witness the catastrophe. They wanted to feel the horror. They wanted to feel the powerful emotions they felt capable of, but which they had both managed to bury. Something inside both of them, almost wished for her to meet a violent end. While these savage thoughts blew through the minds of the Nick and his younger brother’s wife, the girl, perhaps to spite their acrimonious thoughts, at the very last possible moment, the girl reached for and grabbed hold of the tightrope.

No one but Nick and Fio had seen this breathtaking miracle because at that very moment,  everyone’s eyes remained tightly shut.  Some had been praying, some were just in shock. When the band’s sound swiftly changed from a suspenseful dirge to a frivolous gypsy rondo, all eyes popped open to see the girl, dangling from the tightrope, and having her way with it. She spun herself round and round, arms outstretched, until she built up enough momentum to launch herself up into the air, and landed, on point, on the wire, high above their heads. The stands roared with the sound of applause, feet stomping, cat calling, whistle blowing, yelps and whoops of joy filled the cavern and the young girl’s heart. A flock of wild parrots flew screeching from one end of the armory to the other. Even they were impressed.

WAVES

At the Armory, watching the acts on the high wire, Kosta and his aunt feel like they are on an emotional roller coaster, and they have no idea why. Kimon becomes unusually quiet and seeks his mother’s lap for comfort. Hollywood feels pulled and pushed watching the daring young woman make her way across the line. He imagines himself up there, sometimes he sees himself heroically beating the odds, in another instant he sees himself losing his balance and falling falling to the earth. The story of Ikaros, crosses his mind. He thinks of his father negotiating the tall arches of the bridge. He consoles himself, he knows his father has wings, and that he is not a foolish man.

His uncle Chris looks agitated; he surveys the crowd, over and over.

Dimitri, Nick’s son, updates his notes now on the most expedient paths to the outside.

Nick and Fio continue to cast aspersions at the large crowd and the frivolity of the circus performers, which they have deemed imprudent.

The other family members remain, unaffected by the undercurrent, and watch with utter delight. Eventually their enthusiasm brings Kosta, and Hollywood, Archondoula and Kimon back into the fold of joy. A clown towers over them, with eight foot long legs, striped red and white, an orange polka dot vest over a lime green silk shirt, he is holding balloons and passes several down to the children. They are helium filled and Kimon is lifted from his mother’s lap as he grabs hold of the string. This catapults him into a renewed sense of well being. And the groups’ mood turns light hearted once again.

VIEW FROM ABOVE

When Manolis re-positions himself so he can reach the highest areas of the span’s arch, he decides to rest there for a moment. He sits and takes a cigarette from the package in this breast pocket. He surveys the view from his perch.

He is relaxed and pleased by the serpentine path of the river, the banks lined with trees their branches a wild abstraction of lines, composing and recomposing the picture of the sky. He sees the barges loaded with coal, loaded with slag, loaded with lumber, urged forward in a slow motion by the handsome tugboats.

He notices flocks of birds, taking off from their temporary resting place in a large chestnut tree. One group takes flight and there is silence, a few moments later the birds that remain on the tree hear the ones who have taken off, their voices a swarm of melodies weaving through the cloudy day, a loud banter begins between the two. Then silence. Then a second group takes off, silence, then the flying birds call back to the ones on the tree, and then the banter rises again louder this time. This act continues for fifteen minutes, he has never seen anything like it before. Then all the birds were gone.

The smoke stacks further up river are pumping out signals in huge grey and white plumes.

Some are tinted with blue violet, others with orange, or pink or yellow. Manolis finds this beautiful, these manufactured clouds. They are mysterious and hold these secret colors inside, he doesn’t remember seeing before.

Higher up, in the sky, a more rare sight was spotted, an airplane was crossing the sky. Manolis imagined the pilot of plane, looking down and seeing the whole world, all at once, and he longed for this view.

This view, afforded only to the ruling classes, select members of the military, and men who obtained power through machinations of finance. This is something he understood but about which his feelings were constantly mixed. His brother-in-law Chris, a card carrying communist, had lectured him on economics all his life. This had prompted Manolis to study the subject with care. Lately, however, his interest in power struggles had waned. He felt more at home with philosophical thoughts. His love of nature was growing; his desire for connection consumed him now.

FINAL ACT

The ringmaster took center stage, an orchestra played Mood Indigo, but with a decisively circus tone and tempo. Suddenly the lights dimmed and the music became a faint background. A snare drum’s introduction rose slowly out from the bandstand, seated in the dark at the far end of the center ring. A blindingly bright stage light made a small circle on the sandy floor, a plume of smoke burst from an almost imperceptible explosion, and the ringmaster appeared to have arrived out of thin air. Standing colorfully in the bright light, his chest puffed up and his tall hat in one hand, his cane in the other, he took a long swooping bow, and the arena filled with applause. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the great Ferroni Brothers Circus has come to close. I thank you all for coming here today, under the big top, to witness the feats of daring, the great acts of our gifted performers, and the awesome beauty of the wild animals.”

The lights had formed a semicircle behind the ringmaster. The circus troupe appeared in the lights. They were accompanied by small birds and animals: monkeys, doves, a few chickens, a baby tiger, a crow, and a small pony. As they all took their bows the audience erupted in a second wave of loud enthusiastic applause, and the day at the circus was over.

After all the grumbling and complaining that Nick had done all day, in the end, Kosta said he saw his father on his feet applauding the performers, and for this he was grateful. In fact he was fairly sure even Fio’s hands met once or twice, emitting a small sound. And for this Dorthea her sister Irene and her brother LittleJimmy were also grateful.

.

TAKING FLIGHT

Manolis’ thoughts were drawn back to the flock of birds, “how graceful they xwere and how intent on helping xeach other navigate their migration!”

He wondered further, “are xwe this xway, graceful and intent on the safe passage of our entire flock?” “I hope xwe are, it ees a beautiful sight to witness. I hope xwe look that good to those birds.” and with this he amused and also humbled himself.

He rose from his seat, the edge of the steel beam. He climbed down a few feet to finish touching up the girders by hand. He reached for the valve of the air compressor. He wanted to turn it off for they day.

At the far side of the bridge, about forty feet above the water, the other men were scraping  the rust from the underside of the metal. They were running a loud piece of equipment, which drown out much of the sound beyond them. At four o’clock all four men felt their world shaking. They knew from their homeland, the feeling of an earthquake, and so they stopped to take the sensation into account. They looked around to see if there were any signs of movement around them. Everything looked normal, still, obeying the laws the physics. They shut down their machines, and continued to look for clues.

“Something exploded, bre! Akoute!” one shouted. “Listen!”

An echo bounced across the river valley, striking the bridge and their ears, then slowly faded into grey.

When they realized they were safe, the scaffold no longer swaying from the shock, they searched each other’s eyes for an explanation. One of the men tried to see down to the opposite end of the bridge, looking for signs of Manolis. His view was obstructed by the interlacing of the huge girders, and the dimming light of the day impeded his vision further.

“Must be from mill over there,” Jimmy offered.

“That place more dangerous than working on theese bridges, something always going wrong in there!” Gus said.

“I thought it xwas earthquake, do xyou remember how thee ground xwould shudder and roll?” someone said.

“More than once they knock me out the bed at night, in village. My mother and father xwould run to us, and pull us outside. The stone houses xwould crumble so quickly, xwe lucky to escape.”  

“xWe lucky many times, back home.” another man recalled.

Certain they were all fine, they wanted to find Manolis. One man offered to go check on him.

It was one of the ship jumpers, one who was especially fond of Manolis. Manolis was fatherly toward all the men, and him in particular.  The man was young and agile, very strong, and he climbed the steel form until he reached the deck. He walked to the end of the bridge. He looked up to the top following the trail of the thick ropes hanging from the plank which held his friend. He could not get a good view and kept moving to expand his line of vision. He could not see him no matter how he positioned himself. He called up him, knowing he would not be able to hear, but hoping just the same.

The man ran back to the others, waving and shouting as he approached.

“I can no see him, come xhelp me find xhim, xhurry!”

The men made use of the pulleys and hoisted themselves back up. They rushed toward their friend, “xWhat you saying man?” they yelled to him and at him. Fear mixed with anger and confusion as they ran.

“I no see Manolis anywhere!”

The men thought he must have fallen from the top of the bridge, and into the water.

They knew at this point, the water below the bridge was not very deep. It was deep enough to spare him hitting the riverbed. They ran down to the river bank, it had only been five minutes since they had felt the explosion. They were sure they would find him, if he had fallen. They waded into the cold water. They noticed there was very little current.

If he had fallen in he would be there. Three of the men dove into the water searching desperately for their friend.

One of the men scrambled back up to the road and waved down a passing truck, “Please go get police, and ambulance, someone he’s fall into the river, please help me!”

The driver was a worker from the nearby mill, “Yes of course, I do it, right away.”

Diving and diving again, holding their breath longer and longer, they looked for Manolis, but Manolis, simply was not there.

“Maybe xhe climb down, maybe xhe deed not fall, it’s possible,” Jimmy repeated this like a mantra to himself. “xYes ees maybe at store, or at truck.”  “Demo,” he ordered frantically, “go to the truck and xsee.”

The police, the firemen, Demo and all the men, came up empty-handed. Manolis had disappeared, without explanation. He had done this in thin air. He had done this on a grey March afternoon. He had disappeared on the day he should have been with his family watching the magical circus from below.  Instead he disappeared mysteriously. Is he watching this circus from above? No one knows.

BLACK GUSSIE

Unfortunately for everyone, it was Black Gus and his miserable wife Black Gussie, who were walking past the home of N.D. when the big truck rolled into the driveway. The men looked as if they had been at war, witnessing a steady string of atrocities. This did not escape the watchful eye of the black duo.

“The big hard day today eh boys?”

No one answered him.

“NICK AND EVERYONE GONE TO CIRCUS, xYOU KNOW?”

Still men were silent.

“xWHAT xYOU DO WITH MANOLIS, I xHAVE SOMETHING FOR xHIM?”

The men looked to each other for words, but still none came.

Black Gussie smelled the fear that surrounded the workers. “SOMETHING TERRIBLE xHAPPEN, xWHAT, TELL ME xWHAT, xYOU FOOLS!” she ungraciously demanded.

“Please, can xyou do us favor, Kyrios? xWe go to coffeehouse; can xyou please take Nick aside when xhe comes back, and send xhim there for me?’’ Jimmy pleaded for Black Gus’ mercy on this point.

Out of some deep region of his dark heart, a small spot of empathy appeared, and with great reluctance, he said, “OK. I DO IT.”

His wife waddled away shaking her head and her finger waved in the air.

The men moved the truck out of the driveway, parking further down the block.

They locked it up, and walked away.

THE DARK MESSENGER

Black Gussie, disgusted as always, turned the corner, making her way to the neighborhood store. In the distance she heard the muddled sound of her own language. This caused her normally c-shaped form to straighten out, and she actually found herself standing erect for the first time in many years. This amazed her and also caused her to become even more tainted, as a sharp pain made its way up the full length of her twisted spine. In the small window of time she had been afforded a long view of the city street, she spied the Larthas, approaching her. She saw them as cluster of stinging insects, which was the way she saw most groups of people who she disliked, which was of course, most people. As quickly as she had sprung up she snapped back into her contorted shape. Head down, eyes peering at the ground, a great pressure clamped her once more into the third letter of the English alphabet. She snarled at it all: the approaching swarm with their cozy laughs; the shape of her body in its constant distortion; the breaks in the pavement that threatened her every move; the perspective she had; the life she had chosen.

“IT’S THEM!” she mumbled.

“I xAM THE ONE xWHO xWILL TELL xTHEM, THEY CAN STOP THEY LAUGHING, NOW!”

“THEY SHOULD XHAVE TAKE THE MANOLIS xWITH XTHEM, THAT STUPID NICK, HE ALWAYS KNOWS EVERYTHING, MAKES EVERYONE DO WHAT XHE xWANT, ALL THE TIME.”

As the family approached their cousin, they saw she was wobbling more than usual. They could see that she was in a hurry. As they got closer, she appeared to become even more unstable on her feet. They watched as her cane flew into the air, her left foot unsure of its location, fell half way on and half way off the edge of an uneven piece of the sidewalk. Nick’s eldest son Dimitri and his cousin LittleJimmy ran to her. Before they could reach her she toppled over and into the street. The women pulled the young children close to them, covering their eyes with hands and scarves and wool coats, smothering them, protecting them from the catastrophe that was about to happen. They closed their own eyes and spoke loudly to God.

The women herded the children past the unfolding scene, focusing on home only a half block away.

The men and also Fio, waited for the ambulance. Chris and his wife were elected to go with Gussie. The others filed home, emotions wildly coursing through them, all mixed.

THE SENTENCE

“What wheel xyou say to Black Gus,” someone asked Nick.

Without hesitation he said, “I xwill tell xhim exactly what xhappened, xhe xwill blame me for it, and xhe will torture me for eternity.”

Then he continued, “same as always.” This he delivered with a calculated coolness. In his heart, though, he was troubled, but not broken.

The rest of the clan filed back to Parkview Avenue. Nick went to perform the duty in front of him. He stood tall with his hat in his hand. He waited for Black Gus to open the door.

He knocked many times, before he heard the expected response from inside.

“xWHO IS IT? WHAT DO xYOU xWANT xWITH ME?

“Gus, ξάδελφό μου, my cousin, open up please it is Nick Larthas.”

The door flung open before the last syllable of Nick’s name had been spoken.

“xWHO TOLD xYOU,” he said indignantly?

“xWho told me?” he questioned him back.

“xChES , I SAID xWHO TOLD xYOU?”

“xWho told me xwhat, Gus?, I am xhere to tell xyou something.?”

This confusion continued for ten minutes. Their words were entangled and untangled several times. Their frustration with one and other grew steadily.

Finally, they delivered to each other, the awful news.

In the end both men sat down on the porch steps and wept like babies.

AND IN HIM TOO IN US

what comes with crushing of a man?

quiet the widow numb

besieged by brother’s words

sprung lipped

screams scouring sounds

sacking and scourging those who stand

to shove her shaking to the couch

strangling and struggling all

sounds sights thoughts rumble blast

spun crying plunges to her limbs

rouses the justled body

writheful and wrathful wracking

spurs sparging screams

            KONSTANTINOS LARDAS

THE LONG WAIT

The men waiting for Nick at the coffeehouse began to suspect he was not coming.

Vassilios, owned the meeting place where the men sat, talking so quietly among themselves. “Something thee matter, bouys? xYou look so sad today.”

Vassilios was a gentle man, who loved easily, and welcomed the community that formed and reformed daily at his tables. “I never see xyou like thees, can I xhelp xyou some xway?”

The men were more immobilized as time passed, and none could find words for a reply.

Instead they all continued to look down at the ground, or at each other searching for something to offer Vassili. “Can I offer xyou a leettle ouzo tonight, maybe make xyou feel better, eh?”

“Ees good idea, Vassili, xyes bring for the boys, none for me though, Ευχαριστούμε, thank you.” Jimmy finally spoke. Since he was the oldest of the crew and had worked for Nick the longest, he would be the one to deliver the news. He wanted to be sober. He was barely holding himself together. A drink would allow him to feel the onus of what had happened, and he was not ready to feel that, not now.

Another half hour passed before Nick walked through the door. He looked pale, his eyes were red and swollen, he moved slowly to the table. Gus pulled a chair out for him and patted it, making an offering.

“I xhallready know. The Manolis ees gone.”

“You saw Black Gus then, xyes?”

“I saw xhim, xches.” Nick, the man of many words spoke sparely.

“Tell me now, everything, but very slowly.” Nick, with head in hands, addressed the men.

They recounted their day, the unimaginable outcome of the events. No one really comprehended what had happened. They felt the impact, in waves. Tossing about in the  grief and they were threatened by the undertow .

They sat motionless for a long time. Vassilios grew more concerned. He sensed something profound had happened. He locked the door to the cafe. He didn’t want any new customers interrupting them. He left them alone, busying himself with chores in the back.

“I go to my sister, now, xyou go home, no work tomorrow.”

“Did you xtell her, Nick, does she know?”

“I tell xher something xhappen to Manolis, but I did not tell xher xhe was not coming xhome.”

He didn’t have to tell her, she already knew.

TEAR JARS

There were forty windows in Nick’s four-story home.

From each window the inconsolable cries of his sister could be heard. Her keening travelled through the trees and the leaves that had clung on through the winter

were swept up into the sky.

Making an offering to God, pleading for mercy, Archondoula wailed into the night.

She begged him to reverse the consequences of this day. Kostia and Kosta held her for hours, rocking her in their arms. They filled jars with their tears until the old floorboards began to bow and creak from the weight.

The vigil lasted seven days, with no break in the stream of sorrow.

CIRCLE OF SORROW 1941

When Kosta and Helena first met, it had been three years since the family outing to the circus. It had been three years since he last saw his uncle, and he had kept a secret inside of him that he could no longer bear, alone. He felt it might be safe with Helena, someone outside of the family, but someone he trusted completely.

Kosta met his friend at their usual spot and on the day of the revelation, they were both a bit tense. This took them both by surprise, normally they were so very at ease in each others presence. But they sat quietly abiding the tension sinking into their bones. They simply trusted it would dissipate when their conversation began to unfold.

Helena was first to break the silence. Her apprehension subsided. She turned to her young friend and with an odd sort of anticipation in her voice she said, “Did I ever tell you about the circus that came to the town when I was twelve years old?”

Kosta felt a quick jolt of confusion. Wasn’t this the conversation he wanted to start, the one about his inauspicious day at the circus, when he was twelve? “No Helena, I don’t think you have told me,” he stuttered “but that is so curious I was just about to tell you a circus story as well.”

“Well would you like to tell me, first Kosta?”

“No no, go ahead, I want to hear your story, then I maybe will tell mine,” Kosta was hesitant but continued “I don’t understand exactly, but I was having trouble finding a way to begin my account, so please you go first.”

Helena sensed something troubling the boy, so she decided to go ahead and try to pave the way for him, hoping she would not cause him any further upset, as her story had some unsettling parts. She felt however compelled to share her memory and also to leave nothing out of the telling.

“I go to circus with mother, her sisters, sisters children, and some friends.

It was year Ferroni Family Circus perform at Berditshoft. We had never, any of us, been to circus.” Helena begins.

“We walk maybe eight miles to go there. We so happy we do not care how long. My father he gave me a purse full of coins, one was a zloty. You know the zloty is mean ‘golden’ my language, yes?” “But no gold coin, only small worth, but my father give special to me, in a little purse, and feel very good that day, good with gift.”

“We see so many acrobat, and girl way way up on a wire riding a bicycle!” Helena’s eyes widen remembering. “There was whole family on trampoline, juggling each other! They so high in the air, and then they fly up and make summersault in the air and land back on ground, one on top the others shoulders, can’t believe what I see!” A dancer on the horseback, a fire-eater, animals jumping through the flames on hoops, and my favorite the Jumbo was there, he weigh, like 6,000 kilos! Do you know the kilos? It is like seven tons. He was beautiful, graceful in that huge body, so graceful and smart.”

“Anyway, we were having so much fun. I remembered the purse with the zloty and I say to mother, ‘I want to go to candy man’.’’  I wanted to make her surprise. She say ok, I go, because can watch me from her seat, it ok. I am in the line wait for candy, and I see the Jumbo he behind a big open door now, no one in seats can see him. All of sudden, I see Jumbo rise up on his back legs, his big trunk waving. I think he talking to me. Then I realize something wrong, and I step out line to get better look. I see ringmaster, trying to calm the huge animal, and I see men and women all dressed in colorful clothes with feathers and bells, running past the door, and they yelling to each other, but I cannot hear. So I go closer, and a man grabs me and another little girl by arm and he pushes us toward door. He shouts at us, go run go quickly. And we start run without thinking.”

I look at the opening and I tell you I see my father there, he is outside, his arms are open he call to me, “Run Run Helena.”

“Then I think, ‘My mother!’” “I think I got go back, but now there is a crowd behind me and I no on the ground I am being carried now by someone, I don’t know who, and then I am outside, but my father no there now.”

“What was happening Helena tell me tell me?” Kosta finds his heart racing now.

“It was fire, and I hear people screaming and so many people running, I am lost in the crowd and cannot go back inside, I don’t see my mother, my aunts or my cousins, no one, but for strangers, and everyone is so, so scared, it complete chaos.”

“Did you find them, were they alright?”

“I try to move far away from the crowd and I climb up on top of a statue, a tall statue of a man riding on horse, I try see over crowd. I see smoke coming from tents from the top and from the sides, I am scared, but I know I will find family, I know I will.”

“How did you know?”

“Just feeling, I always stubborn and sure of myself, so sure of myself, nothing will hurt me, nothing will go bad for me, I am strong, my father always tell me how strong I am, and I believe him.”

“I wait and look at every person coming out, finally I see mother, and everyone all together and they safe. But they look frantic, they look for me. They cannot hear me calling to them. So I wait until they closer and I climb down and I run to them.

My mother and my aunts they pick me up and they are crying, so happy have me back.

Me too I am crying now, crying very hard, so hard, I do not understand, I am shaking now too. I was inconsolable.”

“This day, Kosta, this was bad day, I did not know I would have bad day, my life so good before this day.”

“Many people not come out of tent, Kosta, I think maybe four hundred people, never come back out.”

“And that beautiful elephant, he never come out. I find out that it because of elephant that many people do run and do come out, like the person who carry me out, he maybe have see the elephant all upset and then see smoke.”

“But, this not worst, for us, this just beginning of what so bad that day. We go home, and we wait for father. I tell them over and over, I saw father he outside of the tent and he call to me to come out.”

“Helena, you father at work, not at the circus, honey, you could not see him, maybe you were so scared, you imagine see him,” my mother kept trying to convince me, but I knew what I saw.

“But, Kosta, we no see my father again, after that day.”

There was a deep silence between them now.

He noticed his friend was crying. He reached for her hand. She pulled him close to her and

hugged him. “I am so sorry for you Helena.”

“Thank you honey, I know this is story maybe too much for you to hear, I don’t know why, but I want tell you today, I don’t know why.”

A long and solemn silence hovered around them. Neither of them felt like speaking. There was a reverence in the stillness, and they both felt this. For Helena she felt a flood of memories rushing through her, and her tears came in rivulets, warm against her cheeks.

Kosta his eyes held tightly closed, remembered his aunt Archondoula, her head in her hands, her body shaking, she is down on her knees and Kostia is holding her, there is no end to the weeping. Heartbroken she is rocking back and forth, the sounds coming from deep inside of her, roll across the family and bring them all to their knees, praying for miracle. Kosta searches his imagination for a different narrative, but at this time there was none to find.

He cannot bring himself to tell his story to Helena, he is mute, and immobilized.

His own stream of tears comes now, he is not ashamed of this, and lets them pour.

He cannot tolerate the idea of the circus right now, he sees the tents in Poland and the Armory as well, go up in flames.

After a long while, Helena says “I must go back home soon, honey.”

Kosta acknowledges her with a soft nod.

“Do you want to tell me your story now?” she asks, knowing the answer.

“Not now Helena, but one day soon, do you mind?”

“No, I understand.”

They make their way to the streetcar stop.

“You know honey, I must tell you one more thing before I go, very important, you know this. My father, he never come home, but I have him right here next to me every day. Can you understand? They leave but it is up to you if they also stay, same time. I know sound crazy, but I tell you, it true.”

A thoughtful smile breaks onto Kosta’s lips, his eyes still moist, he nods twice.

She watches him enter his car first; she waits a bit longer for hers.

THE LONG WAIT FOR KNOWLEDGE 1939

In Asia Minor, there were stories of men and women who could see beyond their eyes.

Archondoula often read about these mysterious messengers, and Kosta loved to listen.

She read stories of the miracle worker Apollonius; Tiresias, the clairvoyant who was sometimes transgendered; the prophesying Delphic Oracles; soothsayer Calchas- translating for the gods, envisioning the design of the Trojan horse; she read the intoxicating works of the Sufi peot Hafiz and Al Hallaj, expounding on actualizing the Truth. The sages, clearing the paths to the divine, acknowledging the grand illusion, entreating anyone who desired to see, to go inside and find their answers. These were the stories they pored over. Gods, wise men, magicians, mediums, otherworldly souls, held their attention.

And so, when Kosta first met Theo, in Istanbul, he felt like he had known him a very long time. He felt as if he would have access finally to answers that evaded him. He thought that Theo could tell him, about his uncle Manolis, and all the other loved ones who had left him. By the time Kosta was thirty years old, the total had grown so large he had lost exact count.

Over the course of several encounters with his friend Theo, Kosta would not be disappointed. Eventually he would be the recipient of the kind of sight he had known only through books. It was a vision which his muses had often offered. It was a kind of knowledge he had been privileged to acquire in small parts over many years. Yet there was more to know before the knowlege was complete.

For now, however, Kosta, would be content to feel as deeply as he did. All the big questions unanswered, for millennia, would wait a little longer. He would, along with Archondoula, feel adrift in a puzzling ocean of doubt. He would remain, mixed with the pain of loss. Eventually his pain would provide a service to him. It would provoke in him a desire. That desire and its accompanying curiosity would determine the course of his life. So for all this, in the end, he would be grateful. But at the end of this one day, this March day, the day of the great circus outing, the day Manolis had gone to work for Nick instead of taking a seat beside his wife, at the end of this day he would meet with a sorrow that would drive a wedge between him and his father, a wedge that would take decades to remove.

LEAVING HOME, 1946

When Kosta was able to set himself free of his father’s home. He couldn’t wait to tell him, to upset him, with the news.

“Father, I am going to New York, to finish school.” Kosta delivered his message simply.

“xYou what?”

“Going to New York.” I said.

“I don’t know xanything about thees, xwhy did xyou not say anything to me about thees before?”

“I have thought about it for a long time, I made an application, and I have been accepted.”

“I will no pay for it, I want xyou to stay xhere, with xyou family.” Nick insisted, and expecting this to actually be the final word on the subject.

“I have received a full scholarship, father, and I have accepted it, and I am going.”

Nick was speechless, angry and wounded.

Nick knew that his relationship with Kosta had been changing for many years. He first felt his son pull away the night his uncle had not returned. He spent years making excuses for the behavior. He never assumed that his son accused him, held him responsible, for the catastrophe that had happened.

But he was wrong.

Most people in Kosta’s life felt embraced by him, listened to, comforted by his presence.

There were, however, five exceptions: his father, Jimmy, Gus, and two of the ship jumpers. To these men he could not extend mercy. He continued to hold them accountable for his uncle’s disappearance. For more than a decade, these five men were cut off from his love.

Kosta, was strangled by an unspoken mistrust of his father. He watched hard feelings rise up in him every time he was with Nick. Hate lurked. It was stealthy and unpredictable. Kosta tried to tuck it back inside, but not quickly enough.  When it surfaced it did so it with full force and his father became the target for pointed, hurtful words. Kosta’s own words, now felt poisonous to him. His poetry no longer delivered him from evil, but towards it. He was losing his way. Kosta grew increasingly ill at ease around his family. He didn’t like the welling up of the persistent resentment.

RUNNING INTERFERENCE  Thea Archondoula

The name Archondoula translates into ‘servant of the lord’. At this time in our family history, my great uncle Nick had firmly established himself as the ‘lord’. We all agreed to it. He was the best man for the job. His sister, still kept him in line on certain issues, but on others she did his bidding. And her children, sometimes, did hers.

‘’Cousin Kosta, I heard you might be leaving us?” Archondoula’s son approached him.

They were at the hall, on the southside of the city. It was the home to their clan’s weekly gatherings. This night they were surrounded by men and women their own age. Parents and children were excluded. They were organizing the annual convention. It was one of their many respected traditions.

“Yes in a few weeks, I leave for New York, I cannot wait!’’

“Your father is upset with you. My mother wants you to come by tonight, she wants to talk.

‘’Jimmy, please tell her, I cannot.”

“No way cousin, I can’t tell Archondoula, ‘no’, she sent me here tonight to tell you, not ask you! Kαταλαμβάνeis, Understand?” 

“Kosta, listen to me, she knows you need to leave. She doesn’t want to stop you. She wants to give you something.”

When Kosta finally arrived at his Thea’s house, it was late at night. He had taken a few drinks with Dimitri at the card room on Forbes. Archondoula tried her best to overlook the licorice aroma floating from between his lips and the slight thickness of his tongue when he spoke. She said nothing about it, but her eyebrows defied her. This Kosta noted, but shrugged it off in his attenuated state.

“Kαταλαμβάνeis paidi mou, understand, child, your father, he deed no make my Manolis go away. You xhave xwrong idea, you xhold on to thees idea too long now. Do xyou know? Can you put it away, before you go so far and xwe no see xyou for long time? Thees make it very xhard on everybody, you farther, and me too!”

“I am trying Thea, but so far I am failing. I hope I can change this when I move away. I will have a better perspective at a distance than I do up close. I believe this.”

His aunt studied her nephew carefully. She decided to trust his words.

She had decided this when he was a small boy, and she reminded herself again this day. 

As he turned to leave, she said  ‘’Kosta, when xyou xwrite about xhim, xyou tell the truth, I know xyou wheel find it, and I know xyou wheel tell it.”

It was in this way that Archondoula served the lord, and for this, the three of them were thankful. Although it would take more years, and visits to Istanbul before the reconciliation was complete. Kosta heeded well his aunt’s advice.

THE LAST CARAVAN OUT  c. 1924

The two sisters to be, sat on the deck of old ship that left their island behind them.

Homer has cursed these very seas upon which they would now sail. Although niether of them at that time had actually known this, they knew these waters had a mind of their own. These were not the beautiful rich blue seas you find pictured on posters in the souvlaki restaurants, these were the Ikarian waters and they obey no law of nature, never did.

The sky too, on this side of the Island, would turn grey in response to the activities beneath it. If it disagreed with anyone below, it turned on them and delivered a devilish wind.

The big grey clouds that appeared out of a clear blue day,  liked to bully the islanders, but they rarely let them have what they wanted most. Rain, almost never fell from these clouds, and so their land, dry and barren, incited them to relinguish their citizenship. Archondoula, Dimitri, Kostia and Toula were doing so this day.

They were going to re-join their young husbands, their fathers, and their brothers. The men had left a few years earlier, to work, to make money, to provide a home. The women had so much to look forward to, but they did not want to forget, those who they were leaving behind. Niether of them knew exactly how to handle the push and pull they were feeeling.

They sat on the deck of the boat, and waved and waved to their realtives and friends. It was an hour before the ship launched. There were many more sounds of sadness and few sounds of joy. And at the precise moment the boat launched, the only sound heard was ship’s horn bouncing off the hard rocks, running up the side of the mountain, evaporating in the big grey clouds. The crowd on the dock, put their heads down, and slowly moved away from the water. No one on the ship saw this, as they too had sealed their eyes from a last look back.

On the boat from Europe, Archondoula, Dimitri, Toula and Kostia shared a small cabin in the belly of huge ship. A mother and son, a distant cousin, and a sister in law to be, braced for the long passage across an ocean. The women were apprehensive. Toula’s anxiety,had a severe impact on the group. She was not optimistic about the journey. Her concept of America was clouded by worry. “xWheel I even be lucky enough to arrive?” she questioned.

“Or could it be the bad luck chest to arrive there?”

She had trouble seeing forward. Her habit was to fall back into the past and mistake it for the present. The future, therefore, often looked bleak. Toula looked over the railing of the ship. The expanse of water wrapped itself around the earth. Her consternation was overpowering; she had no idea what she was looking at. The line that separated water from air, with no beginning and no end, it tortured her. ‘’Thee line, out there Archondoula! eet keep evaporating!” she grabbed hold of Archondoula’s hand and squeezed hard. The line seemed lacking in substance.  The fog grew thick. Night fell. She was disconnecting.

Early on in the trip she found a small nook away from the masses of people.  She crawled in, closed her eyes, and prayed. “Pleese oh god, do not let the waves in thees endless water rise up and swallow me!”  She prayed that she would not disappear. She prayed that she would not lose her mind worrying about worrying. Archondoula and Kostia, left her alone, checking on her occasionally. They took a soft cool cloth to her forehead and the back of her neck. They would send Dimitri with small glasses of water and some bread. He would place it beside her without speaking, which for him demanded incredible restraint, as he was only four years old.

And it was in that nook that Toula fulfilled her assignment. And here too is where she would learn to rise up and find her self. In the middle of the ship surrounded by her fears she learned how to point at them and usher them off the gangplank.

The women expected adversities over the next weeks. Arguments were likely to arise between them. In preparation, Archondoula decreed that each woman would be entrusted with a task. The well-being of the pack depended on it. Kostia, the most mild mannered and even tempered of the group, was appointed human resources director and resident psychologist.

Kostia had no problem with her mission and had plenty of opportunities to perform.

“O Dimitri, xhoney, xwhen xyou need xyou motheer, and she sleeping, wake xher more gentle. xWhen you jump up on xher belly, it xhurt xher and then...’’ Kostia bends down to whisper now into Dimitri’s ear, ‘’then xyou motheer she start to growl like animal! ees very bad for xher and for me too. We no animal, xyou metera and I, we ladies ... καταλαβαίνεis, understand?''

“E Toula, mικρή μου φίλη, my little friend, xyou xhav thee most beautiful hair! Our Archondoula like to brush for xyou thees morning, make the braid, eh?” Kostia paves the way.

“xShe xwant brush my xhairs? Make braid? xWhat xshe really want I wondeer?” Toula guards herself against an offensive.

“E Toula, eet  ees so nice we all have the good thick xhairs, we got take care for them, no?’’

“Does the Archondoula theenk her cousin is not with the good hygene, mepos, maybe?” Toula asks, with a firm hold on her objections.

“Oh no xhoney, she know xyou proud xyour look and she want make shure you geet the beest braid.”

Toula softens with the attention Kostia is giving her. She considers the prospect of a luxurious combing out of her long, travel-tangled curls.

“xChess xyou right Kostia, tell the Archondoula, xchess I take new braid from her, σας ευχαριστώ thank you.”

Toula’s assigned job was to keep their precious possessions safe and secure. Archondoula, Dimitri and Kostia had two small bags between them.

Taking leave of the village, Toula, however, had insisted on bringing a large trunk filled with a vast quantity of unidentified objects. It was Archondoula who had to labor down the long goat path, with the trunk. Archondoula being the strongest was willing to do the heavy work. Although she had not considered that her cousin would push her to the extreme on this point. Toula found Archondoula’s strenth most fortunate, and took advantage when she could. Just before they went to the beach to meet the boat, Toula tapped Archondoula on the shoulder and said, “xhoney, that ees ches one of thee two, pleeas breeng the otheer one as xwell.”

Archondoula looked at Toula, looked up at the mountain, then she looked back at Toula.

Toula’s brows arched in a perfect semi-circle and she smiled at Archondoula, eyes wide she said, nothing more.

Archondoula’s eyes welled with tears, her anger overflowing. She was exhausted. It took everything she had to get physically and emotionally ready for this trip. The Toulas, as she sometimes referred to her cousin, was now pushing her over the edge. With her arms akimbo, smoke visibly gushing from her ears, and her carefully wrapped braids already springing free from their appointed positions, Archondoula turned and ran back up the mountain.

Archondoula found a way to pay her friend back for having to manhandle two heavy trunks, down a mountainside, on and off ships, across decks and piers. That is why she charged Toula with all the luggage and for the duration of the trip. Archondoula made certain the consequences were perfectly understood. If Toula did not stay dutifully with the luggage, Archondoula would kill her either before the first shipped sailed, or at a point along the way. In the middle of the ship, and at the entrance to the small nook Toula parked  the luggage and her enormous weight. She accepted this job with slightly more than minor resentment.

“The cargo from the devil.” Archondoula was overheard muttering.

Some nights Toula would creep back into the sleeping cabin, a fresh paper in hand, testing Archondoula’s patience. It was inconceivable to Archondoula how Toula managed to turn an innocent newspaper into a weapon of torture. Toula would fold and unfold its pages endlessly. Of course she needed an oil lamp lit in order to read and rattle the leaves. Even though the light was dim, it was a supernova to Archondoula.  She could not fall asleep until it was extinguished, and Toula had been silenced. In her imagination she invented several ways to accomplish this. She envisioned the oil lamp tossed by ocean swells, rolling to the edge of the noisy paper and setting it afire.  She saw a powerful gust of wind blow through the portal and wrap the newspaper around Toula’s head, silencing her forever. Then to put just one finer point on it, Archondoula imagined that same wind lifting Toula off her feet and escorting her right out of the portal. A splash, the portal closed behind her and she would be not only be silenced but also quite gone.  In some scenarios Archondoula spared Toula but in most he was not so generous.

“Vre Toula, xwhy xyou no stay xwith thee luggage, eet xyou job! xWhat xyou do in xheere?” Archondoula would scold.

“Gest come for a letle xwhile, I breeng xyou tsandas xweeth me, they safe.” Toula would answer, exacting some degree of pity from her cousins.

Many nights, thought, Kostia would be awakened by the two women sparing verbally.

Once she saw Archondoula strike Toula on the head with the dread newspaper. The devil was mentioned often in these skirmishes. And the passengers in the neighboring cabins did not take lightly to these flare-ups either. Knocks on the compartment’s thin walls, urging the women to desist, would wake Dimitri from his sleep and open an entirely new can of worms. Soon disagreements would arise in other cabins, doors would open and slam shut, and the night in the belly of ship would experience a grave indigestion.

It was Kostia who always managed to smooth the feathers of her friend, long enough for Toula to get the hint, and remove herself so Archondoula and her son could fall back to sleep.

Despite Toula’s lingering pessimism about leaving her home; about the crossing; about the mysterious sea, despite all this she was able to keep herself afloat, with prayer, and with her devious desire to reek havoc with Archondoula.

‘’Into every life must come a bit of humor’’ she thought to herself. Somewhere Archondoula, actually agreed, but she rarely showed that hand.

One night after the three occupants were sound asleep, Toula came to the cabin, with a plate of food someone had left for her in her nook. Often strangers would have mercy on her there, as she sat in utter stillness, begging for salvation from above.  She lit the lamp and began the painstakingly slow processing of the meal. She chewed each piece of the meat one hundred times.

In the cot, sleeping soundly, Archondoula dreamed vultures had descended, and were picking apart the remains of some dead animal. At first it was one vulture then two, soon the room was full of them. Archondoula reached for her son, pulling him close to her. This frightened Dimitri who woke crying. His mother shot up from her bunk, sweating and confused, only to find her nemisis calmly sitting up with a half eaten chicken on her lap, and chewing like an insane person.

“To the Devil, xyou fool, xwhat xyou doing now?”

“Pardon me?” Toula replied politely.

“Go, go xyou little nook and eat, xwe try to sleep.” she demanded.

‘’xYou suppose to stay xwith all the bags, and thees two huge crates xyou make me lug down that mountain.’’

Toula stopped chewing. She considered her options. She chose not to be beaten by to a pulp by Archondoula and the remaining chicken leg. She gathered her things, and left them alone.

Kostia took Dimitri in her arms and lulled him back to sleep.

Archondoula fumed for an hour, her eyes half closed, devising ways to discourage Toula from any further disturbances.

“xHoney, she mean well, she just upset xwith all the change, she xwill do better, give xher  time.” Kostia tried to soothe her sister in law to be.

Truthfully this incited Archondoula to further fantasy. She fell asleep with visions of Toula being accidentally locked in one of her mammoth trunks not to be discovered until they had reached the American shore. This gave her solace, she smiled contentedly.

What Archondoula didn’t know, would have helped her adjust her attitude toward poor Toula. But for that knowledge she would have to wait. 

Archondoula was a woman who could send you to the devil one minute and in the next - embrace you reverentially. She was more flexible than she appeared. Her outer crust was thick more as a ruse to fool anyone who intended to harm her brood. And she took on several broods throughout her life: her brothers, her cousins, her children; her nieces and nephews; her grandchildren; the boarders who regularly shared her home. Archondoula had no problem sweeping people under her wing and tucking them into her breast.

“Vre pouliki mou, ti kaneis eikee? Hey my little bird, what are you doing there?”

“Oh tipotah, exaltherfee mou, nothing cousin!” Toula replied.

“Well look like you wearing dress that is of Kostia? Then eena? Isn’t it?” Archondoula’s muscles began constricting. The constriction started at her feet and worked its way up her body. By the time it reached her lips, anyone in the vicinity, understood, something was going to boil over.

“Oh really? I thinking it xwas my dress I saw on bed there in cabin, and I xches put on. Not mine, eh?” Toula looked Archondoula over from toe to head, and thought better of attempting to deceive her further.

Archondoula turned a few shades of red. She said nothing. Her arms crossed, she looked the part of a most formidable opponent.

“xWell then, my beeg meestake, then xhoney, I take dress to Kostia right now!”

A few paragraphs of muttering could be heard across the ship’s deck. Thrown out against the ocean waves, the muttering richocheted and hit Toula in the back of her head.

She spun around to see who had been so rude to her. No one was there. She worried for her sanity, yet again, and ran to the cabin to return the stolen goods.

Kostia was her best friend and her role model. Archondoula’s mother left when she was quite young. Her leaving created a huge vacancy in Archondoula’s life. She depended on her girlfriends to nurture her feminine side.

Kostia was born with a gentle spirit, an even temper, and a well-organized mind. She had the philosopher’s touch of being able to weigh the circumstances that presented themselves, sparing herself and others from irrational reactions. She was a natural peacemaker; a free thinker, who made room for a diversity of angles on any subject.

This gift of hers placed her in a permanent glowing aura, and was an irresistible magnet for anyone who was in range. Her spirit was a Siren, and Archcondtoula, was not only fond of her sister in law (to be), she was her devotee.

“Archondoula, xhoney, Toula, she frightened, thees ees not comfortable for xher, thees big move confuse for xher.” she reasoned.

“Το ξέρω, Το ξέρω.” “I know, I know.”

“She very different from xyou, she not so brave at first, but she xwill be, she be strong, brave xwoman too. And xyou will respect xher for that. She xhad different life than xyou, she has find xher xway. Give xher time and be kind to xher, xyou xwill xwatch xher make many changes in xher life.” Kostia counseled her friend.

Archondoula’s eyes closed and lips pursed. She nodded her head as if keeping time with a song, which is how she thought of Kostia’s words, an elegant song being handed down.

What Archondoula didn’t know and would not know for many years, was that this Toula would one day be sister in law to Archondoula’s only daughter, and therefore, her family.

One thing Archondoula held in complete sanctity, right or wrong, were her family members. She would defend any and all of them, without question. She would take them for what they were, try to influence them at every turn, but ultimately savor them for their differences. In Greek there is a word for this, φιλότιμο, philotimo, love of honor. An intense sense of right and wrong, is a Greek genetic marker.  Pride of and obligation to family.

On the passage to America, Archondoula was handed an opportunity to practice φιλότιμο, and Toula was, in a way, her teacher. Kostia the principle of the floating school.

.

REDEMPTION 1924

On the ship, there was no food. The women had packed cheese, olives, fruit and bread, enough  for a week maybe longer. They were told there would be three or four ports at which they could disembark.

They had planned as well as they could, and were hopeful that they had made the best choices. Ten days had now passed since leaving the last European port. They were crossing the great Atlantic Ocean when they saw Toula coming toward them and she was carrying a large basket.

‘’What xyou xhave there, xhoney?’’ Kostia asked.

‘’xWho is watching our luggage?’’ Archondoula slightly scolded.

‘’Toula Toula, then eena Koula, oxi Archondoula, exotherfeemou e Toula Toula!’’  Dimitri chimed in, attempting a rhyme.

The women stared down at him, wondering what he was saying.

Toula was delighted to have the boy’s affection, the thing to which she was not accustomed. She smiled at him warmly, and always remembered him with great fondness.

Additionaly and without hesitation she pulled some mastica from her basket, and handed it to Dimitri. ‘’ Έφερα την μαστίχα, για εσάς παιδί.” “I bring the chewing gum for xyou child.”

The boy now beamed, he looked to his mother for approval. He was not exactly sure how to interpret her face. It was frozen in the suspicious glare that she had been casting on Toula. He quickly decided to decide for himself, and began to hop about the ship. Giving his prize a work out, he desperately tried to make the thing form bubbles but that would not happen.

Toula now beamed, sensing she was on the right track to regaining her status.

She began to pull a series of rabbits out of her basket. They were in form of pomegranates, figs and three oranges. They were jars of visinatha and plum pudding, hard boiled eggs, fresh and roasted nuts, kopanisti and a loaf of bread. Then she pulled out a bottle of MauvroDaphne, a hand embroidered tablecloth with matching napkins, four plates, three glasses, and a big expanse of self-satisfaction.

“Oh xhoney look what you xhave make for us, thees is beautiful, xhoney!” Kostia delighted.

Archondoula melted and gave the Toulas a big wink.

While the magic show was taking place, no one had noticed a small mustachioed man moving slowly toward them, pushing a large trunk. Toula turned just as the trunk

arrived at their feet. She set the table, found some chairs, spread the feast, and with a wave of her queenly hand, simply said, “φάτε” “let’s eat.

Dimitri had to be roped in and persuaded to set his chewing gum aside until he had eaten some food.  This was adeptly achieved by his mother reaching into his mouth, plucking out the sticky substance before he had a chance to defend himself.   The four were living, for a moment, the high life.

Archondoula’s shell was softening on every front. Her studied smile was squeaking out from the edge of her lips. She tried pulling it back in when Toula addressed her, but she did not succeed. Finally she admitted and did it fully, “E Toula, xaltherfee mou, my cousin, thees is so good of xyou to make thees present to us. Efxareestoume poli, thank xyou so very much.”

CHANGE OF ADDRESS, 1946

When Kosta finally decided to share his story with Helena, it was on a day when she was

uncharacteristically low in spirit. They met, this day at her brother’s shop, not in the park.

“Good morning, Helena, good to see you.”

“Yes, Kosta, good morning to you as well.”

“Where is everyone today, are you alone.”

“He go to the doctor today, he no feel too good.”

“I hope nothing serious.”

“Me too son, me too.” But Helena did not seem hopeful, in fact she moved about the room as if she were still sleeping, unsure of where she was.

From the back room Kosta heard the familiar voices of Paul, Jana, Katerina and Mika, but not John. Kosta was confused.

Helena said she forgot something, and she went outside, leaving the door ajar.

Kosta knocked on the door of the back room, and it opened to him.

“Good morning Kosta, come in come in.” they encouraged him in a chorus of welcome.

“How is everyone?” he asked, politely but with a slight implication of dread.

“Well, good, we are good, pretty much good.” Paul offered.

“And John where is John today, at school?”

“Yes he do very good to the school.” Jana answered him but he sensed a reservation.

“You come visit your friend Helena, eh?” Katerina asked, with a peculiar caution.

“Yes she just left for a moment, is everything ok?” Kosta had obvious concern in his voice and the family heard this.

“She is here, you saw her here?” Paul asked quite astonished.

“Yes I just saw her in the shop, but she said she had to get something and went outside.”

“Outside!?” again in unison, this time with alarm in their words.

Paul moved quickly past Kosta, into the front and out the door.

Everyone followed him, without speaking. The women had their hands pressed against their lips.

“Can you tell me what is happening?” Kosta pleaded.

Mika, took Kosta by the hand, his other arm he placed on his shoulder. “My aunt, she is not doingk so well right now, Kosta.”

“What is it, is she upset about something, is she ill?”

“The doctor say she no remember too good, anymore, and this make her upset, and very confused. She cannot work now, because she forget too much and my uncle is afraid she will hurt herself. They say maybe she had stroke, maybe something else, we do not know yet. This morning we left her at home and tell her we come pick her up later bring her to work. She must have walked here alone, this is why everyone is make panic.”

“You know Mika, when I came in I knew something was very different with her, and she told me you all were not here, and had gone to the doctor with your uncle, because he was not felling well!”

“Yes, I say, she is confused so much right now, we no know what to do.”

They walked outside to see if the others had caught up with Helena. There was no one in sight. Mika asked Kosta to stay at the shop, so he could go find them.

Kosta sat in the dark room, he heard the sound of the hot water slowing simmering. Helena’s constant companion the tiny “śpiewak drozd” as she called it, a song thrush, sat silent in his cage. One of Helena’s cousins had rescued it. Fallen from its nest, it had a broken wing. On his latest trip to Poland he had managed to tuck it into his coat pocket and bring it to her.

When an hour had passed and no one returned, Kosta’s anxiety had begun to consume him.

Finally, Mika came back in, alone.

“What?” Kosta asked, “Did you find her?”

“No no find her.”

Kosta remembers that day as sharply as he does the day his uncle vanished.

The loss of them both has followed him around taking a chisel to his spirit, and with heavy strokes of a hammer, large chunks have fallen to the ground.

It is at these times he reminds himself, of Theo, and for brief moments there is a healing,

and pieces fall back into place. There is an echoing in the distance, the resonance of small chimes touches his ear.

THE ONES WE LEFT BEHIND

The island the woman had left behind, would survive, in fact would thrive. The people were resilient and worked the land the best they could, urging its gifts to fruition. They were shepherds and fisherman. They ate the spare foods they had, and shared them freely. They held their families together across the narrow roads and across oceans. Their bodies grew strong, from the manual labor. Their imaginations opened to the new world that had enticed the relatives and their imaginations also served them well at home. The ones who stayed behind kept the traditions alive, in situ. The ones who left carried them to America, Germany, England, Australia and South Africa. This extended their reach, pleased and saddened them at the same time. On the island, money was not easily made, certainly not accumulated. For this, they depended upon the emigrants, so in their prayers, they sent them strength that they might do well in their newly adopted countries. Those who had come to America, found work and saved their money. The philanthropic organizations, provided a continual flow of money way back to the island:  for food, equipment, for the laying of electric cables. They sent it to build docks and hospitals, ice factories and roads, to fund the schools, to share the wealth. They remembered philanthropy was a Greek word, and they took it seriously, and with considerable pride.

The island the women left behind would continue to raise flocks of characters whose stories would come across the waters in waves. The stories would deliver laughter and tears, and would travel with lightening speed from city to city. The distance between them grew smaller and smaller over the years. The new Americans, sent money for telephone lines. For decades this meant one phone on each side of the island. But it was one more than they had ever had, and a direct line to all the compartments of their hearts.

“Soteires, have xyou written to xyou brother lately?” Maria, his mother would inquire with insistance.

“I xwrote to xhim last week, mitera, xyou xknow this.” Soteres was faithful in his correspondance with Stavros, he loved him and missed him.

“Do xyou xhear from xhim this week?” she keeps the questions coming.

“Mitera, xwhen I xhear from xhim, xyou are the first to know, I read them to xyou, always.” he begins to be short with her, then softens “Mitera mou, please no worry I xwheel not leave xyou xhere alone, I promised you, I intend to keep promise.” He knows she is afraid that Stavros will encourage Soteires to follow him to America, that she will lose both of her sons, and will be alone, old and alone.

“Mother xyou know xwe all talked about this for xyears before xwe decide xwhat xwould be best for all of us. Stavros xwanted to go so badly, he is adventurous and restless, he needed to go. He xwanted to find out xwhat he could become, over there. All the stories that came from America made xhim so excited. And mother, since he left, xhe xhas done nothing but be kind to us, with gifts and money. xWe are grateful for this, no? I xwanted to stay xwith xyou, I love it here, I love walking through the mountains, taking care of our sheep, and our vineyard. This is my pleasure. I love being able to take care of  xyou too, do xyou know that Mother, it is the truth.”

“xYou are right son, it is perfect for xhim, and very good for us. I just miss xhim and sometimes I think xyou are sad xyou cannot see America, too, now while xyou still young.”

“One day if I xwant go, and if xyou want go, Stavro xwill send us the money to come and visit xhim, and then xwe xwill both see xwhat is so good there, or maybe not, and xwe jump in the ocean and swim fast back xhome.”

“No xwe make those xwax wings and fly!” she jokes with him, now he has relieved of her fear.

“Of course, xhow did I forget, xwe fly, of course the sons of Ikaros, eh?”

There is a brief sigh of relief that floats between them.

“xYou know mother, there is another reason I xwant  stay behind.”

Maria, is tossed dramatically back into defense mode, “te eena, xwhat is it?” another tone of alarm rings in her voice.

“xYou have girl, xheere, don’t xyou? I know xyou xhave girl, Soteires, I see xyou xwalk xwith xher in the field, and I see xyou xhold xher xhand. xWhy xyou no tell me before, xyou know I xam no blind, Soteires, mother’s see everything.”  “Sto the Avelo, the devil.” she thinks to herself.

Soteres is in flagrante delicto, and only slightly amazed his secret has been detected by his mother. This is not the subject he was intending to discuss. Maria is the last person on earth with which he wanted to share this intimate information. Now he his facing the wrath of this woman who he cannot leave, because she is his mother, and with whom he cannot stay because she is his mother.

Maria attached herself securely to her sons, when her husband abandoned the family. The boys were very young. What they knew, was that their mother showered them with affection. In the long years leading to their maturity, they grew more apprehensive of their mother’s attention. Often they would wake in the middle of the night, wet from dreams, and terrified by the lover who infiltrated their reveries turning them into nightmares. Her face in a cloud of obfuscation but her body familiar. Her full identity just beyond their reach. Raised in a culture that kept sons close to the bosoms of their mothers, loyal and respectful of their every wish, the division of love and hate, safety and fear blurred. They stood by Maria, obeyed her, but plotted escape routes routinely.

Stavros, the eldest son, was more fearless than his brother.

He managed his departure from her long arm of influence, by eloquent monologues on the merits of making a home in a new country. He delivered these nightly after they had shared food and a small glass of wine. Maria and Soteres were sold on his plan, and his promise to provide for them sealed the deal. Stavros was an orator in the ancient tradition, studied and clever in word and elocution. They sent him off with waves of blessings that he would prosper and so would they all.

Soteires, more passive, but still well aware of the power his mother held over him, had to find his own way out of her grip. He knew the woman he was falling in love with would be threatening to Maria.  A woman would put distance between mother and son. Love was always drawing some closer while pushing others further apart. Maria thought of her husband, pulled away from her as he ran into the arms of a younger woman.

“Coward and fool!” she would murmur when having any thought of the ex-husband. And gathering her words into a stream she would sputter them to the ground.

Soteires tried to find a way to lessen the threat, but he kept drawing a blank. This was a challenge that perhaps was beyond his abilities. So, instead, he dodged and skirted the issue as long as possible, and then a little longer.

Big Night Out, and the village gossips

It was routine for Soteires to go for a walk after the last meal of the day. So when his mother was settled in for the evening, he would kiss her on the cheek, and make his way to the plaka. In the center of the village the young people congregated each night. Their meetings, however never went unsupervised. The old men of the island would spend long hours at the kafeneon, drinking their strong coffee and ouzos late into the night.

From their tables of frenzied debate, card games, and prophesying, they kept a close eye on the young men and women.

When the heat of love would rise above them, their ears pricked and their hearts raced. They remembered a feeling that had left them stranded long ago. They took excellent mental notes, and testified later in the evening to their wives

If the women would not abide their tales, they sang it instead, an offering to the candlelit room. It was a strategy they invented to usher the ouzo out of their bodies and into the night air.

In the morning, everyone on the island would have the news of loves awakening. Most often this was celebrated. Widowers and abandoned women, did not find news of young love anything but painful. A chill would travel the distance of their bodies and loud shouts of agony would wake the dead.

Some couplings were left uncelebrated for other reasons.

There were families on the island that were strictly off limits, to other families.

Unresolved disputes, grievances that could not be forgiven, betrayals, real or imagined, drew these lines.

When Soteres began courting his love, Lena Sapphos, he crossed two or perhaps three lines that incited his mother to riot. The innocent girl, was a threat to the smothering bond she had with Soteires.  Maria would see any woman as the temptress that would wreak havoc with her son’s heart. Lena was no exception. Maria would soon discover, Lena was a descendant of the family who had redrawn the lines of Maria’s great grandfather’s property. Her grandfather lost half of his land to Lena’s relatives. This of course had happened ninety years ago, but Maria saw no reason to let it go. She, like her grandmother and mother before her, milked the drama for full effect.

 THE POSSE

The ladies of Koundoma filed up the rocky path to Maria’s house, on a day when the last of the winter rains struck them violently. Winds assaulted their advances.  Two steps forward, one back, the hike was elongated by the blustering force. This did not deter them from proceeding. The five mile trek meant nothing to them by comparison to the pleasure they would get from Maria’s shrieks when they quietly dropped their bomb.

On this small island, whose inhabitants did not hesitate to defend their clan against aggressions of ξένοi, foreigners, there was no lack of virulent skirmishes between the natives. With little access to the culture of the mainland, even less to Europe and the other great continents of the world, the islanders were forced to make life interesting for themselves in whatever ways were at their disposal. This included, regular plots which incited each other to display a full range of emotion. Provoking each others’ ire was a particularly popular game. For these games there were some ground rules: no one was to be pushed to commit murder or suicide, if possible; no one was to cast the evil eye without forewarning; no one was to cross their mother or father, in public.

But these rules like all rules, were meant, also, to be broken.

So it was with a sporting approach the women set out to give Maria the news, which their husbands had pronounced just before sunrise.

“Maria, ella ella, are xyou in there, come open xyour door for us!” Agatha yelled above the roar of the gusts.

“Maybe she xhas go out,” Kyria Chakos spoke meekly to no one. She was the least interested in stirring up trouble, but was swept along with the crowd as they formed a posse on the long walk up to Maria’s village.

“Look there xyou see the smoke from chimney, she must be xhere,” Gorgophoni, the brazen leader insisted to the others.

“Who ees there?” a faint voice sounded from inside the small stone house.

Maria could smell trouble miles away. The winds had pushed the scent of the miscreants into her open windows. Maria had been anticipating their arrival for over an hour. She wanted to find a way to avoid them and at the same time, could not wait to engage them in battle. She was certain they had come to rile her into some fervor. They rarely came in such a large pack to simply pay a polite visit. She only hoped it was indeed a game and not a message of some doom that had fallen upon her. Soon she would discover, in a way it was both.

When Maria finally relented, she exerted her full strength against the winds to keep the door from being torn from its primitive hinges. The crones filed in complaining bitterly about the weather, and the long wait they had endured outside the house.

After the cackling had subsided, Maria impertinently asked, “To xwhat do I owe thees great xhonor , my friends?”

Gorgophoni assumed her role as spokeswoman, and feigned concern, “Oh xhoney we xhad no seen xyou so long, xwe xwant  come make shure everything ees good with xyou.”

“Aλήθεια? Truthfully? That is so kind of xyou Gorgophoni, always think of others, eh?”

“Well now xyou big boy gone to America, and xyou xyoung son he spend so many nights in the plaka, we think xyou must be lonely up xhere,” she continued her ruse.

“Well I xhappy to report, xwe no lonely. My good sons take care of me, from far away and from right xhere in my own xhouse. And Gorgophoni xchess so kind of xyou to think about me. Ees too bad xyou chose thees wicked day to make thees long trip. Let me make xyou tea and I fix xyou something to eat, katse, katse, sit, sit.”

Maria’s unusual graciousness, aroused shame in some of the women, but not in all of them.

They threw glances to each other, questioning their own motives, and wondering if they should leave Maria in the peace of her current bliss. Gorgophoni, was not amused by their apparent cowardice. She wanted to carry on with the diversion and she struck a most convincing pose letting them know they were not excused. They would be expected to assist her.

“Maria, Kyrios Chakos, was at the plaka last night, did thee Soteires tell xyou?”

“What ees it, Gorgophoni?”

“Did thee Soteires tell to xyou he saw thee Artemis’ husband oYiannis Chakos at the plaka last night?”

“No I deed no see thee Soteires thees morning xhe out in the field with the animals. xYou know xhe leave xhere very early. xWhy do xyou ask me thees?”

“No reason, really.” Gorgophoni says barely audible.

“All our men went to the plaka last night, they xhad a meeting about the xwell in Therma, xyou know that, chess?”

“Chess that I xam know xthey xwere planning that, chess.”

“xWell then they play the cards, drink and talk all night like they do.”

“And?” Maria is aware the punch line is coming soon, she knows Gorgophoni is busting at her seams to say something, tell some gossip, she assumes.

Melpomene chimes in now, muse of tragedy, and in an ominous key, and with a measured lilt,

“Maria, my Maria,

we have brought you some good news,

maybe chess, maybe no,

I let xyou tell me if eet ees so.”

Completely tongue in cheek, Melpomene looked as if she actually took a bow after her performance.

The sisters, Harmonia and Euphemia, began to perspire, and the scent of garlic and rosemary filled up the small room in which they sat. The pungent air made Maria even more uneasy She crossed herself in triplicate, uttered the word Skortho, garlic, and spit once on the floor.

The women clattered their tea cups on the saucers, a feral cat came to the window. The cat was in heat and suffering from a lack of male attention. Her wails a forewarning, she was joined by a pack of coyotes in the distance announcing their next meal. 

Gorgophoni, the slayer, was poised for the kill. “E Maria, xyou I xam xwant to know, xwhen xwere xyou going to tell us about Soteires lovely leettle girl?”

“Ti eepes? xWhat deed xyou say?”

“Our men bring the news to us last night, xwe xhad no idea, xyou would soon have a daughter of xyour own!”

Maria, thinking quickly, not wanting these women to go home with yet another notch in their belt, sends them rocking back on their chairs, “Oh filee mou, my friends, I xwant to tell xyou but I xwait, and now xyou know, is good eh?”

Complete silence now befell the room, the mourning plea of the cat continued in looping currents.

Melpomene was the first to push Maria, hoping to find the tipping point.

“Maria, so xyou xhave met xher and xyou know who eet ees xher eekogenia sas, xher family?”

“I xhave meet xher chess! βέβαια, Vivaia, ofcourse!”

“And thee family, I suppose xyou xwill not be eager to meet them, chess?” Aside, the muse of tragedy snickered.

“xWhat are you trying to say Melpomene?” Maria felt a rope tightening.

Gorgophoni picked up where her friend had left off, “xYou, xhoney understand they are the Kratses, from Agios, no?”

“xWhich Kratses?” Maria’s voice was raised now, alarm and incredulity had it in their grip.

“xYou know they are the ones xwho ...”

“Skasi vre, shut up xyou fool, I know the Kratses, I hate the Kratses. It ees my right eh, after xwhat they xhave do to my family?” Maria cannot restrain herself now.

“xWell then Maria, deed xyou or deed you no know the girl was a Kratses, your Soteires new love?”

“NO.” she shouts at them, “Cannot be. My son never xwould do thees to me.”

“Well xhoney, maybe xyou better find out now before it is too late, xyou know what I mean? Thees xwhy xwe make long trip up the mountain today, eh?” Gorgophoni barely conceals her glee.

Maria has turned a color of red, that no one has ever seen before. The heat from her body is contagious and the women take off their head scarves, unbutton their sweaters. Maria slams her cup down on the table shattering it into a thousand small pieces. The ladies, with exception of Euphemia and Harmonia, begin to revel in their conquest. They have tricked Maria now, into admitting she had no idea who her son was courting.

“I tell xyou ladies, I really deed not know the girl. I xam knowing xhe xhad the girl, but xhe no tell to me xher name. xWhat ees xher name, please tell, I must know.” Maria pleads.

“They call xher the Lena.  xHer family came xhere many many years ago, from the Chios, just like xyou family.”

“Lena Kratses?” Maria asks with eyes wider than they should be physically able to open.

“No, eeet ees like thees. xHer mother she ees thee Kratses. xHer father ees thee Sapphos.”

“Lena Sapphos! O Theo, Dear God.  xHer mother she ees my nemesis. Thees Lena’s daughter of Dorthea Kratses Sapphos, now ees my son’s lover. xHow could xhe do thees to me?”

“Po Po, pethi mou, now now, too bad child.” Gorgophoni offers in mock condolence.

Maria overlooks her insincerity. Suddenly the tables seem to be turning, as Maria’s mind spins. Momentarily Maria basks in the attention the women have directed her way.

Maria enjoys being seen as the long-suffering woman, victimized by life’s vicious strikes. Pleasure and the pain merge until there is a tug of war raging inside of her inflamed body. She doesn’t know which one to choose. The women in the room grow uneasy sensing the change in the air.

Suddenly and to the surprise of everyone including herself, Maria rises up from her seat, goes to the window, and begins to laugh so hard she is holding her belly to keep it from bursting.

“What ees so funny Maria, thees ees not comedy for xyou, thees is tragedy. xWhy xyou laughing?”

“Well Gorgophoni, I realize now, all of a sudden, I xhave xhate those people long enough. At the feet of Maria, mother of god I xhave prayed for revenge. I xhave make prayer for so many xyears now. And xhere, today my prayer ees answered! My son xhe ees genius, no? xHe theenk to marry thees Lena, and xhe wheel be the xheir to xher property. xWhich xwe all know ees really my property, eh? In thees xway our family is finally released from this long injustice.”

Maria continues. “And my friends, xyou see, now it me xwho wins!”

“And Gorgophoni, sto theavelo with you, to the devil.” Maria begins another round of laughter, Euphemia and Harmonia, join her, the others bite their tongues and lose their voice.

“Who would like some fresh bread and xhoney?” Maria smiles at her defeated crones.

FORTUNE, MISFORTUNE AND UNFORTUNATE FORTUNE

Eleni Stratzes and her husband Kosmos, live in Avetheelos, a beautiful town on the more temperate side of the mountain.  Life afforded them many pleasures, including a fertile tract of land, with panoramic views of the sea. His land grew plentiful with olive groves and fruits, nut trees and grape vines. Both Kosmos and Eleni were descendants of one of the oldest island clans. Yes they were in fact second cousins but this was only mentioned outside of the family, and at a safe distance from their backs. Their children were only slightly compromised by the lack of diversity in the gene pool. The two youngest children, both girls, were a little slow. The three eldest sons were a little too fast with respect to their desire for the opposite sex. The imbalance made for awkward couplings inside and outside the home. But they were all physically healthy and eager to please Eleni and Kosmos. The girls worked the fields; the boys were shepherds to grand flocks of sheep. The boys in particular were fond of their lot in life, making intimate relationship with their four footed friends. This staved off their over exuberant lustiness, and spared many island girls from shameful acts. 

As the years passed, the family made sure to acquire a large Minah bird, a symbol of their rising rank among the islanders. Kosmos’ good fortune began to elicit envy from his neighbors. The most wary ones were the Christanthi brothers who routinely called for clandestine meetings to discuss Kosmos’ business practices.

No one on the island had the success with crops and animals, as did Kosmos.

Suspicion gave rise to skepticism which rode into town one day on the back of jealousy.   The combination spelled trouble.   

The meetings grew quickly in number, as did the attendees.   Soon covies were formed, spy missions launched, and rumors began to buzz the island in swarms.  

The evidence clearly established by first hand accounts, was that Kosmos has been siphoning off water from Petros Koutsoflakis’ well, a half mile further up the hill. On the day this was discovered a pall fell on the men at the local taverna. No one understood what was happening to them, but they all felt something very wrong, was afoot.

Petros, a single man, most of his family vanished at the hands of Turks, or beckoned away by the call of the glamorous Athens, lived alone.

Petros’ luck was not so good as Kosmos’. He too had fields, but never enough water to quench the thirst of his crops. He too had grape vines and chestnut trees, an olive orchard. Although the variety of his harvests were great, they were never plentiful, nothing thrived on his land. He complained often of the lack of water.

He tried digging additional wells, but always came up short of a good source. He called on the divination practices of the old ladies, but none had success on Petros’ soil. He felt beshrewed, and begged for amulets and talismen. He resorted to the μάτι mati, and learned to cast the evil eye. Over the years Petros grew hardened and discouraged by his plight. Before the other islanders gathered and plotted to discover Kosmos’ secrets, Petros had no idea upon whom he should cast his spiteful glance.

His cousins Yorgo and Christos Christanthi remained on the island, after the rest of the family had gone.  They looked out for him over the years.

With  his cousins’ discovery of the source of his misfortune, Petros’ malignant anger drove him to face his conniving foe with aberrant viciousness.

One night Petros approached the men collected at the tables, trying to enjoy their evening drinks. He rode on his donkey and as he drew closer it appeared that his speed was increasing. He leaned forward on the animal and whispered into its ear. The donkey began to sprint toward the table where Kosmos was holding court, bragging about his luxurious garden. The men leapt to their feet and tried to escape the oncoming storm. Petros drove the animal right up to Kosmos, stopping just one millimeter shy of his chest, and pinning him against the post he had ducked behind for protection. The music ceased and all conversation came to halt.

“To thekomou, you fool, then eena to thekosou, katelevenees?” “It is mine, you fool, not yours. Do you understand me?”

Kosmos made a foolish decision and replied, “What?”

Petros spoke again to the donkey, one word, which unfortunately for Kosmos, was garbled.  The donkey lunged forward and helped himself to chunk of Kosmos’ fat belly, which was jiggling with fear and enticed the animal to take a second bite.

Petros scolded the animal, “Just one, I said, filiki mou, my little friend, that is enough.  Come now we go home and I give you a little desert.”

When Kosmos recovered from the bites and the subsequent infections, four months had passed. This was time enough for him to consider the poor judgement he had used, to surreptitiously steal his neighbors water supply.

The four months also gave Petros time to feel remorseful about the pain and suffering he had caused the culprit Kosmos. “Perhpas I went too far,” he thought to himself.

On the same day at precisely the same time, the two men left their homes, one heading downhill and one heading up, both with the same intention.

They met midway on a rocky goat path. Kosmos’ sons were nearby and saw the two men approaching each other. They didn’t know if they should intervene, and opted to keep their distance. They were fast in some areas, but more like their sisters when it came to organizing their thoughts.

Petros moved slowly up the hill, Kosmos was propelled with more and more speed as gravity issued him downward with increasing force. Their heads bent in deep contemplation, they viewed only their own feet. Kosmos heard his sons’ voices and quickly glanced across the mountain to where they stood. At that moment the boys began to wave their arms wildly and yell to their father. He began to utter the word Ti....., but lost his voice as his foot struck a large stone. He was catapulted into the air. Just three feet downhill was Petros, absolutely entranced by his thoughts. Kosmos plunged head-first into his neighbor. The two men formed into a rotating sphere, were propelled higher into the air, and their momentum continued to multiply. They fell to earth as ungraciously as the isalnd’s namesake, rolling with greater and greater speed. They were steered along an existing goat path. All the way down the mountainside the men rolled. Kosmos’ sons after a long while, realized the seriousness of the spectacle and took off after the men. Their sisters were sitting on a rock, sharing some grapes in the early morning sun, when their father and Petros whirled by them in a knot. The girls had no idea what they had witnessed, but were sure the world was coming to an end, so they too began to run down the mountain.

No one was quite sure how it happened but at some point Petros broke free and he was found later inside of a small church which sat on a cliff’s edge. The little light that was left in the day, amplified by the cut glass hanging in the open window, blanketed him, and he understood, that by some miracle of prayers answered, he had been spared.

Kosmos, whose luck had changed the night the donkey misunderstood its master, and took two, not one bites, was found as well. He however, landed in the rough water below, had been tossed by the waves and never again saw the light of day.

REVERENCE FOR MYSTICS

Rascals, Like Black Gus and Gussie, came from this island, and many more rascals remained behind to keep the natives on their toes. Kosta remembers the stories that get passed along, and shares them whenever we meet. He makes them funny and sad at the same time. We conclude this is the nature of all stories. As he learns more he tells more, until he finds he is repeating himself. Then we call it a day, go back to our homes, and make our own stories, hoping for a twist of fate.

Some times the stories are more full of mystery than mischievousness. The Aiviolioti

were famous for such tales. The one Kosta and his wife Sophia liked to repeat for their sons’ amazement, and to instill in them a regard for divine interventions, was the story of the disappearing cross. Kosta’s great aunt Kalliope was to marry an Aiviolioti in America. She was preparing to make her great trans-Atlantic passage, and packed her trunk carefully. Just before she closed the trunk, she placed her prized possession inside. It was a wooden cross that had been in her family for three generations. It had been hand-carved and blessed by monks in the Mani. How it came into the hands of her ancestors remained an unanswered question. As Kalliope told the story, she had placed the cross in the trunk, but began to fret about its safety. So she removed the cross and handed it to her sister, Koula, who she trusted with her life.

“Koula xyou coming to America, in two more months, xyou xwill with only a small bag, I xwant you to bring the cross, xhoney.”

“Kalliope, kali ithea, good idea, I xwill keep it safe xwith me at all times. It xwill be better.”

The two women agreed on the way to handle their precious cargo, embraced each other and shared their tearful goodbyes.

 When Kalliope arrived on Ellis Island, her husband to be met her there, along with an entourage of brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles. They had made the long drive from Western Pennsylvania to New York, in a caravan of Model T Fords. A ferry took them to the island to find the bride to be. On the return ferry ride, they could not believe their good fortune to have finally been reunited. And talked and hugged incessantly. And for her safe arrival, they were all grateful.

They loaded Kalliope and the trunk into one of the cars and headed west. When they arrived at the home of Krysanti Poulos, where Kalliope would spend the days before the wedding, the family ate and drank and talked late into the night.

In the morning, Kalliope began to unpack the trunk, and searched for a clean dress and stockings.

As she rummaged through her belongings, her gambro to be, husband to be, waited for her one floor below. An ear-piercing wail broke the plane of the floorboards knocking him off of his chair. His sister crossed herself as if she was blessing an entire continent, in long flowing movements, and in the required amount. All the women ran up the steps in a clump. Two wedged themselves side by side in the narrow stairway. Their hips showing off the plentitude of food they had begun to enjoy in their new home. They had to be plucked loose by their cousins.

“Ti eena ti eena, ti ekeis, what is it what is it, what is the matter,” the women all in chorus called Kalliope.

“O σταυρός, O σταυρός, the cross the crucifix!” she was wide-eyed and sitting on the floor, her clothes strewn across the room.

“Ti les, paithi mou, xwhat  xyou saying, child?” Konstantina demanded, but gently, for fear the girl would explode further, perhaps scaring the gambro away form the house, or worse yet away from the promised marriage.

Kalliope was holding a large cross close to her breast, looking as if she had seen ghost.

“Pes mou, tell me, xwhat is it girl?”

“This ees the cross I left xwith my sister, Koula. She xwas xholding it xwhen I left the island.

How did it get into my trunk!” her confusion mixed with panic alarmed the roomful of women and migrated down the stairs.

The men who had remained below, asked if they could come up.

“No now, stay xwhere xyou are!” one of the older cousins directed.

Kalliope wrote to her sister that same day, but it would be one month before Koula received the letter and another before they would hear back from anyone on the island.

When the bad news arrived by mail, it was the on the day of Kalliope’s wedding.

Kostantina, found the envelope and secreted it away. It was just a feeling. She had not opened the letter. That night, after the festive party had finally drawn to its conclusion, Kostantina went up to her room and opened mail from the island.

Kaillope’s dear dear sister Koula, had taken ill just a week after the boat had sailed. There were no doctors on the island, and none of the traditional remedies soothed the pain that consumed her. In the middle of the night, Koula got out of her bed and walked down to the water. She had not been seen since.

The cross she had held for her sister, and its mysterious appearance in America was destined to remain a great mystery.

And then there was the old lady Moraiti, the one who in her later years, when money was no longer an object for her son, could take an annual trip back to the island. She passed many summers with the family who had stayed behind.

One warm May day in the late 1960’s she had called her cousins and told them when she would arrive. She was especially excited about this trip. For the first time, she would be able to take the big ship right up to the dock. The pier had been recently completed, a gift from the wealthy American arm of the island. No longer would she have to struggle down a rope ladder and into a small boat to make her way to shore. She was anticipating a lovely summer with her relatives.

A few days after her planned arrival, Kyria Kratses, Kyria Kontoyiannis, and another lady whose name always escapes us, saw Kyria Moraiti on the steps of the church in Agios. They welcomed her home, and made a plan to have a meal together soon.

That same evening, Kyria Kratses got a call from her son in America. Before he could get a word in edgewise, his mother began clammoring to give him all the news from the island.

“And the Sapphos’ young sons Kleeanthi and Yorgos are making a music band now; little Lena from Xiloxirti is getting married; the two fishermen from Samos came with a big bag of barbouni, and three octopthi!...” “Oh and Kyrios Stavropoulos bring me a little pouliki, a little parakeet in a cage, I always xwant to xhave little singing beerd.”

“Oh Mama you sound like you are having a good time this summer, eh?”

“Yes and the best ees Kyria Moraiti has come back and xwe are making dinner for xher next xweek, she looks so good, the America treat her very good.”

“What did you say?”

“Kyria Moraiti, is here, son and she looks so good.” she raised her voice up several decibels to reach across the ocean. ‘My son, he go deaf, eh?’ she thought to herself.  “I love xwhen she come xwe have a good time together. xYou know xwe xhave known each other over seventy years? xWho thought xwe xwould be so lucky?”

“Mama, which Mrs Moraiti are you talking about?”

“Ti ekeis, xwhat is the matter xwith xyou, xyou godmother, vre, are xyou losing your mind? You no can xheer me and now xyou memory ees go too?”

“Maybe.”

“xYou tell me xwhat is thee matter xwith xyou? Now I xam xworry something ees xwrong.”

“Mama, I was calling to tell you about Kyria Moraiti.”

“Oxkay, then, pes mou, tell me, but stop sounding so xcrazy!”

“Mama Kyria Moraiti, did not leave for the island, she, she got sick, she, she is not coming.

So I am acting confused because I am confused. How could you have seen her, because I tell you truthfully, I know this, she is not there?”

“Not here?” now his mother is dumbstruck, for the first time in her life, for sure.

“Absolutely not there.” her son assures.

“I saw xher,” says Kyria Kratses.

Her son said nothing.

“And Kyria Kontoyiannis xwas xwith me, and another lady and xwe all talk to Kyria Moraiti, and xwe make the plans together. xWe xwere on the church steps, I tell xyou thees ees the truth.”

“Mama I don’t know how to tell you, but Kyria Moraiti, she was in the hospital last night, I went to see her. I kissed her for you. And then Mama, this morning, when I called to check on her, they said, Mama, she was gone.”

This story is told in several versions over the years. It has become an unforgettable legend. It has made the faithless faithful. It drove Kosta to seek out his teacher, Theo. I can see my cousin, head cocked, to listen for advice from one of the layers for which I am still searching.

It makes us all dig down to discover that which is vibrantly alive, beneath the illusions of life.

HOLDING ON AND LETTING GO, 1953

Back to America, circa 1953 Kosta and Sophia are expecting their first child, Nicholas Orestes; my father Hollywood and my mother Virginia, my cousins Dimitri and Evangalia, my uncle Gust and aunt Esther their second; the Mougiannis their first and only; the Moraiti and the Kontoyiannis their middle children;  some Kafalos’ their first some their second. The Conzemanis; the Sapphoses; the Aiviolioti the Xenakis; the Grammaticuses; the Economoses; the Plutoses; the Chakoses; the Patrinoses; the Kazaleses; the Kostases; the Gemeloses, the Apostoloses, the Vasolaroses, the Pasodelises all propagated the lineage in earnest. They remain grateful that the tremors of a violent war are just a memory now.

The men had returned with stories tucked neatly in a remote pocket, extracted rarely and only when they were not in the presence of women or children. A great prosperity awaited them, greater than they had ever known, but not greater than they had dreamed. Their minds in combination were a grand tour de force of imagination. Restaurants were opened in droves, flower shops, service stations, television repair shops, painting companies multiplied. College degrees were acquired by the most fortunate, paving the way for careers to be launched. Doctors and dentists, pharmacists and professors, lawyers and judges, pilots and architects, artists and poets were graduated with enormous pride. And for this great wealth of family and the pursuit of happiness, we were grateful.

The company that ruled the early years of the migration, laid a foundation for the many limbs of the family. Filling the pockets of the young husbands with just enough money to start their own brood, and too little to keep them attached to N.D.’s tentacles for very long. Having realized their own potential, the men began to cut their ties to the patriarch. This gave Kostia great pleasure, as she witnessed her husband loosening his grip on the purse strings and assumed the role of godfather to those so inclined to step out on their own.

It would be several more years before Kosta would drop the resentment he harbored against his father. Kosta kept his feelings concealed, treating both his parents with respect. He obliged his father’s wishes for a few years, after he had graduated college he returned home briefly and carried on the family business. His desire to teach and to write, would soon surpass his obligation to commerce, taking him away from the family home forever. This too gave Kostia pleasure as she knew her son lived to study and to write. She saw the joy pressed out of him when he was not able to practice his art.

She saw his real work transform him, enlightening everyone around when a new poem or a new book was put in print. She encouraged him to leave, behind her husband’s back, but not without paving the way for him to be understanding. She was extremely clever at managing Nick, and the older she got the more expert she became.

“Kosta,” Nick addressed his son one afternoon, sitting at the windows, looking across the park. A male cardinal, his red suit reflecting in the corner of Nick’s eye, uttered his three words, in six syllables. “Kosta, I theenk xyou begin to make a name for xyourself xweeth xyou xwriting, are xyou not?”

Kosta looked at his father, not believing what he was hearing, and the tone of his voice was unusually soft.

“I theenk xyou have make me proud enough, managing our business so good for the past few years. I think Kosta xyou xwant go back to Nea Yorki to study, and maybe xyou become a professor one day eh?”

Kosta wanted to run into his father’s arms, but he knew that gesture would not be well received. He also felt, simultaneously trapped by his own resentment and un-tethered by his father’s unexpected kindness. He wanted to take his father’s words at face value and put the past behind them, but he stumbled, pulled down by his ego’s desire for revenge.

This was a feeling with which he was not comfortable, it did not have his name on it, but here it was, occupying his body, and he had to own it. He realized at this moment that if he did not find a way to forgive his father, he would never heal. The anger he fostered was fattening itself on portions of his heart. He wanted to end its unwelcome feasting. But it would be several more years before he would realize a favorable outcome. His friend Vencento would be the unlikely catalyst, and for this he is eternally thankful.

“Father, nothing would make me happier. I am so pleased you understand me now.”

“Oh son, I xalways know xyou, I just xwanted  make shure I xgeeve xyou all the lessons a father must give to xhis son, before I let xyou go.”

When Nick said this, Kostia’s head turned, and she took the opportunity to speak.

“xYou know Nicko, I believe xyou, xhoney. I really do. xYou make me very proud of xyou today.”

LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL, 1942

BlackGus, once free of BlackGussie’s constant presence, slowly began to notice his feelings, and this took him completely by surprise. He had always been well acquainted with the darkest ones, but remained blind to any movement into the range of light. Hobbling through the neighborhood one morning, he encountered a group of girls en route to school.

He noticed, that ‘noticing’ was new to him. He didn’t remember ever seeing these girls before. Although he watched them emerge from houses all along Dawson Street, the street on which he and apparently the girls, all resided.

His habit was to look out from behind clouded eyes. He saw a blanket of scratchy grey, to which he would point daggerish words, shake his cane and move on. But today he actually saw three little girls, and their skin, their hair, their clothing, their laughter all struck him. Their similarities and differences registered somewhere, somewhere new.

The girls had dark brown skin, two of them had very thick short- cropped curly hair, one had long braids, one a short bob. When he said the word “bob” to himself, he almost thought he had heard a chuckle, but quickly dismissed this.

They all wore white shirts, blue jackets and plaid pleated skirts which fell just below the knee. White socks and blue black shoes carried them along. They walked in pairs, the two darker skinned ones spoke with a dialect that he both remembered and did not. “Nότια κορίτσια, μαύρα, Southern girls, maybe blacks, hmm?” he thought to himself, trying to place their accents. The other two were making sounds which reminded him of his own language: air passing through the throat and striking the upper palette with x, k and s sounds. “Εβραίοι, Άραβες; Jews or Arabs?” he questioned, with only minor distasteful judgments sticking to the end of his thought. The innocence of their age, the freedom of their laughter, touched his ear. On a normal day it would have caused him irritation, just because he had become who he had become.

As he approached the group he appeared to them as if he was having trouble negotiating the rises and falls in the pavement. Large flat slabs of stone, heaved up by the violent changes in temperature, ice forming in winters, the wet heat of late summers.

One girl from each group spontaneously ran to him, and in thick lilting accented words asked if they could help him.

“GeMornin, ser.”

“Hallo Mestere, cent xwe xkelp yu?”

Black Gus, did not recall hearing these exact phrases ever before, as simple as they were, they fell upon him as foreign.

“WHAT IS IT CHILD? WHAT DID YOU SAY?” he had not forsaken his loud assaulting voice.

The little girls assumed he was hard of hearing, being so old and crooked, reminding them of their own grandparents, they did not take offense at his harsh sound.

“Paardon us saer bu if ya’ll lyke we’ll cen haelp ya’ll down tha streeet?”

“NO, NO, I NO NEED HELP.” he only half-barked his reply.

Then to his utter amazement, he was sure he heard himself say the following word,

“Thank You.”

The little girls bid him a good day. They skipped passed him, resuming their melodic laughter. Their young voices blended into the sounds of songbirds, snugged up on the lacing tree limbs which lined the city block.

When BlackGus, finally arrived at the newsstand, he took his usual seat, and again noticed, something. The other men turned their backs to him, and talked among themselves, leaving him alone, and unwelcome. They had done this every day, for many years. No one looked forward to his arrival, anywhere, except Kostia and Teddy. Only those two cousins accepted him, taking some pleasure in treating him with politeness.  They took it upon themselves to chip away at his crusty exterior. But everyone else who found themselves in the unenviable position of BlackGus’ presence, made every attempt to side step his prickly persona.

When BlackGus noticed, the men’s behavior, he decided, and he didn’t know why he decided, but he did decide, to do something he had never done before.

He rapped his cane on the wooden table, not with aggression, but just hard enough to be heard. The conversation dimmed, but no heads turned. He then, put his cane back down on the floor, and simply said, “Κύριοι καλημέρα, Good Morning Gentlemen.”

Just then a crow landed on BlackGus’ table, looked him in the eye, cawed once, and flew away.

THE GREEK PROGRAM c.1932

On a Sunday afternoon, the Greek program came through the old brown radio, standing tall as a centerpiece in Nick and Kostia’s light-filled sun porch. It collected the family for news of a European world they could not forget to remember.  Dramas and comedies came in installments, which they eagerly awaited. The music that ran through their veins was also  full of dramas and comedies. The words and the rhythms brought them all to their feet. Glasses were filled and the words “Opah, ας xourevome, Let’s Dance!” fluttered out the open windows. Sparrows holding late day vigils in nearby chestnut trees responded in the mother tongue.

When the radioman signed off for the night, the men re-assembled themselves in the living room if it was winter, and on the big front porch in all other seasons. The ladies cleared the rooms of glasses and plates, leftover sweets, and the white kerchiefs they had used to lead  line-dancers in ecstatic trances. The old women sat in a corner of the sun room in heavy chairs, big enough to soothe their tired bodies, warm enough to encourage them to resume another round of lively conversations.

On one of the hundreds of evenings they spent together carrying out this ritual, Kyria Anastasis likes to tell the story of N.D. coming inside for a glass of water. For Nick this, in itself was an anomaly. Under most circumstances he would have ordered one of the children to fetch it for him.

On this particular night, the women were tucking the young children into couches and beds. They would sleep there for a few hours before being wrapped in blankets and carried back to their own homes. The men of all ages were outside smoking cigars and drinking brandies. The old ladies, pleasantly ensconced in their big chairs, their tightly wrapped braids looping in circles defined the shape of their thoughts. The crones smiled at each other and picked up on the topics put aside when the radio broadcast was welcomed into the house, hours earlier. They remembered their husbands, if they were no longer here, they remembered their parents and the children they had lost in childbirth, lost to illness. They laughed a little and cried a little as they exchanged memories.

As Kyria Anastasis repeats the tale, Nick, entered the house, and just before he disappeared into the kitchen, he retreated by two steps, surveyed the ladies, and said:

“You ladies should start an old widows club, eh?”

“Yes, Nicko but we are waiting for Kostia.” with a moments hesitation Archondoula shot back at her brother.

In fact she delivered her reply so quickly it seemed as if they had rehearsed the dialogue.

To say that the women threw him a chilly glance would be a terrible understatement.

The ice that shattered Nick’s ego into tiny fragments of its former self, fell so loudly onto the ground, that several men came running in from outside; babies who had been fast asleep began to wail; and a stray dog ran in the back door, threatening to eat Nick if he uttered another word.

The old women turned to him in one perfectly choreographed head movement.

The babies’ cries suddenly quieted, the dog sat down, the men backed away, and Archondoula, the woman who raised him, said: “And Nick xWe hope xyou no make xher xwait too long.”

That night, ended the long years of salty insults that had been the mainstay of Nick’s hand of cards. From that night forward, he vowed to himself, to think twice, and speak once, most especially in public, where it continued to be of utmost importance that he reign, supreme.

THE TROPICS c.1934

When Nick, Kostia, Dimitri, Kosta and Kimon first set foot on the beach property Nick had purchased, it was difficult to discern the spread of emotions that than ran through the family.

The long long car trip, one thousand miles of southern landscapes, with Kimon yelping and squiggling and annoying everyone with wild abandon, had rendered them all speechless.

“Mother, Kimon is biting my ear!” Dimitri would complain.

“Kimon, stop it, now honey.” Kostia would urge the child into normalcy.

“Oowwwch, stop kicking me you little devil,” a brother would plead.

“Now honey, don’t call baby Kimon a devil, is not nice.”

“But mother he is torturing us,” Kosta complained.

“I know I know he is full of it eh? Little Kimon to pathi mou, my little baby.” she would smile back at the demon child and pat him on the head, pull a cherry candy from her purse and offer it to him.

“Mother it is not fair, how you treat him, he is going to kill us, he is uncontrollable.”

“Kostia, Dimitri ees right, xyou must take control of thees child, xhe drive me crazy now too.” Nick would advise, trying his best to stay out of it. He feared he would drive the car over the edge of a cliff, as the distractions the boy was causing had been mounting steadily.

Fortunately for all involved, nine hundred of the one thousand mile trip, was across flat land, so if the car were to crash, most likely it would be into a cotton field, not over a cliff as Nick had suggested. Kosta had pointed this out to his father, in an effort to involve him in a stricter reprimand of Kimon.

“Kosta, my poet son, xyou know I make a figure in the speech xyes?”

“Yes father, but it is not funny, Kimon is right now as I speak to you, eating your slippers. Do you think that is funny? I do not. Now he has put the cherry candy inside of them. Now he is considering putting the cherry candy in Dimitri’s ear, and that is not funny either.”

“Oh he is a playful one that one.” Nick responded to Kosta, giving the pot of chaos one more stroke.

“Father you are making it worse!” Dimitri and Kosta protested.

Kimon! Τον σταματάτε! Αμέσως. Να είστε ένα αγαθό λίγο αγόρι! Stop it right now. You be a good little boy!”

Kimon climbed onto Kosta’s lap and from behind wrapped his arms around his father, “I be good daddy, Kimon good boy.”

A few seconds passed with Nick gloating at the effect he had on his son.

Kimon slid back on to floor and resumed making a meal of his father’s slippers. Smacking his lips and pretending to carve them like a steak, he swayed back and forth.

Kosta and Dimitri looked out from the windows, exasperated and began reciting their

Greek lessons to no one, hoping to drowned out the sounds from below.

The beach property that Nick had purchased was pristine, white sands, warm blue waters, a long strip of land on a peaceful sea. There were trees with palms and dates, coconuts and citrus of every type. On the land sat a small white frame house with a big porch, a chimney rising from the steeply sloped roof. Banana trees waved in the breeze. The sun was just about to set and the sky was a vibrant raspberry with streaks of violet and orange catching the edges of the few clouds that sailed past. The next house was far enough away that no sounds could be heard from its occupants. From the family’s perspective the neighbors appeared to be the size of the tiny soldiers in Kimon’s arsenal of toys. Nick had delivered the family to paradise.

As each one began to put the memory of the endless drive behind them, their hearts filled with gratitude.

“Father, it is beautiful.” Kosta told him. “Truly beautiful.”

“I cannot wait to have our first meal in this lovely house.” Dimitri added.

“Oh Nicko I have no idea it would be so fine, thees place, no idea.” and tears came rolling out. One splashed on Nick’s wingtip, he took her in his arms and whispered, “All for xyou my love, I make for xyou.”

As years passed the family compound grew to make room for more and more relatives.

Homes were built, for each of the boys, as promised.  And more land was acquired.

In this way, the patriarch, made good on his promise of providing his family with great wealth and also great happiness.

THE GRUMBLING UNDERBELLY

Back home BlackGus and Gussie, still in their prime of disgruntlement, had waited for what seemed to them as years, for the Lardthas to return. There was no end to their

disapproval of Nick’s big idea. And at some point in their marriage there was no end to where one of them began and the other ended. Their voices started to blend, so much so that, they were no longer distinguishable from and other.

“PROPERTY IN FLOREETHA, xWHAT DO xHE THYNK xHE DOING, BIG SHOT GUY NICKO.”

“xHE REALLY KRAXZY. NOW.”

“I SEE KYRIA LANGAS YESTERDAY AT THE MARKET, I TELL xHER xWHAT xHE DO, AND SHE LAUGH AND LAUGH. I SAY xWHAT YOU LAUGH IS NO FUNNY IS BIG TRAGEDY BUY THE LAND IN FLORRETHA, NO GOOD NO GOOD.”

“SHE SAY, GOOD FOR HIM, NO GOOD FOR xYOU.”

“I TELL xHER TO THE DEVIL YOU SILLY WOMAN, xYOU NO NO xWHAT xYOU SAY.”

“xWHO xWATCH THEY xHOUSE xWHEN THEY SO FAR AWAY, NOT ME THEY NO BETTER ASK ME TO xWATCH FOR THEM.

I TELL THEM FORGET EET, xYOU SHOULD STAY xHOME HERE xWHERE YOU LIVE, NOT DOWN THERE WITH THOSE BIG AL EE GAY-TORS.”

“AND THAT TERRIBLE BAD PETHI, THE KIMON, xHE xWILL DRIVE THEM ALL MORE KRAXZY BEFORE THEY GET xHOME.”

“MAYBE xWE GET LUXCKY AND xHE NO COME xHOME WITH THEM, MAYBE GET EAT BY BIG ALLEE GAY TOR, EH?”

“AND THE xHeRRCANE THERE, IT TAKE THE LITTLE SPITI, THE LEETLE xHOUSE THEY BUY AND DROP INTO SEA! I PREDICKT THEES!”

“TO THE DEVIL xWITH THEM! TWICE!” 

There was a short pause, and BlackGussie continued,

“xWHEN THEY SAY THEY COME BACK?”

“xWhat? Do you miss the Larthdas?” Teddy, called up to them. He was taking his afternoon stroll, walking past Nick’s house and easily overheard the ridiculous conversation between BlackGus and his wife.

Black Gussie snarled down on him.

“Good afternoon my friends, so good xyou xwatch thee xhouse xwhile they gone. xHow are you both today?” his fat moustache curling with delight at both ends, waved to them as he spoke.

“THEY KRAXZY GO TO FLOR EE THA, THAT xWHAT I SAY.”

“They bring us back the good fruit, and maybe too some tsunshine make our city bright in xwinter, eh?” Teddy offered, rubbing his belly with one hand while waving the rays of the imagined sun onto his face with the other.

BlackGus considered the prospect of gifts from the south. “THEY SPOIL BEFORE THEY xCOME TO US.”

“Ok Gus maybe xyou right. And maybe xyou wrong! xWe see, yia sas filimou, to your health, see xyou later.” and Teddy waddled on down the block.

THE BIG SURPRISE

Manolis and Archondoula could not wait for their family to return. They wanted the stories of this warm new piece of land with the sea coming up to greet them.

They looked forward to going south with them on the next trip. They knew there would be many opportunities to spend time together in a climate more suited to their nature.

Kosta’s aunt and uncle missed him when he was away. Kostia and Archondoula had become inseparable over the years, and they missed each other as well. The distance made them all slightly anxious. They felt as if they were missing a part of their own body.

A knock came to the door, along with a familiar voice, and it startled them.

“That sound like my brotheer Nick, Manolis, go see xwho there.”

Manolis opened the door to find his brother in law, beaming on the back porch steps.

“Nicko xwhat xyou do here? xWe think xyou still in Floreetha. Ees everything ok?”

“I come back to get xyou.” he declared.

“To get me?” Manolis was confused.

“To get all of yxou, take xyou to Floreetha.”

“You drove all xway back xhere to take us to Floreetha?” Manolis could not believe his ears.

“xYes we go in two days, I get train tickets, give to xyou, my sister, thee tsildren, all ella , come.” he pronounced with authority, pride and pleasure.

“And xyou understand, I no drive xhere, I fly!” Nick added with enormous satisfaction with his own accomplishment.

“Fly?” the couple repeated in tandum, “xyou fly?”

Shocked by the overwhelming generosity of the act, Manolis and Archondoula sat stunned, sipping their morning coffee, and trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Nick, had been given free train passes by one of his customers, who happened to own a significant share in the railroads. He of course did not mention this, wanting his family to be sure to note his extravagant munificence. But none-the-less, they were all bound for something called a vacation. Something no one had actually conceived of before this day.

It would be the first of many trips south for Archondoula and her three children, but for Manolis, it would be his first and last.

On the trip south the family enjoyed the privacy of sleeping cars, the shared meals in the dining car, the men took their place in the lounge in the evening and smoked their cigars.

Nick held court throughout the journey, talking about the new house.

“ xWe make the gardens” he said with his forefinger raised and his eye cast on his sister.

“The additions xwe xwill build.” this seemingly meant for Manolis as he nodded in his direction.

“And thee fish you xwill catch for thee family dinners, Dimitri!” painting the picture of a pleasure Hollywood had never before considered.

“Yes fish Theo I cannot wait to catch the fish!” he called back to him with the perfect amount of excitement in his voice to make his uncle proud.

“And the walls xwe xwill build to keep the seas at bay.” continuing to lay out the stirring plan.

“The trellis xwe construct for the vineyard,” with this his eyes swept over them all.

“Kosta xyou could help me plant the trees?” this he posed as a question but it was pure rhetoric and everyone was ok with that.

“ Vassiliki could play xwith Kimon on the beach, eh?” making sure he had not left anyone out of the design.

He did arouse their suspicion as he went down the long list of chores that needed to be accomplished, wondering if this was his motivation, enlisting their labor.

Then they remembered, who was speaking to them, and it was completely understood. After they took a few moments to get their bearing they drew a unanimous conclusion. No ill feelings would be harbored. They would choose instead to look upon the trip as a present, with a few small strings wrapped around it, tied with a bow at the top. If you asked BlackGussie she would weigh in on it, declaring Nick’s gift was tied in a knot. But she, had not been asked.

The family was awestruck by the beauty of the island. As they approached Nick’s house they noticed a grove of trees, heavy with ripening fruits. There were huge yellow lemons, grapefruits and oranges, tangerines and limes. Statuesque and stately the orchard rose up to greet the new arrivals. A big blue sky mirrored in the turquoise water, and posed as a backdrop for the pretty white house that invited them in.

Kostia and Kosta were the first to greet them, so happy to be together again.

The women teared up, overwhelmed by their good fortune.

The children collected themselves into a swirl of wind and headed for the water.

Nick showed Manolis the lay of the land, talked incessantly about his plans, where a second house would be, and then a third, one for each of his boys, and plenty of room for he and Archondoula to come a stay as well.

“Nicko, despite your difficult personality, xwhich xwe xhave all put up with all these years, xyou have managed to humble us now with your bigheartedness. I am so proud of xyou brother. So proud. xYou now forget all those things I said about you, eh? They were all true, of course, but I forgeeve you your transgressions, in thee end I see, xyou mean to do good for us all.” Archondoula delivered her speech with pure reverence for her brother.

Nick took this as a compliment, and the two men took off to follow the shoreline all the way around the island. Talking with their hands and an infinite number of words, they made plans for their future.

THE WEDDING MACHINE c. 1951

Sitting on the sun porch with Archondoula, were Feio, Stomatoula, and Lemonia. It was these ladies who were charged with Kosta and Sophia’s wedding plans. So many other women offered to help with the preparations, in fact expected to have the honor of helping, that Kostia had to invent ways of keeping the collection out of her kitchen every morning.

The familiar sound of a cousin’s voice would be heard at the front door,

and the day would begin early.

“Kostia, ελάτε ανοικτai tηv πόρτα, come open the door, I have breeng xyou something.”

Artemis would enter with another tray of pastries, dripping honey across the living room floor.  Archondoula was there and ran to get a wet cloth to dissolve the sticky gold trail Artemis always left behind her.

“She ees no idea, xhow to come xwithout make more xwork for everyone, Kostia!

Tell xher I come to xher xhouse next time and peek up tray. Tell xher xwe no xwant xher to carry heavy tray down the street. xWe make secret, eh?” Archondoula conspired.

Eleni took the streetcar faithfully each afternoon, from Dormont to Oakland. She had to transfer three times and walk eight blocks. The women would know she had arrived by the heavy footsteps on the porch floor and the loud panting sounds breaking through the plane of window glass. Eleni was a closet actress, but she had emerged from the closet just shortly after being born. She was well practiced at her art, and so every entrance was a theatrical spectacle.

“Eλάτε, Kostia? Archondoula? It is me, Eleni, come from the Dormont, pleasse relieve me of my burden, cousins!  I xhave travel far to come to xyou today xwith thee geefts.”

Kimon loved to be the one to invite Eleni in, the first to witness her elaborate wardrobe and marvel at the role she would choose for the day.

“Oh Kimon, thank xyou thank xyou xhoney, what a gentlemen you have become my little Kimon.”

Kimon took the bags and boxes Eleni had been carrying, and welcomed her inside. This provided him a three hundred and sixty degree look at her outfit, her walk, and the myriad of poses she would strike as she crossed the rooms and spun herself into the sun porch.

On the day the women decided to make the koufeta, the favors for the wedding guests, there were perhaps ten ladies in attendance. Each had brought some Jordan almonds,

someone had purchased the organza cloth to wrap them in, and someone else had a roll of white ribbon to fashion the packages into small pouches. The koufeta was one of the many ways that the Orthodox relied on tradition to insure the continuity of their beliefs. There would always be five, no more no less, almonds, wrapped in each pouch. Five would be an indivisible number, symbolizing that marriage means forming an indivisible bond. The almonds must be white, to signify purity. The shape of the almonds implied unending love, that of God and that of the committed couple. Finally the almonds were a little bitter, but coated with sweet, bittersweet like life itself.

Four hundred koufeta would be made over the course of the next few days. One for each guest at the big wedding.

In Kostia’s house another, smaller group of women, collected to plan and make the Stephanoi, and the Stephanothiki, the wedding crowns. Typically the honor of providing the wedding crowns would be that of the Koumbaroi. The two people who stand for the couple at the ceremony. Since the Koumbaroi for Kosta and Sophie were the children of Kostia’s closest relatives, the older women insisted on helping them with their task. On the island, the Stephanoi are made of olive branches, vines and lemon blossoms. Kosta and Sophia had hoped that theirs would be in keeping with the custom. Kostia knowing this, and also knowing that Nick had insisted the Stephanoi be made of silver and pearls, evidence of his success and his love for his son, had to find a compromise.

They planned on using silver wire and threads, strung intermittently with pearls, as the armature for the crowns. On the night before the wedding they would add the olive branches and vines, the lemon blossoms, attach a white silk ribbon to both. They placed them in the Stephanothiki. The Stephanothiki, was a wooden box, that would hold the wedding crowns, keeping them safe and clean.

Kimon, designed and built the beautiful wooden box for the newlyweds, inlaying it with ebony and colorful Italian glass.

On their wedding night Kosta and Sophia would hang the crowns on the bedroom wall, blessing their union as they slept. Afterwords, Kimon’s present would hold the crowns safely for all the years to come.

Families gathered from seven states, but most from New York and Pennsylvania, the homes of the bride and groom. Kostia and Nick’s home was shoulder to shoulder with relatives for seven days before the wedding dayand several days afterward. There would be parties, and then parties and then more parties, leading up to the ceremony and the wedding dinner and dance. No one wanted to miss any of it. There would be food, and wine, music and dancing, long tales told about adventures real and imagined, photographs shared, conversation and laughter into the night, every night for one full week. This is how it was, and this is how they liked it.

Rooms full of relatives, so pleased to be together, so excited to witness a marriage, so happy to have each other.

Those attending the wedding gathered outside the church doors, early. One would think they had not seen each other for years. They picked up where they had left off the night before, and words gushed from their lips, anxious for the ceremony to begin.

The groom was among them, a little nervous and a lot happy. When the bride arrived the crowd gasp taken aback by her beauty.

Only one disparaging voice was heard, and this was overlooked.

“SHE LOOK LIKE ICE CREAM CAKI.” BlackGus sputtered, but he meant it to be a compliment.

Kosta and Sophia walk down the aisle, their Koumbaroi behind them, the priest has the lead. The priest the cantor the sexton calling and responding to each other with prayer, set the tone. The Ceremony of Betrothal, the Ceremony of the Sacrament of Marriage, The Ceremony of Crowning, The Ceremony of the Common Cup all to be conducted in the proper order. Incense fills the room, bells ring to raise and lower the congregation.

The couple is blessed for the first of many times to come. The priest puts the rings on both the bride and groom, received on the right hand ring fingers. The koumbaroi exchange the rings between bride and groom three times, remembering the trinity.

The priest the cantor the sexton continue to summon each other with prayer. The couples hands are joined and will remain so until the end of the wedding. The priest blesses the stephanoi, bestowing the glory of god on the couple’s union. He places them on the couple’s heads. The koumbaroi exchange the crowns three times. There is a deep bass voice singing, and an alto one underlining his song. The priest reads the gospel, to remind us that Christ performed his first miracle, turning water into wine, while marrying a couple in Cana. The bride and groom are offered the wine from a common cup, they accept three times.

The priest leads the procession three times around the altar on the third round he takes the bible and places it on the couple’s hands.

He tells them, “only God can separate you now, go in peace.”

The crowd, knowing the union has been made, pelts the couple with rice. The priest and cantor both dodge the assault with their bibles. And the clan floods out of the church, heading to the party of parties, which lasted three days, when all was said and done.

An xeni, but a friend of the family, a Lutheran, and Norwegian by birth, remarked at the end of the extensive ritual, “Well it is a lot like our service, except we would never do all that wandering around the altar!”

“That important part Suzie,” an orthodox guest told her.

“Oh and the smoke from the incense that was a new experience for me.”

“So tell me what you think of tseremony exactly?”

“Oh well, it was, it was very big,” not being able to locate the exact word for what she had just witnessed.

“Big yes xwe make big xwedding, now xyou come eat big dinner and also dance xwith us?”

“How can I refuse, it would be impolite.”

The wedding party filed into to the club that both Kosta’s father Nick and Sophia’s father Yorgos had rented for the evening, with no expense spared. The two patriarchs wanted the best for couple and every detail had been carefully considered, at least three times. No one was disappointed with the results of their efforts; an excellent time was had by all, that night and for a long time afterwards.

“Kyries kai Kryieie, Ladies and the tsGentlemen, stend to make thee tscheer,” Yorgos, father of the bride, following protocol was the first to speak.

The Lutheran and a several other xeni were confused, “Did he say stand on his chair?”

“No no xhoney he say stend to make xcheer, like to make thee tost, understand?”

“Ladies and tsGentlemen xwe xhere today to xwitness the union of our beautiful tseeldren, Kosta Lardthas and Sophia Lascios Lardthas.”

The sound of clinking crystal rose with intensity, causing some mothers to cover their children’s ears for fear of bursting eardrums.

“xWe so shappy these two have find each other, swe make tost to them and xweesh for them long and xhappy life together,” Yorgos continued, raising his glass and gesturing for everyone to drink.

N.D. so anxious to deliver his speech was nervously tapping his foot and Kostia

was getting repetitive bruising on her left ankle.

“Nick, xwhy no xyou calm down, xwhen it xyou turn, Yorgo he xwheel say. xYou know theese  xhis day is ees girl get married, xyou second in line today, not first.” Kostia whispered this to Nick.

But Yorgos, carried away with the sight of his daughter seated next to the groom, waxed poetic for the next thirty minutes. Leaving no time for Nick to speak. The masses were getting anxious now. They wanted to talk among themselves, to eat, to drink, to dance.

They respected Yorgos’ position, but after thirty minutes, a small uprising began. Children were accused of starting it, but really it was some elderly couple from Youngstown.

At first there were two voices somewhere deep in the crowd, seemingly bickering. Then the two turned into four, and after that, there was no one in the room who remained quiet. Oh yes, there was one exception, and that was Nick, he was still waiting his turn to speak.

Now he sat at the head table, frowning with enormous displeasure at the cacophony below.

But the music started and the crowd began to mingle. Pleasure became the operative sensation and began to be shared by all.

“I see little Mikie he ees so xhandsome, xhe make good gambro, for some girl eh?” Eleftherea commented to Vassiliki.

“Maybe xyou daughter? Ees this xwhat you try to say?”

“xWell xwhy not? Look xher. She make good nifi, wife, no?”

Vassiliki, horrified at the sight of Eleftherea’s volumetrically challenged daughter, nodded politely but the twisting and contorting of her facial features spoke loudly.

“xYou no think my daughter good enuf for xyou son?” a small fight started brewing.

Vassiliki could, she thought to herself, overlook the overstuffed child, but could never imagine becoming an in-law to the woman who sat next to her now. Eletherea, was cut from same cloth as BlackGus. And on the day BlackGus began to reform his nasty ways, it seemed to everyone in the family, that Eleftherea, picked up where he left off.

“No no, xhoney, xyou little girl ees good girl, I xam tsure. My Mikie, xhe xhas crush on girl from Ohio, I theenk could be seerious, xwe see.” Deftly Vassiliki side-setepped the awkward conversation.

Her ruse however, was transparent. Eleftherea, got up in a big huff and announced to anyone who could hear, over the din of the crowd, “Sto thee Avelo, to the devil, with everyone! Na, ptoo ptto skortho,” and with one not so surreptitious spit on the floor, she wobbled away.

“Xristo, xwhat xyou do now, my friend, no tsee xyou for maybe one year, xwhere you been?” Teddy asks.

“Oh cousin, I go to Detroit for thee xwork, I paint the beeg factory there, beeg beeg job now.”

“You xwork too hard maybe, eh?”

“xWhy you say thees?”

“xWell xyou know, my philosophia ees a leetle xwork and a lot more make play.”

“Thees good for xyou cousin, but no for me, I like the xhard xwork.”

“Oh I xremember now, xyou come xhere xwork for Nicko, and xhe teasch you xwork xhard. xYou in hees footstep, eh?”

“Maybe xyou could say xyes, ees strue.”

“Ok xwhen you need come up for the air, you xcall me, I show you other xway to leeve, then you deescide. Always more than the one xway to skin at the cat, eh?”

“Micro pethia mou, my little child how beeg xyou now, come seet on xyou thea’s lap get beeg hug.” A woman, dressed in black, stockings rolled down to just above her ankle, heavy  shoes with thick soles, a hat with netting tossed back, her thick braids wrapped around her head, calls the boy to her.

The boy, recoils at the thought of being smothered by the old lady’s bosom. But dutifully goes to her, with a less than gentle push from his mother, who hovers behind him.

“Come come leettle Nicko, xhow good see xyou now, grow up so xhandsome.” The woman is one of many in the room who hold court as a sort of wedding santa claus, beckoning young children into their grasp.

The santa claus reaches for the boy who squiggles in her arms, casting his mother a pleading look, he loses the short battle.

“Leetle leetle Nicko I xremember the day xyou born, it was a good day for xyou mama and xyou daddy no?” They call to tell us xyou come from the xheaven, make us so xhappy.

Little Nicko begins to soften as he detects her sincerity, she really does love him, and he begins to feel this. He fights off his thoughts of her physical offensiveness. He begs his aesthetic to forgive. He overlooks her mottled skin, dotted with dark brown rough spots and rises, hair popping up from some of them. He overlooks the sound of her teeth moving around loosley in her mouth, threatening to fly out at him at any moment. He begins to warm to the soft luxury of her breasts with which he is now eye to eye. He looks up at her, and his smile emerges, a smile he didn’t know he had for her. He makes a gift.

Mrs Mauvronicholas is here from Greece. She would not miss a good wedding. She is the first on everyone’s list of invitees. She is a wedding’s most enthusiastic fan.

Wherever she is, a spontaneous combustion of laughter will erupt. She is the most good natured person on the earth. She is related to no one, in this room.  She is is not even from the same island. Never the less, the consensus is, that a wedding is incomplete without her shining presence. She is one of Kosta’s favorite people in the world. He calls her his queen bee.

“Aliki Kontoyiannis my xhold friend xyou look so preety tonight, xhow xyou been, xhoney?”

“Leeta Pantelis, ees that xyou? xYou are the talk of Athens, with xyou new book xyou xwrite. Thee xwhole city sit in the tavernas and read to each other,” her exaggeration is always welcome, and Leeta tugs at her arm. “Yes yes ees true we eat your book for breakfast lunch and dinner too.”

“Mrs Mauvronicholas, xyou make beeg joke with me?” Leeta, questions her friend’s sincerity.

“Oh no xhoney, they read atop acropoli, in the Parthenon at night and people come from everywhere to xhear xyou xwords. Beeg gods come from the sky to xhear.”

Leeta rolls her eyes at the woman, takes the compliment, shaking her head at the fiction Mrs Mauvronickolas can pull out of thin air.

In the room no one remains seated, except the few who are brushing up against their own centennial celebrations. Everyone is holding hands, forming lines in concentric circles. They cannot resist the familiar sounds of the folk music. The clarinet carries the minor melodies into ecstatic form calling to places in their hearts that ache to be released. Everyone takes a turn leading the line, where they can perform their own magic, inventing contrapuntal steps, urging the complex movements of the dance to discover more of what they hold inside.

The wine has made them all free to join their bodies into one undulating entity, they are all of a piece, and they are entranced.

“Telly, xwhen xyou go ask Artemis daughter to dance xwith xyou?” a mother urges her son.

“Mama, I will, I will, give me time.”

“xYou no shy are xyou, son, I no make xshy son, eh?”

The boy holds his breath and makes a move toward the girl his mother has selected.

With a full range of personalities gathered together for the celebration, some were certain to teeter into more dangerous territories. On Kosta and Sophia’s wedding night a middle aged man from Chicago, chased poor Mrs Koutsaflakis around the room, mercilessly. His shameless display of lust was an amusement for the men. The women considered it an outrageous act of cowardice and foolishness. Some women, however, harbored a secret wish.  They wished it were they, the handsome womanizer was chasing. In the end the display entertained and offended in equal parts. And the festivity rolled on.

The room was full with the vitality of youth. Age became irrelevant. A wedding makes us all fall in love again, with each other, and with ourselves.

Old grievances fall aside for the night, as best they can, exceptions to this are few.

BlackGus, still working on perfecting his higher self, stumbles once or twice as he makes his way through the crowd.

“THAT KEED STEP ON MY FOOT!” he calls out.

“Maybe she xwant dance on xyou shoes, Gus, she think xyou her uncle.”

“I NOT ANYBODY’S UNCLE, FOOL!”

“xWell filos mou, my friend, tonight xwe all uncles and cousins. Take thee leettle girl for dance on xyou shoes. Ta pathia, thee tschildren they like that! It fun! xHave some fun tonight Kosta!”

In the middle of the dance floor, the newlyweds danced to their own music. It was a slow love song, a poem they were writing to each other, a promise they were making.

“Sophia, you are a goddess tonight, my dear.” Kosta floats above his bride in ecstasy.  He could not take his eyes from her.

“Kosta, honey you have made me the happiest woman in America,” and with this they danced, in the pleasure they shared, becoming one.

Kosta’s pockets were filled with large generous bills, offerings for their new journey.

His family and friends showered him with deep affection. On his wedding day he felt that he had been reborn. He looked forward to making this the best life he could imagine.

His heart filled with gratitude for all he had been given.

Finally able to deliver some semblance of a speech, Nick struck his wine glass rapidly with a silver spoon. To his amazement, his audience quieted and turned to him with anticipation.

“Ladiees and Zgentlemen, our family thank xyou all so much, to be xhere xwith us tonight. xWe so proud of our tsildren and xyou xhave xhelp us grant them the big love. xWe conclude xhere now, because the fine men xwho xwork xhere, have not the strength of the Greek, and must now go their beds. So xwe take opportunity and do same, good night to xyou all.”

“ But no forgeet, I invite xyou my xhouse a leetle later today.”

It was not just Kostia who found Nick’s speech especially touching. His words surprised anyone who knew him, and that was everyone. There was no lecture, there was no over exuberant bravado, there were no judgments passed. Except for the staff at the club, being the brunt of one minor aspersion, his speech was short and very sweet.

With what energy the crowd still had in them, which turned out to be significant, they gave Nick and themselves a rolling round of applause, wished each other good health, and headed home.

At the end of the wedding night, the newlywed couple bowed out, and headed for home.

But the music and the dancing continued, without them. Not until, the rosy fingers of Dawn, took hold of the last hill surrounding the city; not until that same Dawn pushed herself up above them all to fill the sky with ruby reds, did the dancers rest.

“My brother, and his nifi, had a beautiful wedding, did they not Evangaliki mou.” Dimitri leaned over and whispered to his wife, enjoying the short walk home on a warm night.

“Dimitri, Dimitri, I did not see you, how you been cousin,” a young man approached the couple and appeared more than a bit unstable.

“Yiannis, my dear cousin, you sat next to me at the dinner, did you not?” Dimitri asked the man attaching his signature smile to the end of his question. He took the opportunity to deliver a small instructive lecture, which was one of his favorite activities in life. “We sat together, we talked for, perhaps one hour, and you do not remember this?

Yiannis moving as if he were a body of water disturbed by the entrance of a boat, tried to focus on Dimitri’s words, but he was barely able to identify the beginning  and end of Dimitri’s physical self. The words sounded like they had also jumped into water.

Dimitri did understand that his oratory would not be comprehended, but he could not resist so he continued. “Yiannis” repeating his name a third and then fourth time to put a finer point on it, “Yiannis have you forgotten too that it is moderation that leads us to healthy life? Have you forgotten Yiannis that too much wine makes a man look foolish, because it is a foolish man who takes too much wine?”

Evangeline, takes her husbands arm, a plea for him to leave their cousin alone, “Dimitri let’s take cousin Yiannis for a walk with us, and we will make him some breakfast at home.”

“Very good idea” Dimitri and Yiannis say this in perfect unison, but with two distinctly different agendas.

BlackGus, who had left the wedding early, is wandering the streets, the extra coffees he drank have kept him awake all night.

“AND WHAT EES THEES?” Black Gus asks to himself as he sees the three approaching.

At this point Yiannis is being held up by his cousins who are laboring to carry him along.

“HE GET THE POISON AT WEDDING?” he barks at them.

At this point, even Evangeline, one of the sweetest human beings on the earth, is not in any mood for BlackGus. Everyone ignores him. It is not a problem for Yiannis, but Dimitri cannot resist and in the end, turns to Gus and says, “MauvroKosta, you know that is what we all call you MauvroKosta. BlackGus? You need to help us here, or you need to go home. But in either event, please do not utter another word. I may be short, I may seem like a bookish man and not a fighter, but I tell you cousin, your philosophy on life, is rubbing me the wrong way right now.”

Just then Hollywood in his shiny new car, pulled up to the struggling group. He had with him, his wife, his mother, his sister and her husband Gus. “Dimitri, I have room for one more in my car, three if we stack em like pancakes. Come on.”

Archondoula, pursed her lips at the sight of the inebriated Yiannis. She knew this was a regular choice he made, not just a consequence of a single over indulgence.

When they poured Yiannis liquid body into the back seat, Archondoula took her opportunity to lecture. The tendancy ran in the family, and stretched back thousands of years. “Yiannis Malaxos, xyou are beeg fool, do xyou understand me? NO xyou no understand me because you xalmost in nexst world xyou so drunk. xYou motheer is steell in Greece and she ees xworry about xyou. Do xyou xwant mother xworry, orx you xwant make her proud of son? xYou maybee forget xher she is so far away, but she no forget xyou. And she watch xyou, do xyou know thees? She watch xyou Yiannis, xyou must stop thees bad xhabit you make heer.”

When the word mother was repeated, Yiannis appeared to break into a sweat. Suddenly he shot upright in his seat, turned abruptly to Vassiliki who was sitting to his left. He stared at her with a look of defensive fear. He was frozen in his stare. Gus, Vassiliki’s husband leaned forward and shook Yiannis’ arm. “Hey buddy, Yiannis, your mother cannot swim the Aegean and the Atlantic tonight, don’t worry, go back to sleep, you feel better in the morning.”

The charming thing about weddings is that with few exceptions the room fills with happy people. People who have never forgotten the feeling of new love; people who have forgotten it but don’t mind being reminded, and people who have not yet experienced love but are eager to be witness to it. Even those who have forgotten love and would like to exchange their current spouse for a newer version, even those ones are happy at weddings.

They all rested long enough to plan the after-the-wedding wedding party. It would be at Nick and Kostia’s house and it would begin in enough hours to allow for everyone to have a short rest. But it would be held soon enough that every detail of the wedding could be remembered clearly and discussed passionately.

THE MORNING AFTER

At Nick and Kostia’s house, beginning at noon the day after the wedding, the long procession of relatives filed in and out of the house, late into the night.

There was food to eat, wine to drink, coffees to sip, and conversations to have.

Every detail of the previous day had to be discussed over and over again. No one wanted to lose the memories of the event. They wanted to make an indelible path through their mind’s soft tissues. A path with the name Kosta and Sophias wedding day, would get filed in everyone’s memory bank. This is how they made the deposit possible, they repeated the stories of the wedding, for eight hours straight. Finally, when they were all quite sated, the party wound down. Nick closed the lights, and the family slept.

THE HONEYMOON

When there were no more lingering guests, the newlyweds they got into their car, and headed south. They took their honeymoon in the main house Nick had rebuilt on the land in Florida. Kostia made sure no one followed them there, and they had two weeks to themselves.

On the last morning, before they would return north, Sophie woke early. She looked out the bedroom window, and wiped her eyes. She shook her head, and wiped them again.

“KOSTA!”

“TI EENA, WHAT IS IT?”

“Come here, who is that?”

“Well it is someone who looks a lot like you.”

“That’s my father,” she said still not believing her eyes.

“Yes indeed it is your father.”

“What is he doing, it looks like he has a pickaxe in his hand.”

“Yes is does, look that way.”

“Do you have any idea why he is here?”

“Well I did hear them all talking at the wedding about building another house by the water.”

“So you think he came here now, while we are on our honeymoon, to begin his project?”

“Sophia, it is your father, would he do such a thing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then...”

Sophie opened up the window and called down to her father, “O pateras mou ti kaneis?”

“Father, what are you doing?”

“Good moourning xhoney, I start new project today.”

“You didn’t come down here to check up on me did you?”

“Ofcourse no, I know you marry gentleman, I geest come to make tsure everything good, and so I start project.”

Sophie turned to Kosta, “What did he say?”

“He said he came to check up on you, more or less.”

“Do you need a hand, down there Kyrios Lascious?” Kosta offered.

“I xam need xhelp to peeck up thees one rock, xyes , come down.”

When Kosta reached the site of his father-in-law’s digging, there were already

four other men working beside him.

They looked like they were perhaps from Latin America, maybe Cubans, certainly not southern European and so Kosta spoke in Greek,

“Where did you find these men so quickly.”

“Oh I find last night at bar, xwe make friends, I geeve them job.”

“xYou boys pick up concrete, put in trucki,” he called to them, speaking a combination of Spanish, Greek and English. Somehow they made the translation.

The men followed his orders and loaded up the truck.

They were struggling with the last and heaviest of the slabs. They had used levers and they tried rolling it, they attempted to turn it end over end into the truck. But they were having no luck. Finally Yorgo Lascious, who was at the time around sixty eight years old, shouted at the men to stop.

“STOP STOP, step aside, pleeze.”

Yorgos walked over to the three hundred pounds of unwieldy concrete, bent over, shoved his rough arms underneath of it, and in one swift, and seemingly effortless movement, hoisted the thing into the truck. “Thees ees how ees done, eh? Fineesh now.”

On this spot, adjacent to Nicks large plot of land, Kosta’s father-in-law, built a home of stunning beauty. Concrete and glass, cantilevered roofs, decks and breezeways, paths to the sea from every door. This pleased everyone, Nick not so much. He managed to see the great value this lovely building would add to his adjacent parcels. But he failed to be amused, by Yorgo’s showmanship. He felt belittled by the act. He built his own house, relying  on classic craftsman design elements. Now there was this mansion whose bells and whistles of modernity overshadowed  his building. He didn’t know if he should be pleased or angry.

So he decided to play both sides, depending upon who asked him.

If someone tried to humiliate him by pointing out Yorgos’ great archtectural feat, he would laugh and tell them how much money he saved, by sitting back and watching Yorgos slave away at building the great manor. If someone wanted to commiserate with him, on being one-upped by the New Yorker, he played easily into that hand as well. A sap sometimes for sympathy.

In the end the entire family benefitted from the vision of the two patriarchs. And in the end they became the best of friends. Encouraging each other into grander and grander real estate schemes, until as a duo, they had become a financial force. They found themselves in their later years in the envious position of bankrolling anyone in the clan, who proved worthy of their backing. Nick required less and less groveling before he would agree to support a nephew or cousin. Yorgos, simply looked a fellow over, shared a bottle of scotch and deemed a man worthy, if the man was still standing when they reached the bottom of the bottle.

page 175 

STACKING THE DECK

Three stories of married couples now occupied the large house. Nick and Kostia on the main floor, their son Dimitri and his wife Evangeline on the second floor. Kosta and Sophie  newly married and newly arrived from New York were ensconced on the top floor. Kosta had graduated with honors from Columbia, and was home now to help with his father’s business.

 Nick could not have been more pleased. Dimitri as well had looked forward to his brother’s return. They were most interested in keeping the family bundled together.

Kostia, Evangeline, Sophia and Kosta, had mixed feelings about the arrangement.

“How xyou like leeve so close to xyou father Kosta?” his mother asks.

“Mother, to tell you the truth, I do not see us staying quite this close, for a very long time.” he answered her without answering, so she prodded just a bit more.

“Sophia say to me xyou feel a little like a boy and no a man in xyou father’s xhouse?

“That is true, too. I feel like a boy and I am resentful of that. I do not like these feelings.

And I think I could let go of them if I was not so close to him. You understand, get distance so I can see him again, for the person he is, inside.”

“Also mother, you know me so well, you know I have blamed him, and I know it was not his fault, but I blamed him for theo Manolis and I still have not let it go completely.”

Kostia knew precisely what he was saying, and she encouraged him to make a change.

She knew that was the only way he would learn to appreciate his father again.

“You know Evangeliki she no look that xhappy either, be thees close to xyou father and I, what do xyou think, xhoney?”

“Well with absolutely no doubt, I know she loves you both very much. I do see a little sadness in her eye, but I do not think it has anything to do with you and father. I think Evangeliki wants something for herself, and she is either hesitant to say, or simply does not yet know what that is.”

“Maybe you xright xhoney. Maybe it ees like xyou say.”

“And Sophia, I think she miss her family in Nea Yorki, does she not?”

“She does.”

“And do xyou think of moving there again, go back to school?”

“You know I do mother.”

Three years passed before the couple would make the move.

And they did so with Nick’s stated agreement with their plan.

Kosta did not feel his father’s blessing. And he did not leave with the clean air between them. The appendage that had dogged him for so many years, his resentment towards his father, it still held him captive.

FATHER IN LAW

When Sophie first came to live with the family on Parkview Avenue, she was put through the paces by the patriarch. This was his routine. He loved strength, despised weakness, and ran everyone through his litmus test, to discover who was who.

He found Sophie in the kitchen one morning, helping Kostia with the cooking.

He looked her up and down, and she felt his eye’s critical survey.

“Sophia,” he pronounced each syllable with studied deliberation.

“Yes?” she answered him, coolly but not disrespectfully.

“xYou know I xhave two daughter in law, xyes?”

Sophie waited.

“My Evangeliki, heer father ees butcher.”

Sophie waited some more.

“Evangeliki, she breeng me, meats, and the cheeses, and psomi, the bread. All thee thyme, every xweek, something comes xwith xheer, from xheer father.”

Sophie continued to look at Nick waiting for the point of the monologue to fly at her. She quietly prepared her defense.

“So xI xam wander, xwhat xwheel xyou breeng  for us?

“Well, Nick, my father is a painter, you like to eat paint? I bring you paint.”

Nick pulled is lips together. His moustache followed. He narrowed his eyes and turned away. Sophie could hear him in the next room, grumbling to himself.  Kostia, stood motionless at the sink, waiting to see what would happen next. Nick surprised them both.

Suddenly his laughter poured out of him. “That’s good Sophie, that’s good answer, I like xyou, xyou have the fire inside.”

.

EXTENDING LIFE, 1969

In New York Kosta thrived. This is where he had met his love. Now married, they returned to the city that held their promises. He studied with men and women who he respected. He soaked up the life of the city, observing the diversity of cultures that had made Manhattan home. He began writing with greater discipline, and publishing his work. He became a teacher, a professor. He and his students adored one and other. His life was a pleasure.

He and Sophia, had three boys, upon whose heads the sun rose and set.

The family crossed the country and crossed the oceans together many times, for adventure, and for Kosta’s work his writing, his lecturing.

He taught his own children to think for themselves, to nurture their curiosity, and to realize the depth of their emotions.

 “These characteristics are a man’s asset.” he would tell them.

“If you are able to develop these, you will become a compassionate human being.”

“And this is what I expect from you, everything else is immaterial, boys.”

“You remember, it is not what you do, it is how you go about it,” after a short pause he added “and money, boys, money is not the objective, I hope you will come to understand what I am saying and I believe you will.” And he did, and they did.

On a trip to the four corners, Arizona, Utah, New Mexico and Colorado, a flame was ignited in Kosta’s eldest son, Nicholas Orestes.

“I am overwhelmed by the power of this land. It is compelling me like a magnet, I can’t resist the pull.” he told his father.

“I understand, son, there is something profound waiting for you here.”

“I am going to live here one day, I feel it, do you?”

“If something moves you Nicholas, I urge you to follow it, let it speak to you. This is a very intimate experience, and only you can decide if it is right for you. It is not for me to say.”

The Canyon De Chelly, Mesa Verde, The Taos Pueblo, the Navajo Nation, the Hopi, the land and the cultures, the language and the mysterious look of these native peoples, all drew Nick Orestes into the eye of their stormy past.

At eighteen he returned, following his instincts. He discovered the life he would live, in a land of lost and found hopes, ritual and customs, art and music. A land of enormous skies and blinding light, red mountains, sculpted canyons called to him. When he arrived, he found too, the dark side. The rivers had run dry, the children were uneducated, the food supply was sparse, and opportunity was only a shadow cast on the kiva walls.

“I have no idea how I will fit into this landscape, father, but I feel I must do something with these people, for them.” Nick wrote to his father upon his arrival.

“You have much to give Nick Orestes, this is how you find out who you are and what your gifts are. Stay very open to everyone you meet. Listen widely and always with your heart. You will find out what has compelled you there. You will teach and you will learn.” Kosta wrote back to his son.

When Nick Orestes left New York with its layers of complications, cars and commerce and rushing crowd, he had the idea he was going to find out about the simplicity of a life lived close to the land. But he was young then and still naive. He had no real idea about what would come to pass.

“Father and Mother, I am writing to tell you, I have taken a job on the reservation in Taos.

I am teaching English and Mathematics to the young children. We are also doing art projects, and truly this is where they excel. Literature and numbers don’t really interest them. I am trying to use their music as a way to get them to learn about the great ideas expressed through writing. I am making some progress, but it is slow. I have much to learn about learning myself. Perhaps I should use the music as a method for teaching them math instead.

The elder Gilbert Suazo, has taken me into his friendship and is teaching me more than I am able to teach his tribes’ children. Some days I am very depressed about my ability to do this well. He tells me my heart is in my work and that is most important. I am trying my best to take this in, but I am feeling very white today.

Are you reading about the efforts of the Taos people to have the Blue Lake returned to them? They have been struggling to have their sacred land returned to them for decades. Suazo says they may now have the support of the President Nixon! I cannot believe that man could conceive of performing an honest act, but apparently I am wrong. This will be a cause for a great celebration if legislation is signed, cross your fingers for us.

Father, before I sign off, I have to tell you, I just saw a huge eagle right outside my window. He is carried off a small animal in his talons. I don’t understand, I see his beauty and my heart breaks for the poor creature he is about to turn into his breakfast. Do you have these mixed feelings too?

I am beginning to think I need to become a vegetarian, try to make some small difference in this confusing world.

Oh and I almost forgot....I do have one other piece of good news. I think I am in love!”

“Son, thank you so much for keeping us up to date on your life, we love reading your letters. You are giving us the privilege of watching you become a man, nothing makes your parents more proud. Never doubt yourself son, if you are able to hear your own voice, and follow it, eventually you will find right path. This life is full of disappointments; they are just big lessons for us, more gifts, honey, more gifts, not signs of our incompetence.  If that is what you are thinking about yourself, in regards to teaching, please don’t. Teaching is one of the most difficult professions. You must be patient with yourself and with your students. You are all learning together, and that is a good thing.

I do know quite a bit about the Blue Lake, I have a colleague here at the university who is Navajo, full blooded, in fact. So he has always kept me up on Native American cultural affairs. I am so pleased you have met and been befriended by Suazo. I understand he is a influential person in the Taos Peublo, and also very well admired for his humanity. You are in excellent company son.

Now as for the other ‘good news,’ that is making my cheeks hurt from smiling. We are both very excited to hear about your lady friend. Tell us more, as much as you would like to tell we are here to listen. We would love a photograph of you, and of your new friend as well, if you can send some.

Your brothers send their love. Your great aunt Archondoula thinks you are too far away, but says to tell you she loves you anyway. Your grandfathers both want to know when you well be joining their painting businesses. You know they cannot help but ask. They did it to me too, so don’t be angry with them. It’s their way of saying they like you and want to be sure they can help you in your life, this is what they know, this is what they do. φιλότιμο, remember, it is an inbred obligation, we take care of each other, eh?

And I am also saying this about your grandfathers because I am guilty of not being in touch with my father very much these days. So if you can find time, just take a little lesson from me, and send them a note.”

VENCENTO

In New York, Kosta and Sophia were a significant part of several families’ lives. There was Sophie’s extended family nearby. The faculty was family. Their sons’ friends were family. The many members of Kosta’s writer’s groups were family. When they traveled the numbers always grew. And they traveled often. Time for visiting Kosta’s parents was getting shorter and shorter. When Kosta realized how much space he was putting between himself and his father, he was surprised, but not really. His conscience had not left him alone.

Kosta fell out of love with his father, when his uncle Manolis’ never came back home, that March night, the night of the circus, the night BlackGussie stepped in front of an automobile.

One night, Kosta found himself Ssitting at a cafe in Paris, unusually alone, his wife and sons still in New York, he found himself holding his breath, and tears forming in his eyes. ‘’What, really did my father have to do with it?” he thought. “What grudge am I holding?” “Is it really about my uncle, is my father really culpable, I have no proof of this, and I have to drop it, just drop it. It’s killing me, what I have made up about him. The truth is, I have resented him for his differences, and I spend my whole life talking to everyone, preaching really, about accepting each other’s differences, celebrating them even. Here I am a grown man, holding a grudge against my dear father. What is wrong with me? I have to drop it, drop it!”

As Kostas’ self reflection grew to a climactic end, he realized he may have been talking to himself, out loud. He saw a shadow of a man cross his plate, and he looked up a bit frightened. No one was there. A waiter had passed by, but too far away to cast a shadow. ‘Perhaps it was a bird’, he thought. This time he was careful to think this without speaking it.

“Kosta, Kosta Larthas, isa that you?” he heard a familiar voice approaching.

Kosta looked around him to see who it could be.

When he recognized his friend, he stood and greeted him warmly. He was happy to have the unexpected company. The two wasted no time, ordering food and drinks, talking excitedly about Paris, and about their good fortune of finding each other so unexpectedly.

They loved to banter, tease insights out of each other.

Today was no exception.

“Kosta, howa isa a man made?” his friend posed this, sitting at their favorite outdoor cafe.

“A man is made, by the love of women, and the wisdom of great men.” he quipped Kosta.

“Whoa wow? Thata wasa fast, howa did youa do it?”

“Wait wait, Vencento, I was not finished. A man is made by the love of women, and the wisdom of great men, also vice versa.” He was pleased with his short impromptu answer, and certain his friend had been impressed. He smiled back at Vincento.”Eh?”

This inspired Vencento to question Kosta’s experience with women.

“Soa have youa been loved bya many women?” his friend gave him a man-to-man look, with a small smirk attached at the end

“Not in the way you are suggesting, friend.” Kosta humbled the man. “I have been loved by my mother and my aunts, my cousins, my wife and the many women in our family, this is the kind of love I mean.”

“So Sophia she hasa been the only romantic relationship ina you life?”

“Yes the only one.” Kosta answered with a great pride in the telling. “What about you, I

detect you have something to tell me about your own romantic life, what is it?”

“Wella Ia need to tella someone, Ia wasa hoping Ia could tell youa, buta maybe I changea my mind.”

Vincento’s nick name was Don, this was a loosely kept secret among the faculty. A professor of the romance languages, and art history.  His reputation first attained at the Accademia di Belle Arti Firenze crossed the water with him. It seemed to Kosta to have gained strength in the passage. He taught life drawing at the hallowed academy in Florence, was a talented painter, had an amazing facility with languages. All this served as a perfect formula for lulling young women into his bed. His obsession with female students, despite his marriage to Andrea, was well known. Most of his male colleagues were jealous of his conquests. They often supported his habit, by letting him know how they felt, which always had an stirring effect on his ego. Kosta worried that one day Vincento would wake up and find he was nothing more than his enlarged ego, living in the body of a stranger.

It was for this reason that Vincento chose to confide in Kosta. He sought, unwittingly, his own redemption, and felt that Kosta would be the man to hand it to him.

“Come on friend, I give you my ear, and not my judgment, this is the definition of being human you know.” Kosta invited him to talk, playfully setting the tone.

“Thank you, Gus, thank you.” Vincento addressed him by the name his friends had given him, Americanizing him. They felt sometimes his Greekness overshadowed the true fabric of his character, which extended well beyond his ethnicity and his family ties. Kosta rebelled against this initially, but over time realized it was a perfect match and he slipped into the arms of the name, wearing it respectfully.

“Gus, I ama now a forty-five years old, do you knowa this?”

“OK, yes?”

“And Ia have spenta the besta years of a my life, witha the women, yes?”

“I believe that is true. That is the word on the street, as they say.”

“Women, Gus, who I don’t even knowa, anda I don’t really want to knowa!  My poora wifa, she puts up with me, all these years. She does this, because thisa isa what her father dida anda his father. So she no surprised to know, I ama justa the same. Make myself a ladies’ man, eh? A gigolo really is what I ama, and a fool. Gus I wanta to saya this toa you, becausa you a man of greata integrity, everyona knowa this. Anda me, I knowa this very well. I see you with women, with your Sofie, with professoras, with the students. You love women, it is obvious, and they doa love you. But youa nota need to prove anythinga to thema, You nota make your manhood about using thema. Thisa I admire, and I hava hated you too for many years, becausa, you have whata I want.”

Gus listened intently to his friend’s confession. He was not expecting this conversation, not at all. He felt flushed with embarrassment, and an envy too which he did not understand. He felt honored and at the same time shocked by the emotional cracks in Vincento’s manly facade. It was a face Gus had come to rely on. Via Vincento Gus and many other men as well could carry on private dalliances, vicariously. These fantasies, he would never seriously consider playing out. From time to time, and he could and would cast judgment on his friend, in imperceptible amounts. And this was out of character for Gus, but not out of the realm of human weakness, to which we all succumb, from time to time.

Gus struggled to take in the solemn nature of his friend’s admission. His instinct was to console him, to let him know his wayward decisions, were made by him, and could be unmade, just as easily. He wanted him to know, he would be forgiven, if he forgave himself.

He wanted him to know that the word surrender, could be sublime. And Gus wanted this all for himself as well.

“Vincento, you are brave and intelligent man.”

“No, I ama not, I have beena stupido, despicable, careless mana, not a mana, an imposter!”

“Vincento, so many people go through their entire lifetime, not willing to see themselves for who they are. You have made an enormous choice here today. You have chosen to see through your disguise. You have spoken up for yourself. You have taken the necessary good long look at your self in the mirror. You did not like what you saw. Now you are poised my friend to love, to really love. This must begin, with you extending that love, to yourself. Be kind to yourself Vincento. You deserve, like we all do, all the grace that God has to offer. And this grace, it has no end. And it does not will not cannot discriminate. You open the door to this, and you climb in. You will find in there, waiting for you, welcoming you, your whole, loving and lovable self.”

Vincento, looked at Gus through eyes he had not known. There was a light around his friend and he felt pulled into it. He felt washed clean, baptised. He put his head in his hands, and in full veiw of a cafe full of strangers, he wept. Gus put his hand on Vincento’s shoulder. “You are a good man, Vincento, I know you are, I only hope you can know this too.”

“Can I tell you story, Vencento?”

His friend shook his head, which still hung down, resting in his wet hands.

“You know my father is a very proud man. His chest floats in front of him like an armor. I never understood him completely. In fact sometimes he scared me. He seems so different from me. My mother and I are cut from the same cloth, we always joke about this. My father we say was cut from the skin of a donkey. My mother calls him her favorite mule. I used to laugh with her about this, but over the years I stopped laughing.”

Vencento looks at Gus, not understanding what point he could be trying to make, but trusting he will make one, at least.

“When I was young he was always trying to tell me and my brothers, what to do, how to act, what to say, what opinions to hold. And for many years we listened to him, just because this is what was expected of us. But I watched him try to influence my mother’s life, and the lives of the men who worked for him, and my aunts’ and uncles’ too. Influence in a heavy handed way, I thought he was gruff, and unforgiving, unbearably stubborn. Whenever something unpleasant happened, I began to blame my father for it. If someone got hurt, it was his fault. If someone got laid off from work, I blamed him. If my mother was not happy I saw this was the consequence of something he had done or said. I made his room so small, that the two of us no longer fit into it, and I left home.”

“I didn’t know this about your father, Gus, I always here you speak highly of him, you have only spoken reverently in fact, about your family.”

“Yes, and I am realizing, for the first time, just now on this day, that these are all stories I have been telling myself, deceitful stories. I have been painting this picture of my father for so long, I think the image is him, but it is just an illusion.”

Some time passed without a sound between them. Vencento was sitting back in his chair, listening to Gus’confession, respectfully, as Gus had listened to his.

“So I had this revelation this morning, just before you found me here. I was sitting here and my head flooded with questions. ‘Why was I doing this, what was the point of all this blame I had cast on him?’ and then it occurred to me, I was so sad when my uncle disappeared, and then angry that I would never see him again, I didn’t know what to do with all the anger. My father was such a likely candidate to hang this on. He was the man with the bigger than life personality. He wanted to be the patriarch, he was the patriarch, and so it is he who must take responsibility for the fate of his people. This is how I unconsciously reasoned. If I could put the blame on the one man who stood to be hurt the most from the weight of it, that was the retribution I wanted. It was a revenge, and I thought it would release me from the grip of grief.”

Vencento was trying to pull all the parts of this story in place.

“It did not release me, it made me a prisoner of my own jail. The mind Vencento, can be very dangerous if it is severed from the heart. I clipped the line that held the love for my father. I could no longer find its place in my heart. I grew resentful and shut the door on him. Really I shut the door on myself, I have been strangled by my own self deception. I don’t know why it has taken me so long to see, but for this day, and for this illumination, and for you Vencento, I am grateful.”

Both men sat silently for a very long while. Ordering two more drinks and two coffees, with gestures and nods.

“Gus, Ia get it. Ia get whata youa are telling mea. We canna change. Both a youa anda me. Everyone, cannna change. Justa need to wake upa. This isa a powerful story. Letta us committa to eacha other today, to do the righta thinga, anda make our lives better, eh?” “Maybe wea cana not make thema perfecto, but we doa the besta we canna, anda that willa be the very very good.”

They shook hands with a resounding vigor that was felt as the earth moving beneath them. Other patrons looked nervously around, they were sitting on a faultline, and everyone felt that. The two men leapt to their feet and embraced each other with the full force of  their conviction to change and with gratitude for each other’s friendship.

Perched on the canopy which protected the cafe diners from the sun, and in middle of the day, was an uncommon sight. For no reason, as there was no sound that drew their attention, both Kosta and Vencento looked up and spotted a large brown owl looking down on them. They took this as a good omen, and shook again on their promise.

 GETTING BACK IN THE FOLD

Years do not treat us all as equals. We learn this as we age. Kosta’s young heart was not as strong as he approached his middle life. From his father he had inherited one weakness, and it had come to haunt them both.

The constant travel and the deadlines set by publishing houses, aggravated the issue.

After a series of heart attacks, Kosta, realized he had to slow down.

It was during one of his recuperation periods that he found himself, thinking about his father. He had not been keeping in touch with him, even though he had laid his differences aside. He called his parents, but his visits had become more rare, with every year.

He decided he needed to change that. He and Sophia made plans to visit his family home, and they would stay until they felt the time was right to return to New York.

When they shared the news with Kostia, she cried with delight to know they would once again be together in the big house. “Maybe we take trip to Floreetha, too while you here.”

“Winter is think about come now, eh?”

George, Kosta’s eldest son was driving. Sophie was in the front, Kosta and his son Stephen in back. Pulling up the tree-lined street the family flooded with memories and could hardly wait to be in each other’s arms. Kosta’s tensions melted away as he invented, on that day, a new feeling. He called the feeling re-union. It was Kosta who spoke of it first, “I am overcome by emotion, people, I think I will name it, re-union, and it is a combination of love, gratitude, and just a pinch of apprehension.”

Upon their arrival, there were no fewer than thirty five people waiting to greet Kosta on the porch, despite the cool temperatures. They had also come to visit Nick. Nick waited just inside the front door, taking up a small portion of a large overstuffed chair. He was tired but also very anxious to see his son.

When Kosta did not see his father in the crowd, he worried.

“Where is father” he called to his brother Kimon.

“xHe is jess inside Kosta, dno xworry.” his mother answered instead. “ Come in come in and rest, xyou had the long drive.”

When Kosta laid eyes on Nick, he had to use a force he didn’t know he had, to hold back the tears that wanted desperately to spill out. ‘How could this be my father? There must be some mistake,’ he thought to himself.

Both men stared at each other, not sure at whom they were looking. Confused by the changes the years had made. They were thinner, and more pale. Their olive undertones had edged closer to yellow ochres. Their eyes more sunken, their skin more wrinkled, their hair, what remained was, more grey. They suddenly did not remember each other. And looked upon each other as strangers in a dark room, caught staring.

“Father it’s Kosta he is here.” Dimitri encouraged their father to speak, but saw he was stunned, and could not utter a word.

Kosta leaned down and kissed his father twice, once on each cheek. His skin was cool, not warm, and moist, not dry. There was the smell of rosemary lingering around him, as if he had bathed in it recently. And the prickly scent of it pushed Kosta away.

He excused himself, and walked to the bathroom, the one off of his parents’ bedroom.

He saw an additional bed in the room it was a hospital bed. He was alarmed, he felt that there was so much to know about his father’s health, and he had, in all the letters, and in the phone calls, not heard anything, except “Oh everyone good xhere, son, xyou no xworry.” This his mother always said as they closed their conversations.

He called to his cousin Hollywood, who was just outside the bedroom window, having a cigarette with two other men. Jimmy came inside and found Kosta. Jimmy, my father looks terrible, do you know what is the matter, no one has told me a thing.

Jimmy shook his head at an angle, agreeing with his cousin’s perceptions. He moved close to his ear, and whispered to him.

Kosta’s ground began to move beneath his feet. At first it was a just a small tremor, but soon he began to feel it break into smaller and smaller pieces.

Jimmy took his cousin’s arm to steady him, walked him over to a chair and offered it.

“Kimon, he wanted to tell you, but everyone said no, you yourself were no feeling well enough to have this news. So we all agreed to be quiet about it, I am sorry Kosta, I think we should have called you here sooner.”

“I understand cousin, I do.”

“My mother was the first to know something was the matter. She nagged at him, as only she can do. She enlisted your mother to encourage him to see the doctors, but he refused, he is proud and he is stubborn.”

“Like all of us, eh?” Dimitri, Kosta’s brother had come in to the room and heard the conversation.

“How ill is he brother, will he be with us long?”

“Oh Kosta, please do not think the worst, our father has many more years in front of him, and he will grow strong again soon, do not worry, this is the truth, I promise you.”

“Remember, he is not finished showing us all how to live our lives,” Jimmy added, trying to lighten the tone of the discussion.

“It is such a shock for me to see him, I have put too many years between us.”

“You were doing what you had to do, brother, we were here with him. Everyday we are here, and we have kept him in the best health we could. You both have hearts that are not cooperating with you right now. This will change, you will both have a change of heart and we will enjoy each other again as one family.”

Kosta took his brother at his word. He composed himself, and asked that Jimmy bring Sophia in to the room so they could talk.

“Sophia, did you know about my father?”

“Kosta, I did not know, exactly how he has been suffering. Your mother just gave me an earful of information, but not before, no I didn’t know.”

“Dimitri says he will be recovering, this is temporary.” Kosta said this to reassure himself, to underline the possibility of hope. He said it to give himself time to make amends to the man who brought him into the world, and gave him his wings.

THE WIND

The foul scent of danger rose up over the hills. A few people detected the odor, most others were oblivious. It came in waves. It was made stronger by the spaces between the waves. Those spaces were filled with the scent of wild roses calling shamelessly to bees. The two scents began to wreak havoc with Kosta’s nose. Archondoula was also disturbed by the air.

In Greece, on the island, the Kratses’ head turned up to catch the wind, and a shiver ran down her spine.

Kosta had often wondered, what would be the most difficult event he would face.

He studied the ancient civilizations, their wars, and atrocities. He had seen the effects on the men who returned home from modern battles, their spirits wounded, deep down, forever. He had watched so many loved ones of loved ones, disappear, not return, leaving huge un-fillable holes in their families’ hearts.

He held on to a belief that shielded him from difficulty, he believed he was in the arms of God, and all else was an illusion. He did not believe in death.

Until the day he thought perhaps, he may have brushed its shoulder. On that day he had a moment of skepticism, but he dismissed it. He was a teacher, and he had an obligation.

Looking into his father’s eyes, on his return from New York, he saw himself. He saw what it was like to be old, to be tired, to be unforgiven and to be unforgiving of ones transgressions.

In the corner of the room he thought he saw a young man seated in a chair, looking out a bank of windows at the trees below. The man had a smile on his face, as if he had solved one of life’s mysteries. When Kosta turned to speak to the young man, he realized, the chair was empty. He shook his head, trying to wake himself from the trance he seemed to be under. His thoughts were heavy and squeezed his heart. His tears rose now, and fell freely down his cheeks. A small bird, deciding that migrating south for the winter, was not in his cards, sat on the windowsill and sang. He was hoping for a treat of sunflower seeds to tide him over. Kosta opened the window, and filled the feeder just outside. The bird bowed to him and ate, gratefully.

THE BIGGER WIND

The menace some had sensed that day began to reveal itself in chapters.

First, the great mill which had employed thousands of workers for decades now, was rumbling on the river in the heart of their city. Its blast furnace was sending out smoke signals, but the men who owned the mill were far away and no longer kept vigilant watch over their vast holdings. For days the furnace growled in an unusual voice. The men who worked the beast, tried what they could to calm it, but they had no knowledge of its ills.

In the middle of the night, the furnace began to roar louder and louder. The men wanted to run from it, to abandon their posts. The formen would not permit it. And in a thunderous flash of immeasurable heat, the explosion sent them all flying. In pieces and then incinerated, their ashes took flight across the city.

The sound of the blast was heard for miles. It shook Nick’s house, and everyone inside.

Their cousin, Demo, had been in the mill that night, Nick and Archondoula’s brother Chris, Mrs. Moraiti’s son, Petros, thier neighbor’s husband, Spiro. In one flash of light, the men were gone.

News of the catstrophe spread rapidly across the city. The victims names, withheld until further notice. Everyone waited. No one expelled any air until the names were offered.

The family, an entire city, sank into a depression which held them captive for months.

To manage the loss our clan wrapped a blanket around themselves, and rocked themselves to sleep. When they awoke, Nick and Kostia were preparing a feast for them. A grandchild was playing the violin, slowly at first, increasing the time signature as each relative wiped the crusted tears from their eyes. They were receiving an infusion. They felt the blood roar  into their veins. The hibernation had lasted forty days. The specified length of first mourning period. They took it seriously, and with few exceptions, agreed to wake in a changed world, grateful to be together.

One cousin, could not bear the loss, and he himself, walked off the bridge-to-nowhere, which spanned the great Monongahela. One cousin, who had loved to be the center of attention, slipped into a corner, and could not be coaxed back out. One cousin, kept telling the others, “they are still here people, look, look, there’s Petros, on the roof, see him?”

It would be yet another year before the deepest wounds were healed, but one at a time, the family re-coalesced into their unit. They resumed their work and their play. They went back to the church they had temporarily abandoned.

HOW ART MAKES LIKFE BEARABLE

In the broadest scheme of things, they say that history continues to repeat itself.

Men love, men hate, covet, are generous, desire power, surrender the same, make war, make love , make amends and then start all over again.

But that was not what Kosta beleived. The way our cousin Kosta saw it, nothing stayed the same. Transformation was the breath we took in and the one we exhaled. Change was our nature. History was a false document of fragile and fearful memories. History was a weaving together of what you wanted to remember and what you wanted to forget until the two were indeciperable and no one could really hold you to the facts. “Memory is infinitely transient,” he said. Change and this very moment was what Kosta came to revere. He believed: not the blurred past; not the future; neither the hopeful nor the feared future; only in the here and the now and the changing. The cameleon-present he called it. A devil and an angel all rolled into one glorious spontaneous moment, the here, the now.

When he wrote he made sure to tell us, the illusions are powerful, the redemption from them more so. “Rise above it all, because you are all already there.”

“Looking back”, he often reminded me, “is in some ways an empty gesture. Look out from where you are right now, then you’ll see.”

The losses, the disappearances, the wars, the resentments, the explosions, the moments lacking in compassion, they are not here now. “Right now, child, we have everything we need. Nothing has been lost, no one has left for forever, this is a sphere that cannot be broken. Do you understand?”

I ask myself, do I? Do I understand?

“Deja Vu,” for example, “what do you think that is?” “It is you returning to what you already knew what you already will know, what you never left behind, because there is no behind, no before, no after, just right now.”

“Cousin,” I tell him “in moments what you say is perfectly clear, in others as obscure as it could possibly be. “

“For me too, honey. I just have more practice trying it on for size. And having known Theo, I cannot help to grab onto this thought as often as I can reach for it.”

A WIND AT SEA

A ship off the coast of Ikaria, carrying the American families back to their island for the Easter celebration, sank into the sea. On the boat was Teddy’s son, and his beloved wife Rose. Mrs. Kratses, was unbelieving despite the omen she had sensed, that they would not arrive. Mrs. Kratses waited for them on the shore, days after she had the news of the ship’s fate, she waited for them still. A man she did not know, had never seen before, a man who looked more Turk than Greek, stood beside her, he prayed with her, in her language.

After three days, she turned to him, but he was gone.

“What is happening to us?” Hollywood asked Kosta.

“This, cousin, is the natural wave of life, a mobius strip, we will find ourselves on both sides.”

“Do I understand you? I don’t think I do.”

“I don’t really understand either Jimmy, but I know I am on the right track.”

Again the family found the blanket and crawled into it, this time there was more room, fewer people to hold, but somehow, it felt warmer than before. They were quiet again for forty days, and three hundred and sixty five more. The jars on the mantle multiplied, some overflowed. They gathered their sorrow as offerings to gods they still didn’t know.

They prayed and went back into the church, hoping for consolation. The church was filled with the faithful and the doubting in equal number. More cousins, knelt on the altar and when they rose up, they did not land on their feet. Instead, more and more of them took flight, calling back down to the others, but their voices faded too quickly for anyone to hear.

FIRESTORM

A few years passed,  and news arrived by phone. It was Sophia’s father, he delivered to her a message which she could not bear to hear. Her home, all their photographs and letters, the treasures they had collected from around the world, Kosta’s library, their life’s possessions, in one grand conflagration, had been destroyed. A fire ravaged the block in Queens where they lived. Nothing remained.

Sophie had no idea how she would be able to tell this to Kosta, suffering the recent losses of family and friends, recovering from his heart’s failure to thrive, facing his father’s declining health. Sophie paced the room they shared on the third floor of Nick’s house. It’s familiar creaks and secret nooks reminding her of the first years of their marriage, when only promise was on the horizon. Sophie paced and paced for hours, and then she fell onto the bed and slept.

When Sophie found the words, she and Kosta held each other, and knew their lives had changed forever. They were in the midst of a great cataclysm. They could never have known they would be dealt this fate. They did not see it coming, they could not.

But here it was.

Hollywood, Kosta and Sophie sat in the sun porch on Parkview, desperately trying to find ways in which they could put all of these events into some sort of order.

They wanted to deal with the meaning of so much destruction, so quickly, so unexpectedly. It had all come mercilessly in rapid succession. The three cousins sat at the base of the waterfall, in a deluge of emotion. They wanted to be the ones who could help the others deal with the string of tragedies.  They were the young, worldly, ones. They were the ones who had made it their profession or avocations to relentlessly pose the questions, of why we were here, and to what purposes we are fated.

“Everything has it’s purpose.” Kosta finally spoke.

“Every elderly person who I have met in my life has repeated this to me, and what did I do in return? I shook my head in agreement with them and I walked away dismissing their words as too simplistic, too cliche, not words I could stand behind, or leave alone.”

“But today, I believe them.” he continued.

Jimmy started to speak, just then, “last night, in my dream I saw a young woman walking in the air. She had with her a very large metal shield. On it was writing, in so many different languages, I could not count them all. She raised the shield up above her head and let it go. It floated into the air, higher and higher. I tried to walk closer to her, but every time I did, she disappeared behind a cloud and I could not find her. She would re-emerge further away. I could never catch up to her.

Then I was in a park, one I remember but don’t really remember. An old man sat down next to me, and said ‘you’re here, you’re finally here, did you know?’.”

“I had no idea what he meant.”

“Then he turned to me and said, ‘this is it, son’.”

“It?” I said, more confused and frustrated with him now.

Then I turned my head, and he was gone, the girl was gone and I was in a car that you Kosta, were driving, and we fell into the river. And we were drowning. The windows were all open in the car, just a few inches. So the water rose until it reached the top of the windows. There was an inch or two of air, if we could reach it, and we gasp for it.

You reached over and took my hand. I looked at you and you were under the water, and you were smiling at me. I could not tell if you were living I did not know if I was living.

You made a big circle with your hands and shook your head, trying to tell me something, but I was too frightened I couldn’t understand. The next thing I remember we are laying on a beach, we are children again, and we are laughing about what happened to us in the car. We describe for each other, the river and the current. You look at me, and said. ‘we’re still in it Jimmy, still in it.’”

There was a silence as Jimmy was searching for more, but there was no more. He had told them everything he remembered about the dream.

Cousin, that is a beautiful dream, powerful. What a gift you have there, for all of us a huge gift. I am going to propose to you both, something I have chosen to believe. I cannot verify it for you, I can only say, this is what I choose.

All this destruction we witness, the wars, the accidents with ships and trains and cars and machinery, the hatred we see, the greed, the lack of compassion, the pomposity, all this, is our own doing. We all perform these acts, or abet them, or contribute to their eventuality.

Then we look at them as if they are outside of us. They are not. I was there when your father was lost to the explosion on the bridge, I was there when our uncle Chris’s boat sank into the sea, I was there when the Germans began their pogroms, I was there when the Spartans fought to the last man, I was there when the furnace exploded in the mill, and I was there lighting the fire in our own home watching it burn to the ground.”

Jimmy and Sophie, looked at Kosta as if he had lost his mind. “What are you saying honey, I can’t understand a word of it.”

“We are the ones who cannot see ourselves as gods, the God, the divine. We make all the catastrophes to underline the point. We watch them, cry over them. We say, ‘look look our fate is to experience one big catastrophe after another, no end to all this sadness this pain. Life is miserable, let me out, we cry. It is just too much.” 

“The fact is we continue to be blind and deaf to our selves. We are the catastrophe and we are the redeemer.” 

Kosta paused and then looked at the two with even more purpose to his glance. “You know, I have been somewhere else,” he said.

“Kosta, you are losing us even more now, help us understand you, what are you saying?”

“I have been to Istanbul.” he told them.

Jimmy interrupts him, anxiously trying to break the code of his language, “You are telling us the answer to why we are here, lays in the hands of the Turks! Cousin please spare us your insight, if this is where you are headed.”

Sophie takes Jimmy’s arm, and whispers to him. “Let him finish, he’s not done, he won’t leave us hanging, I know him too well. And I know for sure he will not leave us in the hands of the Turks!”

“I was there with my friend Theo.” Kosta went on.

“Theo, which Theo, who is this Theo?” Sophie asks him.

“He showed me, that which is Divine, is that moment when we refuse our differences, when we refuse to see anything working against us, when we refuse to blame someone else for what we ourselves have propagated.”

“You are telling us we sank the ship, we blew up the men, we burned down the house, because we do not know our selves?”

“Yes.”

“Kosta! Theo who who is Theo?” Sophie begged him to answer.

“There is place we can choose to live, where these things, do not happen, not just to us, but do not happen at all.” “Theo said to me, ‘everything we need lives eternal’.”

“We watch our people, they get hurt, they get sick, they go away, disappear and we cannot have them here again. When we see this, we do not see. We see a story we are telling ourselves.”

“We tell ourselves this story so we can discover that it is a story, a fiction, but with a purpose?” Jimmy asks.

“Exactly, this is the purpose. Today we go to our family and we tell them.”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin to explain this to anyone, Kosta. I barely am understanding it right now and you have described it eloquently. It keeps slipping away from me, even as you speak.”

“Yes it does, knowledge is elusive. Faith is what makes it ours. All we need to do is surrender.”

“I am not a religious man, Kosta, I am not like you.”

“You are wrong, cousin, you are me.”

THE MARCH OF THE YOUNGER STILL, 1989

‘Dear Cousins Kosta and Sophia, I want to invite you to an opening of my new work. It will be at the Center for the Arts this Saturday from seven to nine p.m. It would be a great pleasure to have you attend.’  I sent this note to my cousins who were living now in Florida, but ocassionally made the trip north. I knew it was unlikely they would make a special trip but I wanted to let the, know I was thinking of them. Really I wanted them to see how far I had progressed in my work. Really I desparately wanted them to come so I could show them how hard I had worked; how deeply I had dug;  how far into the interior I had searched to bring that which I discovered into visual form.  I wanted them to see I too was making art that changed lives, gave gifts, rattled perspectives, just like Kosta’s had. My ego was waving a flag at the man who taught me not to have one.

It was such an odd moment for me. I sent the note anyway, with my hidden agenda snuggled up right next to it in the envelope. I received a note back from them, several weeks later. They had in fact come up north, visited relatvies and gone to see my show.

They had in fact been very proud of what I had done, the effort I was making, the line I was carrying forward.  If they noticed my shameless plea for recognition, they politely did not make mention. For their support and their discretion, of course, I am grateful.

Talking to artist friends I realize we all hold onto the idea of another artist being the one who will light our way. Usually it remains unspoken between the two: the youger too shy to make the admission; the elder unaware of the position he’s been given.

Fortunately I was able to stammer out my admiration for Kosta. I let him know how much his life’s work had meant to me. I let him know how his work gave birth to my work, how he had helped me navigate the tangled limbs of this family tree. And for my own ability to thank someone, and for that someone to acknowledge me, I am grateful.

PUTTING HIS FATHER TO BED

Kosta’s father, laid down in the grove of oranges he had so carefully coaxed into fruition.

The air was warm, the sun low in the sky. He looked up and for first the time in his life, he did not feel like telling anyone anything, he felt like listening. The vision of his life played out before his eyes, and when he got to the orange grove, and saw himself laying there surrounded by nothing but beauty, he smiled, he felt the word, surrender, but did not speak it and he closed his eyes.

Kostia, found him, sat down next to him, and recited the poems their son had sent that day.

So is the space between us

Infinite as God

Remembering our purposeful entombment,

Know I await your coming

As I await the coming of a God

EVERYTHING YOU NEED, c 1973

Kosta Sophie and their cousin Hollywood sat on beach listening to the shore birds laughing.

“They know,” Kosta said.

“You mean about your friend, Theo?” Sophie asked

“Remember that conversation we were having about, being in the present, and life being an illusion and how we are responsible for the illusion of pain and suffering?” Kosta asked.

The cousins nodded and waited.

“I’m going to tell you now, about the last time I saw Theo, and how I came to believe all that I have been preaching.”

“I sat in the park in Istanbul, waiting for my most dependable friend. I was forty years old. I don’t remember how many times I visited that city, sat in its park, and encountered the man who fine-tuned my perspective. But I had waited a long time, to talk to Theo about my uncle Manolis, an on that day I felt compelled.

Manolis and Archondoula were both gone. And I was floating uncomfortably in my life. I had lost my anchors, lifelines I expected to be held by forever.

My own energy was trapped now in a dark valley of loss. So when Theo arrived and was jubilant, I tried to hide my annoyance.

“My young friend you have everything you need, do you know this?” Theo began.

“I don’t understand you. What are you saying? Can I first say hello to you, ask how you have been, tell you about myself?” I  kept a nasty edge to my voice as I questioned my friend.

“Furthermore, how do you know I have everything I need?” I continued making a point to show my irritation.

“Well son I know a few things maybe you may, realize them too, but ust in case, I am here to remind you. I know you have everything you need: your family, your aunt Archondoula and your uncle Manolis, your father, you have them all.” he announced with authority.

Mind you Sophie, I had never told Theo about my aunt and uncle. I never told him about my father: the years of resentment and the efforts toward forgiveness. Our conversations were all philosophical in nature and spiritual in tone. Metaphysical mysteries unfolded between us. We did not discuss the day to day experiences of our lives.”

I said to him, “Theo, I am realizing I don’t really know who you are.”

“You know Kosta, I am a traveler, I have been privileged with a gift. I would love to share my gift. Are you willing to receive this from me?”

“I am not sure I follow you, but I feel I should say, yes. And please.” I told him.

On the bench in the park, surrounded by a halo of light from the warm summer sun, the old man gave me the gift. We sat for hours, eyes closed, transported far above the earth. We looked down, out, across, and all around ourselves. We were there and not there. We felt the covenant. We felt the profound peace that men seek but rarely find.

“I tell you Sophie, Hollywood I was transformed.  And Theo was ecstatic to have passed the knowledge to me. When I opened my eyes, I said nothing. I got down on my knees, put my hands together in front of my heart, and bowed to my teacher.”

“That was the last time we met.”

AND IN THE END

The young cousins, all married now, all with two or three children in the back seat of the car, drive to the annual outing. They meet their sisters and brothers, their cousins, aunts and uncles, their nieces and nephews, three or four generations back. Whole lambs are roasting on spits, tables are overflowing with covered dishes: macaronia, cheese, and salads, fruits and cakes, cookies and breads, olives and sardines, nuts and berries, bottles of oil, fresh lemons, red fish roe caviar and whipped potatoes with garlic, toasted chick peas, rice and pudding.

No one needs to be introduced, each of us carrying the family features down the line. We are marked for easy recognition. The Xenakis nose, the Spanos, hands, the Contis eyes, the Langas, brow, the Pappas chin, we all come wearing our history for all to see.

There are always a handful of great grandparents still standing, and they are usually the first to arrive and the last to leave. Small groups form and reform all day long, exchanging stories. It has been no more than a week since most have seen each other, but somehow there is always a book of information to impart. Day to day details are asked for and delivered. Every person is accounted for, followed, grilled and inquired about, until everyone’s satisfaction is complete. If this takes longer than the day of the annual picnic outing, then more dinners must be planned for the following weekend. And everyone’s invited.

These people, my people, they know about connection. They are deeply concerned about the illusion of separation and have taken it upon themselves to oversee its care. They do not want to be left alone. They do not want to be on a cliff, calling into the void. They want to hear the voice of the their history and the voice of their future echoing back to them.

They want constant reminders of their existence, the reason for it, and the purpose of it, and for this innate and overwhelming desire of our clan, we are all grateful.

What we do not yet know, Kosta advised me, is if that is all there is...history and future. The thing our relatives have poured over, argued over, shoveled into us, history and intention.

He thinks there is neither past or future, only now. He repeats it over and over, hoping I will comprehend. He thinks the effort we make for family, is to make the now so very delicious, we will not be able to resist it. We will finally agree, this, here, is it.

I have wrapped pictures and words and music around this idea for all of my life.

I am here now to say, I beleive he knew something very rarely known. It is that somehthing I still try to hand over to whoever I meet. I stumble on my words and images too.

But I try, and for all of this, I am grateful. I am trying to be.

My cousin Kosta no longer arrives at the outings, but his children come and their children and very soon his children’s children’s children will come. We will know them by their eyes, and the way they hold themselves. In conversation we will hear them taking great comfort in their world, and being fearless in pursuit of vision. And at that time we will notice Kosta hovering in the corner of our hearts, like angels do.