Finding Steve

I have learned that when someone close to you dies, you are forever on an incremental path of discovery of that person, whether you like it or not.  I have found that people are willing to share details of that persons life that otherwise would have been more or less...unspoken.  I find that both disturbing and exhilarating.  Just because that person is dead, does it make it ok to "gossip"?   There are a couple of adages that come to mind "if you've got nothing good to say, say nothing at all" and "never speak ill of the dead".  Both are wise, but who ever adheres to them? And what do you do, when what you've learned turns out to be a crucial piece of the puzzle that you didn't even know you were without?

You listen.  What else can you do?

I knew this Greek House meant something extremely important to my father.  I've been told he had this mania to complete it to the point where he slept on the concrete overnight and waited for the workers in the morn.  Heck, maybe I should have done that....perhaps I could have avoided the present leaky window debacle. But I digress. 

At first glance you wouldn't think it too odd that dad would hover over the workers and watch as every brick and mortar was laid.  But it became compulsive and wildly out of control.  Why would he choose to sleep there? He had places to sleep, safe places, lux places.  Wasn't ANYONE looking out for him?  Couldn't the redheaded monster, Voldemort, tell that Steve wasn't well?  Couldn't his cousin, the past mihanikos, stop for a moment from ripping him off and consider that perhaps Steve wasn't altogether?

I also recently learned that he suffered greatly.  And my heart, my heart...my heart hurts. My mind plays these events over and over and I picture him like a wounded, lonely animal labouring for no good reason in the dead heat of the Greek summer sun. 

He had 7 mini strokes.

I listened.  I listened as this random old acquaintance of dad's just "talked" about a part of my dad's life that I wasn't privy to.  As he continues, without any encouragement from me, I think, "What else does he know?" And do I pretend like I know these details or do I actually show the shock and dismay that I'm experiencing inside?

I continued to nod as if I've heard all of this before. I smiled at this old friend of dad's, trying not to show the discomfort that he is causing me.  He meant no harm, so I sat still and I listened.  He spoke so enthusiastically and with such  quirky detail about my dad and this Greek House, that I began to laugh.  He genuinely admired my father and I could sense that this man...missed him. 

"Losing family obliges us to find our family", the opening line to an essay read by Sean Connery in the movie Finding Forrester.   And as the 6th year of losing my father Steve approaches,  I feel like I'm just finding him! 

And even though I feel like I've let him down by putting the final completion of the Greek House on a temporary hold, I know that this house is the ultimate gift from him.  Because while my journey of   Finding Steve continues,  he has lead me to find that "it's not always the family that is our blood, but the family that can become our blood" that carries us through life.  Old friendships reborn and new friendships that you never knew you could live without emerge and your spirit is renewed.  Finding comfort in knowing that when the universe takes, it also gives back. 



It's true that you'll never know anyone truly and completely, especially a parent.  But you may stumble upon a handwritten note, tucked away in a drawer that was likely never meant to be found, proclaiming undying love for someone you know or perhaps don't know! Or bump into and old friend willing to share personal memories with someone that you didn't think had any real friends.   Even this Greek House, left abandoned, patiently waiting to tell it's story, chooses me to reveal it's secrets. And then suddenly insight about that parent just starts to pour in.  You welcome it,  you fear it, you crave it and you need it.

I will always listen.

 

If one is Lucky, a Solitary Fantasy can Totally Transform One Million Realities

Brilliant Sea view in Kalamata

My big, gorgeous, lonely, Greek House may not be getting a lot of physical attention these days, but it has been getting a lot of virtual attention! Through this blog!
Twenty-two posts with over 10 thousand views, which may not seem like a lot in the blogosphere, but certainly more than I would have ever wagered.  Plus, the ultimate compliment... a request to do a public reading! Wow. 

This upcoming momentous event will be held in a chic Montreal boutique bookstore and I am flattered to learn that I am slotted in with  two seasoned travel bloggers.   I thought perhaps if you were to categorize this blog maybe real estate or even memoir.  Hmm, travel blog...why not?!

A little bit shocking, really, to be asked because as a very close friend said to me, "why would they ask you?  You're not a published author."  Well, he is right and his comment practically took the bloom off the rose, but he is unaware of the social reach of blogging and just between you and me he doesn't fit the right demo anyway, lol. 

The organizers have requested that I read excerpts from four blog posts and one from a new one that has yet to be posted. 
They've given me their four selections:
"My Greece is the Taygetos Mountains"
"Where's the Street Wise Hercules to Fight the Rising Odds"
"The Reluctant Employer Part 2" and
"Perfect Imperfections"

Funny that they chose these posts because they actually are some of the more popular reads!  They range between 225-475 views.  I'm glad they selected for me though, because it would truly be a difficult task.  Every word, sentence and paragraph resonates deeply with me and it would be like picking a favourite child. Oh, please tell me which posts you like best.

Now the fifth selection poses a problem.  I have six posts in draft mode and I'm not sure which to put a finish on.  To be honest...I've kinda lost my muse.  My brain is scattered with too many incomplete thoughts and feelings and emotions.  

You see, it wasn't long ago that I wrote about how my Greek House wasn't touched by the pressure of the country's or even the world's economics and politics, but I was naïve.  I had pulled together a dream team of builders which resurrected it from its questionable start and had wrapped their collective arms around it, to shield it from unsavory characters and nurture it from its past neglect. 


But all that flurry of activity around my house has come to a grinding halt due to tumultuous circumstances beyond my control and it has weighed heavily on my chest.  And once again, it has been sadly neglected and with its faulty window installation has become damp and cold.But I remain passionate, warm and enthusiast and perhaps this opportunity to present this personal journey live, is what I need to encourage my muse to reawaken.  And to tell a personal story that readers can relate to, is what a writer, any writer, published or otherwise, strive for!  I'm beyond flattered!

I guess that when you share some of your own pain, difficulties, and setbacks, and then show how you recovered or learned a valuable lesson, you become more real and human to your readers and  allow them to see the person behind the computer.
 

leaky window

For example, one of the current setbacks are the faulty windows.  Now, I'm not an engineer/builder, but I need to understand why the windows leak.  I will research it and find a reason and when my mihanikos begins to offer his professional  take on the situation I can meet him in the middle and I'll be coming from a place of understanding and basic knowledge.   It's not that I don't trust my mihanikos, I do,  he's just not on site all the time,  but I need to always be a step ahead.  I am my father's daughter after all. You see, I can accept failure, I can't accept not trying.

Which brings me back to finishing one of the six posts that await in the drafts file.  I could do a part 2 to an existing post or better yet, a Directors Cut!  Actually, in my wildest of thoughts, I  dream that this blog gets optioned for a movie like Julie and Julia. LMAO!  Hey, like the immortal Maya Angelou said, "If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities."

Well right now my reality is a bit like fantasy.  I feel little like Carrie Bradshaw, from Sex and the City, when her new book just gets released and you see her reading from it at a book launch in NYC.  Ok, a bit of a stretch...its not a book and its not NYC...yet ;)



Can I Love You?

With Christina Boutari enjoying
 The Grand Reserve
 

It all started with a glass of Grand Reserve with Christina Boutari at a one of kind North end upscale Greek resto.   It was a wine flight featuring new offerings from the Boutari wine appellations.  She was on a North American tour, as the Ambassador of her family business.  Lovely and charming, we had a moment that will be seared in my brain for an eternity.   A group of us were invited and I decided last minute to attend because it was round the corner from my mums house and typically these events don't happen North of city and certainly not in my hometown.  

Boutari was making the rounds and greeting guests and when she made her way to our table she chose a wine for us to sample ahead of the flight.   In her perfect English with the sweetest of Greek accents she says directly to me, "I think you'll like this one."  My group and I were delighted that we were having a personal tasting with her and anxious to try one of the new arrivals. But she only poured for me and insisted that I'd adore it.  Odd.  I take the glass from her and do my best impression of a wannabe sommelier, swirling the glass and taking it up to my nose.  And as I do, my heart skips a beat and begins to race.  I inhale deeply and I'm transported to my parents dining table. In a flash I can see the Sunday dinner spread out and the familiar wine bottle being opened by my father.  I know this wine and I know it well. 

My eyes welled up unexpectedly and I tried to hide it.  "What is wrong?  Have I chosen incorrectly? she asks.  I felt exposed and vulnerable and not wanting to come off as a snob, I beamed up at her and exclaimed in a shaky voice, "This is a classic!  It's the Grand Reserve, isn't it?"  I prattled on trying to conceal that while I may physically be sitting next to her, mentally my mind has taken a trip to the spirit world...or has the spirit world come to me? Yes, indeed it was my father's all time favourite wine.  Dad's 'go to red' that never disappointed and always made an awesome gift.  I haven't tasted it for a least 10 years and there I was having a glass with Christina Boutari herself in a restaurant 3 minutes from my dads house.  Startling.

And then it happened again.

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare was sitting lonely atop a pile of bargain bin priced hard cover books.  I stopped and did a double take and stared at it for a moment.  I was in a massive hurry, cutting through the downtown subway tunnels to make my Bloor train.  The tunnel shops were busy and people were whizzing past me but the world just seemed to stop as I zeroed in on this book. My hand reached for it and it felt like a veil was coming down over me.  That familiar book, its colour and size, its pencil sketch of Shakespeare, those thin almost newsprint pages took me back 25 years when I was a young girl dusting the window display at my dads bookstore. The Heritage Shop, on Yonge Street, was only up and running for one year, but what an indelible year indeed!  Part bookstore, part art shop, it was his best and worst business ever. 

The clerk interrupted my mind trip, "Hey, how did that book get into the outside bargain bin?  Oh well, it's $3.99!  Crazy right?  It's asking you to love it...", I put the book down.  The clerk picks it up, holds it out to me and continues "...or maybe its asking Can I love you?"  The colour drained from my face and a chill ran up and down my spine.  "I beg your pardon?  What did you just say?  Why would you say something like?  What do you mean?" The clerk stepped back and I stepped toward him, clearly making him uncomfortable.  "I don't know, just said it, don't take offence, just sounded poetic...the book made me say it!" He started to laugh and I started to feel ill.  "Are you alright?" he queried and offered me to come in and have a seat and glass of water, but all I could choke out was, "'I'll buy the book."

It was a one-two punch.  I was winded for the rest of the day.  Finding the book, or more like the book found me, was one thing, but when those familiar words, Can I love you, tripped out of the clerks mouth...I knew it was no coincidence.  What kind of a question is that?  Who says that?  My father did.  It was his catch phrase.  His trump card.  I never did understand the question and what kind of a response did he expect? Was it rhetorical? Nevertheless, I've never heard anyone, before, during or after, ever ask that question. 

Why I haven't thought of The Heritage bookstore in decades is a mystery!  Gosh, I had great fun then and met some real interesting people.  The book and art suppliers were an eccentric bunch and dad enjoyed introducing me because I had practically read all the books in the store, Lord knows he hadn't.  The courage my father had!  Truly.  English as a second language and the only thing he'd ever read from cover to cover was the daily newspaper, but there he was selling The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, amongst other classics, without a flurry of doubt and with complete confidence.  Wow.  I do remember this one book supplier, Wil, that frequented the shop on his off hours to chat with dad.  What a card!  He totally loved my dad!  And now that I look back on it, I wonder if he was writing a book of his own and profiling my dad for a character! I guess I'll never know, but dad as a character, is multi-faceted and you can't deny the tension that a love/hate relationship so deliciously provides for good story telling.

My girlfriends think its time we take a road trip to Long Island...and it wouldn't  be for the ice-tea! LMAO!  Although I'd likely need a very tall cold Long Island Iced Tea, if we were to ever get an audience with the Medium that resides there.  Too funny!  For those of you who don't know her, she apparently speaks to the dead.

A couple of friends are unabashedly addicted to the Long Island Medium, Theresa Caputo and her TV show on Sunday nights.  It certainly is entertaining and I've become curious, considering all this "paranormal activity", yet cautious. My experience with the paranormal is limited and I'd like to keep it that way!  I'm not so sure I should consider a trip to visit Caputo to find out what, if anything, dad is trying to communicate to me.

I'm not an overtly spiritual person and I'm rather quick to dismiss any ambiguous sign or symbol that could be interpreted as a form of communication from the other side.  But how can you ignore this?  Sure, I've dreamt of dad a lot since his passing, especially now that I'm building this Greek House and they have left me frightened.  But I'd always conclude that they were, well...just dreams. However, these events are certainly not ambiguous!

But wait, there's more.  Yes, that's right and as worn out, distraught and confused as I am, the rains in Kalamata this Spring brought a delightful, miraculous, thoughtful and hopeful sign.  Irises. 

Irises, from my Uncles description,  aren't seen around Messinia.  And there aren't any small animals, like squirrels, that would have dug the bulb up and transplanted them onto the Verga property.  And even if there were, the soil isn't any good for growing much of anything especially these delicate and elegant flowers.  The only catch here in laying claim that my dead father had something to do with this, is that his favourite flower is the Sunflower.  However, having said that, this flower has become significant to me these past two years and the portrait that my dad gave me of himself year ago has a pewter frame of iris flowers!  Not to mention that I've always enjoyed them in print form by Van Gogh and other impressionist artists and they have adorned my walls for several years and have brought me great joy.  From what I understand, there are about a dozen of them, a sparse amount, surrounding my large Greek House as if to give it a gentle embrace.  I'm overwhelmed.

February, March and now April all brought harbingers of dad's presence.  This being the fifth anniversary of his death, I  must admit, has been a positive reflection.  I am quite grateful that I've been able to remember him and even experience him in softer, quieter and gentler ways.

And it isn't until this very moment that I finally understand this quote,  "If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die."

And I guess in this case, destiny demands that every moment has a purpose.

.

Verga, the Beverly Hills of Kalamata

Springtime in Greece is divine. While the olive tree does dominate the Greek landscape, its the Almond tree with its blossoms bursting with white, pink and fuchsia that leaves you stunned this time of year.  Their colour and fragrance just leaves your mouth agape, wanting to drink them in.  Its one of natures moments that you must experience because its so very brief.

I don't have an almond tree on my property in Verga.  Just olives and spring wild greens that my friend tells me are mixed with some edibles. I'd also love to plant a couple of lemon trees near the kitchen and mini French lilacs leading up to the front walk.  And the pan-ultimate would be to have Lily of the Valley carpeting every spot with their perky green leaves and most delicate uber fragrant, tiny, white flowers.  That is my most favourite flower, nothing compares!  I'm hoping to anyway. Because that's what you do in the Spring right?  Hope.

Amongst many other things, I was hoping that the Canadian dollar would rebound in the new year.  But it continues to take a beating next to the inflated American dollar and as a result the exchange rate with the euro is deadly, hence one of the main reasons for the construction delay.  I'm not horribly disappointed, just slightly bewildered.
 

 

But my spirits are high, I remain unflappable with my desire to complete this house. And steadfast that Boufeas will continue to buff and shine this rare gem, until it meets his high standards. My house is not immune to typical construction delays, but I guess slow and steady wins the race.  Even though that cliché doesn't fit my personal outlook on various endeavours, it does however seem to fit this circumstance quite well.  Especially when it comes down to the legalisation of the house and property because the bylaws keep changing.  For example, up until a few weeks ago, I thought that I had legalised the "house" the entire "structure" by paying a lump sum, but I was surprised and shocked to learn that I had only legalised the first floor of the house and not the second.  Talk about a cash grab.  After my head stopped spinning and having thrown a very controlled, even-tempered adult tantrum,  mihanikos Giannopoulos calmly and patiently stated, "that this current situation is the best so far and may end this for once and for all!" Please, no more surprises, I detest surprises.  Then again, you are only safe from surprise when you're dead.

 

But sometimes, very rarely, surprises can be enlightening! And I was quite pleasantly surprised to have read that the house is in what is now considered the Beverly Hills of Kalamata...Verga! Can you believe it? Verga?  I still can't stop laughing. 

 

A Self-proclaimed Beverly Hills, no doubt, but the moniker has picked up steam.  Some real estate sites are using this label quite liberally and with abandon and why not?  Its certainly does conjure up the right images.  Or does it?  The urban dictionary describes Beverly Hills as the playground for the ultra rich and famous and identified by its palm tree-lined streets, sunshine and atrocious property values. A city of about 30,000 residents almost completely surrounded by the city of Los Angeles between Hollywood/West Hollywood to the east, Bel-Air to the West, Westwood and the campus of UCLA to the south and the Hollywood Hills to the north. Some of its most famous streets include Hollywood Blvd, Sunset Blvd., and Doheny Drive. Rodeo Drive and the Beverly Hills Hotel are probably its two most famous icons. B.H. is the world's capital of plastic surgery, bods and beamers. Its rich, arrogant, pretentious pricks can be frequently seen with sunglasses driving an expensive car while talking on their cellphone. It has become a hideout for the rich and famous. Perhaps that's why the city has so many rehab clinics for Hollywood stars.  Charming place, lol.

Verga is lined with olive trees, sunshine and the beginnings of atrocious property values.  Its just outside the borders of Kalamata and doesn't  boast any Universities or even a library. It does however have some great chic nightclubs.  The winding roads have no names and if they do only the water department knows them. Everyone does have a cellphone and while they certainly are calling their plastic surgeons, they are mostly on facebook being insufferable.  I personally wouldn't want to live in Beverly Hills, California, I'm a mountain girl who enjoys pressing olives for oil, and visiting NYC on a whim, but then again Greeks have this obsession with all things foreign, or all things "not-Greek".  Hence the steady and systematic chipping away of their culture.  This disorder even has a name, "xenomania". 

 

But what I do like about Verga being associated with Beverly Hills, it that it suggests luxury.  Not just in the quality and amenities that the current houses have, (the neighbour behind me has an elevator), but in its location.  Verga may not have all the bells and whistles as its twin, but what it does have is its plum sprawling upper and lower mountain position with grand sweeping vistas of the magnificent Messinian Bay and the ever present Taygetos in Southern Greece. Verga is Mediterranean, while Beverly Hills is a wannabe, its fake, its "faux-med"! lol.   For sure the rich and famous could hideout here and likely already do. Location in real estate is everything.

 

I'm no expert, but finding that new, trendy, up and coming location is what makes real estate so seductive and addictive.  And that's what's happening in Messinia.  To my horror, its no longer Greece's best kept secret, but to the delight of my mihanikos, Peter Boufeas, the budding real estate mogul.  What used to be a 10 hour drive from Athens to Kalamata, is now only 3 hours since the new super highways that got blasted through the mountains.  Posh hotels are popping up this year and a Spaceport in 2015 will commence construction.  Yes, Kalamata is the new Cape Canaveral.  Crazy.  Wonder what my dad would have thought of all these astounding changes happening in his home town.  He wouldn't believe it!  Or would he?  Perhaps he was a visionary, who always played his cards close to his chest.  He would mutter rather frequently, "I know nothing, I come from a small village," most times being sarcastic but perhaps pretending on occasion, it seems, to be out of the loop.  Hmm, rather clever.



Look at the vintage tiles and the ladder!
 Love to have this.

And while location is a huge deal worthy of all the attention, its also really important, in my opinion,  to focus on the other aspects of the house that are also permanent – the layout and the exposure to natural light, which my house excels in.  My house has unique outdoor spaces, which Boufeas gets full credit for, and takes advantage of all the natural light that Southern Greece has to offer, but so do most of my neighbours. Some even have self-cleaning pools, others have elevators but none will have coffered ceilings, two master bedrooms and the ultimate...two massive walk-in closets! Well, three, if you count the front hall closet.  So very North American. Brilliant.

Selling this Greek House was always the plan, but I don't think I ever could.  How could I?  I completely adore it without any reservation.  Now, I do read a lot, in fact a really close friend said that to me, almost as a criticism, but from what I've read, when it comes to selling, the bottom line is: List when you need to. And I really don't need to.  Besides, I would never sell it for less than its worth, unlike the Greek Government who is selling because it needs to.  Selling the old Athens Airport, Hellenikon, which is considered a piece of prime seaside real estate and considered the biggest free space in the whole of Europe, 6.2 million square metres to foreign investors makes me cringe.  China's Warren Buffet is being lauded to have picked this up at a low-priced, high value investment and chooses to take advantage and buys into bottom of Greek market, for what is considered a bargain at $1.2 billion.

My father was by no means the Greek-Canadian version of Warren Buffet, but it seems that he had the sense to do the same and pick up this Greek property during the drachma days.  And now, this Verga property has become My Beverly Hills East House, a high value investment. 

Well played dad, well played.
 

Perfect Imperfections

Perfect.  What a deliciously alluring, seductive, tempting word.  Purrfect. A word that Eartha Kitt owned and would growl out on demand of which I've had the personal privilege of hearing.  In most cases, perfect, is hard to achieve, almost impossible.  We can only strive to be perfect, always falling short for most, and for the rare few, just out of grasp.  But is it really something to aim for?   And for which part of your life do you pour all your energies in to perhaps reach perfection? Wealth, health, relationships?  Something's got to give, right? 

Well, this house is certainly not perfect.  Except for this ceiling.  There is nothing more perfect than this ceiling.  Ok, I may be exaggerating...the house location is perfect and the view!  Lord have mercy, the view is beyond perfection!  But I had no control over that.  My father did, and he chose perfectly.

Every piece of the coffered ceiling  was cut and placed by hand, no prefab mouldings here.  A true coffered ceiling of this calibre adds the best of architectural details and elevates the worth of the house.  There can be no flaws in its geometry and I threatened Boufeas (my mihanikos) that if there was it would be horribly obvious and would have to be taken down at his expense.  He was leery at first because he said that this was a Greek house not an English house and we don't install these types of ceilings.  Having taken him again outside of his comfort zone and having to admit that he never erected one, he cleverly discovered that our foreman, Dimitri, was quite the expert on coffered ceilings.  Perfect.

I always admired the look of a coffered ceiling and how it truly does finish a room and make it grand.  The house's main floor high ceilings presented me with a rare opportunity to indulge and completely surrender to this fantasy.  It was a true labour of love, as most all good things worth fighting for are, and in this rare instance resulted in pure magic!  It was worth the wait and the cost.  It is by far, the best feature of this house.  When I finally saw it this summer, it took my breathe away.  Success!

And isn't it funny that when you want something real bad, you start seeing it everywhere!  Like a new car that you're thinking about purchasing and you see it at every turn. As many times as I've visited the Acropolis, it wasn't until this last visit that rocked my world.  As I looked skyward up the long length of the doric columns, I was delighted to only discover, you guessed it, coffered ceilings! They were suddenly everywhere! Up high running across the top of Parthenon and various other temples on the grounds, and pieces of it, down low on the ground, on its sides.  Despite dissenting voices, I couldn't help but grin and giggle as I stood there and relished that my house indeed was as Greek as it was going to get. Heh, Heh...perfect.

Am I a bit of a perfectionist?  Perhaps.  And as a culture, we tend to reward perfectionists for setting high standards and trying to meet them which is addictive.  And while I said that the ceiling is perfect, I also admitted that the house is not.  Success in some areas and failure in others.  Perfection may always equal success,  but will success bring you perfection?  Arianna Huffington was in Toronto recently launching her new concept called, the Third Metric, at a fundraiser for Women's Brain Health Initiative.  And while I do admire her willingness and ability to reinvent herself, something that I always strive for, I find this concept of taking success to another new level, a little abstract and pedantic.  Nevertheless, something she said resonated with me.  That "failure is not the opposite of success." 

 



I immediately thought of my hot yoga/fitness practice.  While its great for slowing down my monkey mind and building physical strength (success), I am otherwise absolutely horrible at it (failure).  Try as I might, I will likely never be able to do  the scale pose asana, the peacock asana, the standing splits or any kind of splits!  But I have learned to at least make an authentic attempt and reflect inward.  Trust that wherever you are in your pose, that is exactly where you need to be.  Imagine that in your minds eye that you are performing the pose/asana perfectly. 

"Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius

and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring."

Marilyn Monroe

I am learning that perfection doesn't have to be something that everyone sees, but rather a feeling a connection, to something or someone.   And that we treat it as a rare gift, because it sustains us and feeds into other parts of our lives.  It makes us feel more normal, more creative, more inspired and more strong.  Trying to live an authentic life is way more difficult than yoga asanas and building houses, but I am learning to try and be successful in smaller portions and aspects of life.  I am learning not to fear failure because its not the opposite of success!  It is after all, our imperfections that we relate and bond with one another. It is how we handle our failures and weakness that makes us truly great.

 

I close my eyes and imagine that my Greek house is perfect.  I imagine away the pergola, the window wells, the retaining walls, the front door, the kitchen door, its illegal status and that there is no window on the west side of the house.

I love my Greek house... and all its perfect imperfections.

 

Can the Apple Fall Far from the Tree?

Never thought that I'd find myself doing tequila shots in an orange grove, in Kalamata, with my 84 year old Uncle.  But there I was, dusting the shoulders of the bottle, a long forgotten gift, while my Theo (Uncle) fetched the lemon and salt. 

"Να ηρεμησεις" (Na ee-remisis), To calm yourself, and then you'll tell me what happened on the Mountain" he said while he cracked the seal of the 35 year old bottle and I wondered if tequila ages well.  "Kοιτάξτε εδώ, θείο" (Key-taxte edo, Theo) "Look here, Uncle, let me show you how the Mexican's do it."  He was playful and eager. He mirrored my image, with a grin on his face, as he licked the salt, took the shot and sucked the lemon.  He chuckled after and sat forward to pour us both another.  I love him. 

He would have been an awesome father.  He and his wife were never able to have children.  And why is it that the people who have the best dispositions for children often are the ones that end up childless?  A cruel puzzle the universe imposes. 

Theo Yianni (John) is my mother's second eldest brother.  Pericles, the eldest of six children from the Parthenios family died 5 years ago.  A gentle soul with a loving heart, shockingly handsome and fiercely patriotic, also remained childless. 

They both fawned over me when I'd visit and lived the Greek expression that they modified, " το παιδί της αδελφής μου είναι δύο φορές παιδί μου".  "The child of my sister is twice my child".  As a young girl, I never felt more loved and cared for and cherished.  And I most certainly returned their affections.  We were three peas in a pod...now only two. 

There is no doubt that Theo Yianni has mellowed over the years, but his opinions and loyalty is unwavering.  He may be 84 but he stands tall and straight with no stagger in his gait.  He has the thickest mass of white wavy hair and the laugh of a young man going on an adventure. 

He said to me, "that while your father and I tolerated each other, this Verga house he built  was really a gift to me. He made a mess of it and who else would come and try to fix it...but you, my Katerina. I pray that Boufeas takes forever to finish it." 

My eyes swell and I feel so comforted and protected by those words.  And yes, he is the only one that calls me Katerina, my third name, because he simply likes it best.

After the third round of tequila shots, between laughter and tears, he presses me to reveal what exactly happened on the Mountain.  "It's like you've seen a ghost or a monster!"  I felt like such a child as he held my face and pleaded with his eyes for answers.  I went to my dad's Horio, his village and Theo Yianni was right, I encountered a red-headed monster. 

I had an afternoon suddenly available to me.  I was supposed to be in Athens shopping for a kitchen, but it didn't turn out that way, regretfully.  But I was excited when I told Theo Yianni that I'll be heading up the Mountain for a drive and to visit the grave of my dad's brother Nikita.  The drive up the Taygetos was joyful and lighthearted and I relished all the familiar twists and hairpin turns that  it has to offer. 

But the afternoon turned tragic, once I encountered her...my father's doppelganger.  I felt like I was 12 years old, vulnerable and small. As she hollered and insulted me just like my father did. She made up bizarre situations in her head about how poorly she is treated by the family and how I caused my father's cancer and what I'm doing to the Verga house is scandalous and that the names of my children are disgraceful. WTF.  She has turned into him...perhaps she has always been like that.   And I turned into jelly as her expressions and words and glances and hand gestures morphed into my father. It was as if he was standing right there. I froze in horror. And then ran from her. And while doing so I broke the heels of my shoes.

To steal an expression from a close friend, "I pressed the delete button" about a thousand times  as I was driving down the mountain.  My father's sister has now been...deleted.

Theo Yianni was empathetic and had a rebuttal for all the nasty comments she made.  But he asked a very sage, very pointed question, "You are no stranger to this kind of verbal attack, you are an exceptionally strong, confident woman....tell me why you are trembling? You know none of what she said is true, what revelation have you had?"  And there it was, the answer, it just tripped off my tongue, like its been waiting there on its mark for the starter pistol.  "I'm afraid I'll turn into them...him! Will I?"

He sat back and while I waited for his response, I felt relieved.  The unspoken was spoken.  I know that I am related to them, but how can I possibly be?  I feel so different, I feel most times like I don't belong.  I looked up at the orange trees with its boughs full of fruit and thought, can the apple fall far from the tree?  Or in this case, the orange?  lol. 

Theo Yianni has never said an unkind word about my father, ever.  So when he offered his answer it was the classiest most respectful response and a little shocking.  "You are like him.  You have skillfully pick the best parts of your father and that is what makes you.  And you have taken the best parts of your mother, your sweet nature...its what every parent hopes for."  "Now, let's go see your scandalous house, it always makes you happy!" 

Father of the year, I say...or Lifetime. Some are just born with it.

Earlier that day, the window and doors arrived from Athens and likely they had been installed.  I was aching to see it. There was about two hours left of sunlight to an already long and eventful day. And it seems that whenever I come to Greece, I have the most...enlightening experiences.  lol. 

We drove silently up the winding road to the Verga house.  I welcomed the calmness that driving provides me and the security of my Theo next to me.  As we pulled up to the house and parked we both just sat there for a moment and stared at it.  It was magnificent.  He held my hand and said, "It has your energy and spirit."  And with those words, the events of the day just disappeared. 


We didn't except to find anyone working at the house so late in the day and was surprised when the foreman, Dimitri, greeted us at the door.  "You have windows and doors.  What do you think?", he asked proudly.  "It's finally a real house", I said.  And then he reached into his pocked and held something out to me and rather coyly asked, "would you like the key to your house?"  I beamed at Dimitri and held out my hand. 

Theo Yianni was grinning from ear to ear, as I just held the key by its end to examine its uniqueness.  "Kαλοριζικο, Katerina mou" (Kaloriziko, good-root or luck my Katerina).  I was silent.  "Well, I'm off" said the foreman, "be sure to lock the door when you're done."  Stunned, I thanked him and only wished that Peter Boufeas was here to share in this delightful moment. 

We toured the house and checked all the new windows and doors. There were a few minor errors, but I knew that Boufeas would take care of it in a New York minute.  Besides we were both so delighted with the outcome and Theo Yianni was quite impressed with the quality and I was happy that he approved.    I handed him the key.  "You lock up the house for the first time Theo."  His chest puffed up as he reached for the key. 

As the key turned and clanked 6 times, I imagined shutting the door and dead-bolting the earlier events with the red-headed monster.  I imagined dead-bolting out all the negative, toxic and unrelenting memories that this house once represented.  The next time I come I will unlock the door and my children will run through it, clearing out any leftover unwanted ghosts, with their laughter and joie de vivre.

And I'm ok with where the apple has landed.  It has fallen far enough away from the tree...this Verga house was built after all on a mountain side. LOL.

 

Well, it certianly looks like a "capsule"

I'm increasingly obsessed with how time keeps moving faster as I get older.  Once again, it's Spring time in Greece and as the country blooms with colour and beautifies with natures tremendous gifts, so does my house in Verga.  It's turning into a jewel.  And with each day that passes it continues to blossom and will likely be done by end of July.  While I'm in no great hurry, time certainly seems to be. 

Four years have come and gone since my father's death. It seems that when he passed the days just seemed long and tedious, filled with endless tasks.  Now the sun rises and sets with such briskness that it leaves me winded at the end of the day, wishing it would slow down.  All I want is more time.

Time for what, exactly?  Time for adventures and experiences that are indelible. Indelible not only to me but perhaps, with any luck, to others as well.  A life well lived, with no regrets.  Full of faults, of course, but admired for its gumption, ambition and regardless of any fear factor, made an effort. 

And you know what?  That's how my father lived. 


This house that my father built over a decade ago and was left as a shell, with all its problems, was indeed a direct reflection of his endeavours as a whole.  But there must be more to my dad.  At least I have hoped and prayed that there will be more. 

So I've embarked on a memory finder mission.  And it all started with the concept of a time capsule.  Yup. Some call it a cornerstone, others a memory box, but "time capsule" is the preferred vernacular.

The idea is to consider an item, whether real or contrived, that reminds them of Steve, dad, and then place it in the time capsule.  My brothers think it to be a fine idea and once I told them, they have been busy chatting with family and friends about what they should put in.  Then we'll find a day either this Summer or Fall, to all congregate at the Verga house for a memorial of sorts to place the time capsule in the ground.

In my mind I have envisioned a quiet sunset moment, family and friend gathered around the open time capsule, each holding a memory of Steve in our hands.  Then one by one, with great laughter and joy, we place that memory in the capsule.  Idyllic. Poignant.  Sentimental.  And STUPID!  What was I thinking!  Anything involving Steve is never that tender, or gentle or just...easy. The time capsule turned into a time bomb!

Early on before I involved the brothers, I asked Peter Boufeas, my minhanikos, to set aside a spot in the ground near the house to place and bury the time capsule.  I told him that it will be a small, rectangular box, 19.8 x 18.2 x 10.3 inches, made out of composite material that can withstand large temperature fluctuations (-40F to 250F).  Easy to seal, watertight, lightweight that can be buried with no fuss.

No such luck.


My older brother really showed an interest in this project, so I thought to hand it over to him to run with.  He decided that the time capsule that I wanted, which would come from a company that specializes in time capsules, wasn't good enough.  So without further consultation, he went off and had one designed and built in a matter of days.  No one said he wasn't a doer.  What resulted was nothing like I had described.  In fact, it's the complete opposite.

Steel time capsule

"Well", I said to him, "it certainly looks like a...capsule".  "How on earth will you get this past customs?  It looks like a missile...a bomb."  Well, if his time capsule doesn't start WWIII at customs, it certainly started one at my house that afternoon.  Sigh. 

It's made out of steel and weighs a ton.  Seriously, I broke out in a sweat just moving it to take this picture.  lol.  It will require a gasket that my brother says will be hot silicon glue. On site?  Who is going to facilitate that?  And when you place the items in the cylinder, you can't view them after because its stacked.  And how do you bury it? 
 Vertically??? But, it will be water tight and endure temperature changes....oh and of course, a nuclear bomb.  



Steel time capsule open

My brother and I had a cold war for about a week after, but I've come to terms with it.  He left it in my foyer as punishment for being ungrateful.  lol. He did paint it to make it look nice and purchased archival sleeves, pens and paper.  I know what he did came from a good place.

The only problem I have with it now is that it's triple the volume than the original small discrete box.  What will we fill it with?  I only have one small item.  I'm worried.  Will our memorial for dad turn into a trip down nightmare lane  rather than memory lane?  Do we have enough "memories" to put in it? 

I only want good ones...