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.

 

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.

 

My Greece is the Taygetos Mountains

I feel like I need to explain my comments about Verga.  Today its a posh part of town, by virtue of its proximity to the beaches and soaring mountain views.  Its great real estate.  That unknown hillside that my house is on, is only unknown to me and likely loved by the locals.  It still looks to me like grazing fields for sheep and goats.  Certainly uninspiring and lacks in any historical significance.

The Taygetos Mountains

Now the Taygetos Mountains, well, you don't need a history lesson from me.  Whenever I drive thru them I recall ancient history, of course, but also history that is within reach of my relatives. My grandparents hiding in the mountain caves from the Nazis.  My mother, a very young girl, sleeping with a pistol under her pillow fearing the Italians will come and take her hens.  She hide out there for weeks in her stone kalivi (καλύβη), shack, on the property called St Nicholas.  See what I mean?  Important stuff here. Verga, not so much.  Kinda boring.

There is nothing boring however about my history with the Taygetos and experiencing something for the first time!  Your first time far away from home.  Your first time you shoot a rifle.  Your first time hitch hiking.  Your first kiss.  Your first attempt to skinny dip.  It's thrilling, exciting and ultimately you want to do it again! 

Driving the Taygetos

Well the first time I experienced the Taygetos Mountain, I was 9. Travelling with my family to Greece, for the first time.  I was asleep in the car my father bought, an old green Simca, that took more water than gas.  When we reached the village house, it was dark and they put me to bed.  I woke up the next morning in a strange house, that was cool and had a sweet smell.  I walked across the floor in my bare feet to the shutter doors that lead to a small balcony and when I opened and step out into the sunlight, I gasped.  Never in all of my  9 years have I ever seen anything so magnificent.  My first experience of being surrounded by mountains!  It was for me like being in a fairy tale. 

I took my breakfast in a tree that morning, chamomile tea and a hard boiled egg from the hens on the property.  I pretended I was a naritha (νεράιδα), a woodland fairy, that lived in the mountains.  My brothers thought I was ridiculous.  Especially when I cried at the suggestion of spending the day at the beach.  I just wanted to go for yet another hike and pick wild berries and torture mindiria, the native small lizard.  Please, their tails grow back.



The renovated, not restored village house

Oh I came out of my dream world eventually that summer.  My brothers and I had a grand time.  I learned to shoot a rifle and how to make a cicada a pet.  I tolerated the beaches in Kalamata because that's what you do in the summer on vacation, apparently.  The mountains and I, however, imprinted on each other over those three months.  And when it was time to go back to Toronto, my heart was broken.  My dad, to placate me, a rare moment, promised he'd send me back.

Looking for the stream

Well, dad did send me back, 6 years later, by myself.  Another first.  And when I took the local bus up the mountain to the village house it was like Christmas to me.  I got off the bus a stop early, at Artemisia and attempted to walk the rest of the way to Pyges.  Nothing had changed.  Except I was older, a young teenager, and I was schlepping luggage up a mountain!  I must have looked like an idiot tourist, actually I was an idiot tourist.   Luckily, a very friendly young man took pity on me and offered me a ride.  Danger.  No, only in Toronto.  Turns out he was an American Greek film maker and was heading to Pyges to visit an old family friend.  So I hitched a ride.  Another first.

His name was Anesti. (Remember him, Xanthipi? LOL.)  He was dreamy.  And well, he and I shared some fun moments.  What happens on the Taygetos stays on the Taygetos ;)

So 10 years ago or so, when dad said, that he was going to build a house in Verga, I was uninterested.  Kinda put off.  We have a house, the village house on the Mountain.  That is our spot, my spot!  Nothing can compare.  Nothing will ever compare.

This Verga house has some stiff competition.