Everything felt from the heart...
December 24, 2009
Every year when Christmas comes around, I think about all the things that are different from last Christmas. I don't want to use trite words like "nostalgia" and "reflect," but by this ellipsis you'll know what I mean...
This is my first Christmas with a heart that is completely changed for the better, after being put through a pretty thorough battering and bruising.
It's my first Christmas without my grandma - which is a crazy and painful thought. There are only a handful of people that each of us can remember being there our whole entire lives, and she was one of mine. Others that we've met through out life can come and go; it's when those people who were there before you, waiting for you to start your life, end theirs, that our lives are irreversibly altered, simply by the lack of their presence.
It's my first Christmas as an adult - not in age, but in my own mind. I've grown a thousand years since the fall. But I'm so relieved that things have come full circle - the growing pains are over, and happiness lives on. Horray for yellow!
So, besides the underlying feelings of generosity and excitement that are always present at Christmas, every holiday season is fogged by a different aura. I'm a fan of little traditions, like putting my own ornaments on the Christmas tree, dressing up for the Christmas Eve service, counting down the days, making sure my gifts for everyone are under the tree before anyone else's... but no matter how tight I hold to those, I can't help it if some feeling I get about it all this season is a complete surprise. But if there's one thing I've learned through everything that's happened this year, it's that no matter if your situation is as good or as bad as you thought it could ever get, life always adds. It never subtracts.
So that's why I'm sitting here now, on Christmas Eve, listening to the best play-list ever, knowing that every year my life gets better. I know that I'm more on my way to who I'm going to be, and all that the past twelve months have brought are pushing me toward that. Everything we learn through life is a gift disguised as a tool.
Isn't Christmas Eve great? This is the kind of stuff that happens on Christmas Eve - these are the thoughts we think. It's probably my favorite day of the entire year. If I don't get anything on my list, and if everyone in my family hates what I oh-so-carefully picked out for them, I don't know it yet, so nothing can kill the spirit and anticipation of Christmas Eve. It's still busy, but not in the same way as the rest of the season. At least for me, there's something more holy and quiet about it. It's the last moment to think about this kind of thing and really get the right perspective before Christmas actually comes and it's "too late."
Now, about that... Usually, trying to get the right "Christmas perspective" involves substituting the word "receiving" for "giving." I can't hate on that. It's a pretty swell attitude to have. This might be due to my nature of seeing the best in humanity, but I think that most people give a lot at Christmas, and they do it joyfully. I love to see that. But I just realized that this year, not once did I have change to drop in the big red bucket. I didn't put toys in a shoe box or donate my old stuffed animals or sing in the choir or even get to help put up our Christmas tree. I participated in no Secret Santa shenanigans or White Elephant gift exchanges or help decorate at my church. I love those parts of Christmas, and usually do all or most of them, but things stopped me this year.
But you know what, I don't feel a bit bad about it, because Christmas isn't about giving. It's about receiving. A Gift is where it all started.
"Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the Heavenly Lights, who remains and does not change like shifting shadows." (James 1:17)
We give because we have been given. Just like we love because we were first loved. Even if you don't believe in Jesus, I'm sure you can understand that.
That's a reason to celebrate.
Merry Christmas.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
CALIFORNIA BLOG - Entry 8
December 8, 2009
This afternoon, my grandpa took a nap, and I looked through my grandma's stuff. Most of it is office supplies. You know, one of her "things." But there are also calendars and letters and pictures and post cards. I've known her my whole life, and I had no idea she was saving so much stuff.
Sitting at her desk right now, I can see thank-you cards and Christmas letters from my family displayed in places of honor. A picture of me when I was three years old, with my older brother at my Aunt's wedding in '93, is propped against her Rolodex. I wonder why she had it out?
I feel like I'm getting to know her in a whole new way, yet I have so many more questions to ask her. She left behind daily planners dating back to '87 where she wrote down whatever happened that day. There are things like, "Costas took us to dinner at McDonald's. How about that!", which is obviously worthy of important notice if you know my fast-food/franchise/ball-pit hating grandfather. Or one of my favorites, "Hannah Zoe. 6# 1oz. 19 1/2". Red hair!" Followed a day later by, "Took Hannah to McD's." It's nice to know I had my first fast food experience when I was less than 48 hours old.
The amazing thing is nobody ever knew she was writing everything down and keeping all this stuff. The disappointing thing is that most of her notes are written with the same vagueness with which my grandpa's stories are being regurgitated. That's what happens when someone writes or tells a story for their own benefit. They only need the outline - just enough to remember the details themselves. I know that I'm making progress with my grandpa's story and hearing things I never knew about before, but the way he's gotten used to telling it ("This happened. This happened. I was so happy. This happened. I was devastated.") is empty of emotion or surprise, and it makes my job of elaborating harder. I'm worried I'm going to have to stretch his stories so thin and still not make them real, even though they're so amazing, because he can only explain things in so few broken-English words. He's been in the U.S. almost sixty years, and he still keeps his Greek/English dictionary next to him while he talks to me. If Yiayia were here, I know she'd be able to fill in the cracks of the stories that Pappou leaves exposed.
Anyway, I'm trying to keep myself from pocketing too many of my grandma's things with the excuse that whenever I use that pen, or wear that necklace, I'll think of her. Not because it isn't true, but because it's unnecessary. How many little mementos do I need? But it's hard to choose the most significant things. In the bottom drawer of this desk, I found her favorite Mickey Mouse pencil. I used to sit on her lap and play with the pencil-topper while she did crossword puzzles. I think as kids we tried to erase things with poor Mickey's head, forgetting that the eraser was hidden underneath, and now the plastic is so worn down that his black nose looks more like a mustache. Every drawer in every room of this house is like a treasure trove of those souvenirs of her life and my childhood and our family.
It's amazing how much you can know someone and still not know so much. You were quite the lady, Pat.
This afternoon, my grandpa took a nap, and I looked through my grandma's stuff. Most of it is office supplies. You know, one of her "things." But there are also calendars and letters and pictures and post cards. I've known her my whole life, and I had no idea she was saving so much stuff.
Sitting at her desk right now, I can see thank-you cards and Christmas letters from my family displayed in places of honor. A picture of me when I was three years old, with my older brother at my Aunt's wedding in '93, is propped against her Rolodex. I wonder why she had it out?
I feel like I'm getting to know her in a whole new way, yet I have so many more questions to ask her. She left behind daily planners dating back to '87 where she wrote down whatever happened that day. There are things like, "Costas took us to dinner at McDonald's. How about that!", which is obviously worthy of important notice if you know my fast-food/franchise/ball-pit hating grandfather. Or one of my favorites, "Hannah Zoe. 6# 1oz. 19 1/2". Red hair!" Followed a day later by, "Took Hannah to McD's." It's nice to know I had my first fast food experience when I was less than 48 hours old.
The amazing thing is nobody ever knew she was writing everything down and keeping all this stuff. The disappointing thing is that most of her notes are written with the same vagueness with which my grandpa's stories are being regurgitated. That's what happens when someone writes or tells a story for their own benefit. They only need the outline - just enough to remember the details themselves. I know that I'm making progress with my grandpa's story and hearing things I never knew about before, but the way he's gotten used to telling it ("This happened. This happened. I was so happy. This happened. I was devastated.") is empty of emotion or surprise, and it makes my job of elaborating harder. I'm worried I'm going to have to stretch his stories so thin and still not make them real, even though they're so amazing, because he can only explain things in so few broken-English words. He's been in the U.S. almost sixty years, and he still keeps his Greek/English dictionary next to him while he talks to me. If Yiayia were here, I know she'd be able to fill in the cracks of the stories that Pappou leaves exposed.
Anyway, I'm trying to keep myself from pocketing too many of my grandma's things with the excuse that whenever I use that pen, or wear that necklace, I'll think of her. Not because it isn't true, but because it's unnecessary. How many little mementos do I need? But it's hard to choose the most significant things. In the bottom drawer of this desk, I found her favorite Mickey Mouse pencil. I used to sit on her lap and play with the pencil-topper while she did crossword puzzles. I think as kids we tried to erase things with poor Mickey's head, forgetting that the eraser was hidden underneath, and now the plastic is so worn down that his black nose looks more like a mustache. Every drawer in every room of this house is like a treasure trove of those souvenirs of her life and my childhood and our family.
It's amazing how much you can know someone and still not know so much. You were quite the lady, Pat.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Today
Alright, I know I've kind of left this alone for a while, and I feel guilty enough about it, believe me. I'm back from California with the contents of my suitcase spilled all over my floor and about a dozen blog entries started, but unfinished. Over the weekend I got caught up with visiting friends and watching Friends. I found every single episode of every single season online. (Good things come to those who wait because they were never allowed to watch adult shows as a kid.) And while there was a nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me to get back to writing, I had to get to The One Where Ross and Rachel... You Know... before my mind was settled and I could do something else with my free time.
But I keep worrying that this dry spell was something other than that.
At times when my grandpa and I would really get into a story, and I would be taking notes as fast as I could to keep up with him and my thoughts, I would get really excited and anxious about what was coming next when he would suddenly stop and say, "I can't go on." I'd pull my eyes away from my notes in surprise and see that he was crying, holding his bifocals in one hand and rubbing his leather forehead with the other. I got frustrated at first because, for starters I only had ten days to get so much done, and secondly the times when he was the most emotional were the times when I hoped he would say something I wouldn't want to miss. It was hard to be there as a writer trying to get information when who I am first of all is a granddaughter, hearing stories about my own bloodline for the first time. Those moments when he was too emotional to keep talking were the moments where those two parts of who I am rubbed elbows. In all honesty, that's what made me stop writing for a while.
That, and the feeling that writers get sometimes that goes something like, "Oh, crud. Everything I am writing sounds worse and worse the more I write." Not exactly Writers' block. More like Writers' Angst.
There! I have just diagnosed myself with Writers' Angst. Now for the cure...
On the last day of my California journey, I looked through my grandma's desk. Every drawer had a purpose: envelopes, stamps, pens, extra erasers and pieces of graphite, even bits of loose confetti she put in cards for special occasions. The only thing that really caught my eye was an index folder, camouflaged in a sea of like folders, yet looking out of place because it was labeled "INSPIRATION." Inside were comic strips, newspaper articles, quotes about faith, an American flag sticker, and postcards from her hometown, Chicago, that I bet no one knew she had.
And I guess I could compile a folder and fill it with a few of my favorite things. That might be neat. That might help. But the way I see it, putting that all together would just take up time I could be writing, and I think the cure for not wanting to write or not "feeling up to it" or losing motivation - is to just write.
And write and write and write and write and write...
Alright, I know I've kind of left this alone for a while, and I feel guilty enough about it, believe me. I'm back from California with the contents of my suitcase spilled all over my floor and about a dozen blog entries started, but unfinished. Over the weekend I got caught up with visiting friends and watching Friends. I found every single episode of every single season online. (Good things come to those who wait because they were never allowed to watch adult shows as a kid.) And while there was a nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me to get back to writing, I had to get to The One Where Ross and Rachel... You Know... before my mind was settled and I could do something else with my free time.
But I keep worrying that this dry spell was something other than that.
At times when my grandpa and I would really get into a story, and I would be taking notes as fast as I could to keep up with him and my thoughts, I would get really excited and anxious about what was coming next when he would suddenly stop and say, "I can't go on." I'd pull my eyes away from my notes in surprise and see that he was crying, holding his bifocals in one hand and rubbing his leather forehead with the other. I got frustrated at first because, for starters I only had ten days to get so much done, and secondly the times when he was the most emotional were the times when I hoped he would say something I wouldn't want to miss. It was hard to be there as a writer trying to get information when who I am first of all is a granddaughter, hearing stories about my own bloodline for the first time. Those moments when he was too emotional to keep talking were the moments where those two parts of who I am rubbed elbows. In all honesty, that's what made me stop writing for a while.
That, and the feeling that writers get sometimes that goes something like, "Oh, crud. Everything I am writing sounds worse and worse the more I write." Not exactly Writers' block. More like Writers' Angst.
There! I have just diagnosed myself with Writers' Angst. Now for the cure...
On the last day of my California journey, I looked through my grandma's desk. Every drawer had a purpose: envelopes, stamps, pens, extra erasers and pieces of graphite, even bits of loose confetti she put in cards for special occasions. The only thing that really caught my eye was an index folder, camouflaged in a sea of like folders, yet looking out of place because it was labeled "INSPIRATION." Inside were comic strips, newspaper articles, quotes about faith, an American flag sticker, and postcards from her hometown, Chicago, that I bet no one knew she had.
And I guess I could compile a folder and fill it with a few of my favorite things. That might be neat. That might help. But the way I see it, putting that all together would just take up time I could be writing, and I think the cure for not wanting to write or not "feeling up to it" or losing motivation - is to just write.
And write and write and write and write and write...
Friday, December 4, 2009
CALIFORNIA BLOG - Entry 7
December 4, 2009
I was sent to California with two missions - one from my uncle and one from my mom.
My mission from my uncle was to write down the story of my grandfather's life. The mission from my mom was to convince Pappou to get a dog.
I'm not sure which one I'm making more progress with yet, but it's obvious to me which one is more urgent.
It didn't take me long to realize that I was wrong about there being a ghost in the house my grandparents lived in since the 1960s. After spending a little time around my grandma's things, using her bathroom and reading her old daily planners, I started to feel like she was totally gone from this place, in a happy way. Yiayia wouldn't want to stay here at all. My grandma had a profound faith that she would one day be in heaven, a place far better than anything she could imagine on earth. My aunt said at Yiayia's memorial service, "Of all the places mom wanted to travel, heaven was the one she wanted to see the most."
I'm sure that she's looking down on us, watching us, praying for us, whatever our loved ones do up there, rather than leaving part of herself behind.
As soon as I ruled out the ghost, I found out I wasn't far off. There's no ghost living here, there's a zombie.
The old man shuffles about in his slippers, goes to the YMCA three times a week, and mindlessly watches infomercials for folk singers' CDs in the evening. Yiayia's sun hat lies where her head would on her side of the bed, which he never has to make because it's never touched. His friends ask him to dinner, and he declines. I think he eats the same thing every day because there's only one type of cereal in the cubbord, and the freezer is full of chicken pot pies.
He doesn't want to go anywhere because he doesn't want to go alone.
One of my favorite quotes from this summer's family vacation was from my eight year old cousin. We found a dog family - the mom and the dad and their three mutt puppies playing in the sand with their people - and Lexi so severely wanted this precious white, warm and wiggling thing. My uncle said no, and Lexi, fully aware of her exaggeration, protested with, "Without that puppy I will die! Puppies heal all wounds."
My grandpa obviously needs a dog. I can just see him tugging a little German shepherd puppy around the block and feeding it things he shouldn't. He'd have something to look after beside himself, something to complain about, something to spend his money on... Most of all something that makes noise and lives and breathes in this house that isn't him or his memories of my grandmother.
I was sent to California with two missions - one from my uncle and one from my mom.
My mission from my uncle was to write down the story of my grandfather's life. The mission from my mom was to convince Pappou to get a dog.
I'm not sure which one I'm making more progress with yet, but it's obvious to me which one is more urgent.
It didn't take me long to realize that I was wrong about there being a ghost in the house my grandparents lived in since the 1960s. After spending a little time around my grandma's things, using her bathroom and reading her old daily planners, I started to feel like she was totally gone from this place, in a happy way. Yiayia wouldn't want to stay here at all. My grandma had a profound faith that she would one day be in heaven, a place far better than anything she could imagine on earth. My aunt said at Yiayia's memorial service, "Of all the places mom wanted to travel, heaven was the one she wanted to see the most."
I'm sure that she's looking down on us, watching us, praying for us, whatever our loved ones do up there, rather than leaving part of herself behind.
As soon as I ruled out the ghost, I found out I wasn't far off. There's no ghost living here, there's a zombie.
The old man shuffles about in his slippers, goes to the YMCA three times a week, and mindlessly watches infomercials for folk singers' CDs in the evening. Yiayia's sun hat lies where her head would on her side of the bed, which he never has to make because it's never touched. His friends ask him to dinner, and he declines. I think he eats the same thing every day because there's only one type of cereal in the cubbord, and the freezer is full of chicken pot pies.
He doesn't want to go anywhere because he doesn't want to go alone.
One of my favorite quotes from this summer's family vacation was from my eight year old cousin. We found a dog family - the mom and the dad and their three mutt puppies playing in the sand with their people - and Lexi so severely wanted this precious white, warm and wiggling thing. My uncle said no, and Lexi, fully aware of her exaggeration, protested with, "Without that puppy I will die! Puppies heal all wounds."
My grandpa obviously needs a dog. I can just see him tugging a little German shepherd puppy around the block and feeding it things he shouldn't. He'd have something to look after beside himself, something to complain about, something to spend his money on... Most of all something that makes noise and lives and breathes in this house that isn't him or his memories of my grandmother.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
CALIFORNIA BLOG - Entry 6
December 2, 2009
Airports taught me something on this trip, and it is that Hobbes was wrong - man is good.
Even as I was sitting uncomfortably before takeoff from Pheonix thinking, "If anyone is a terrorist on this plane, it's the freaky guy next to me," the flight attendant mimed in the aisle while the calm voice over the speakers reminded us to assist ourselves before assisting others if the cabin pressure should change. They remind the cabin of this before every flight. There are brochures with illustrations, telling us to remember that WE COME FIRST in case of an emergency. Obviously the airlines agree with me that putting ourselves before others in times of danger or disadvantage is not our natural human tendency.
Plus, you wouldn't believe all the people I met through the ordeal. Maybe the two hour delay while we were all on board in Columbus, the lack of connections once we landed in Phoenix, the elusive phone we were supposed to use to call the hotel shuttle, missing luggage, and the non-negotiable early flights to our final destinations in the morning simply proved that people are more friendly when they are out of their element. But I think it's more than that.
I know from the feeling it gives me that people like it when they're friendly and helpful to one another. Yesterday, I gave up my window seat for a seat between two snoring old men so one man could sit next to his wife. Myself and a loud, giggly lady I met in one of the million lines we waited in yesterday gave up our seats on the hotel shuttle bus so a gay couple could leave and get their baby daughter to bed earlier. My rewards? One of the snoring old men was a pilot who was more than helpful when our plane was delayed and I had a thousand questions. Waiting longer for the shuttle meant I got to have a short but nice conversation with a cute, plaid-clad boy and his guitar. And I was proud of myself.
To people who believe that humans are selfish brutes, it's all about motivation. There's always the key factor that whatever a person is doing, it's all about themselves in some way, even if the only benefit is feeling good about their actions. I say that feeling a little proud and happy when you put others before yourself only proves that man is good enough to know that it's the right thing.
Airports taught me something on this trip, and it is that Hobbes was wrong - man is good.
Even as I was sitting uncomfortably before takeoff from Pheonix thinking, "If anyone is a terrorist on this plane, it's the freaky guy next to me," the flight attendant mimed in the aisle while the calm voice over the speakers reminded us to assist ourselves before assisting others if the cabin pressure should change. They remind the cabin of this before every flight. There are brochures with illustrations, telling us to remember that WE COME FIRST in case of an emergency. Obviously the airlines agree with me that putting ourselves before others in times of danger or disadvantage is not our natural human tendency.
Plus, you wouldn't believe all the people I met through the ordeal. Maybe the two hour delay while we were all on board in Columbus, the lack of connections once we landed in Phoenix, the elusive phone we were supposed to use to call the hotel shuttle, missing luggage, and the non-negotiable early flights to our final destinations in the morning simply proved that people are more friendly when they are out of their element. But I think it's more than that.
I know from the feeling it gives me that people like it when they're friendly and helpful to one another. Yesterday, I gave up my window seat for a seat between two snoring old men so one man could sit next to his wife. Myself and a loud, giggly lady I met in one of the million lines we waited in yesterday gave up our seats on the hotel shuttle bus so a gay couple could leave and get their baby daughter to bed earlier. My rewards? One of the snoring old men was a pilot who was more than helpful when our plane was delayed and I had a thousand questions. Waiting longer for the shuttle meant I got to have a short but nice conversation with a cute, plaid-clad boy and his guitar. And I was proud of myself.
To people who believe that humans are selfish brutes, it's all about motivation. There's always the key factor that whatever a person is doing, it's all about themselves in some way, even if the only benefit is feeling good about their actions. I say that feeling a little proud and happy when you put others before yourself only proves that man is good enough to know that it's the right thing.
CALIFORNIA BLOG - Entry 5
December 2, 2009
As soon as I walked into this house, I knew there was a ghost in it. How silly of me to feel this way, is what I thought until my grandpa called me into the Rain Room and I saw that he had turned it into a shrine. A beautiful shrine, with a wall full of hanging pictures of my grandmother, and a plaque that he had carved and made himself. I'd been disappointed by the apparent under-abundance of Pappou's rose bushes that lined the driveway, but the overflowing vase on the table explained it. He pointed to the table in the middle, and I recognized with a feeling of dread that the box in the center was Yiayia's urn.
He opened the lid; I was terrified. He took out the bag full of ashes and held it in his large, overworked hands like a baby. When he tried to hand me the remains of my grandmother, ice shot from my heart to the tips of my fingers and toes. I was ashamed and embarrassed in front of him because I could feel him judging my reactions. But I couldn't do it.
When he left the room, I got to look around less carefully. I read the beautiful inscription engraved on the lid of the box, above a picture of the two of them together. It was a little too much for me; I had a sudden urge to wash my hands.
This is what real live people do when they are overcome with loss.
I knew Pappou wasn't the same from the minute I saw him waiting at the baggage claim. And as we drove to his house, I was preparing myself for more differences. Amongst all the familiar things - the streets named after fruits, flowers, and lesser-known presidents, the vintage Volkswagen beetles, the dozens of wind chimes leading up to the front door, there was a feeling of divergence. Something had been separated from all my memories of California, and I was looking at what was left.
I glanced at my grandpa and realized that for some people, like retired old Greeks who have been married for 50 years, one thing can be the complete source of their happiness.
Rain had been one of my grandma's "things." Like knitting and cats and crossword puzzles are for some old folks. Some of my treasured memories of Yiayia are of us sitting outside my house underneath the porch Pappou built, listening to thunder and waiting for the rain to come. One of the things she always missed in this dry California valley was thunderstorms. So much so that once her children moved out, the small bedroom became her "Rain Room," where she would sometimes lie down in the dark and listen to thunderstorms on CD. I always saw it as Yiayia's sanctuary. She lined the walls with shelves of books that my grandpa would never read, cluttered it with toy elephants, and filled the drawers with office supplies. Those were some of her other "things."
Pappou's things are wood working, nautical themes, fruit trees and roses, and the swap meet. And making sure everyone has eaten too much food, but that's just the Greek in him.
He fed me eggs with avocado this morning, and I ate them off the same dining set he and Yiayia picked out decades ago. I still don't know if he realizes how much he scared me in the Rain Room; maybe that's what he's thinking about now as he drives to the YMCA to distract himself with laps in the pool, but I doubt it. For the past four months all his thoughts have been tied to memories of my grandma, and how could they not be? Especially in this house.
"My Beloved Sweetheart,
Across the Oceans I searched for you. I found you. I profoundly fell in love with you. I married you. We stood faithfully be each other for 50 years in calm and rough seas. We had 3 wonderful children and 7 grandchildren. Honey, I built this little house for you, my love and I can't wait to get in to be with you forever.
Your bleeding heart... Costas"
As soon as I walked into this house, I knew there was a ghost in it. How silly of me to feel this way, is what I thought until my grandpa called me into the Rain Room and I saw that he had turned it into a shrine. A beautiful shrine, with a wall full of hanging pictures of my grandmother, and a plaque that he had carved and made himself. I'd been disappointed by the apparent under-abundance of Pappou's rose bushes that lined the driveway, but the overflowing vase on the table explained it. He pointed to the table in the middle, and I recognized with a feeling of dread that the box in the center was Yiayia's urn.
He opened the lid; I was terrified. He took out the bag full of ashes and held it in his large, overworked hands like a baby. When he tried to hand me the remains of my grandmother, ice shot from my heart to the tips of my fingers and toes. I was ashamed and embarrassed in front of him because I could feel him judging my reactions. But I couldn't do it.
When he left the room, I got to look around less carefully. I read the beautiful inscription engraved on the lid of the box, above a picture of the two of them together. It was a little too much for me; I had a sudden urge to wash my hands.
This is what real live people do when they are overcome with loss.
I knew Pappou wasn't the same from the minute I saw him waiting at the baggage claim. And as we drove to his house, I was preparing myself for more differences. Amongst all the familiar things - the streets named after fruits, flowers, and lesser-known presidents, the vintage Volkswagen beetles, the dozens of wind chimes leading up to the front door, there was a feeling of divergence. Something had been separated from all my memories of California, and I was looking at what was left.
I glanced at my grandpa and realized that for some people, like retired old Greeks who have been married for 50 years, one thing can be the complete source of their happiness.
Rain had been one of my grandma's "things." Like knitting and cats and crossword puzzles are for some old folks. Some of my treasured memories of Yiayia are of us sitting outside my house underneath the porch Pappou built, listening to thunder and waiting for the rain to come. One of the things she always missed in this dry California valley was thunderstorms. So much so that once her children moved out, the small bedroom became her "Rain Room," where she would sometimes lie down in the dark and listen to thunderstorms on CD. I always saw it as Yiayia's sanctuary. She lined the walls with shelves of books that my grandpa would never read, cluttered it with toy elephants, and filled the drawers with office supplies. Those were some of her other "things."
Pappou's things are wood working, nautical themes, fruit trees and roses, and the swap meet. And making sure everyone has eaten too much food, but that's just the Greek in him.
He fed me eggs with avocado this morning, and I ate them off the same dining set he and Yiayia picked out decades ago. I still don't know if he realizes how much he scared me in the Rain Room; maybe that's what he's thinking about now as he drives to the YMCA to distract himself with laps in the pool, but I doubt it. For the past four months all his thoughts have been tied to memories of my grandma, and how could they not be? Especially in this house.
"My Beloved Sweetheart,
Across the Oceans I searched for you. I found you. I profoundly fell in love with you. I married you. We stood faithfully be each other for 50 years in calm and rough seas. We had 3 wonderful children and 7 grandchildren. Honey, I built this little house for you, my love and I can't wait to get in to be with you forever.
Your bleeding heart... Costas"
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
CALIFORNIA BLOG - Entry 4
December 1, 2009
I'm about to board a plane at 5:20 p.m. on December 1st, traveling west.
Do you know what this means?!?!
It means sunset is soon. It means that there will be more the one sunset. I means that I'm going to see sunsets. Plural. From the sky. In the sky. During sunset. Multiple sunsets.
I'm about to board a plane at 5:20 p.m. on December 1st, traveling west.
Do you know what this means?!?!
It means sunset is soon. It means that there will be more the one sunset. I means that I'm going to see sunsets. Plural. From the sky. In the sky. During sunset. Multiple sunsets.
CALIFORNIA BLOG - Entry 3
December 1, 2009
I wish the blog "1000 Awesome Things" had been my idea, but it wasn't. I still have a good one, though: Airport reunions.
I just witnessed one. Group of college students meets group of college students. "It's been so long!"
The best one I've ever seen was when my best friend in high school came back from a year in Germany. I was there with her family and friend Kyle. Grandparents. Cousins. Sister. Aunt. Her mom brought little American flags for us to wave, and shiny noise makers like the one I got in a party bag when my friend turned nine. There's nothing like that kind of anticipation - seeing someone you really care about after being apart too long. When the arrival time gets nearer, something burns and bubbles in the pit of your stomach. Your throat gets tight even as you get ready to squeal or yell their name.
It's the worst and the best feeling every time someone walks out of the gate and for a split second you think, "It's them!"
Of course Molly was one of the last ones off. As we were celebrating and giving hugs and flowers, I noticed one other family still there. Well, half a family. A mother and small child, just starting to walk in the tiniest tennis shoes, were waiting. The woman's eyes never left the hallway whoever she was waiting on was supposed to have already come down.
I started to feel anxious again. Seconds ticked by slowly. Our party was set to leave, when finally, finally, a man emerged into view dressed in full marine outfit, and the mother breathed again.
From here your imagination can do a better job than the English language.
I wish the blog "1000 Awesome Things" had been my idea, but it wasn't. I still have a good one, though: Airport reunions.
I just witnessed one. Group of college students meets group of college students. "It's been so long!"
The best one I've ever seen was when my best friend in high school came back from a year in Germany. I was there with her family and friend Kyle. Grandparents. Cousins. Sister. Aunt. Her mom brought little American flags for us to wave, and shiny noise makers like the one I got in a party bag when my friend turned nine. There's nothing like that kind of anticipation - seeing someone you really care about after being apart too long. When the arrival time gets nearer, something burns and bubbles in the pit of your stomach. Your throat gets tight even as you get ready to squeal or yell their name.
It's the worst and the best feeling every time someone walks out of the gate and for a split second you think, "It's them!"
Of course Molly was one of the last ones off. As we were celebrating and giving hugs and flowers, I noticed one other family still there. Well, half a family. A mother and small child, just starting to walk in the tiniest tennis shoes, were waiting. The woman's eyes never left the hallway whoever she was waiting on was supposed to have already come down.
I started to feel anxious again. Seconds ticked by slowly. Our party was set to leave, when finally, finally, a man emerged into view dressed in full marine outfit, and the mother breathed again.
From here your imagination can do a better job than the English language.
CALIFORNIA BLOG - Entry 2
December 1, 2009
In high school, my best friend and I tried our for the same show choir. Molly knew a lot more about it than I did, because I was new to the school district. I think that's why her and I became friends in the first place; beside our shared obsession with getting involved in choir and theatre, Molly knew everybody and everything about everybody, or so it seemed to me.
We had to stay after school and wait for our time slot to learn the dance we'd have to perform at auditions. I'm as uncoordinated as a baby giraffe looks, so my nerves and worries were escalating every second as hopeful students with earlier time slots left the practice room feeling confident. Already putting myself down, I adopted Molly's nerves also. She wouldn't stop going on about other people she knew who were trying out, and how much more skilled and talented they were than she. Needless to say, she wasn't very encouraging company. Neither was the last girl to come out of the room before we went in. Still bubbly and bouncy from her overenthusiastic dance session, the girl's confidence made me cringe with immediate dislike. She introduced herself as Sarah, one of the "more talented" girls Molly had been worrying about for the past hour.
But by the end of the week, the three of us had been denied from show choir, the sequined, gauzy dresses never to adorn our eleventh grade bodies. We were also great friends.
Intimidation is useless.
I've been sitting in the airport in Columbus for thirty minutes. I was well prepared to go an hour before my brother dropped me off; I ran all my errands and packed my things this morning. It was a well-paced day. Yet, standing in the check in line with my carry-ons, rushing through security, speed-walking to gate B23 with my shoes still untied, I was anxious.
Why?
Airports are intimidating. They are big. It's almost like they shouldn't exist. Man wasn't meant to fly, yet he does. He does in huge, enormous aircrafts that are made out of aluminum. Aluminum. The same basic element we drink soda out of, and wrap our sandwiches in. Aluminum is associated with airplanes and food.
Airports are big. And even though I've flown before, I have never done so alone. I was a child up until recently, after all. Getting ahold of my boarding pass, making sure I got to the airport two hours before departure, knowing what line to stand in - all things I never worried about.
Why do they recommend we arrive two hours before departure? I think airports like to be intimidating. We think we're running out of time, but we're really not. We end up sitting at the gate eying the Starbucks down the hall for an hour and forty minutes before they even start boarding senior citizens.
The moral of the story is that airports and high school are a lot easier than some people would like you to believe.
I wonder if my grandfather has cleared out my grandma's medicine cabinet. I wonder how much of her will be missing.
In high school, my best friend and I tried our for the same show choir. Molly knew a lot more about it than I did, because I was new to the school district. I think that's why her and I became friends in the first place; beside our shared obsession with getting involved in choir and theatre, Molly knew everybody and everything about everybody, or so it seemed to me.
We had to stay after school and wait for our time slot to learn the dance we'd have to perform at auditions. I'm as uncoordinated as a baby giraffe looks, so my nerves and worries were escalating every second as hopeful students with earlier time slots left the practice room feeling confident. Already putting myself down, I adopted Molly's nerves also. She wouldn't stop going on about other people she knew who were trying out, and how much more skilled and talented they were than she. Needless to say, she wasn't very encouraging company. Neither was the last girl to come out of the room before we went in. Still bubbly and bouncy from her overenthusiastic dance session, the girl's confidence made me cringe with immediate dislike. She introduced herself as Sarah, one of the "more talented" girls Molly had been worrying about for the past hour.
But by the end of the week, the three of us had been denied from show choir, the sequined, gauzy dresses never to adorn our eleventh grade bodies. We were also great friends.
Intimidation is useless.
I've been sitting in the airport in Columbus for thirty minutes. I was well prepared to go an hour before my brother dropped me off; I ran all my errands and packed my things this morning. It was a well-paced day. Yet, standing in the check in line with my carry-ons, rushing through security, speed-walking to gate B23 with my shoes still untied, I was anxious.
Why?
Airports are intimidating. They are big. It's almost like they shouldn't exist. Man wasn't meant to fly, yet he does. He does in huge, enormous aircrafts that are made out of aluminum. Aluminum. The same basic element we drink soda out of, and wrap our sandwiches in. Aluminum is associated with airplanes and food.
Airports are big. And even though I've flown before, I have never done so alone. I was a child up until recently, after all. Getting ahold of my boarding pass, making sure I got to the airport two hours before departure, knowing what line to stand in - all things I never worried about.
Why do they recommend we arrive two hours before departure? I think airports like to be intimidating. We think we're running out of time, but we're really not. We end up sitting at the gate eying the Starbucks down the hall for an hour and forty minutes before they even start boarding senior citizens.
The moral of the story is that airports and high school are a lot easier than some people would like you to believe.
I wonder if my grandfather has cleared out my grandma's medicine cabinet. I wonder how much of her will be missing.
CALIFORNIA BLOG - Entry 1
November 29, 2009
I got a call from my grandpa about three weeks into November about going west for a while to stay with him over my lengthly winter break. The next day, my uncle was emailing my itinerary and told me I'd be leaving in a week.
We'd talked about this for months, but it all seemed to happen so fast.
Actually, I'm not exactly sure when my uncle Vangeli got it into his head to ask me to write down my grandpa's story. Maybe it was an idea he, my mom, and Aunt Deedee tossed around in their heads for years, biding their time until one of us nieces or nephews popped out, grew up, and wanted to become a writer.
Whatever the reason, I was glad to be recruited. If I'm not a writer yet, maybe this will make me become one.
I always though people were born story-tellers, though. Like my grandpa. But maybe that's not it. Maybe people become story-tellers when they have stories to tell. Maybe writers become writers once they have something to write about.
So that's why I'm going to California.
My grandfather's children seem to know a lot more of his stories than I do, but the person who knew the most was my grandma. I'm under the impression that she's passed them on more efficiently than he has. The stories he liked to share with his grandchildren were fiction. Over a couple years' worth of visits, he had my youngest brother completely convinced that he was a pirate in his youth. An old pirate movie he sat us down to (he was the hero, and my grandma was sometimes the damsel he rescued from the plank, and sometimes the wench he teased) and buried "treasure" we dug up one summer were the clinchers for Austin. I never fell prey to the trick, but wondered at a few things. There was a collection of swords hidden behind a wall panel in the hall. The knotted scar stretching up his arm was certainly real. The difference between those summer vacations and this trip is that now I'm going to learn the truth about that scar.
I got a call from my grandpa about three weeks into November about going west for a while to stay with him over my lengthly winter break. The next day, my uncle was emailing my itinerary and told me I'd be leaving in a week.
We'd talked about this for months, but it all seemed to happen so fast.
Actually, I'm not exactly sure when my uncle Vangeli got it into his head to ask me to write down my grandpa's story. Maybe it was an idea he, my mom, and Aunt Deedee tossed around in their heads for years, biding their time until one of us nieces or nephews popped out, grew up, and wanted to become a writer.
Whatever the reason, I was glad to be recruited. If I'm not a writer yet, maybe this will make me become one.
I always though people were born story-tellers, though. Like my grandpa. But maybe that's not it. Maybe people become story-tellers when they have stories to tell. Maybe writers become writers once they have something to write about.
So that's why I'm going to California.
My grandfather's children seem to know a lot more of his stories than I do, but the person who knew the most was my grandma. I'm under the impression that she's passed them on more efficiently than he has. The stories he liked to share with his grandchildren were fiction. Over a couple years' worth of visits, he had my youngest brother completely convinced that he was a pirate in his youth. An old pirate movie he sat us down to (he was the hero, and my grandma was sometimes the damsel he rescued from the plank, and sometimes the wench he teased) and buried "treasure" we dug up one summer were the clinchers for Austin. I never fell prey to the trick, but wondered at a few things. There was a collection of swords hidden behind a wall panel in the hall. The knotted scar stretching up his arm was certainly real. The difference between those summer vacations and this trip is that now I'm going to learn the truth about that scar.
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