Okay, you are really going to laugh because once again I am back and once again sipping on my morning coffee contemplating life. But now I am sitting inside my house (because it is too damn cold outside), in my sunny gold room I call my serenity now room. The room has gold walls and 2 gold puffy chenille covered one and a half chairs, trimmed in 12" bullion, with 3 large pillows that envelope you when you sit. Sometimes Charlie joins me in the room. He picks the chair that the sun shines on the most. He will stand in front of the chair and wait for me to remove the middle pillow so he has more room to curl up. I have a great painting I purchased from a starving artist that depicts old buildings and rain-soacked streets and sidewalks. The storm must just be breaking up because the sun is beginning to bellow its golden red hues through the overcast sky. The setting must be in the early 1900's with men walking around in our their boiler hats and waist coats and women in their long bustled dresses and parasols. There is a statue of a man on a horse in the city square, most likely a military hero, and an American flag draping from the front of a building. The painter copied the Kincaid style of bringing the painting to life with gold colors and flecks that appear to catch the light and actually glow when the sun or a night light hits it. It is a great picture. The south wall has plenty of windows covered in pecan colored natural bamboo shades that let in the perfect amount of sunlight that warms me up when the chill of winter surrounds everything. There is a half-moon shaped window above the others that has leaded glass. It too reflects the sunlight perfectly, diminishing its intensity but also plays with it a bit by adding muted colors of the rainbow to dance on the walls. The French doors allow me to close the world out or let it come in depending on how much serenity I really need. When the little boys come to visit, which isn't often enough, I tell them that this is the room where you come in, sit down and be still. Just be still. It is funny to watch their faces and their body language when I keep reminding them in a Ashram Guru sort of way that they need to breathe in and breathe out and just be still. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't.
Today, for the moment I am just breathing. FL is on his way to the high security prisons in Canon City, CO where the most notorious of criminals are housed. He visits once a month to about 15 inmates who have converted to Orthodoxy. He doesn't know their story. He doesn't ask. It isn't for him to judge. I am sitting at my country French secretary with its open pane doors that are inlaid with brass triangles. Inside are memories of years past encased in frames that compliment the room. I also have hanging on a wall a Japanese watercolor with birds gliding over a Lily pond of floating gardenias and orchids and tall eucalyptus branches draping over the water. As I sit here, I ponder at how quickly time goes by.
Yesterday FL and I drove early in the morning to Cheyenne where FL's mother Esther was remembered in her 3-year memorial after the Divine Liturgy. We then went to the cemetery where it wasn't hard to remember that cold blistery winter day when she was laid to rest. ["Laid to rest". What does that mean? Here -- let me seal you in this hard cold casket and put you six feet under so you can rest? Never to see the light of day or be seen again? They should say -- where you get eaten by whatever decays your body and turns you back in to the dust you were before God decided to turn you into a human being. I guess it doesn't quite sound so peaceful.] Again the temperature was in the 30's and the wind was blowing 40 miles per hour -- which offered a wonderful balmy wind chill factor which made it seem as if it was 10 below. It was cold. Cold lips don't allow you to speak very quickly but FL did a nice job. We have determined that memorials for Esther and George will be in July from now on. Sitting down to lunch, we shared in memories of Esther the mother, sister, matriarch, wife and friend. There was a lot of laughs, and not so many tears as favorite stories or Esther euphemisms were shared.
Esther inspired the theme of "every-generation, FL's sabbatical journey. And now, six months later, it is difficult to find the time to reconnect to the flavor of the those 4 months. I remember the sites and the walking and the family moments. But now that journey, that experience, just dangles out there like cut up rags dangling from an elastic rope waiting for someone to bump against them so they can bounce up and down until they become still again. Every now and then I grab on to them when for some reason they brush by me like a ghost and something or someone makes me pause and remember. Six months later we are back in our routine. That old idea of spending more time together and slowing down a bit -- reorganizing our schedules to allow more time for family or exercise or nice dinners at the table that sits empty and alone in our kitchen. But it is all okay. It works, it's life. And we know what the alternative to that is -- I guess we will get enough "rest" later.
I don't know if anyone will ever read this, but if you do -- call me, I'd like to know you are following.
Thanks,
Marsha
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
It is Time!
It is Time
Last week when we returned home from the family reunion in Cheyenne, Charlie literally spoke to me. He was so excited to see us. I really think he thought we were leaving for another seven-week trip, the fact that we were gone only two-and-a -half days was a tremendous relief to him. So, once again we pull out the old suitcase, apparently our new fashion statement for the season, and hug Charlie goodbye, as we are off to the mountains for our final few days of the sabbatical. I’m sure he is getting tired of all of this. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m not far behind.
FL and I are expected at the Snow Mountain Retreat in Fraser Colorado. If you are from Colorado, and you love to ski, snow mobile, hike or fish, you know exactly where that is. If you are not, let’s just say it is “in the mountains”. And if you are in the mountains in Colorado, you will see lots of beautiful scenery. There are the mountains, the hills, the aspen trees just beginning to take on their fall colors. There are rivers and streams and lakes with a fisherman here and there, standing knee deep in waders casting his line, hoping to catch that trophy size Rainbow Trout. There are green pastures, some with horses in them that are grazing along the fence line or even lying down just soaking in the sunshine as long as they possibly can until the temperatures suddenly drop with the cold night air.
I have mixed emotions about this four month sabbatical coming to an end. On the one hand, I am ready to get back into a “normal” routine. Whatever that means? But there is such finality to this entire experience. I am pretty sure it will be the last time FL and I spend this much time together until he retires. Ooh, I can’t believe that word is even ready to be spoken. “Retires?” Let me rephrase that. Until he retires as the proestamanos of a parish. I don’t think he will ever really retire. Priests are like the bunnies that keep on going, or the watch that keeps on ticking. As we drive up the mountain our trip is silent. “Michael Jackson’s Greatest Hits” is playing on the iPod. “Got to be there…..to be there, in the morning…” I love Michael Jackson. The young Michael Jackson. His songs always bring back memories of a time in my life when I was younger, fresher, less serious. I think he was on my first date singing “Puppy Love”, or “One Bad Apple”, when that ended. I am definitely a softie for “the oldies”. As I stare out the window at the landscape I think we are both contemplating how the past four months have affected us. You wouldn’t think that a four month sabbatical would be such a big deal. I mean, really. People travel all the time. People take vacations all the time. But this was more than that. First of all, it was an opportunity of a lifetime to visit all the places we’ve been; to imagine our grandparents or great grandparents walking the same paths we took. To stop and share this experience with our children, who will one day become us. Wondering what legacy we have left behind for them to hold on to and to pass on to their children’s children. But mostly, it was a time for FL and I to reconnect. To remind us of why we are together and what keeps us together. In 33 years of married life, serving God and parishioners of His church, has been the number one focus in our lives. Of course the family is his priority, but the focus is the Church. Even on a day off, or a vacation, her presence is felt. Sleeping at night with the phone next to the bed in case someone calls in an emergency – and they have. Scheduling birthdays, anniversaries, holidays around the church’s needs, not our own. And for the first time, the past four months – well, let’s not exaggerate, 3 months and maybe one week – our lives were our own. The focus was the family. WE laughed, yelled, built memories, and watched lots of sports. Again, there is such finality to that. Tonight, we will walk into a room of parishioners and the "new" season will begin. FL is ready. This is his flock. He cares for this alternate family of his. He is protective and he wants to serve them – (for the glory of God, as he would say). It is time.
The resemblance to any place we have traveled seems minimal as we drive through the Rocky Mountains. The high peaks have such an ominous presence. They are half covered in pines that have unfortunately been destroyed by the pine beetle, so rather than a forest of green; there is now a forest of brown with a little green. However, the new little shoots of pines seem to be standing tall and bright, almost exclaiming to their elders, not to worry, they have it covered and they will someday soon take their place. The rocky edges of the peaks are worn and jagged like the face of an old Indian Chief whose skin saw too much sun and wind. These peaks are the powerhouse of the Rockies. They almost come alive if you stare at them long enough. My father was a geologist. Whenever I drive through mountain ranges and valleys, I am reminded of the endless lessens told about the earth and her development; and why the mountains exist; and why they look like they do; and what type of rock the formation consists of; and whether it be from the Jurassic, or the Cambrian or pre-Cambrian era, or whatever! I smile, remembering how I rolled my eyes when he would begin the story and how I would turn my focus to the imaginary designs the clouds would make with their big fluffy sculptures that transformed into something different within minutes. Sorry dad, too much right brain for me. The small towns in the mountains have that reoccurring theme of a cross between the old west with their country stores or the mountain ski resort chic with designer boutiques and coffee shops.
Upon arriving at the lodge, we immediately change into warmer clothes because the mountain air has turned quite chilly, thus reminding me why I don’t visit the mountains more often. The first round of welcome begins at a campfire where everyone is roasting marshmallows for the ever famous Smores. Heartfelt greetings and hugs and kisses were in abundance. Saturday was filled with more mountain viewing, a little fishing and carb-filled meals of sausage and gravy, fried chicken and chocolate cake. We had more carbs for dinner and then the panoramic view of the valley stood still for our Vespers service. Everyone gathered for the “Every Generation” presentation which thankfully, they all seemed to enjoy. The evening closed out with another campfire session as the camp entertainers sang those age old songs that are loud and catchy and the children love…. “I said a boom chica boom…”! There were quite a few children attending and they seemed to be enjoying their freedom to run and play without the constrictions of home. Sunday we departed the camp grounds in the cool 25 degree temperature, heading toward Prophet Elias, a small church built over a century ago by generations before us. They chose this land because it reminded them of their homeland. Greek Americans from all over the Denver area would vacation up here in the summertime. I have heard great stories about multitudes of families coming together with their cooking utensils and homemade wines, sitting around on cool evenings. Someone must have brought up the idea that they should have a church here for Sundays. Being the generation that left home and the words “I can’t”, not being a part of their vocabulary – or “Ohi” as they probably said it, they built that church that represented who they were as a culture. Ironically, Father Lou, AKA--Pater Elias, was here on Sunday to serve his first Divine Liturgy with His parishioners in four months, at that church, Prophet Elias. He was back, he was comfortable in his surroundings. There was happiness in his heart as he addressed His flock. It was time.
Treveling down the mountain that afternoon, listening to the football game and then the baseball game on the radio, that replaced my “oldies but goodies”, I realized it was time for me too. It has been such a great ride. A journey, with memories that may fade as the years go by, but they will never die. Charlie --- we’re home!
Thank you God.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
"He always sings ragtime music"
The journey is almost over. The final destination is the reconnection to the present. Why do we find that so hard to do? The mind is such a strange gift. It can travel back and forth in time and jump forward to the future, or its perception of what the future may or should be -- but rarely do we stay in the present and experience the moment. Smell the roses as the old cliche goes. As I begin this blog, I'm once again sitting in the back yard drinking my first cup of coffee of the day. I must really give the impression that all I do it sit around sipping coffee and contemplating nature's way; peaceful, quiet, serene. I do enjoy summer, and fortunately life has been very relaxing for the most part over the past several months, lending itself to the situation. Today I noticed that that the summer sun is repositioning itself and filtering through the trees with a little softer determination. The shadows are hanging around longer covering most of the patio and the grass, offering a reprieve from the August heat allowing the tired flowers to soak in their moist environment a little longer. The breeze in the air is also a little cooler and less noticeable. But every now and then a gust kicks up sporadically waking the chimes and demanding they play a few notes.
We just spent a week with Nichole and the boys. Gus came in for the weekend for the "new Christopulos family reunion". Papou and Zsa Zsa's house isn't nearly as fun as spending all day at the beach in Greece, nor is the food quite as good. But Pappou Lou gave it his best; becoming the golf and fishing partner to Stelios. He participated in Elias' superhero make believe world where one minute Fl was covered in a web shot from Elias' perfectly posed Spiderman fingertips, and the next minute he was reviving Superman from a lethal exposure to kryptonite poured over him by the evil Lex Luther, Superman's arch enemy. And to Alexander, he was the ball boy, retrieving basketballs or tennis balls that just missed the mark; the ball handler's handler --meaning he carried him a lot; and yes,the ball handler's changer (use your imagination), when needed.
We reopened the pathway for more memories as the Christopulos brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews and grand nieces and nephews shared a weekend of Wyoming fun. FL took charge of cooking hamburgers for all at his sister Adri's house. The night air cooperated maintaining its warmth as long as possible before having to pull out the old sweatshirt if we planned to sit under the stars any longer. One would think that six children under 8 years old,five of them being boys,would make for a wild evening. But each found their age appropriate playmate and aside from a few power struggles over balls and a little pushing and shoving, all went well. When it came time to leave, Stelios could not find his shoes. After a scavenger hunt involving 10 adults and 6 children looking under tables, chairs, couches, and retracing footprints in the wet grass, Uncle Chris came up a hero after checking one more time in the most unlikely place, on the step next to the door. I can guarantee you that had we been looking for a woman's pair of dress shoes as apposed to Telly's black and white Nike athletic shoes, Chris' honing skills wouldn't have worked quite so well. After late conversation with brothers to brothers to brother-in-law and sisters to sisters to sisters-in-law, cousins to cousins and so on.... we said good night.
The next day the tradition of Wyoming football began. FL woke up at 5:00 a.m. anticipating the opening season game. Texting his brother, Dan, they met in the lobby for a cup of coffee to discuss the possibility and hope for a Cowboy victory. At this point I'm sure many memories came to mind. As a child, waking up early to the crisp mountain air of early fall, where the days warmed up as the hands on the clock ticked away the hours and the minutes until the big game; his father and mother loaded up the old Ford station wagon -- you know the big kind that substituted for a boat should the need arise. George wouldn't think of buying anything other than a Ford. The two boys sat way in back, far away from George's reach, the two girls in the middle. The family would definitely be listening to the pre-game commentators on the AM station out of Laramie Wyoming, discussing the statistics of the sport and the players. Who would be starting and which team was favored to win. Knowing George, if the other team was favored, a short outburst of "Oh, you're nuts -- why don't you get out of Wyoming would follow, (expressed here in a much more PG format). Or, "You mallet head," (whatever that meant) -- followed with a few more expletives. Then Esther I'm sure would interject, "Geese George!" I'm also sure that"Cowboy Joe", the Wyoming Cowboy's theme song was sung at least 10 times before the drive out of the mountains opened up into the huge expanse of undeveloped land. And there, in the middle of nowhere, the University of Wyoming, with its tall spires and medieval Gothic style buildings stood regal and tall representing the state's contribution to education; so out of character to the baron terrain of sagebrush and the wind blown grassland and the limited half-parched pine trees that surround it. The Rocky mountains, in the background, with their purple majestic silhouette framed the football stadium that stood larger than life to influential youth. "War Memorial Stadium" built in honor of World War II Veterans.
Wyoming is all about patriotism. And there were none more patriotic than George Christopulos. He loved God and his church; he loved his family; he loved his country; and he really loved the University of Wyoming. Upon arriving at the parking lot, before the clock struck 12 and the games began, personally autographed footballs would come out and Dan and Lou would enter the sideline where future athletes of America would toss the ball relentlessly back and forth, running for that imaginary touchdown until the uniform clad heroes of the day, in their brown and gold Jerseys and sporting the famous bucking bronco on their helmets, would enter the field. Accompanied by the UW Cowboy marching band, the fans would sing out loud to the syncopated gaiter of "Cowboy Joe". Just when the noise couldn't get any louder "boom", the cannon shot from afar announcing the beginning of the game -- kickoff time! From that moment on, nothing else in life existed or mattered. Ten years later, FL took the field in his "brown and gold" uniform, a big number 27 stamped on his back, becoming that hero for the next generation. A few years after that, Dan also proudly wore the Cowboy label as the kicker, still holding the Wyoming record for the longest field goal. A 62-yard attempt, won the game. I was there that day, FL was in Boston at the seminary. Christopulos' around the country were proud.
So today, game day, FL was that athlete all over again. Waking early with jitters and excitement for the upcoming event. He was thinking through the plays for the day. The goal -- to arrive at the stadium in time for the opening kickoff with children and grandchildren adorned in some form of brown and gold. As ETD (estimated time of departure) closed in, his nerves were on edge as the group was beginning to become non-responsive to his quest. More frustration as the need for switching places and car seats and cars due to the demands of young voices -- really loud voices. Elaine, Adri, Lou and Dan were in attendance honoring their parents with a brick purchased to memorialize their parents' patriotism to the game and the University of Wyoming. Standing next to that brick that held company on a wall of hundreds of others, we took pictures with our present and future generations. I'm not sure that the love and passion for the game and the Alma mater of FL and myself will be relived with any of our children or grandchildren, but I am sure that the brick will remain in place waiting patiently, should they come back some day with their grown children and their grandchildren, to find their legacy. Watching Telly, Elias and Alexander cheering for the Cowboys, who won their first game of the season; and sharing the experience with his brother's and sister's, turned out to be all that FL could hope for. He is in fact his father's son.
Sunday began with church services. FL served his first complete Divine Liturgy since the village in Kokkino, at his home parish of Saints Constantine and Helen in Cheyenne. Not everyone was there on time. This church represents a lifetime of memories where brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews and even our own daughter Nichole was baptized. It is where lifelong friendships were sealed; brides and grooms were united; grandparents departed; and where parents' memories were eternalized. After church, we visited the grave site of many Christopulos' saying a prayer for all of them. As the brothers and sisters looked at one another tears came to their eyes, yearning for earlier times when they all were together with their mother and father, and yia yia and papou's, not just here alone, left behind with their memories.
Little America, is where we stayed for the weekend. It is the perfect hotel/motel -- and I have been to many, especially recently. Its lobby is tastefully decorated with heavy padded floral carpeting that compliments the over sized large sofa and chairs that focus on the stone fireplace. The accessories are perfect in an appropriate western motif with bronze renderings of steer wrestlers and ropers. The gift shop is laden with western art design, unique gifts for children, gum, aspirin, etc... as well as a clothing section that suits those of various taste. There is a small coffee shop where you can get the best ice cream cone in the world for 50 cents and early morning coffee. The rooms are still very large with queen size beds covered in powder blue spreads with matching curtains covering sliding glass doors that open to an outdoor patio. The French provincial dressers and vanities conveniently offer plenty of drawer space. A swimming pool the size of a small lake and a par-3 golf course are surrounded by 30 year-old pines that whisper constantly in the wind, because the wind is constantly blowing. But my favorite is the restaurant. It just has that old elegant style with a dining room filled with white linen covered tables and in the center are sets of half-curved booths that sit back to back. The waiters and waitresses that serve you, still wear black and white uniforms. After a long hard day of sun and wind and cheering loudly, dinner at Little America in Cheyenne Wyoming, is my reward for making the trip. My favorite is liver and onions with mashed potatoes and salad. On Sunday, we had a family champagne brunch in a private room with breakfast served from silver chaffing dishes, attended by the neatly uniformed wait staff. We celebrated the culmination of a beautiful weekend, obviously a victorious weekend, and the final leg of the sabbatical. Everyone sat down to watch our presentation of "Every Generation", which was prepared by Maria Demeris our dear friend from Houston, (and Greece). She captured a journey in our lives in a way that our words could not express. After rave reviews and full stomachs and lots and lots of picture taking, we departed for home.
The air in Denver is much warmer than Cheyenne and it allowed us many hours to spend on the patio where we shared laughs and memories with grandma and grandpa while Alexander shot the basketball; Stelios played Trivial Pursuit; Jonathan texted his girlfriend; Christopher and Gus joked amongst themselves; and Elias slept in the bedroom. I sat watching the 4 generations together thinking how quickly time passes. A tear slowly began to appear and knowing my emotions would soon be exposed, I arose and walked away. Through this entire journey one theme is evident; that every generation share life's experiences; the good, the bad, loving beyond words, laughing until you cry, and goodbyes. Knowing Nichole and family will be leaving once again, I can only sigh. And then I am suddenly jolted from my over-contemplative moment; as Elias appeared in the doorway and once again letting his powerful presence be known, he shouted, "Mommy, I'm all wet". Out of the mouths of babes!
Labor Day 2010: Peace, quit, alone in the present moment; a journey from beginning to end.
We just spent a week with Nichole and the boys. Gus came in for the weekend for the "new Christopulos family reunion". Papou and Zsa Zsa's house isn't nearly as fun as spending all day at the beach in Greece, nor is the food quite as good. But Pappou Lou gave it his best; becoming the golf and fishing partner to Stelios. He participated in Elias' superhero make believe world where one minute Fl was covered in a web shot from Elias' perfectly posed Spiderman fingertips, and the next minute he was reviving Superman from a lethal exposure to kryptonite poured over him by the evil Lex Luther, Superman's arch enemy. And to Alexander, he was the ball boy, retrieving basketballs or tennis balls that just missed the mark; the ball handler's handler --meaning he carried him a lot; and yes,the ball handler's changer (use your imagination), when needed.
We reopened the pathway for more memories as the Christopulos brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews and grand nieces and nephews shared a weekend of Wyoming fun. FL took charge of cooking hamburgers for all at his sister Adri's house. The night air cooperated maintaining its warmth as long as possible before having to pull out the old sweatshirt if we planned to sit under the stars any longer. One would think that six children under 8 years old,five of them being boys,would make for a wild evening. But each found their age appropriate playmate and aside from a few power struggles over balls and a little pushing and shoving, all went well. When it came time to leave, Stelios could not find his shoes. After a scavenger hunt involving 10 adults and 6 children looking under tables, chairs, couches, and retracing footprints in the wet grass, Uncle Chris came up a hero after checking one more time in the most unlikely place, on the step next to the door. I can guarantee you that had we been looking for a woman's pair of dress shoes as apposed to Telly's black and white Nike athletic shoes, Chris' honing skills wouldn't have worked quite so well. After late conversation with brothers to brothers to brother-in-law and sisters to sisters to sisters-in-law, cousins to cousins and so on.... we said good night.
The next day the tradition of Wyoming football began. FL woke up at 5:00 a.m. anticipating the opening season game. Texting his brother, Dan, they met in the lobby for a cup of coffee to discuss the possibility and hope for a Cowboy victory. At this point I'm sure many memories came to mind. As a child, waking up early to the crisp mountain air of early fall, where the days warmed up as the hands on the clock ticked away the hours and the minutes until the big game; his father and mother loaded up the old Ford station wagon -- you know the big kind that substituted for a boat should the need arise. George wouldn't think of buying anything other than a Ford. The two boys sat way in back, far away from George's reach, the two girls in the middle. The family would definitely be listening to the pre-game commentators on the AM station out of Laramie Wyoming, discussing the statistics of the sport and the players. Who would be starting and which team was favored to win. Knowing George, if the other team was favored, a short outburst of "Oh, you're nuts -- why don't you get out of Wyoming would follow, (expressed here in a much more PG format). Or, "You mallet head," (whatever that meant) -- followed with a few more expletives. Then Esther I'm sure would interject, "Geese George!" I'm also sure that"Cowboy Joe", the Wyoming Cowboy's theme song was sung at least 10 times before the drive out of the mountains opened up into the huge expanse of undeveloped land. And there, in the middle of nowhere, the University of Wyoming, with its tall spires and medieval Gothic style buildings stood regal and tall representing the state's contribution to education; so out of character to the baron terrain of sagebrush and the wind blown grassland and the limited half-parched pine trees that surround it. The Rocky mountains, in the background, with their purple majestic silhouette framed the football stadium that stood larger than life to influential youth. "War Memorial Stadium" built in honor of World War II Veterans.
Wyoming is all about patriotism. And there were none more patriotic than George Christopulos. He loved God and his church; he loved his family; he loved his country; and he really loved the University of Wyoming. Upon arriving at the parking lot, before the clock struck 12 and the games began, personally autographed footballs would come out and Dan and Lou would enter the sideline where future athletes of America would toss the ball relentlessly back and forth, running for that imaginary touchdown until the uniform clad heroes of the day, in their brown and gold Jerseys and sporting the famous bucking bronco on their helmets, would enter the field. Accompanied by the UW Cowboy marching band, the fans would sing out loud to the syncopated gaiter of "Cowboy Joe". Just when the noise couldn't get any louder "boom", the cannon shot from afar announcing the beginning of the game -- kickoff time! From that moment on, nothing else in life existed or mattered. Ten years later, FL took the field in his "brown and gold" uniform, a big number 27 stamped on his back, becoming that hero for the next generation. A few years after that, Dan also proudly wore the Cowboy label as the kicker, still holding the Wyoming record for the longest field goal. A 62-yard attempt, won the game. I was there that day, FL was in Boston at the seminary. Christopulos' around the country were proud.
So today, game day, FL was that athlete all over again. Waking early with jitters and excitement for the upcoming event. He was thinking through the plays for the day. The goal -- to arrive at the stadium in time for the opening kickoff with children and grandchildren adorned in some form of brown and gold. As ETD (estimated time of departure) closed in, his nerves were on edge as the group was beginning to become non-responsive to his quest. More frustration as the need for switching places and car seats and cars due to the demands of young voices -- really loud voices. Elaine, Adri, Lou and Dan were in attendance honoring their parents with a brick purchased to memorialize their parents' patriotism to the game and the University of Wyoming. Standing next to that brick that held company on a wall of hundreds of others, we took pictures with our present and future generations. I'm not sure that the love and passion for the game and the Alma mater of FL and myself will be relived with any of our children or grandchildren, but I am sure that the brick will remain in place waiting patiently, should they come back some day with their grown children and their grandchildren, to find their legacy. Watching Telly, Elias and Alexander cheering for the Cowboys, who won their first game of the season; and sharing the experience with his brother's and sister's, turned out to be all that FL could hope for. He is in fact his father's son.
Sunday began with church services. FL served his first complete Divine Liturgy since the village in Kokkino, at his home parish of Saints Constantine and Helen in Cheyenne. Not everyone was there on time. This church represents a lifetime of memories where brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews and even our own daughter Nichole was baptized. It is where lifelong friendships were sealed; brides and grooms were united; grandparents departed; and where parents' memories were eternalized. After church, we visited the grave site of many Christopulos' saying a prayer for all of them. As the brothers and sisters looked at one another tears came to their eyes, yearning for earlier times when they all were together with their mother and father, and yia yia and papou's, not just here alone, left behind with their memories.
Little America, is where we stayed for the weekend. It is the perfect hotel/motel -- and I have been to many, especially recently. Its lobby is tastefully decorated with heavy padded floral carpeting that compliments the over sized large sofa and chairs that focus on the stone fireplace. The accessories are perfect in an appropriate western motif with bronze renderings of steer wrestlers and ropers. The gift shop is laden with western art design, unique gifts for children, gum, aspirin, etc... as well as a clothing section that suits those of various taste. There is a small coffee shop where you can get the best ice cream cone in the world for 50 cents and early morning coffee. The rooms are still very large with queen size beds covered in powder blue spreads with matching curtains covering sliding glass doors that open to an outdoor patio. The French provincial dressers and vanities conveniently offer plenty of drawer space. A swimming pool the size of a small lake and a par-3 golf course are surrounded by 30 year-old pines that whisper constantly in the wind, because the wind is constantly blowing. But my favorite is the restaurant. It just has that old elegant style with a dining room filled with white linen covered tables and in the center are sets of half-curved booths that sit back to back. The waiters and waitresses that serve you, still wear black and white uniforms. After a long hard day of sun and wind and cheering loudly, dinner at Little America in Cheyenne Wyoming, is my reward for making the trip. My favorite is liver and onions with mashed potatoes and salad. On Sunday, we had a family champagne brunch in a private room with breakfast served from silver chaffing dishes, attended by the neatly uniformed wait staff. We celebrated the culmination of a beautiful weekend, obviously a victorious weekend, and the final leg of the sabbatical. Everyone sat down to watch our presentation of "Every Generation", which was prepared by Maria Demeris our dear friend from Houston, (and Greece). She captured a journey in our lives in a way that our words could not express. After rave reviews and full stomachs and lots and lots of picture taking, we departed for home.
The air in Denver is much warmer than Cheyenne and it allowed us many hours to spend on the patio where we shared laughs and memories with grandma and grandpa while Alexander shot the basketball; Stelios played Trivial Pursuit; Jonathan texted his girlfriend; Christopher and Gus joked amongst themselves; and Elias slept in the bedroom. I sat watching the 4 generations together thinking how quickly time passes. A tear slowly began to appear and knowing my emotions would soon be exposed, I arose and walked away. Through this entire journey one theme is evident; that every generation share life's experiences; the good, the bad, loving beyond words, laughing until you cry, and goodbyes. Knowing Nichole and family will be leaving once again, I can only sigh. And then I am suddenly jolted from my over-contemplative moment; as Elias appeared in the doorway and once again letting his powerful presence be known, he shouted, "Mommy, I'm all wet". Out of the mouths of babes!
Labor Day 2010: Peace, quit, alone in the present moment; a journey from beginning to end.
Friday, July 23, 2010
July 23rd -- Home Sweet Home!
July 23, 2010. I woke up very early today, on our first morning back. Stepping outside into OUR garden, I was anxious to reunite with that crisp Colorado summer air that comes just between the breaking of dawn and the complete rising of the sun. When the dew is still on the ground, and the cushions of the lawn furniture are still damp; and the fresh clean grassy smells of early morning hang in the air just before the touch of the sun evaporates them. Today is also my birthday, and I made myself a cup of coffee in the traditional European way -- instant. I decided, today being a special day for many reasons, that in honor of Constance, and her china closet, and the lingering effects of the Queens influence, that I would treat myself, by using "the good stuff". There is nothing like the subtle clink of a silver spoon on the sides of a china cup as you stir your coffee. As I settled in to the moment, I numbly became aware that our "every generation" journey, for the most part, was coming to a close...
Beginning our decent into Denver International Airport, I stared into the white cottony clouds that always seem to surround airplanes as they are landing. As the engines droned and the sounds of the landing gear become more obvious, images of the familiar plains of the struggling green farmlands in a dry arid climate, were coming into focus. They reminded me; I wasn't in Scotland anymore, Dorothy. However, off to the West in their majestic glory, the Rocky Mountains said, "Welcome Home". As I observed their blue hazy silhouette interrupted by opaque clouds of rain, I had a melancholy moment of a mirrored view thousands of miles away. A tear came to my eyes, realizing how ready we were to return and how far we had come. I know it will take us some period of time for the entire experience to sink in, but right now, it just felt good to be home! After the ordinary customs check and collecting our baggage, the international doors that seem to be a passage of two different worlds, opened automatically to our footsteps. Stepping in to the sparkling clean corridors of the terminal we immediately spotted grandpa. Unexpected tears welled up as I quickly walked into his open arms. We hugged in that father-daughter way that says "you are the best, dad, and I'm so glad to see you". Arriving home, we could barely get in the door before Charlie came bolting out in uncontrollable excitement, barking and turning circles, doing the best he could to let us know that he had waited a long time for this moment. Chris and my mom were both waiting with big hugs and kisses and anxious to hear about the journey. It was a welcome reunion. A kind and thoughtful friend had prepared and brought over a delicious Mexican dinner, which totally hit the spot after 18 hours of traveling. Thank you Kathy!
Honestly, I am not able at this time to put into words how the entire experience has affected all of us. As I walk around my garden, quietly listening to the birds waking up and the chimes barely swaying back and forth, playing only a few chords at a time, I have come to the conclusion that traveling around the world to connect with your roots, albeit a wonderful experience, is really just a lesson in geography. It is significant to know the lineage behind who we are and pass that on to our children. But these generations are with us all the time, regardless of where we are. Their hands are our hands; their smiles are our smiles; and if we were lucky enough to know them, their touch is our memory. A memory that can be passed on from generation to generation. Finishing my last spot of coffee, as the Brits would say, and focusing my eyes on my favorite plaque -- "with a kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth, I am nearer to God (and my family) in my garden, than anywhere else on earth." I thank God for our safe journeys, for family and friends and for my home sweet home. I love it!
Please keep checking for more blogs. I am sure that FL will be wanting to share more of his memories. Maybe not quite so regularly but periodically. God bless you all for sharing this incredible journey. Thank you for your prayers and encouragement. It was a "trip"!!!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
One day and counting.....
If you are reading this on the morning of the 22nd, we will be flying over the Atlantic on our way back home... Godspeed!
One Day and counting! One Day! And this journey will be over. What an incredible ride. Honestly, I don't know what to say. (Just kidding). We have visited 6 countries, 6 major cities, and 100's of small villages and towns, maneuvering in and out of airports, lugging bags on and off trains and taxis, many in countries where body language is your best means of communication. We have seen the Sien and the Thames Rivers, the Mediterranean Sea and the North Sea. We have flown over the Atlantic Ocean, Turkey, Switzerland, Austria, Germany, and we have driven hundreds of miles of highways in Greece and the UK. Not to mention the many narrow winding roads I'd like to forget. I feel like a computer that has been charged for too many hours or days. I'm on overload. Any new relic or corn field from this point forward, will just cause a short circuit.
On the 19th, we arrived at St. Andrews, Scotland, after a long drive from Stafford in the UK, through the hills and valleys of farmland and countryside, with miles and miles of green. Just beginning to think that nothing could get any prettier, we drove into Scotland, where the plush landscaping has dew dripping from the trees and plants. Another land of breathtaking scenery. The farmland is fenced with trees and divided into giant squares of different shades of green. Some square are dark green, some light green and some a hay colored gold. It is like looking at a jigsaw puzzle.
We were originally supposed to stay at our 3rd bed and breakfast, somewhere between here and there. However, what is inadvertently left out of any description, when going online to book, is that driving experience in the UK should be a prerequisite to arriving at the "unique" 300 year old farmhouse located 10 miles in the middle of nowhere, down a narrow road that is barely able to fit two cars. And that would be if they were actually available in a location somewhat near the direction in which you were traveling. The first UK experience of our B&B was arriving at the Offley Farm Grove about 8:30 in the evening. FL had been driving about 4 hours. After a shaky start, he settled in to his left brain doing what the right brain was accustomed to. But all in all, we were feeling pretty comfortable. Leaving the (M1), our equivalent to I-25, for the M4359, our equivalent to Rural Route 1, we soon realized that this wasn't what we signed the insurance form for. The narrow road was 1.5 car widths wide, basically following a path of what one would imagine a runaway tractor would make. And the sides of the road were lined with 10 to 12 foot dense shrubs -- no mistakes here. Invariably, on the sharpest turns, another car would just be coming around the corner. The second night was more of the same. Only this night, the roads were narrower and the crops higher. There were no lights on the roads and no cars. When we arrived at the small farm house, the couple that greeted us seemed nice enough. But seriously, I expected Kathy Bates as the character from the movie Misery to appear in our room, and lock us away in an old shed with sharp farming tools hanging from hooks nearby, bound and gagged. Convinced that we were not going to make it through another night in one of these "charming" B&B's, and as uncharacteristic as it is for me, I knew I had to take the bull by the horns. We did not book the 3rd night of the B&B, we did not visit another hay field overpopulated with black and white cows and hundreds of sheep, down a rural pathway to God knows where.... We booked a second night at the McDonald Rusack Hotel, the site of the British Open 2010, and the first golf course in the world. Driving to the front door of this 100 year old hotel, a bell man arrived to park the car and take our luggage to the room... breakfast was included. Now this is the type of B& B I had in mind. When we arrived, the day after the British Open ended, the giant scoreboard was still standing, displaying the names of the winners. From our room in the old well appointed mansion, we could see the greens that have cushioned the cleats of the most famous golfers in the world, covering the grounds below. Brass plates named each room in honor of a winner of the British Open. We stayed in the Rusack Room. Jonathan was in the John Daly Room. Scottish tartan wools covered the beds, furniture and curtains with golf history decorating the walls. Needless to say, I made the right decision. Fl had now died and was experiencing golf heaven.
The following day, we toured the remains of St. Andrew Cathedral, which at one time was the largest building in Scotland. Set at the tip of the coastline, this magnificent facade, spoke once again of war and religious strife, as so many other remains have. It had been desecrated by the new reform church of Scotland. In spite of their actions, they left a landmark that may have been even more expressive as a ruin. After some great photo opportunities, Jonathan and I continued through the town center observing the sight and smells -- we learned to avoid walking near the cheese stores. Not only did the weather hold up for us, but the golfers experienced an unusual day of no rain. And by golfers, I mean FL. Unfortunately he was not able to play the "old course" at St. Andrews -- the dream of any golfer worth his weight in clubs. But, he did get on "the new course" built in 1897. A memory of a lifetime. This would be a bucket list moment.
Waking early on Wednesday to the excitement of our last 24 hours, we ate a light breakfast, loaded up the car, took pictures at the famous Bridge at St. Andrews, and with a light drizzle running off the car, we drove away. Our final stop -- Edinburgh!
By the way, I am now confirming that B&B's from this point on in my life, must include: a reception desk; a bell man; hot and cold running water coming out of one faucet; proper flushing toilets that don't need to be pumped like a well spicket; and they must be located on a busy street in a busy city with street lights! Oh yes, and breakfast included. Tomorrow we leave. I can't believe my next blog will be from home! Please keep us in your prayers for a safe return. God Bless.
On the 19th, we arrived at St. Andrews, Scotland, after a long drive from Stafford in the UK, through the hills and valleys of farmland and countryside, with miles and miles of green. Just beginning to think that nothing could get any prettier, we drove into Scotland, where the plush landscaping has dew dripping from the trees and plants. Another land of breathtaking scenery. The farmland is fenced with trees and divided into giant squares of different shades of green. Some square are dark green, some light green and some a hay colored gold. It is like looking at a jigsaw puzzle.
We were originally supposed to stay at our 3rd bed and breakfast, somewhere between here and there. However, what is inadvertently left out of any description, when going online to book, is that driving experience in the UK should be a prerequisite to arriving at the "unique" 300 year old farmhouse located 10 miles in the middle of nowhere, down a narrow road that is barely able to fit two cars. And that would be if they were actually available in a location somewhat near the direction in which you were traveling. The first UK experience of our B&B was arriving at the Offley Farm Grove about 8:30 in the evening. FL had been driving about 4 hours. After a shaky start, he settled in to his left brain doing what the right brain was accustomed to. But all in all, we were feeling pretty comfortable. Leaving the (M1), our equivalent to I-25, for the M4359, our equivalent to Rural Route 1, we soon realized that this wasn't what we signed the insurance form for. The narrow road was 1.5 car widths wide, basically following a path of what one would imagine a runaway tractor would make. And the sides of the road were lined with 10 to 12 foot dense shrubs -- no mistakes here. Invariably, on the sharpest turns, another car would just be coming around the corner. The second night was more of the same. Only this night, the roads were narrower and the crops higher. There were no lights on the roads and no cars. When we arrived at the small farm house, the couple that greeted us seemed nice enough. But seriously, I expected Kathy Bates as the character from the movie Misery to appear in our room, and lock us away in an old shed with sharp farming tools hanging from hooks nearby, bound and gagged. Convinced that we were not going to make it through another night in one of these "charming" B&B's, and as uncharacteristic as it is for me, I knew I had to take the bull by the horns. We did not book the 3rd night of the B&B, we did not visit another hay field overpopulated with black and white cows and hundreds of sheep, down a rural pathway to God knows where.... We booked a second night at the McDonald Rusack Hotel, the site of the British Open 2010, and the first golf course in the world. Driving to the front door of this 100 year old hotel, a bell man arrived to park the car and take our luggage to the room... breakfast was included. Now this is the type of B& B I had in mind. When we arrived, the day after the British Open ended, the giant scoreboard was still standing, displaying the names of the winners. From our room in the old well appointed mansion, we could see the greens that have cushioned the cleats of the most famous golfers in the world, covering the grounds below. Brass plates named each room in honor of a winner of the British Open. We stayed in the Rusack Room. Jonathan was in the John Daly Room. Scottish tartan wools covered the beds, furniture and curtains with golf history decorating the walls. Needless to say, I made the right decision. Fl had now died and was experiencing golf heaven.
The following day, we toured the remains of St. Andrew Cathedral, which at one time was the largest building in Scotland. Set at the tip of the coastline, this magnificent facade, spoke once again of war and religious strife, as so many other remains have. It had been desecrated by the new reform church of Scotland. In spite of their actions, they left a landmark that may have been even more expressive as a ruin. After some great photo opportunities, Jonathan and I continued through the town center observing the sight and smells -- we learned to avoid walking near the cheese stores. Not only did the weather hold up for us, but the golfers experienced an unusual day of no rain. And by golfers, I mean FL. Unfortunately he was not able to play the "old course" at St. Andrews -- the dream of any golfer worth his weight in clubs. But, he did get on "the new course" built in 1897. A memory of a lifetime. This would be a bucket list moment.
Waking early on Wednesday to the excitement of our last 24 hours, we ate a light breakfast, loaded up the car, took pictures at the famous Bridge at St. Andrews, and with a light drizzle running off the car, we drove away. Our final stop -- Edinburgh!
By the way, I am now confirming that B&B's from this point on in my life, must include: a reception desk; a bell man; hot and cold running water coming out of one faucet; proper flushing toilets that don't need to be pumped like a well spicket; and they must be located on a busy street in a busy city with street lights! Oh yes, and breakfast included. Tomorrow we leave. I can't believe my next blog will be from home! Please keep us in your prayers for a safe return. God Bless.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Time keeps on ticking..
Constance Day Robbins was a grand Dame. At the age of three, with golden locks and big blue eyes, she, along with her brother and her mother, left England. Her father had passed away and the Mormon Church provided the way, and the means, and the promises for a better life. Her mother, with very few options, chose to leave behind her family and a country. Sailing across the ocean probably seemed effortless when faced with what was to come. From the lines of people at Ellis Island where their names were registered like so many thousands of others, to the journey across a country several times the size of England, the trepidation and fear must have been nearly unbearable. The desination; an unfamiliar place called Utah. Where there were no rolling hills of green flowing pasteurs, no trees covering the landscape, and no flowers growing in pots in the yards with the protection of rod iron fences. Once there, they began a life of hard work on farm land where the only chance of survival was by the will and the grace of God. Constance married at the age of 16, and barely more than a child herself, she started her own family. She was a proud woman standing a little over 5 feet 2 inches. But she was all lady, unless she had to stand up taller and be stronger to survive.
The last time I saw my grandmother, we drove through a blizzard in January to be by her bedside. I whispered in her ear, not knowing if she could hear me, telling her that I was here, and that I loved her. I told her that Lou was here as well, and that we were going to say a prayer with her. I took her feeble hand and gently squeezed it. I didn't know this frail lifeless person lying in front of me. There was a slight stirring from her and I acknowledged it to be a sign of recognition. I bent over and kissed her forehead, and as Lou began 'The Lord's Prayer", she took in her last breath and then let it out. My grandma was gone.
Being the oldest granddaughter, I was proud to give the eulogy at her funeral. It was hard to explain how special this beautiful lady was to me. She loved unconditionally, with big arms open when we arrived to visit and tears when we left. I could play dress up with her clothes and shoes and jewelry. Nothing was untouchable. She always baked my favorite hot rolls that are still second to none, and remembered to have Alphabits ready for my breakfast. We sat in the kitchen at her booth-style table for hours talking over coffee -- her plasma as she would call it -- and indulging in her homemade pastries. Every now and then she would have to speak "Pig Latin" to protect my young ears. She always made me feel so grown up and so special. Every birthday and every Christmas, with unceasing dependability, she sent presents. But it wasn't just that she sent the present that made you feel special, it was how it was wrapped; with beautiful paper and matching satin bows, tied to perfection, in that way that most people can't even begin to tie. She loved her two-story stucco house with pine trees surrounding, and the birds that sang to her from her open windows. And she loved the sunlight that came in through the big mullion-paned windows creating shadows of patterns on the floor that she used as a sundial to tell the time of day, or the time of year. She loved her china which now decorates my Christmas tables. She would decorate for every holiday. And she would sing every day in spite of what the day had in store. She never spoke much about England, but her sense of style and her uncharacteristic collections of books, silver, fine linens and china, silently told you that her roots were deeper than that small town in Utah. She truly was a grand dame.
Today, I came to Kings Heath, UK. The small town where my grandmother was born almost 100 years ago. Visiting the local cemetery, I was hoping to find a name that might connect her to this place, but gave up after a dedicated search proved fruitless. In the center of town there was a beautiful Church of England, ironically named All Saints Church. (The same as in Kokkino). It was celebrating 150 years of services. Logically, this could be the church where my great-grandmother was married, and where my grandmother was baptized. The church-yard could hold the remains of my great grandfather. I was a little disappointed that I couldn't really make any tangible connections. Then, as we were leaving town, it dawned on me. I was the connection. Because of a decision made by a young helpless widow, with two small children and very few options; I am.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
London was a great experience. It is a beautiful city with a lot of history. The Queen's presence is very prominent. Displayed throughout the city are statues of war heroes and various famous people who have made their mark in history. The Brits are a very proud sort. We enjoyed walking the streets with the repeated pattern of Victorian townhouses neatly built and painted in Queen's White, which makes the colorful flowers that bloom in abundance stand out even more. Hyde Park was a treat, however I was disappointed in the "fountain" dedicated to Princess Diana. It is really a large ribbon of granite with different surface patterns that carry a small stream of water from top to bottom claiming to depict the patterns of her life. The people speak perfect English and for the first time in 6 weeks we didn't have to use body language to explain ourselves. The weather has totally cooperated with a cool breeze, only a few sprinkles, intermittent cloudiness, and 70 degree temperatures. Perfect weather for walking and walking and walking.... We took one of those traditional tour buses. You know the kind with the open seating above, where you can look up and see people laughing and joking with the man on the microphone. It turned out to be better than we expected, learning inside notes on many of the historical sights. Westminster Abbey and Big Ben were every bit as impressive as the song. And Buckingham Palace and the Parliament building definitely have the air of royalty about them. We treated ourselves to fish and chips at a local pub. And then, after a six week withdrawal from our usual movie addiction, we decided to go to a movie. Thoroughly enjoying the experiences of the day, we felt closer to America than we have in weeks. On Saturday, we left London. We picked up a rental car for the last leg of our journey. As we began driving away, I again covered my eyes and cringed as FL took the wheel, which is now on the right-hand side of the car, and we drove off on the left-hand side of the street. This experience deserves its own blog. Until then -- Cheerio!!
The last time I saw my grandmother, we drove through a blizzard in January to be by her bedside. I whispered in her ear, not knowing if she could hear me, telling her that I was here, and that I loved her. I told her that Lou was here as well, and that we were going to say a prayer with her. I took her feeble hand and gently squeezed it. I didn't know this frail lifeless person lying in front of me. There was a slight stirring from her and I acknowledged it to be a sign of recognition. I bent over and kissed her forehead, and as Lou began 'The Lord's Prayer", she took in her last breath and then let it out. My grandma was gone.
Being the oldest granddaughter, I was proud to give the eulogy at her funeral. It was hard to explain how special this beautiful lady was to me. She loved unconditionally, with big arms open when we arrived to visit and tears when we left. I could play dress up with her clothes and shoes and jewelry. Nothing was untouchable. She always baked my favorite hot rolls that are still second to none, and remembered to have Alphabits ready for my breakfast. We sat in the kitchen at her booth-style table for hours talking over coffee -- her plasma as she would call it -- and indulging in her homemade pastries. Every now and then she would have to speak "Pig Latin" to protect my young ears. She always made me feel so grown up and so special. Every birthday and every Christmas, with unceasing dependability, she sent presents. But it wasn't just that she sent the present that made you feel special, it was how it was wrapped; with beautiful paper and matching satin bows, tied to perfection, in that way that most people can't even begin to tie. She loved her two-story stucco house with pine trees surrounding, and the birds that sang to her from her open windows. And she loved the sunlight that came in through the big mullion-paned windows creating shadows of patterns on the floor that she used as a sundial to tell the time of day, or the time of year. She loved her china which now decorates my Christmas tables. She would decorate for every holiday. And she would sing every day in spite of what the day had in store. She never spoke much about England, but her sense of style and her uncharacteristic collections of books, silver, fine linens and china, silently told you that her roots were deeper than that small town in Utah. She truly was a grand dame.
Today, I came to Kings Heath, UK. The small town where my grandmother was born almost 100 years ago. Visiting the local cemetery, I was hoping to find a name that might connect her to this place, but gave up after a dedicated search proved fruitless. In the center of town there was a beautiful Church of England, ironically named All Saints Church. (The same as in Kokkino). It was celebrating 150 years of services. Logically, this could be the church where my great-grandmother was married, and where my grandmother was baptized. The church-yard could hold the remains of my great grandfather. I was a little disappointed that I couldn't really make any tangible connections. Then, as we were leaving town, it dawned on me. I was the connection. Because of a decision made by a young helpless widow, with two small children and very few options; I am.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
London was a great experience. It is a beautiful city with a lot of history. The Queen's presence is very prominent. Displayed throughout the city are statues of war heroes and various famous people who have made their mark in history. The Brits are a very proud sort. We enjoyed walking the streets with the repeated pattern of Victorian townhouses neatly built and painted in Queen's White, which makes the colorful flowers that bloom in abundance stand out even more. Hyde Park was a treat, however I was disappointed in the "fountain" dedicated to Princess Diana. It is really a large ribbon of granite with different surface patterns that carry a small stream of water from top to bottom claiming to depict the patterns of her life. The people speak perfect English and for the first time in 6 weeks we didn't have to use body language to explain ourselves. The weather has totally cooperated with a cool breeze, only a few sprinkles, intermittent cloudiness, and 70 degree temperatures. Perfect weather for walking and walking and walking.... We took one of those traditional tour buses. You know the kind with the open seating above, where you can look up and see people laughing and joking with the man on the microphone. It turned out to be better than we expected, learning inside notes on many of the historical sights. Westminster Abbey and Big Ben were every bit as impressive as the song. And Buckingham Palace and the Parliament building definitely have the air of royalty about them. We treated ourselves to fish and chips at a local pub. And then, after a six week withdrawal from our usual movie addiction, we decided to go to a movie. Thoroughly enjoying the experiences of the day, we felt closer to America than we have in weeks. On Saturday, we left London. We picked up a rental car for the last leg of our journey. As we began driving away, I again covered my eyes and cringed as FL took the wheel, which is now on the right-hand side of the car, and we drove off on the left-hand side of the street. This experience deserves its own blog. Until then -- Cheerio!!
Friday, July 16, 2010
Divine Liturgy -- All Saints Church -- Kokkino Greece
On Sunday, July 11, 2010, Jonathan and I began our drive at 6:40 a.m. from Chranoi, where we are staying to Kokkino, the Village of my Papou Elias. The others will come a bit later for 8:45 a.m. Liturgy. The 20 mile or so journey takes about 30 minutes on the winding roads that are barely larger than one lane. We reached the village of 60 or more homes and were greeted warmly by Fr. Elias -- (nice name). He is the priest that cares for three other area villages including Kokkino, and offers Sunday Liturgies on a rotating basis. All Saints -- Ayioi Pantes -- is the name of the Church in Kokkino. Pappa Elias graciously invited me to take first position in leading the liturgy. Interesting note here -- he was born and raised in Germany. He was an engineer prior to moving to Messinia, Greece several years ago, where his parents were from. His Greek and English are impeccable. His English was spoken with a strong German accent. As I began the liturgy in this small church, I became very emotional realizing that this was the church where my Papou was baptised. When Marsha and family arrived, it was definitely a special experience to see my children and grandchildren receiving communion in this unique setting. I also took a moment for a special prayer for Chris, who could not be with us because had to return to Denver. This day, the 11th of July was also his 27th birthday.
At the end of Liturgy, I addressed the village people present; about 50. Almost all were related to me, including the two chanters and the young couple visiting from Australia. We were welcomed warmly. Afterwards, Christos unlocked the doors to the house that my Papou lived in prior to leaving for America. It has been refurbished, thanks to Dr. George from Chicago. After coffee with the men at the local (and only) caffenio, we went back for a delicious meal prepared by Maria. (If you haven't been following the previous blogs, my Cousin Christos and Maria are the couple from Kokkino, who are the caretakers of Dr. George's house. They also picked us up and dropped us off at the airport. Maria is responsible for stuffing us, on a few occasions, with her delicious home cooked meals.) Traveling back down the mountain, seeing the incredible panoramic views of the many villages, and the turquoise waters below, I couldn't help but feel the presence of my grandparents and parents. The reality that we were in this church that was a part of my history, that I offered prayers for my departed family members including my Papous Elias and George, my Yia Yias Eleni and Genevieve, my father and my mother, and that we had all received Holy Communion - together - was overwhelming. In the eternal moment of our loving Lord, Jesus Christ, the generations - past and present were one with Him to the Glory of God the Father through the Holy Spirit.
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