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"!!!

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.

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.
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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!!

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.

Goodbye Sun, Goodbye Moon...

"I'm leaving, on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again...." June 14, and the time has come to pack our bags, clean up the house, say goodbye to Eeyore, Billy, the wise old owl, spectacular sunrises and sunsets, and of course -- the deep blue sea. I definitely had a moment of introspection as we closed the gate to the big house on the hill, in Greece. Knowing that this time and place will now just become a fleeting memory. A memory that will come and go periodically during my lifetime. And, when that moment comes, I will get a little stirring from within my heart, spreading throughout my body, like a tiny warm current that will most likely trigger a pause, a big smile, and then a deep sigh. Driving away, I quietly gazed out the window at the scenery of box-shaped houses, and bushes of brightly colored flowers that dart in and out of the seascape, I wonder if I will ever return. I'm not sure if I would want to replace the virgin memories we gathered here. But, seriously, is there a more beautiful place on this earth? Picture the United States, with the seascape of the east coast on one side and the west coast on the other. Take out the flat lands and the dry plains and leave in the Rocky Mountains. Play with the borders a bit by pulling some in and others out. Some forming rocky cliffs and others forming gentle foothills. You could even pull a piece completely away here and there and leave it floating. Then surround this whole area with water. Not just any water. The kind of water you would add azure blue bath salts to -- the whole bottle. Take out the harsh winters and bring in the southern climate with its tropical plants and flowers, but not so much humidity. Then reduce it to the size of Colorado and go back in time 60 years. That is Greece. It has a rural mentality of small towns crowded with small shops that are packed with what they believe to be modern supplies. Connect these small towns by narrow roads paved with blacktop laid in a non-cohesive fashion, with many twists and turns. I mean this figuratively as well. The whole country seems to be an oxymoron of ultra-modern and Victorian Chic, tied in with 70's rock. There is such a difference in mentality between Greece and America. It is hard to make the call as to whether or not one way of living is better than the other. Maybe it isn't my call to make.


So moving on.... life had become quite predictable for us recently. Get up. Decide whether or not we wanted to go to the beach or just hang around. Decide when to eat and when to sleep. Well, no worries. If you wait long enough, something can change all that just enough to remind you that you are not in complete control. After arriving at the Kalamata Airport, we noticed that something was a little strange. There was nothing going on. After a short search, we found the Aegean Air desk and explained to the three people in the entire airport, that we were to catch a flight to Athens in one hour. They proceeded to explain to us that that particular flight had been taken off their schedule several weeks before. Okay.... so what do we do now and how do we catch our connecting flight to London, which was leaving at 1:30? Oh... well... "didn't they notify you?" "No." "Did you check the flight status?" "Yes. Online. But there was no way to find the information regarding this particular flight. We assumed all was okay." (You know what they say about A s s U M e ing!) Long story short... they provided a taxi to drive us to Athens, canceled our 1:30 and put us on a 7:30 flight to London. Frustration was mounting. However, we have been in Greece far too long to raise our blood pressure beyond the below normal point. We graciously accepted their offer, stepped into a cab and proceeded with the three hour drive. Which actually turned out to be a pleasant surprise, reinforcing my description of a country blessed with beauty and character.

After a 5-hour wait and buckled in our multi colored, chevron patterned foam seats of Olympic Airlines, we lifted off. As the mountains that surrounding Athens passed below the plane and the turquoise blue water faded into the evening sky, I asked FL how he felt about leaving the land of his forefathers. He responded in his ever-so-classic way..... "I didn't have 4 fathers, I only had 1"! (He will have to blog his true feelings later). Jonathan and I did a "bro handshake" connecting knuckles. Then thanking God for a beautiful experience, we did our cross. London, here we come!

And then there were three.....

I tried writing this morning on the Veranda, but the intensity of the sun was too much to take. If you wake up too late, you can barely look at the water because the sun's reflection is so bright. And the heat of the day begins early. Nights are cool enough to pull blankets up and if you rise early enough to see the sunrise there is a cool dampness in the air. It is at this moment, when the sun is just unfolding its rays, and peaking over the mountains on the other side of the sea, not too hot, and not too chilly, that I have come to enjoy the most. Everything is relatively quiet. No commotion. No stirring. Just that early morning calmness. There is an owl that perches on the TV antenna. He isn't a big owl, but he still has those wise old eyes circled in white, that ask "who are you?" Why are you here? And, why are you looking at me"? He will sit for a moment, caulking his head from side to side and then he flies off, irritated that I have interrupted his final prey for the night. With a fresh cup of Nescafe, I sit and wait, breathing in the experience. Then pajama-clad with "bear blankie" protectively nestled in arm, Elias will quietly appear. "Zsa Zsa, why are you sitting out hewr?", he asks with his three-year old lisp. "Because it is so beautiful. ", I respond. "Would you like to come out"? "No, I'll jutht sit here with my beaw." He then crawls up on the couch and waits until the entire affects of a good night's sleep are gone. But wait! What is that I'm hearing? Blaring up from the stairs below is a younger, louder, more awake voice. "ZSA ZSA! WHERE ARE YOU?" And the day begins.....

Today, there is no interruption. There is no sweet voice behind me. No yelling up the stairs. No little voices that say "Zsa Zsa", or "Papou Lou", with trust, and innocence, and unconditional love sharing their words. No day at the beach, no energy bouncing off the walls, no soccer in the front yard with Papou Lou, or Uncle Chris or Uncle Jonathan, no walking through the garden to pick the tomatoes or cucumbers for the salads, or the fresh fruit from the tree, to eat or feed to Eeyore or Billy. There won't be any chasing the stray cats or the "mmmmmaw" kisses and ever so tight hugs that say goodnight. Today there is silence. Nichole and Chris both left the house in a Taxi. Chris left last Thursday because he had to return home for a wedding. Nichole and family left yesterday to create their own journey. When your children walk out the door, regardless of their age, you still want to grab them back and squeeze them, holding them tightly, and wishing you could reverse time. To go back to when they were young and safe in your arms. Waving to a taxi is not natural.

Being young you take for granted the love of your family especially the love of your parents. In some innocently ignorant way, we think that today will last forever. But time changes everything. Parents grow older and we try not to notice, because it represents mortality for them and for us. Children grow up and move on. They become old enough to fly into your arms from halfway around the world and to fly right back out.

I suppose that is what this journey is all about. To realize that every generation before us is only separated because of a different time or a different place. For the most part people are all the same. From the young people holding hands and sharing a moment in time; to young families playing together on the beach sharing the same familiar family dynamics; to the elderly walking alone on a sidewalk carrying with them a lifetime of experiences. Every generation has loved, laughed and said goodbye.

Today we have created a memory. For us: a memory of a country laden with history and beauty; a reconnection of old friends; a connection of new relatives; and a sharing of precious moments with our children and grandchildren. For our children: a memory of experiences in a new place of of beauty and history that won't mean much until they grow older; of bonding with brothers and sisters and nephews in a place far from home. For our grandchildren: A water-colored memory of a time when they will remember... "when we took the airplane to see Papou Lou and Zsa Zsa; and we stayed at this really big house where you could see water forever. And I remember going to the beach and playing in the sand and sleeping under a big blue umbrella with the sea breeze blowing around me. I remember traveling up a winding road to a place where there were old crumbled house and an old old church where Papou Lou did Liturgy. I remember walking up the hill to a cemetery and lighting a candle at an altar. I remember playing soccer and kicking the ball waiting for Papou Lou or Uncle Chris or Uncle Jonathan to pull it out of the bushes, again and again and again. I remember picking tomatoes, and fruit off the trees, with Zsa Zsa, and feeding some to a donkey and a goat. I remember waking up early and watching Zsa Zsa sipping her coffee, with the sunrise reflecting behind her. I remember driving away through a big gate in a taxi cab leaving Zsa Zsa and Papou Lou behind. And waving goodbye, I remember tears."

A Day at the Beach.....

A day at the beach is an experience. A week at the beach is captivating, drawing you in to a mesmerizing state of mind. You become apathetic to the rest of the world. The news only comes in one language on our local TV. but no worries.... we are at the beach. The rest of the world can take care of any major concerns. The rhythmic, pulsating beat of the water mixed with the suns reflective glare off the sand, creates somewhat of a euphoria, as the heat rises in a mirage of waves. Energy levels drops to a -3 and the present moment is all that matters. After lounging for a bit under a big blue umbrella enjoying the sea breeze and watching little children splashing and playing, their bathing suits dripping with a mixture of sand and water, you decide to exert a little energy. Wading in, you take your steps slowly, your skin conditions itself to the contrasting temperature of the water, which is so clear you can see the sand treads beneath your feet, and little fish flitting about with their friends. Finally, you have the choice to either take the plunge and dive in, or bend your knees and ever-so-slowly, lower yourself in. Aaaah... Determining that it is time to actually make your body work for its food, you begin to tread water and start to swim. But wait, if you just pick up your legs and sit back, the sea actually cradles you in a blanket of salt, and you just let the waves rock you gentle back and forth, up and down. After about 20 minutes it is time to return to the lounger and take a rest. Everything feels like it is in slow-motion. Even the frisbee seems to lag in the air before dropping. Telly, Elias and Alexander thoroughly enjoy the experience. They move a little faster than the adults but by mid-afternoon, when the sun bakes the hottest, they retreat to the cool sand under the big umbrella. They begin digging, building tiny mounds of castles and filling their buckets. Repeatedly pouring sand over their little legs, they stare at it as if in a trance, the gritty crystals sliding off like waterfalls. As I begin to read my novel for the 80th time, my eyelids become too heavy and I find myself drifting in and out of consciousness.

I have determined that the sea must emit some kind of sleeping gas. It has no desire to be disturbed from its undulating power, so it overpowers everything; the land, the vegetation. The mountains surrounding it can't even gain clarity from its powerful haze. The days here aren't long, but they aren't short either. After a day at the beach we slowly drag ourselves home to shower. Water is a commodity. Most of it comes from wells that fill the reserve tanks up by morning. But by mid-afternoon they are running on empty. Showers are short and sweet. Dinnertime is usually spent finding a nice restaurant with a sea view. Our appetites have not been big unless forced by others. The traditional Greek salad and bread has become our appetizer, with portions of "baked chicken in oven" or lamb or goat, or souvlaki, the main course. The wine is served in small or large pitchers, and the beer in bottles. Usually, the water is purchased in litre bottles and placed on the tables to share. There are a few choices for water. You may order "still", "with gas", or "tonic". The tables typically have linen table clothes but there is a standard plastic-backed paper table topper that is clipped on when you sit down to order. This same table topper with the map of Greece printed in Aegean blue ink has been used in every restaurant where we have been. I'm guessing the person that invented and manufactured these is a very wealthy man. He doubled his money if he also sells the clips that secure it in place. Bread is served in a basket with every meal. Before eating, you must remove the napkins and silverware from underneath. I'm not sure if the service is slow by nature, or if our relaxed body language is telling them that we are in absolutely no hurry whatsoever, so don't worry about us until you absolutely have to. Dinner usually takes about 2 hours from start to finish. We are pretty good with the boys if they have the freedom to run around and chase the stray kittens that hang out around the tables, and we separate them in the seating chart. After a day of sun and fun and full tummies, there is a fine line of how far you can push their patience. If you cross the line, there is no turning back. After the boys are visiting the other Mr. Sand man, card games on the veranda or World Cup playoff games close out the entertainment for the day.

All the bedrooms have sliding glass doors that are left open through the night. The first several nights we were able to experience the full moon peering in through the screen door. We fell asleep easily with the comfort of the bed and fresh air blowing in. We were then suddenly awakened to the sound of dogs barking in the distance, birds flying in and out of the eaves, bats squeaking and some strange animal that we determined to be a jackal. They make a high pitched yelping noise that I would compare to a Tom cat's mating call mixed in with the cry of a baby in distress. After realizing we were safe in our surroundings, we slowly fell back to sleep, only to be awakened by the roosters crowing, then Eeyore braying -- which is far louder than one would think, and the very annoying advertising coming from a megaphone attached to a mini pickup truck blaring out repeatedly in a loud non-emotional baratone voice: "tomatoes, potatoes, domathes" .... a slur of other items... "Eho" (I have). The noise bounces off the hillside and into your ears. Apparently there is a franchise of these little cars driving around all of Greece. I can just picture the driver in his blue Greek fisherman's hat and heavy mustache laughing, as he blasts people out of a deep sleep. Oddly enough we have adjusted to the noises as the continuing effects of the sea's control, accompanied with the bright constellations displayed in the night sky, as clear as if you were in a planetarium, puts us into a deep deep sleep. As I sit on the veranda at Kibotos, overlooking the massive body of water spread out in front of me, I think of life back home. We are definitelybecoming homesick and ready to move on with our journey. There is only so much mind-controlling relaxation a person is able to experience. I have come to the conclusion that vacationing is a practiced art, and I consider this my first lesson.

Super Markets...

It is not easy traveling around in a foreign country. Things aren't always as they appear. For example, we (all 9 of us), were invited to Nikki and Yonny's house for dinner. They live in a small village about 30 minutes from where we are staying. After a long day at the beach, we all cleaned up and left for the hills. Approximately 1.35 kilometers -- I really don't know how far that would be -- Let's just say about a half a mile from our house -- we realized Alexander's bottle of milk was left behind in the refrigerator. After a small but effective fit, we convinced him that we could stop shortly to pick some up at one of the local supermarkets. He was okay with this, but I knew "time was of the essence".

Super market is the perfect word for the micro-size stores dispersed through the area. They are packed to the brim with anything and everything you need, but in a compact size. For example, I wanted some bobbi-pins to pull my hair back for the beach. After going through the motions of doing just that and pretending I was pinning the sides of my hair back, repeating the words two or three times, the supermarket worker got it and voila!, there they were. They also carry things like ant killer hotels, mosquito lamps, and plastic toy dump-trucks that you use on the beach. Don't ask me how I know these things. I wonder if they have a giant grasshopper, a giant bumble bee, and a giant spider killer hotel, or convention center?

So back to Alex's milk.... We stopped on the way and I ran in to purchase the milk. My biggest worry was whether or not I could find a straw for him to use so he could drink from the milk container. I proceeded past the assortment of meats and olive oils and pastry bars and found the familiar large bottle of milk that we have purchased here several times. I was hoping to find a more manageable one for small hands to hold. There it was. I found a mini-milk bottle, matching the larger one. While there, I also found a fruit juice box with the familiar Amita in bold letters branded to it. But maybe apple juice would be better? All babies love apple juice. After finding a juice box nearby, although it had a Greek label, it had a picture of quartered apples and the familiar plastic straw attached. I felt like one of the locals here in this handy supermarket. Thinking to myself -- a woman in a grocery store is like a blanket is to security. "We've got it covered!"

Hurrying through the line and then out to the car, Alex's excited cry "milk", and his bright smile was all I needed to make the trip worthwhile. So here is today's lesson. You know how men are always given a hard time for not asking for directions? In spite of taking the wrong turn here and there and then finally, after total frustration they admit they are lost? And then the wife comments -- I told you that you should have stopped for directions! I knew this would happen! Well, I should have asked for help, and it would not have been the first time FL would have recommended this. As Nichole began to open the small container of milk, with little Alex standing by with excited anticipation for his comfort food, there was not the familiar odor of fresh milk emitting, but rather the sour pungent aroma of "fermented" milk. Don't ask me what that is, I don't care to really know. But who buys fermented milk? With immediate disappointment slowly erupting from Alex, I frantically proceeded to open the apple juice -- no worries here. We even have a straw! Strike two -- whatever this was, we again could not figure out. But the taste of sour green apples mixed with something that we as Americans are not familiar with, nor I doubt will ever be, was the "last straw" so to speak for Alex. Nichole and I were buckled over, laughing so hard that there was no noise coming from our diaphragms. However, Alex made up for it with his screams of disappointment and frustrated that we thought his present situation so funny.


After another 10 minutes of windy roads up the mountain, we arrived at the village of Nikki and Yonny. The hills and the mountains throughout this peninsula remind me so much of the Rockies. When you look out and see the sun setting behind the silhouette of peaks and hills, and the air is just heavy enough to form that familiar haze that shades the mountains; and from a distance the lines are so perfect and the colors and shadows blend together so well that it looks like an artist's rendition of the landscape. Again, another spectacular view. After dining on grilled pork chops and souvlaki seasoned to perfection; postichio; potatoes, Greek salad, spanakopita; and another delicious "skopita" made with pumpkin that I have never tasted before; wine from the cellar; and finally karadopita -- honey cake, for desert, we gluttons drove down the mountain and back home! I have a new favorite drink -- tonic water!

Jonathan is a philospher at heart. He has studied all of the "great" Philosophers of ancient history: Aristotle; Socrates; Plato, just to name a few. When we left the states, he had determined that Americans were selfish people who found their center through materialism and power. The history he believed to be shallow and American pride falsly obtained with the country being only 300 + years old. Don't we all have a way of looking at life and passing judgement on others truly not knowing or understanding the history and grief behind what makes us as people what we are today. There is frustration and anger in people here in Greece over the situation of their economy. Taxes have risen on a continual basis and sales tax presently is 23%. It is a known understanding that the people hide their wealth to avoid property taxes and politicians cheat. Nobody has faith in the government regardless of who is in power. They believe them to be theives and lazy. As part of the European Union, they now have to set a standard to be a member, and this is a change in lifestyle that many are not willing to accept. Portugal, Italy, and Spain apparently are all in the same position.

As I gazed out the kitchen window of this lovely home we are staying in, purchased by an American doctor who happened to be born and partially raised in Greece, it dawned on me that the day was July 4th, Independance Day in America. The day our forefathers stood up for Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. At that moment a sense of pride welled up inside of me. It occured to me that our forefathers truly had the direction and beliefs of the great philosophers. The ones that were run out of the country and killed by the ancient Greeks. I began singing patriotic songs and while doing so, I listened to the words carefully. I imagined the pride that young patriotic soldiers had when they won the war against Great Britain. Obtaining their freedom to speak, to worship as they wished, under a government set up to protect itself against tyranny, injustice, .... I imagined souldiers who for 3 centuries have fought in wars and battles that sent them home, scarred for life both emotionally and physically. Yet still displayed their stars and stripes proudly.

America as a country is young, but are we really? Aren't we all products of thousands of years of education. The Persians, the Greeks, the Romans? A legacy of a multitude of countries. My granchildren are products of Greece, Germany, England, Louxembourg, Scotland, Ireland, and possibly more we aren't even aware of. As Americans our forefathers learned from the history of the past and brought forth to this country a new nation, conceived in liberty..." With freedom to believe and to achieve the pursuit of happiness, whatever that may be. As I interact more and more with the people here, I get the feeling that there is no longer a pursuit for happiness. It is a numbness of acceptance for who they are and what they are. The people who come back to their summer or winter homes, are here to remember. They remember their families, possibly their parents that never came to America, and the family that was left behind. Their roots were severed here, yet planted in America to begin growing and harvesting again. In a "sweet land of liberty..."

As I write this, I know that I am showing partiality. I know that I am passing judgement on a country and people that I truly don't understand. But I also know that I am proud to be an American, ....a "land where our father's died, land where the pilgrims pride from every mountian side let freedom ring."

We had lunch the following day with Christos and Maria. Again the spread. Today we were served chicken kapama made just the way FL likes it. But that wasn't all, added to the table was stuffed squash, fried zuccinni, meatballs, the standard Greek salad, bread, cheese, saganaki, wine, and for desert, galactaboutiko. As I sat in a conversation, understanding nothing of what was being said, I noticed that Jonathan and Chris were discussing something amongst themselves. I joined just in time to hear their comments. That inspite of the sea surrounding every piece of land. Where the seascape is more prominent than skyscrapers in NY, they would take Colorado any day over this. And furthermore, never leave. I chuckled to myself thinking how far we have come. They have come to realize that well-built houses with plumbing that flushes toilet tissue, and roads that are built wide enough to protect you from crazy drivers and turns where you make the sign of the cross anticipating the oncoming car or a pedestrian in the road. Where body odor is not your scent of the day, that maybe America and home did represent something far more valuable than words.

July 4th --- A day of freedom.... Fr. Lou

After picking Gus, Nichole, and the boys up in Kalamata on the 28th, we have had days at the beach; playing ball outside, and sometimes inside; following grandsons -- especially Elias and Alexander -- around beaches, restaurants, platias, and various other places; a bus ride to Methoni and Pelos; and then last night, a very nice meal Yonnie and Nikki's Angelopoulos' village house. There, we met their daughter Katerina, and her children and also there were Panayiota and George Markopoulos. Panayiota and Nikki are both cousins of mine, originally from Kokkino.

Today, as we celebrate America's freedom, I had the chance to go to Ayios Andreas for Divine Liturgy at the village's 11th century church of the same name. I was received graciously by Fr. Demetrios, the parish priest who is in his 70's, receiving holy communion at the altar of the church that my Papou George Dracos (Dracopoulos) and my Uncle Pete were most assuredly baptized. My Papou (mother's dad) emmigrated to America around 1910 -- returning to fight, I believe, in the Balkan wars. He then returned to America. I said a memorial prayer at the end of liturgy for my Papou George, Yia Yia Genevieve, and Uncle Pete and mom and dad, considering the sacrifices they made for us so that we might have the lives that we have -- able to enjoy our children, grandchildren, and life with all of her blessings.

A funny note: During liturgy, at one point there was a major commotion, with women and children screaming and running outside of the church. As we looked out from the altar, it became apparent that something unwanted had entered through one of the many open windows or doors to the church, that are needed to give freshness to the musty walls of the middle-ages. If I'm not mistaken, it was a rat or a mouse. Although not verified. In any case "it" was chased out and then ever slow slowly, the church began to refill.

When I received holy communion, I had a special feeling of thanksgiving and love, as I considered my ancestors -- those of my mother, Aunt Maria, and my Dracopoulos and Pilafis cousins worshipping at Ayios Andreas for generation upon generation. May their memories be eternal.

Here's wishing all a happy 4th of July (Independence Day) -- True freedom is becoming willing servants of our Lord.
God Bless,
Fr. Lou

Family and friends...

"Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, shining down on me.. Note to remember: on the beaches of Greece where in the afternoon, the sun is intensely shining down on you; 30 to 50 SPF, for a couple 0f white boys (or Greek boys), isn't quite high enough. FL and Gus have gone from alabaster white to eggplant purple. Ouch! I had my vinegar/water spray bottle handy to cool them down.

Friendship is a gift. Why people meet, share conversation and then become friends is unexplainable, coming into our lives, touching our hearts in that special way that bonds you forever. Remember that high school "best friend" that was around to share your deepest secrets? The friend you "drove the strip" with while singing out loud and strong, on those warm summer nights, with the wind blowing in your face? Thinking you were pretty cool being old enough to drive without a grownup in the car. Moving from place to place there always seems to be special people to share in monumental moments of our lives. These friends know you well. They know you prefer bangles to beads, unless the beads happen to be real. They know you prefer chocolate over vanilla, and red to white. You may not see or think about these friends for months or even years. But invariably something will come up one day, out of nowhere: a thought, an old song; or oddly enough a familiar scent, and as clear as day, they come to mind. Or... they show up in person, right in front of your face. So here we are in Greece, a million miles from home, and along comes Maria. Maria is one of those friends. She is here with her son Yonnie and his fiance Jenny, who are planning their wedding for next year. It will be at the village "hordio" where his father was born, which is close by. Spending time with dear friends is as if time is standing still. You may look older, or feel older, but when you reunite, it is as if life's metronome hasn't even skipped a beat.

Invited along for the fun, we took a tour-bus ride that Maria arranged in order to "test drive" the experience for next year. Getting to the small village on a 50 passenger bus was no problem at all. When we arrived at the village and drove through the narrow streets it was a different story. We missed the buildings by millimeters. Not inches! This is where the metric system comes in handy. My hands covered my eyes on several turns with the anticipation of hearing that scrape of metal on the side of concrete. Picture a goat giving birth to a hippopotamus! Seriously, I can't believe he made it, without a scrape or a dent or even a ding. And once in, we had to figure out how to turn around. I think Maria was very impressed with the maneuverability of the bus driver, Nikko, but is considering a smaller bus.

The church in the small "hordio" is to be the venue for the wedding. It is located at the top of a pathway of stones where below rests the remains of the house where Yonnie's father, who passed away earlier this year, was born and raised. With Gus' passing, the sentiment for the village and its symbolism is even more poignant. The house is crippled with age, with no roof and walls that are slowly crumbling to the ground. There were many photographs taken. One in particular, was of the remains of a small window framed in gray petrified-wood. It should have been a window to a young boy's bedroom, but now, looking through, it exposes an empty cavity with a view of the hills and farmland beyond. I can't help but think that this view parallels an image that, to be sure, was embedded deeply in his father's memory. From this point, a year from now, with the late afternoon sun reflecting off the shiny worn cobblestones of the street, the new bride will appear ceremoniously walking up the hill toward the church. With wedding garments flowing and her entourage following, she will embark on the familiar path taken by generations before her. The same church bells that rang to announce the passing of Yonnie's father, will ring to announce Yonnie's wedding.

As a young priest in Houston, Father Lou became the youth advisor when Yonnie was barely 14. There were many activities that our family participated in. Chris and Nichole became the mascots to familiar teens who needed just enough parenting to keep them in line. We innocently accepted the responsibility. Now, 25 years later, with history behind, it was a special honor for Father Lou to be able to offer a blessing of their rings and engagement at this small church in a small village in Greece. Something so unplanned, yet it felt like we were meant to be there. Time had stood still.

The rest of the day was spent touring the area. We stopped at the Castle of Methoni and then on to Pelos which is a charming town where we enjoyed ice cream and refreshments, and a little game of cards. I felt like the old men in the village at their umbrella covered cafes. From here we wound our way to another town where, sitting on a patio overlooking a bay of small and large boats, we enjoyed dinner. Well, I wouldn't exactly call it dinner. It was an array of appetizers that covered the table. By the time we were supposed to order the main course, we declined.

The boys fared well throughout the day. They enjoyed ducking in and out of stone walls and arches and overlooking huge cliffs that exposed the vastness of the sea. They ran through the square at Pelos where they rode the familiar coin operated horsey and small merry-go-rounds of cars. The ones that, if riden long enough, you are sure to feel the affects. With that Jack-in-the box melody that plays over and over again, until you can't get it out of your head for the rest of the day. They kicked the ball and chased it throughout the open square, and enjoyed ice cream that melted all over their faces, hands, clothes and bodies. The only place they were not allowed to go was inside the rod iron fence enclosing a statue of a famous general. The fence obviously keeps tourists out to protect it from wear. Let's just say, we fished the ball out of there more than once. By dinner time the challenge was to keep three tired boys entertained for 2 hours while 12 adults enjoy dinner. They actually did very well. Again, Elias came through with the quote of the day when a plate of fried sardines was accidentally placed in front of him and he expressed himself out loud! "What the hell is that?" Out of the mouths of babes!

July

Peace and quiet can only go so far. Then you have to add some exuberance with expressions that makes you laugh and activity that makes you keep wanting more. Ah, youth! When Chris was added to the mix, so did the shoving and teasing. The jokes were abundant. The interaction between brothers is classic. Then along comes Stelios, and Elias, and Alexander. They hug like professional wrestlers. First they get that look in their eye... then they plant that back foot which allows them that extra power to launch forward into a bear hug, which causes everything and everybody in their way (usually the younger brother) to fall to the floor. Then they innocently stand up as if their mission to conquer was successful. And they move on.

As you get older, does it sometimes seem that your emotions have peaked? Scenes can be breathtaking and -- wow! But it isn't that "Oh my gosh this is the most fabulous, incredible, the best, the coolest thing I have ever seen", kind of emotion. Food can be delicious, but it isn't that "mmm....ummm....ummmm! This is to die for; I can't tell you how good this is"; you have to try this"; kind of experience. Or "goodnight dear, I love you", -- little kiss -- little pat on the back -- "sweet dreams". As opposed to "oooh I love you so much", -- big hugs -- big squeezes, a mmmmaw kiss at least three times, and then more goodnights all the way to bed, kind of thing.

That is why youth is so important. It brings back that freshness, that zest for life. It reminds us what it was like to see and experience for the first time. It is having legs that are about 18" long running down a sidewalk with rubber Crocs on, as fast and furious as you can... head down, arms pumping, barely able to get one leg in front of the other fast enough. Your destination is unknown and you don't care. Just run! Then all of a sudden, there is a hand that grabs your collar from behind, saving you from something you didn't even know you needed saving from. And words "out of the mouths of babes" so innocently spoken and sometimes not so innocently spoken.

We have been to the beach two days in a row. It is best to go early when the sea is calm. The water is clear enough to see the lines and textures of the rocks below and the seaweed that looks like little garden snakes, the waves just lapping at the beach. The water is cold enough to take your breath away when you first step in, but warm enough to refresh you once you take the plunge. Everybody becomes lazy at the beach. Telly is big enough to go far enough in, that he needs to tread water. Goggle clad, he bobs up and down, while exploring the sea floor. Elias is big enough to run along the edge of the water throwing rocks in to watch them sink to the bottom, and laugh and scream at the grownups playing frisbee and football in the water. And Alexander is just big enough to sit in the sand and fill up the plastic toy dump-truck, over and over again. He also picks up rocks to throw, but his path needs a constant reminder to stay clear of Elias. Papou Lou is taking great joy in walking along the beach at a snail's pace to give one, two or three little boys time to study the rocks or a bug or whatever their eye catches. "The really cool things", that grownups miss or take for granted. A rock can be picked up, examined on all sides, held in one hand and then the other and then tossed into the deep blue sea, misplaced forever. Papou Lou is also the best for bathroom runs and carrying in the water that is un-manueverable for little bodies. He can be splashed in the face, (unlike Zsa Zsa), and climbed over with rough sandy bodies, and not complain or flinch (unlike Zsa Zsa). Papou Lou is one with the sea and the breeze right now. He is floating with this experience. I have to tell you the laugh for the day came when Elias said quietly, "Papou Lou, can you take me to my home in New York so I can go poop"? Needless to say, he couldn't, but that's not to say he wouldn't.