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.

"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.