In the years following the infamous "garden hose incident", my grandmother Yiayia entered into a time of peace and happiness. The 1960s brought moments of great pride and much needed healing for the widowed, yet ever feisty, always evolving Penelope Conomos and her three children.
Eldest daughter Chyrsanthy excelled as a valued court clerk and now lived in an apartment near the family's little pink house with the red door in San Jose. Son Tasso thrived as a working college student at nearby SJSU as he pursued his Bachelor of Science in Geology. And Anastasia was settling nicely into married life with her Greek husband. She proudly worked as a 4th grade school teacher--helping children receive the public school education that my Yiayia so revered and yet never herself achieved back in Greece.
Yiayia continued to work tirelessly at the nearby cannery and food processing plant. Tasso often worked there by her side. From the meager income they earned, she still sent money to my grandfather's relatives in Greece who had always been so cruel to her. And in her wisdom, the former peasant girl also added a new dimension to her world ~ a well rounded, diverse social life. Reaching beyond her familiar support system of neighbors and fellow Greek immigrants, she sought comfort in friendships born outside her ethnic and religious circle with the American working women who strained by her side at the conveyer belt.
With their encouragement, the now cosmopolitan Yiayia adopted a hobby that left her children simply stunned ~ ballroom dancing. Of course, the former village girl was well versed in the art of Greek folk dance. For centuries, the sacred tradition played a crucial role in everyday island life. Greeks danced at religious festivals, wedding ceremonies, to ensure fertility, to overcome depression, and to cure ailments. As Yiayia learned from her beloved mother Damiani ~ to dance was to truly celebrate life, for each dance told a beautiful story of victory, loss, or resilience. Perhaps through ballroom dance Yiayia intended to craft her own tale--a beautiful story of survival and resilience from one forced to adapt and to endure too often.
So on many a Saturday night, she would pull on her gloves, grab her clutch, and drive her trusted Chevy to a fraternal organization dance. And surrounded by American friends, she'd waltz and fox trot the night away. Platonic male friends now truly accepted that Yiayia - though still so young and beautiful - would never remarry. As her son Tasso - my father - once told me, "Some people are just married for life."
Though my grandparents' union began as an arranged marriage in the old country, the always devoted, ever faithful Yiayia would only ever identify herself as "Mrs. John A. Conomos". And in her words, "that was that". But soon, she would welcome an additional, wonderful new identity: that of a doting, cherished grandmother. Yes. Penelope Conomos was about to become "Yiayia".