In 1935, my grandparents began to settle into their new life in the bustling town of New Kensington, Pennsylvania after emigrating from Greece. What a strange new world my grandmother Yiayia discovered - one where people traveled by car, train, and boat and in which her donkey 'Keecho' would have no place. So like other immigrants, Yiayia and Papou struggled to adapt and relied on their faith, religion, and incredible work ethic to survive the Great Depression. Papou toiled at 'The Busy Bee' restaurant. Yiayia maintained home and hearth, struggling to learn English from neighbors as she cared for now toddler Chrysanthy.
It was a supremely lonely and uncertain time, but she found guidance and solace from other immigrants at their local Greek Orthodox Church. But the biggest comfort of all -- the blessing of another beautiful baby girl. My grandparents joyfully baptized her 'Damiani', naming her after Yiayia's beloved mother. Such an honor perhaps eased the pain of leaving her behind in Kythera.
But when baby Damiani turned 8 months old, something was terribly wrong. A metabolic or digestive problem made eating and drinking almost impossible. They desperately sought the help of several doctors, even traveling to a more advanced hospital in Pittsburgh. Feeling helpless and afraid, Yiayia struggled to plead with doctors who spoke a language she didn't understand. But ultimately no cure could be found in that day. Baby Damiani would depart on May 8th, 1936, leaving my grandparents devastated.
Grief-stricken, my Papou would lovingly craft the gravestone himself. And over the years, his future son - my father - would return to that New Kensington cemetery again and again to restore that decaying little gravestone. To this day, my Yiayia still can't talk about Damiani. But she possessively cherishes a fading baptismal certificate -- a testament that a mother's devotion is eternal. As the Greeks always say - may her memory be eternal. And it truly is.