Yiayia's Journey Part 16

In the spring of 1957, the one time peasant girl turned westernized woman assumed a new, unexpected, and ultimately unwelcome role: that of a widow. As my Yiayia had learned so many years ago from her beloved mother in Greece ~"such is the life" ~ and so one had no choice but to adapt and to endure. But now she would do so alone - in a new city still intimidating in its unfamiliarity - and beside three devastated children in need of her wisdom and grace. 

Grief-stricken and overwhelmed, she was dearly afraid. She once shared with me that she had a vision of Papou the night after his death. He was standing in their bedroom and upon seeing that blessed face once more she begged him,  "Please, let me go with you." But Papou's spirit replied, "Oxi. No. It is not time yet. You must stay and take care of the children." And so a grieving yet stoic Yiayia determined to do just that. 

On an early summer morning in 1958 - she exchanged her standard black widow garb for a white uniform - and drove her trusted Chevy to the Richmond Chase Cannery to report for duty. While daughter Chrysanthy worked at court and Anastasia and Tasso studied at nearby SJSC, Yiayia abored at the conveyer belt. Like so many other working class women, she toiled day in and day out - sorting fruit and later walnuts - until her arms ached and her back strained. 

After her shift, she would prepare dinner in their little pink home with the red door - often forgetting to set the table for four people now instead of five. And all the while she'd fend off well intentioned friends anxious to introduce a prospective new husband.  Eternally devoted to the memory of my Papou, a shrewd Yiayia would craftily evade their attention by introducing said suitors to her unmarried friends. And her clever ploy to redirect their unwanted attention often met with a great degree of success. The once feisty Yiayia might have even cracked a smile over those sneaky little coups. But mostly the days passed with much hard work, few smiles, and too little laughter. 

Yet there were beautiful, tender moments of peace and clarity as well. On those days she would grab her scarf. Lock the door. And venture on those jaunts that once brought her and Papou such joy. Except now, Yiayia walked alone ~ careful to avoid Walnut Grove Street ~ the block where Papou had died in her arms. Instead, she'd journey two blocks west of home. Destination: the nearby Winchester Boulevard. 

For there behind an imposing iron gate lay a small plot of land with a beautiful marble anchor. It bore the simple, bold script: 'John A. Conomos'. And so with loving care, she'd tend that lonely grave, share the troubles of the day, and gaze at the dual, unmarked stone ~ knowing one day it would bare her own name upon their eternal reunion. Indeed, it was a time to grieve. But Yiayia would come to remember her own words:  "change is good." And very soon a happy change would create a new, blessedly welcome role for my beloved Yiayia - the always evolving, ever surviving Penelope Conomos.

Yiayia's Journey Part 17

In 1958, a grieving Yiayia and her three children finally welcomed some much needed happy news. Daughter Anastasia would graduate magna cum laude from SJSU - the first in their family to earn a college degree. And on August 17th, yet another great dream would come to fruition - a new union.

And so that day, Yiayia grabbed her clutch, locked the door, then steered her trusted Chevy to St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church. And when she stepped inside, the celebrants were stunned. For gone was the traditional widow in black ~ if only for the day. And in her place stood a regal, beaming mother of the bride, resplendent in purple silk and long white gloves. It was a triumphant, poignant moment that bespoke a hard lesson profoundly learned: that one so often vanquished by life must also savor the sweetness of victory ~ fleeting though it may be.

So with a humble heart and an eye to the future, she beamed as beautiful daughter Anastasia (my aunt/Thea) married a good Greek boy from San Francisco. It was a traditional Greek Orthodox ceremony reminiscent of the old country, so very like her own wedding 27 long years ago. And as she watched the bride and groom exchange rings, she deeply felt the weight of Papou's absence. But ever wise, she gratefully welcomed the renewal of life on that beautiful day.

And so in the months to come, shades of the once feisty Penelope Conomos began to reemerge. She honed close friendships both at church and in her neighborhood. She never missed a Sunday Liturgy service. And she rarely lost an opportunity to chase a good deal. For with Giagia, price tags were but merely an American 'suggestion'. So to her children's dismay, she bartered for everything like she was still in Greece. And more often than not, her undeniable mix of charm and intimidation reaped rewarding results. Yes, it seemed the one time spitfire still had some spark left in her. But just as it seemed to crackle and build ~ it would suddenly turn to ash once again.

But then one spring day that spark suddenly, decidedly flared back to life. Checking on a rental property Giagia had acquired, she and Tasso noted something frustrating. That very same slovenly tenant had neglected to water the garden yet again. So just as Yiayia grabbed the hose, the tenant opened her door. And Tasso stared in disbelief as the woman - twice Yiayia's size - began to berate his mother. "What are you doing wasting MY water, Penelope??" she screamed. 

A dignified Yiayia kept her cool until she noticed a pile of cigarette butts littering the garden. And that was that. For to Giagia's way of thinking ~ to defile God's green earth was to spurn the very good Lord himself. So she aimed that hose right at that mouthy tenant and let her rip. In her trademark Greek accent she roared, "YOUR YARD IS DIRTY -- AND SO ARE YOU!!" and then blasted her with water to Tasso's utter shock.

Needless to say, after that day the sputtering, stunned, and seriously soggy tenant never tangled with the Yiayia-ster again. But more importantly, an amazed Tasso realized that indeed - despite so much grief - the ever spirited, always determined, indelibly feisty Penelope Conomos had finally, inevitably, and marvelously returned. And in Yiayia's words ~ that was that.

Yiayia's Journey Part 18

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".

Yiayia's Journey Part 19

In 1960, my 106 year old grandmother eagerly embraced a welcome new role. The eternally feisty, always enduring, and ever evolving Penelope Conomos officially became "Yiayia". Daughter Anastasia gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. And in a show of respect, she and her husband named her Damiani after Giagia's beloved mother still living in Greece. A few years later, Yiayia's joy multiplied when Anastasia welcomed a second baby girl. And in another great gesture of love, the proud parents christened her Penelope, after my dear grandmother.

The hard as nails Penelope - once reknown for raising her own children under the threat of spanking by Koutala (wooden spoon); who sent them off to school with the daily Greek admonition "mi mas kanis rezili" (do not bring shame to the family name) ~ was by all accounts a doting, devoted, darling of a grandmother. Just like her American counterparts, Yiayia spoiled her granddaughters with an abundance of adoration and praise. But she never strayed far from her Greek roots. In lieu of Barbie dolls, she'd give them traditional Greek peasant dolls. And instead of chocolate chip cookies, she'd serve plate after plate of Koulourakia. She'd present those traditional Greek cookies with a joyful order no one dared to ever refuse: "Fae!" Eat! 

But it wouldn't be long before devastating news from Greece tempered Yiayia's newfound joy. Her beloved mother Damiani was suddenly ailing. And the resourceful peasant woman--revered in their village of Agia Anastasia for helping to feed neighbors during the WWII Axis Occuption--was growing weaker by the day. Yiayia needed to sail to the old country post haste. Yet ultimately time proved to be unkind. Before she could even board a ship to return to those familiar shores, her mother's heart failed. Still living alone on their ancestral island of Kythera, the once indomitable Damiani passed away in her lonely little stone cottage overlooking the sea.

Decades later, my future husband and I would join my parents to visit that quiet cottage on the trip of a lifetime to Greece. Surrounded by Damiani's once prolific olive orchards, my father Tasso led us up that rocky terrain to Yiayia's  ancestral home. He took out his key, turned the knob, and opened up a world of incredibly poignant family history inside.

With heavy hearts, we solemnly gazed upon those stone walls now bare of family photos. The quiet corner of the cottage where Yiayia was miraculously born. The back room where her beloved donkey "Keecho" and the family's livestock slumbered. The adjoining room where Yiayia, her mother, and three siblings slept side by side on the cold, hard floor. The well outside - now dry. The nearby latrine - a shadow of itself. The voices inside - eternally silent. But for one, of course. 

All these years later, that lone voice now lives in a little pink house with the red door in San Jose, California. But thousands of miles away that quiet stone cottage still stands proudly overlooking the Mediterranean. Just like my 106 year old Yiayia, those lonely walls have defied the test of time. 

Yiayia's beloved ancestral home in the village of Agia Anastasia, on the island of Kythera, in the southernmost tip of Greece, still receives the occasional inquisitive visitor. And when it does ~ just like Yiayia's traditional Greek dances ~ it eagerly tells a tale of incredible human sacrifice and endurance. It's a beautiful, poignant story of one poor but proud family forced to adapt and to endure so future generations could one day thrive. As my beloved Yiayia always says, "such is the life." And yet it hardly seems fair.

Yiayia's Journey Part 20

In 1964, the indelibly feisty, ever enduring, and always evolving Penelope Conomos faced a new loss: the death of her beloved mother. The once indomitable Damiani had succumbed to heart disease back in her homeland of Greece at the age of 78. Her great voice forever silenced, Yiayia had no choice but to adapt and to endure alone.

But ever wise, she renewed her laser focus on life's blessings. Now widowed for 7 years, she relished the role of doting grandmother to daughter Anastasia's two girls. She and firstborn daughter Chrysanthy forged even deeper bonds with neighbors and fellow Greek immigrants. And above all, Yiayia remained far from idle. She labored at the nearby food processing plant by day, then waltzed and fox trotted the evenings away. 

Perhaps she imagined her mother gazing down upon that dance floor with a smile. For like generations of other Greek mothers, Damiani had passed on the sanctity of that beautiful art form to Yiayia. She believed that to dance - be it Greek folklore or classic ballroom - was to feel alive. And 'the life'--with all its imperfections and hardships--was always to be celebrated.

And so yes - in addition to her personal evolution, the former peasant girl remained true to her island roots. Each week, she'd toil in her vegetable garden, pluck fruit from her trees, and mow her lawn. Without Papou to maintain their home, no job became too difficult, no task too large. After all, the indelibly feisty and fit Yiayia - so used to Greek bartering and wartime conservation - reasoned: why pay someone to do what she could accomplish herself? So it came as no surprise when Yiayia developed a lifelong passion for her ladder and a worrisome obsession with cleaning the gutters of her little pink home with the red door.

And so for years, her children never argued that particular point with their do-it-all matriarch. For they recognized that Yiayia's need to provide and to protect fueled her very determination to adapt and to endure. With Papou long dead, Yiayia wished to bestow this incredible gift: that her children would never taste the bitter hardship that had been her constant companion.

And to her utter joy, a few years later Yiayia received a gift of her own that exceeded her wildest dreams. The former peasant girl who'd never surpassed a 3rd grade education became the proud mother of an academic. After years of dedication and hard work, her son Tasso - my father - would graduate SJSU with a Bachelor of Science in Geology. He would then earn a Masters in Geology. And then accept a fellowship at the Smithsonian in Washington DC. And finally, he would earn his doctorate in Oceanography at the University of Washington. Little Tasso ~ the boy who hobbled around in leg braces, then became a shoe shiner, a farm hand, and a junior custodian in those passing tender years ~ would ultimately become the respected Dr. Tasso John Conomos.

But while he pursued that path at U of W, something monumental also happened. An intriguing grad student caught his eye. She was also a first generation American ~ the daughter of immigrants from Lebanon. And she was beautiful. Her name was Janice and she was about to change Tasso's life and my Yiayia's world forever.