The first page or chapter of a story is what makes you want to continue reading; the hook. But it’s the final pages of a story that make the story a great one; one worth reading over and over again. But what is a final chapter without the rest of the book? It is just words without a context, lacking in emotion and feeling. The final chapter is only as good as the sum of the chapters before it. In order for the final pages of a story to be great, so does the rest of the story. It serves a purpose to tie together all of the loose ends, to make you feel every emotion at once, to clarify things and shed light on the story line.

You should never rush or skip straight to the last chapter because it won’t be nearly as good if you didn’t absorb the rest of the story, piecing together every little word. This post is about the final chapter of my grandfather’s story, but don’t fret because it is also a celebration of all the wonderful chapters preceding it.

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We refer to him as Superman. “We” as in my cousins that is and “him” as in Pappou (Pa-Poo), our grandfather; a man who I’ve always believed exists without weakness, the strongest man in the world…and the coolest guy in Greece. When he speaks or tells a story people simply listen…they’re always so captivating. Everyone in Gythio (our hometown in Greece, where my roots originate, where my father was born) knows him because he practically built half of it. He’s intimidating; the type where if he laughs you laugh, but his jokes are actually funny so it makes him more down-to-earth. If the man gives you advice, you could take it blind and have full faith that he’d be right; he’s been through more shit than anyone I’ve ever met. I won’t get too deep into that but let’s just give you a quick rundown to get you into the right setting.

• His parents were murdered when he was fifteen…along with older brother George (who my father – youngest of five – is named after)
• He was forced to raise his four younger siblings all by himself
• He got married at nineteen to my grandmother Dimitra (sixteen). Together they lived in a small shithole made of rocks and mud where they raise five children…they did a great job. Also, excuse my French. Shitholes can be lovely homes too
• He was a master craftsman, making a living by helping build the town around him all while trying to build something great at home…his family
• After finally saving enough he bought a water front property and built a beautiful house with his sons. He has three boys and two girls in case you were wondering
• Only one of his children stayed in Greece. Three of them had left before they even turned twenty, my dad was seventeen
• After his children left for the U.S. and Canada he pretty much just kept occupied until his grandchildren, like me, could visit him in the summers

Summers in Greece were always spent hunting octopus, gathering sea urchins on the beach, going for rides on his motorcycle, listening to his stories, getting history lessons about our family, and – my personal favorite – building things with him. He is the craftiest and most innovative man I’ve ever met. I can honestly say that this man has had a direct influence on my life, especially because of all the things he taught me while we built things together in his apothiki (shed) (Ah-po-thee-kee). His inventions and contraptions always make you wonder “How did he think of this?!?!” He could give MacGyver a run for his money. He turned a fishing reel into a paint mixer using an old phone cord, thin steel wire, and a wooden handle. Try to wrap your head around that one without your brain approaching the verge of explosion.

That’s one thing I love about him. He always stressed how EVERYTHING has an alternate use (please refer above for fishing reel to paint mixer example). Why should you be confounded to the uses the object was intended for? Make a new use for it, something that’s better for you. He taught me that I needed to be able to look at something and analyze how it worked….to take it apart in my head. Before I built something, before I put hammer to nail (or pen to paper), I had to build it in my head. I had to visualize what I was going to make. If you work through it in your head, you can work through it in practice. That was a life lesson that I learned without realizing he had taught it to me until now. Visualization pertains to more than just building crafts; it is an essential skill in any endeavor. He always made everything seem so fluid and natural, like he had made it a hundred times before that when it was actually his first attempt at constructing something. That was all due to his visualization and planning in his head beforehand.

I went to visit my grandparents in Gythio during the summer of 2012 for about eight days. I wasn’t surprised to see that my grandfather hadn’t slowed down one bit. He wasn’t out-and-about or hunting for octopus as much (he did that every single day when I was growing up, now it was more like three times a week). He still built things though, because that was always more mental than physical, but Pappou was finally getting old; it wasn’t difficult to see. Now he enjoyed lounging in an air-conditioned room and watching TV or sitting on his balcony and smoking a cigarette, watching the cars go by, thinking. What was he thinking? I’m not sure. All I know is that I’d sit there and watch him as he stared into the distance. We talked a ton during my short stay that summer, but it was those short moments of silence that I appreciated the most; those deep exhales of breathe that he took; him telling the world that he was accomplished…that he was finally able to relax. I miss those few seconds between us where neither of us would say anything because that is what made certain that he was standing there in front of me.

After we found out he was diagnosed with lung cancer I only had one thing on my mind; that I HAD to go and see him one last time. It wasn’t even eight months after I saw him – how could it be possible? How long was the cancer there for? How much longer does he have to live? Did Superman find his kryptonite? There were so many questions to ask but I was only concerned with one. Who was coming with me? I was going alone or with a pack, it didn’t matter to me…I WAS GOING. I managed to round up my brother and a few of my cousins and go to Greece for five days with the sole purpose of seeing our grandfather for one last time. Our parents (who had gone to see him already) didn’t want us to go but we stubbornly persisted and booked our tickets anyway. Stubbornness, persistence, and ambition are just a few of the many characteristics that run in our family all thanks to Pappou.

We arrived to Gythio late on Thursday night so we went to say hi to Yiayia (grandma) and then went straight to our hotel to go to bed. The next day we got up and went over to Yiayia and Pappou’s house to see the family; a loud (and I mean LOUD) mix of cousins, uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters. It was the first time so many of the cousins had been there together, we usually went at different times.

Yiayia made the most delicious home cooked meal I’ve ever had (Yiayia’s cooking is ALWAYS the best meal I’ve ever had…God know she feeds you like you won’t eat for another six weeks). She told us that after we were finished eating, we would all go and see Pappou together. I was nervous, I wasn’t sure how I would react or what to expect. After our early dinner we all packed into two cars and drove to go and see Pappou. We were all quiet. Even the cousins who had already seen him weren’t saying much. I always try to smile or talk in these situations to help lift everyone’s mood (I’m the talkative cousin) but even that was hard to do.

I froze when I saw him. I couldn’t believe he was there in front of me. It was overcast outside and the weather wasn’t what I was generally used to. Who would’ve thought it gets cold in Greece in mid-April. He smiled at me and said “I was wondering when you were coming. You look A-Okay.”

“Thank you Pappou” I replied. I couldn’t say a word. There was a huge lump in my throat that was blocking any words from coming out. Seeing that I was having trouble expressing myself he continued.

“Have you been working hard?” he asked me. He knew the answer to the question but he asked it anyway.

“Always” I replied. He and my father (they’re the same person) always told me that I needed to work hard and stay smart; that’s it. Everything else would work itself out. I finally managed to spit a few words out of my mouth.

“So how much longer do you think you’ll be around?” I asked. I knew the answer to the question but I asked it anyway.

He let out a small chuckle, looked me square in the eyes with that assertive gaze of his and said “Always.”

At that moment I felt my heart weigh down into the depths of my stomach, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. As strong as I always wanted to seem to my grandfather I couldn’t prevent that tear from escaping and trailing down my cheek. The corners of my mouth uncontrollably began to push themselves downward. It pained me to see him like that. And just then, without warning, he spread his wings and shot straight up into the sky right before my eyes revealing the tombstone behind him where his body lay six feet underground, as cold as steel, because my grandfather died two days after I booked the tickets to Greece so I never got the chance to see him one last time. I only had the opportunity to write about what it “would’ve” felt like during my plane ride home but it’s not the same. This wasn’t a story but a tribute. I’m sorry I fibbed, but I had to get you to listen somehow.

Cheers to one of the strongest, smartest, and coolest men I’ve ever known.

1927-2013

I love you Pappou