Eulogy for Baba: January 19, 2017
It is so good to see all of you. I miss you. As you know, two years ago we managed to convince my dad to move up to Cleveland with us. This was a difficult time. We had a narrow window of opportunity to convince him to come with us. So we sort of just quietly snuck him out. And I’ve always felt bad about that. I felt bad that we didn’t allow his friends the opportunity to give him a proper goodbye. So, here we are now. In this room with all of the people he loved, and I hope we can say what we want to say, and that he can hear us.
Let me start by saying — my sister and I were his life. He loved us always and took his responsibility as a parent very seriously, especially after our mother died. This is not something we could have taken for granted. Our mom’s death shattered him. It shattered all of us and at the beginning we were lost. In addition, my sister and I were on the cusp of adulthood so it would have been easy for my dad to rationalize that we didn’t need him so much anymore. But the truth is that we did need him, and he knew it. And he rose to the occasion. He let us know that our nuclear family was intact and would remain our base.
I met my husband shortly after my mother died. He asked me out on our first date on a Sunday. This was the same day that I had promised to accompany my father on a visit to see old friends. When my dad caught whiff that a Greek boy had asked me out, he quickly cancelled the longstanding plans and made sure I went on that date.
Throughout my courtship with my husband, I was able to talk to my dad in open ways that I might have talked to my mom. He made it easy, and he cared.
When each of my daughters was born, my dad took the first flight up to Boston. He showed up to the hospital each time in a full suit and tie. The first time I said, “Baba, why are you all dressed up? Are you going to Church?” He said, “No. I have a new granddaughter and I want to look my best for her.”
So seriously did my dad take his parenting responsibility that shortly after he retired, he signed up for a parenting class for parents of adult children. One of the things the class taught him was — when you visit your children, don’t overstay your welcome. When I learned this, I finally understood why his visits rarely lasted more than 48 hours.
But my dad was a man of contradictions. He was a Gemini, you know. He needed his friends and family. He loved people. But he was also fiercely independent. I’m sure this self-reliance was developed growing up in Greece during the war. Or as a result of being the youngest of 3 boys. Or the shortest kid in the neighborhood. Obviously, this survival instinct served him well in life. For one, he knew how to take care of himself. After my mom passed, he kept a clean and impeccably organized house. He ironed everything. He ensured that he ate well, with his friends Margarita and Erasmia keeping him abreast of the latest alternative health trends. With his Vefa Alexiou cookbook in hand, he learned how to cook the best prasopita and melizanosalta in town. He swam Monday through Friday at the Rockville pool at 5:30 am without fail. He kept a vibrant social life, lunches with his men’s group and parties that lasted till 2am. And with Marina, his companion of many years, he continued to enjoy cultural experiences and to challenge his intellect with non-stop learning.
My dad moved to Cleveland 2 years ago. He moved because it was getting harder for him to live alone. For us, it was an opportunity to live in the same city with Baba for the first time in 20 years. It was a chance for the girls to grow up with their grandfather down the street. Though we had high hopes for this new chapter in our lives, it didn’t go exactly as planned. My dad’s mind started to fail him. And though he came willingly to Cleveland, soon all he could talk about was wanting to go home. His home was Washington, then Thessaloniki and finally, his village. And he never stopped fighting to get back. It was amazing how resourceful he was, trying to enlist anyone he could find to drive him there. It was heartbreaking but also awe inspiring to see that his spirit remained indomitable. One caregiver said it best when she wrote– “Costas was a unique person. He was a live wire with passion and energy rarely seen around here.”
I felt blessed that I could still find moments of sweetness with my Baba. Whenever I walked into the room, he would light up. He knew until the end that I was an important person to him, though he was sometimes confused about our relationship. One time, he looked at me and said, “Who is your father?” I said, “You don’t know who my father is?” He said, “No. I don’t.” I said “Baba, you are my father.” A big grin spread across his face, as if he had just won the lottery, and he said , “You are shitting me! “ He was pleased as punch to receive this news.
And then there were the grandchildren. We would send them in when no one else could reach him. Around the girls, he would flash that grin, joke around but also give serious advice. The last video we have is of Papou lecturing the girls about the importance of the Greek language in a very serious manner.
“You must learn your Greek,” he said. “There is no excuse for not knowing your Greek better. I want you to work hard and learn it well. Everything comes from the Greek. It is a very rich language. Never forget that you are Greek!” And then with a big smile and twinkle in his eye, he said, “Did I tell you that you are beautiful?”
That was Costas, my Baba to the end. May his memory be eternal.
