50a - At Mum's Village (Beautiful Days)

Born and raised in a big city amongst a few neighbor mates, near to the school and the refuge of my room always handy, a doting grandma downstairs and a charming uncle next door, our bourgeois family friends, the Akrivides, in the same side of town, visits to Mother’s village hardly appealed to me, alien as its culture and customs seemed to me. Nevertheless, for the sake of my maternal grandparents and Mother’s sisters who wanted to see their precious first grandchild and potential heir of their small estate, I was expected to accompany her to frequent visits to her family home, without looking indifferent or dejected -wearing a happy face, that is.

Grandma and aunties Lizza and Domna, perhaps even the normally aloof grandfather, showed what I sometimes found overbearing love, expressed in all possible ways within their means and the limitations of an unremarkable village environment. They strived, thus, to please a child who however was raised in and used to the markedly different ways of life in the big city. The limited possibilities the alien environment offered I did realize at a very young age, on the early occasions my parents handed me over to my aunties and grandma’s care for a Saturday night sleepover. When the dusk fell and my parents left, having been weighed down by sadness, I could hardly contain my tears, despite Domna’s efforts to console me and the tenderness she showed. Eventually, in the little room where the floor mattress was laid for my sleep, the feeling of sadness and emptiness from missing home, from the distance from the old familiar neighborhood and comfort of the little room with my books and toys, was abated -thanks to the entertainment and laughter from Lizza’s politically incorrect jokes, the impersonations of the invalids and fools of the village, from the loud voices and swearing emanated late at nights from the dodgy café nearby, from the sight of the staggering shadow and incoherent cries of Simos, the village drunkard, whilst being bullied by the café punters.

As I was growing up, I became more intrigued by grandad’s large and full of mysteries backyard, with the vegetable garden and trees, the empty old great-grandparents house in the corner, the chickens in their pen or roaming the yard, the streets and wheat and vegetable fields that surrounded the village -enough for the mind to forget about the games I would be missing with my friends in our neighborhood. I was fascinated and drawn to the little unknowns the city was unable to offer, to the delights of spring and winter seasons it lacked. With Domna, the meticulous devotee of local and national customs, we used to set out to ‘catch the May’ and ‘welcome the Spring’ on the first day of that month, in fields resplendent with poppies, daisies and hyacinths. On Good Fridays, we laid flowers on Epitaphios, kissed the embroidered icon and crawled underneath the adorned with flowers bier on display in churches, for being sanctified, then received the communion and attended the long tedious liturgy and, eventually, the more interesting, somber and candlelit procession around the village, with the bier flanked by uniformed officers and members of the national guard in their fatigues, holding semi-automatic weapons boys found awesome. Then, looking forward to the ‘Resurrection’ on Saturday night, when the unforgettable scent of lilac pervaded the spring air, on our way to the remote church of Agios Athanasios outside the village by its cemetery, and our return to the house holding candles, protecting the flame, the Holy Light, from the night breeze. On Easter Sunday mornings, we went through the ritual of selecting eggs with the hardest shells, from the sound light knocks to the teeth emitted, to prevail in egg jarping competitions before the Easter Sunday lamb family feast. In the autumn, I found delight in offering help to grandpa with the stacking and cutting wood for the house hobs, which, first a horse-drawn cart, then a small track, disposed untidily in the backyard. The lighting of the wood stove in the winter months, sustaining the glowing fire whist staring at its flames, being engulfed by their intense but pleasant heat, along with some pocket money from grandpa on my departure, were ample reward for those chores.  On Christmas Eve, with my local friend Vassilis, we wandered around the village streets and knocked the doors to sing the carols in exchange for treats, like nuts and fruits, but preferably small change.

Being a shopkeeper and selling stuff one of many a boy’s early dreams, and naturally I enjoyed dusting and tidying up the various items on the shelves of the grocery store "I. & Sons" next door. The ‘Sons’ of the great-uncle Leonidas left me unimpeded to do it, despite the protestations of the old father each time he saw me crouching in the aisles. And I was looking forward to the rides with Spyros, mum’s cousin, in his Opel Kadett to nearby villages to watch Sunday footie between non-league teams on uneven pitches with their patchy turfs, attended by handful of spectators in their tractors and vans - before he dropped me back at lunch time to make his way to watch his favourite team, PAOK, playing in a stadium  proper in the city-without me, the PAOK rivals’ supporter.