First Person Narrative/Recollection of Father

Entering the musty office area, I see the ashtray filled with cigarette butts and ashes. The smell of the ashtray permeates the room. The cheaply made pineboard walls seem not only damp, they seem uneven and warped on the walls. Usually, this office is energized with workmen. Workmen looking for the unskilled laborers' jobs that he can give them. Their strong coffee in styrofoam cups and smoke filling the room, along with boisterous talks of past jobs, and future dreams. The men are from different countries and the sounds are overlapping languages, as he enjoys the action, the clatter of lifestyles, and the hope that he may bring to these men.

I enjoy hearing about the jobs, and the teams that work on them. I am glad to see him in his workboots, and plaid wool shirt, cigarette balanced in the familiar ashtray, with a mold of an eagle on the edge of the tray. I can imagine him in this office, and in his space, with the lumber piled up on one side, and the tools and nails in smaller piles around the room. On Fridays, he treats the men to a case of beer, and this generousity of sharing beer is so reflective of his nature. As educated as he is, the boots, the shirt and the loud discussions give the workers a secure and happy environment to vent some problems. Not too many problems, and not anything of personal significance. That seems to be the unwritten, but agreed rule of the place.

I walk around the office, peering out at the traffic on this busy street, and listening to the neighborhood noises, the quietness of the abutting families' evening routines.

Five years ago, his office was an executive corner office downtown, and the workers wore dark suits, white shirts and ties, as did he. Now the point for him seems to be to give these guys work, hope, and maybe a beer now and then, and to show that he, too, can be part of the comradie.

The carpet is worn, and the colour not discernable. It was never really any colour in particular. He didn’t care about things, and he decided to shuck the elaborate encumbrances of executive life to work at a closer and more personal level with the community.

I notice the renderings of the most interesting project that he dreamed of and accomplished in this community, the “Plant A Tree Project”. The renderings are so professional, that they could be part of the downtown scene. Who would guess the significance as they leaned on a sander in the corner of this room. The project has been accepted by the politicians, not just local guys, but also the big pols in DC. Sure, he got Kennedy to sign onto this inner city beautification program, and also the funding to plant the trees throughout the community, to beautify the city, and give hope to the people, struggling to make ends meet.

White shirt - plaid wool shirt, tie - open collar/no tie, dress shoes - workboots, at least the smile, the cigarettes, the ashtray and the glib, fast talking guy remain the same.

How much of this is me? How much of the talk the talk; and walk the walk has been inherited and is part of me? I am proud and I am glad that he is someone who has taught me some of the truths of life and living; and people’s aspirations and hope.

Dreams of a fourteen year old girl....

Thinking about dreams, I had when I was fourteen, I wished for the time I would go to Afrika & help the villagers, by bringing them books to learn to think about more than their tiny community. To bring them ideas and the words to speak more aptly--more descriptively about their feelings, their experiences & about their aspirations. I read about the Peace Corps & I really couldn't wait to grow up & join the workers -- going to those under-developed countries--to pass out the boxes of food, to set up the tents & to teach the Afrikans about some philosophical truths & enable them to record their own. I dreamt of helping people with no voice--express themselves. Sometimes I dreamt about being a drummer in a band, though.

The Hellenic Voice - Published Article 11/14/07

Mario Frangoulis Celebrates an Amor Concert

- Cambridge, MA - The Greek Institute sponsored a presentation of Mario Frangoulis in concert on October 28 at Harvard University's Sanders Hall. The energy level along with the delight of the concert-goers was phenomenal. Frangoulis, a tenor with the ability to perform with a powerful energy and passion in Greek, English, Spanish and French, pleased the crowd with his songs and brough down the house with several encores.
His admirers were vocal in their admiration of him and requested songs. His good-nature and ability to move to serious themes reflects a well-earned reputation of the consummate professional.
The concert included lyrics from poems of Federico Garcia Lorca, a revered poet and dramatist from Spain, and the songs the passion of the concert, reflected Frangoulis' power and energy; that is Greek. He enlightened and moved his audience.
The concert included Theodore Economou of Athens on piano, who is one of the primary creative partners with the tenor. Also performing was Robert Curtis, violin; John Damian, guitar; Lydios Blendi Dhamis, bass; Rod Ferland, flute/carinet; Panagiotis Liaropoulis of Athens, keyboards; Ricardo Monzon, percussion; Anthony Pentikis, bouzoukia; and John Ramsay, drums.
The concert hall filled with music an poetry was presented with sponsorshop of Demetra Anangnostopouls and Vassilios Karabetas, the Behrakis Foundation, the Costas and Mary Maliotis Charitable Foundation, Peter J. Tamis, President and the Alexander S. Onassis Public Benefit Foundation, NYC.
Frangoulis will be a featured performer at the November 16 benefit for Boston homeless at the Strand Theater.

Doctor Zhivago..years later!

The question was..What is your favorite book & why? Okay, two questions..then the group was given..perhaps ten minutes to write. Write all about it.
From deep within, this exercise illicited the following:

Pasternak's 'Doctor Zhivago' has been an important book in my literary life. ( I read it on the recommendation of my mother, one summer in the sixties). The main character's conflict with living his life and writing poetry against the backdrop of major political changes in Russian remains an exceptional reading experience & one which I still empathize and identify with.

Dr. Zhivago had a talent; writing poetry, however, he was also a medical doctor. His angst with his creativity and training in a profession, trying to chose and trying to do both well...is amazing to me. I was so atuned to his perspective in this novel...I felt that I was him & didn't want the book to end.

I have always enjoyed Russian literature; the emeshing of philosophy, spiritual & political movements with the individual choices of men. Zhivago is a Russian derivative of 'life' & as in the movie 'Z' the energy, passion & pathos of humanity..moves the spirit.

(to be continued)

Words of Thanks

'Each new morning with its light,
for rest & shelter of the night,
for health & food,
for love & friends,
for everything thy goodness sends.'

Ralph Waldo Emerson
Thanksgiving 2007 - Family Prayer

Favorites..Not An Easy Task

Blue skies, Blue waves, white sand, writing, moving forward, reading, strawberries, blueberries, strong coffee, smiling eyes, big smiles, yellow labs with sloppy everything & wagging tails, a quick step, a tall guy, a passionate kiss.

Dreaming..

that I am rushing to somewhere, with a canvas bag full of books, a handbag full of stuff...too many handles & straps, & fast walk, gait almost a run. How am I doing so far? Am I rushing to somewhere important? The term is just a rush, of classes, different campuses, students eager to please, to write. But for now, I am walking fast in a crowd; some sitting on the edges & some standing..talking; few walking, perhaps a few walking. I am trying to squeeze through a space of the walkers & one's sitting on high, wooden stools.

The handbag strap caught on someone; being pulled back sharply & trying to dis-engage. The person has a goatee, some grey & white & black mixed in..thinning hair, relaxing posture; repose, really. He's smiling but not a lot. He's caught with the strap, or is it that I'm caught by him being attached to it. Not sure, but now I am unable to walk my fast walk, and move myself to wherever I am going. I have to stop, am I stopping or am I just in a limbo that only happens in dreams. Then again, the term has been on such a fast pace, I'm still not sure if I'm asleep..dreaming or awake...in a haze.

He seems amused and takes the strap away from his body to hand back to me. I like his relaxed aura and his amusement; but feel obligated to move on, to continue the fast pace and the frenetic movement of an energy that I'm not quite feeling. This frame freeze vanishes, and I'm on an escalator; yes, still bogged down with stuff and bags & books and too much weight. Weighted down and weightier than I've ever been, how is this happening; when did it happen. The escalator takes forever, I do have somewhere to be, somewhere where I'm expected. Expected to talk, to share, to entertain the students, the administration, the Department.

And my desires, my aspirations ..long forgotten. How do I return to the man with the goatee, on the wooden stool smiling with a healthy sense of self. How do I become more like him?

Moving off of the escalator, now in full head-to-toe sheer turquiose, light and billowy material; dressed in veils and golden coins and chains and movement is now with joy.

Dancing, moving, music, sheer-ness...not weighted. Hips gyrating and light, lightness...scent of the exotic..dancing. The man with the goatee, standing tall, watching and smiling as I dance. Oh, joy!