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A Word from George
from Greek Coffee
"Chapter IX
Saturday, December 30, 2001, 11:50 p.m.
Forgiveness and freedom or fear and regret--heaven or hell:
choose."
pg. 224-225
Here are two flawless memories from two antithetical men that fathered
me and shaped my life.
Menos:
"I am right here," he promised. His assurance shielded
me from the blistering sun; its heat no longer touched me. Faith
and Menos had been divorced for a year when he dropped by one morning
to teach me to ride a bicycle. "Be careful!" my mother
yelped, standing in a pool of sweat in front of the hedges framing
our first home. She shouted, "Take care of my boy, I only have
one.” Faith drew a line across her throat. "Take care
of him or fft, off with your head!" My father gripped
the handle bars and said, "Don't listen. Women never want you
to have fun. We," he thumped his chest, "men make the
history by doing what we shouldn't. Women make history by stopping
us." My father acknowledged Faith's concerns. He waved and
blew her a kiss. "Now, let's make history," he declared.
I gazed at my father like the moon was his throne and the earth
was one of his gems: it was a book of wisdom that he shared with
me and me alone.
The bicycle wobbled down Carvel Street, the dirt-road tires hugging
the asphalt. I slipped off the seat as smooth as volcanic glass,
unable to maintain my balance. My father had decided at the last
minute to take the day off from work, so he had not changed out
of his business attire. His slick leather soles made for poor running
shoes, and he tripped frequently. Drenched in perspiration, his
undershirt was transparent through his Mormon white button-down
shirt striped in grease and tarry gravel stains. He was on stage,
in front of the neighborhood, making a grand fool of himself. I
was never prouder.
For an hour my father cleaved holes in the air to clear a path.
He ran by my side steadying the frame with one hand on the handlebars.
All morning long he sprinted, leapt, and jostled like an antelope.
Not once did he let me fall on my face. He cushioned my blows with
his body whenever I dumped the bike. That was 1977. I was six when
I learned to ride. That day, together, we made history.
Before his legs gave out on the final lap Menos wept, "Forgive
your Yiayia for what she says. She knows me." He kissed the
top of my crown, pressing his nose into my cowlick, and exhaled.
"My ego is my destruction. Forgive and then forget. Remember
these words. In life it is easy to forgive. Be smarter than everyone
else and learn also how to forget." That was the last remnants
of the human being in him speaking out; of the father before his
fall reaching out and forewarning his son. I will never forget.
I could not save him. I loved you, Baba.
Papou:
Throughout my youth Papou was the name of my god. I could
touch him, smell him, and see him. My grandfather's was the face
I prayed to. "Boy, it's hot and it is October and it's nighttime,"
commented Papou. October 1998 was the last I worshipped in a synagogue.
After services, my grandfather and I sat on the steps of Beth Israel.
He said, “Lift my socks up, please.” I set his walking
cane aside and straightened his socks and removed the buckskin-colored
fuzz from his pleated charcoal slacks. He had worn a cashmere cardigan
underneath the matching charcoal suit coat because it was chilly
in the temple. We had spent 25 hours fasting in and out of prayer
services.
It was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement: the last day God inscribes
our names in his books. It is the last chance to repent and make
amends. Papou dabbed the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief
and warranted, “We set this day aside to look at our inner
self, to atone for our sins.” I gripped his ebony cane like
a sword, like a 12th century Knight Templar protecting pilgrims
in Jerusalem. I buried the tip of the cane in a grassy crack in
the steps and rested my chin on the plain rubberized handle. I peered
straight ahead beyond the malodorous bayou entranced by the rows
of swaying oaks and pines overhanging the streets outlined by the
horizon. I was thoroughly distracted. Automobiles streaked by, their
headlights were like shooting stars and families speed-walked on
the bayou bike trail. I tuned back into the conversation after my
vision had been blurred by the effects of the repelling breeze rebounding
off the temple pillars. The twisting breeze rustled my hair till
it covered my eyes. I wore my bangs that evening as I had as a small
boy.
A lone teardrop pushed through the lines of my grandfather’s
careworn face. He choked up. “You don’t need Papou to
hold your hand anymore.” The frog in his throat broke his
puissance. His voice cracked. “Maybe I will not be here next
year.” He had made that statement the previous year during
Passover. I did not believe him then. Yet on those steps the certainty
of his trembling tenor grabbed my attention. I tuned out the city
and pooled my resources. I set aside the cane and gripped his hand,
pouring my strength into his limbs to bolster his spirits and reassure
myself he was not going anywhere. Instead of allowing me to speak
he attested, “I am still here. Don’t know how long but
I am here now. So listen up, son.” He blew his nose and said,
“I want you to live. I want you to make a life. I want you
to stop being like Yiayia and living every minute in the past. I
don’t know what you did to send Menos away. I never asked
and I don’t want to know,” he concluded. Regardless
of the heat he wrapped a muffler around his neck and offered me
lip balm after applying it to his chapped lips. “Whatever
you did, I know and your mama knows you did it to protect her and
your sister--wash it from your heart,” he stated. “Move
forward.”
I tucked the muffler into his collar and scratched his back. As
I sniffed my hands he produced a green peppermint. Our breaths were
a bit raw after fasting. I had absorbed his scent; it was calming.
Papou bit the mint in half that we shared before continuing. “I
tell Dr. Markandonis how proud of you I am, that you are strong
like a bull and you have a good heart, and...” He stopped
mid-sentence and asked, “Why are you making a face? You’re
surprised? Nothing wrong that I talk to a doctor,” stated
Papou. He grinned. “Though I told him he should pay me.”
He boasted, “I teach him more than he teaches me.” My
grandfather chuckled and slapped my knee. “I asked him for
advice about you. How you think too much. How you have told me from
your own lips that you ask yourself over and over again, ‘Why
did this happen, why that, what do I do now, why did I do this,
why did this work out but not this,’ until you give me a headache.
And I said to him what disturbs me the most is when you question
me, ‘Papou, you okay? You mad, Papou? You still love me Papou?
Are you and I okay Papou?’” He exhaled and added. “That
makes me sad, George. It makes me angry you should even wonder.
And it makes me worry.” My grandfather turned my face towards
him and said, “If you question me then one day you will question
someone else and you will look weak. And you are not. Besides, you
will drive someone crazy asking all the time, ‘Are you okay,
do you love me?’” He squeezed my biceps, declaring,
“I do not want anyone to think of you in a bad way. I want
them to see you as a king, not as a flower blowing in the wind.
Anyway, Markandonis says it is natural and says it’s strong
of you to question. You know what Papou says. Enough! Enough,”
stammered my grandfather. He foundered and extended his hand. “Stop
thinking and act.” I steadied him as he rose to his feet.
I suddenly realized his true age. His voice cracked again as we
walked to the car. “On Yom Kippur God only forgives us for
the sins we committed against Him. Before He can forgive us of everything
we must first ask for it from the people we wronged. Only then can
we face God.” The granite in his tone resurfaced as he ordained,
“Move forward and mold your life to match your mind in everything
you want. Be the man I know you are and forgive everyone, including
yourself.” My grandfather braced against the car door and
said, “Your Yiayia says I am crazy because I don’t fear
anything.” He clasped my jaw, wet his fingertips, and slicked
my hair back into place. His eyes sparkled. “I say because
I do not fear anything I am free.” He pulled up his left hand
sleeve and revealed his prisoner number, 11185. “Not even
they could rob me of what was in my heart.” He winked, embraced
me like a bear, and whispered, “Be free.”
From Greek Coffee.
Copyright © 2004 by George Molho
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