Merry Merry

Christmas for us has meant many different scenes over the years. Nowadays it's brunch at my parents' house. People who have had that breakfast have a hard time not coming back, even if they have become divorced from someone in our family. My mother Bebe turns out several varieties of eggs, creamed chipped beef, sausages, potatoes, chocolate muffins and an infamous pecan cinnamon coffee cake which can induce riots in the buffet line. This year my niece joined the Navy and was married over Thanksgiving so we had three new sailors at the table.  My eldest brother Pete played juice and coffee steward. My other brother Roger manned the scrambling station. Due to the extra bodies, we consumed a record four dozen eggs this year.

Christmas used to mean trimming the tree on Christmas Eve, dating back to the times when my father George would wait until the tree sellers on Massachusetts Avenue had packed it in for the season. After they turned the lights off, he'd slink over to the lots and root around in the dark. Sometimes the trees would be straggly and sometimes they would be OK, but he never knew what he had until he got it home. One year, when things were especially good, he grandly ordered a tree from Friendship Florist, and, according to family lore,  it was the worst tree EVER, so he never did that again.

By the time I came along, George was no longer liberating leftover trees. Instead, we went to the Florida Avenue Market where he could happily haggle with the vendors. I was always instructed to pretend like I didn't care about a tree. He would signal me to walk away and hang out at the ash can fire. This happened more than once during the deal, but we always went home with a tree, much to my relief.

A quick survey finds 1941 to be a favorite Christmas. The parents were finally homeowners on Dix Street in River Terrace. That year there was a live Cocker Spaniel puppy under the tree in a box and a Lionel train with real smoke. My mom and sister had matching red velvet dresses. Bebe remembers it was the last year before the rationing of World War Two.

Another favorite was 1939. That was the first year that Dad’s parents let him bring his non-Greek wife to Christmas at their place on Macomb Street. Dad remembers giving his father seat covers for his car. Papou thought they were blankets and tried to wear one.

The family Christmas party back then was always at Yiya’s and Papou’s place on Upton Street right across from the Friendship Post Office which was a Safeway.  I thought it was great my grandmother kept a grocery cart in her front yard. Plus she had an aluminum Christmas tree which eliminated any midnight runs to the tree lot.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving.
The word instantly puts a chill down the spine of my side of the family. Yes, there will be great food, and a swell party, especially for the blissfully unaware kids running amok in my parents' basement, but with the joy comes the quiet dread of getting ready. It starts in August when my mother Bebe pulls her notes from last year, and starts the worrying machine. On Thanksgiving Day, just before the first guest arrives, my dad George will be harnessed to his blower diligently chasing that last leaf off the premises. Never mind that it's always pitch dark by 5 o' clock. When a car's head lights sweep up the driveway, there will be no leaf left behind.

By 4:00 Bebe will be sighing in the kitchen. She has been up since dawn cooking, and dressed for the party since mid afternoon, but there is always something to fret about like  that little incident last year when there was no hot water at zero hour because George forgot to over ride the timer. (He keeps Bebe on a very strict energy saving schedule.)  Even now George is outside with that leaf blower, buzzing around the patio. Bebe, the model of self control, grits her teeth and accepts that she has done all that she can do. She and my sister have set the tables the Sunday before, strategizing over whether the one in the family room will block the football game, and how many kids are old enough to sit in a chair. Bebe started cooking in September and finishes up just before 6 p.m. which is dinner time.

Thanksgiving is one of three major family gatherings. My poor mother is down to a couple of cousins on her side of the family, but the numbers are way up on the Greek side.  Our branch alone brings almost thirty to the table. Back in the day, my grandparents had the whole family over to their duplex on Upton Street, and we all fit in the dining room- almost.

Then their three children took over.  Catherine got Greek Easter, Nick took Christmas, and George ended up with Thanksgiving. Back then the clan topped out at twenty five or so; now we are approaching sixty. New babies and people keep coming. Last year Dino had twins, and this year my niece is getting married.

At this point, Bebe would give her eyeteeth and turkey candle collection NOT to do this, but George has laid down the law. If he's still breathing, we're still doing it.  My cousin John brings the cheesecake that his mother used to bring. (Aunt Catherine had a secret recipe/competition going on with Blackie's House of Beef, and I think she won.) My cousin Ann, who is from Louisiana, brings a pecan pie. My brother Peter arrives from Michigan and bartends. Uncle Nick brings the rum cake. My sister and I mash the potatoes. My brother Roger started making Greek chicken soup one year, and now no one will let him stop.

My Uncle Nick is always the first to arrive at 5:00 sharp. Game on.

The madness goes on for hours, but the party is over when my sister starts corralling her sons to take all the chairs and tables back downstairs until next year. This usually happens around 8 p.m., but it feels like midnight. Hopefully there's still enough hot water to get the dishes are done.

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Happy Birthday Bebe

Today is my mother's birthday. These days she uses the Jack Benny formula and remains firmly lodged at age thirty-nine, but no matter what her age, she is the quiet steady engine that keeps this family well fed and motoring right along. She always turns out great meals except on her birthday when she likes to go to her favorite Chinese restaurant. Being of Southern heritage, when my mother cooks, she usually adds a stick or two of butter to any recipe. A family favorite is Greek chicken "like Yiya used to make." My non Greek mother is not particularly fond of this dish, but she patiently churns it out by request. As the saying goes in my family, first you take a chicken and bake it with tomato sauce. Cook the "macaroni" which is a really thick version of spaghetti. This is when my mother steps in with a stick of butter. After pouring all the tomatoey chicken drippings on top of those buttery noodles, we sit down to eat. I can't even stand to write about it, it's that good.

My mother was born in 1917 at Sibley Hospital which was on North Capitol Street. Her parents, Bernice and Roger Calvert were married the year before on Bernice's eighteenth birthday. They named the baby Bernice Bailey, and so she became "BB" which morphed into the Bebe we know today. My grandmother wrote: "Baby's first ride was from the hospital to Mount Pleasant in Dr. Molzari's car. After that she has had numbers of auto rides, street car rides, baby carriage rides, but I think she loves best of all to ride in daddy's arms."

Happy Birthday, Mom. You're still a babe.

What do you get for Anniversary #72?

My parents have been married 71 years. SEVENTY ONE YEARS. They met when my father's classmate Carl Langmark brought George over to the Broadmoor where my mother Bebe lived. The boys were both juniors at Western, and Bebe was a sophomore. Just fifteen and love struck, she never forgot the exact date. April 8, 1932. The two of them soon ditched their friends for alone time which Bebe accomplished with free passes to the movies at the Avalon which used to be called the Chevy Chase Theater.

George and Bebe eloped on Memorial Day 1935. George’s buddy, Fred came along as a witness, and  drove them up to Elkon, Maryland  in a 1932 Desoto convertible. (My dad has a thing about cars.) Bebe was only 17, and George had just turned 18. Besides the hurdles of being too young and pregnant, my mother was Not Greek. The deck was stacked, but they were both determined.

 As a wedding present, Fred took everyone out for fried chicken which set him back $1.25 per person. Then the newlyweds snuck back -each to their own homes- to figure out what to do next. About a week later, the jig was up.  A friend of the family in Havre de Grace saw their wedding listed in a Baltimore paper, and called my grandfather Pete. George was thrown out of the house. Pete asked the Greek community not to hire or help his son in hopes that George would come to his senses, but my dad did not give up. He had a job, plus their friend and matchmaker Carl Langmark arranged for them stay at his house that summer while his parents were away.

When my older brother, Peter was born that fall, they named him after Papou which was the tradition in Greek families. (Yes, that’s the deal with all the same names) George took the baby to see his parents, but Bebe wasn’t included on this visit or any other. She had to wait in the car.

It wasn’t until after my sister was born that my Papou relented. He would come to the Hollywood Inn where they lived, and help George and Bebe make hamburgers for the weekend customers. Sometime after my brother Roger was born, my Yiya finally threw in the towel and accepted Bebe, too. Three children and six years later.

Bebe took it all in stride. She was and is the peacemaker. She did whatever it took to help everyone get along, and to make George’s life easier.  I know it has not been easy all these years, but they are still together.

Two years ago, I remember commenting to my father on the longevity of their relationship. He was standing on the front porch with a broom in his hand and I was below him raking the yard.   Looking off into the distance, he wistfully said "You know, your mother is my best friend." Then he paused to let this thought sink in. He rarely said anything so sentimental and  I was a bit stunned. "Well, that's so nice, Dad," I managed to mumble, feeling a little choked up.

Then, putting things into perspective with his irrepressible sense of humor, he said " Of course,  all of my other friends are dead." And he finished sweeping off the porch.

Happy Anniversary, you two!

A Lifelong Love Affair with Cars

1951 Fleetwood

Cars have always been a big part of my father's life. George once bought a house on Upton Street- one half of a duplex actually, which featured nine tiny garages in the back. Nine! Even before George owned his own car, he would steal his father Pete's car which was a 1930 maroon Chevrolet with black fenders. Pete kept his car in a garage about a block away from where they lived on Macomb Street so George had to swipe two sets of keys- one for the garage and one for the car.  Papou never did find out why that car got such bad mileage on a tank of gas.  He even took it back to the dealer to complain.

the car with bad mileage

George remembered every car he has ever owned starting with the Model T Ford he bought on the sly with money he had earned from picking up golf balls and selling newspapers. His father thought he was too young to have a car, but that didn’t stop George. He lied about his age, forged his father’s name, and got a permit when he was only fifteen. Then his friend, Fred Brown hid the car at his house down the street until it was too late for my Papou to stop the deal.

After the Model T, George upgraded to a 1927 Chevrolet 2 door coupe convertible and from then on it was convertibles all the way. To modify the Chevy, he went up to the Friendship Depot and scrounged up a straw bench from a retired streetcar. He then cut the trunk lid, reversed the hinges, and made a rumble seat. From then on George drove his friends to school at Western High and charged them for gas money.

Rose Papadeis and George on Macomb Street 1934

The next set of wheels was a 1932 DeSoto with black fenders. George bought that one from a chef from Altoona who was working for Papou at Macomb Cafeteria at the time. By now Goerge was married and needed more reliable wheels. This car suited the little family, but just before WWII broke out, he was able to swing a brand new 1940 Hudson V8 with back windows that buttoned up when the top was down.

The Hudson parked in front of the Washington Monument.

His first new car would have to last a while. After this factories stopped making automobiles and started making war machines. Those were dark days for my father, but it didn't stop him from dreaming. George pre-ordered four cars,  and when they started rolling off the assembly line after the war, he was ready.

The first was a 1947 green convertible Studebaker. A beauty.

 

But he sold it as soon as the 1947 green convertible Buick came in.

But he sold it as soon as the 1947 green convertible Buick came in. They just don't make 'em like this anymore. This was when form and beauty were valued over mileage.

He kept that one until the 1947 emerald green Cadillac showed up.

And that was the beginning of a long love affair with Cadillacs. In 1951 a pink Cadillac caught his eye. My mother's favorite color.

Here's a picture of my brothers looking out from the back seat long before seat belts were a thing.

My brother Pete unwittingly followed in George's shoes. Not knowing of Dad’s former escapades, Pete would climb down the tree outside his bedroom window on Davenport Street and “borrow” the car at night. The big difference was my brother got caught because our father was no dope and always checked the mileage on his car.

Pete was undeterred.  With the money he earned from a temp job at the post office, he bought a 1939 Buick, shaped like a torpedo, with an antenna running up the middle of the windshield. What little paint it had was blue. No brakes, no insurance, and, as per family tradition, it was a forbidden purchase. Pete's plan, not unlike our father's, was to park discreetly on another block. He got away with it, too, until Dad found a traffic ticket in his wallet.

For George, it was Cadillacs and only Cadillacs right on up to the 1970s when Cadillac had the nerve to stop making convertibles.  My cousin, Pete Sclavounos, managed to find George one last custom red Eldorado with chrome spoke wheels and custom grill. You can see how he felt about it.

George eventually got the fever for a new car again, but it had to be a convertible. That’s when my all American Dad converted to foreign cars.  Also he got the bright idea of buying my mother Bebe a  bright red convertible for their 71st anniversary even though she has always hated the top down due to the unspeakable things that could happen to her hair. My mother was always a good sport about her "gift" and would "go along with the program. She said she liked the color, too.

Big Fat Greek Funeral

Greek funerals are not for the feint of heart.  I took my parents to one today for Jimmie George Deoudes which started at 10 a.m. and lasted most of the day. We kicked things off at St. George's with prayers, incense, a bit of weeping, and some pomp. My mother admired the big windows. She liked that the room was so much brighter than St Sophia's my family's usual church. She pondered having her own funeral here. Afterward, we got into cars tricked out with tiny flags to protect us as we took a hair-raising ride around the Beltway. When not crawling at a dignified pace, we were jack rabbiting and braking abruptly trying to stay together without crashing into another car.

Finally we arrived at the cemetery. The graveside service gave everyone a chance for a breather and a short walk. The ceremony involved more holy things, but it didn't last very long. It seemed a bit sadder than church as we had to leave Jimmie behind here.  Then it was a free form reverse commute back to church for what always feels like the main event: lunch.

By now it was well after 1 p.m. We stood politely milling about the foyer waiting for the priest and family to arrive. We could not sit until after the priest blessed the meal, but we were pleasantly surprised when the church ladies started passing out little squares of Ledo pizza. This took the edge off things, and my mother announced that she would like pizza handed around at her funeral. While we waited to be seated, my sister ordered us to take off our coats so she could drape them over multiple chairs. The exact number we needed was unknown, but my sister and mother liked to avoid sitting with anyone they might not know.  

We definitely needed places for my mother, my father George. my cousin George and two or three other people named Nick or George. And possibly a Pete. Cousins near and distant swirled by. The deceased, Jimmie Deoudes, was our cousin by marriage.  Here's your cousin, John, my sister told me brightly. John who? I said. "I'm the bad one," this John said. "That's all you need to know about me." Then he showed me his bad-ass, silver studded belt buckle which gave a certain credence to his claim.

Many of the old school Washington Greeks were bound together by the food business. Jimmie Deoudes was the commissioner at Union Market where the Pappas family sold tomatoes.

Charlie Poulos was the coffee guy.  Harry Magafan imported Greek and Italian goods and started a company called Alpha Foods. Blackie Auger had a restaurant empire which started with Blackie's House of Beef.

My father first worked for Quick Service Laundry, and much later started his own company with my Uncle Mimi called Modern Linen.

People got up to tell stories while we ate lunch. The first man had a very thick Greek accent. He told us once upon a time, his Cousin Jimmie couldn't get into some fancy joint because he didn't have a tie. "So Jimmie- Jimmie he took out a hundred dollar bill and ah-ah- how you say-- ah- ah paper clip-- and he put it there- there on his collar. So the manager looks around and says, Who IS this guy?? But of course, he got in."

Everybody laughed.

After lunch the church ladies come scurrying through taking plates and serving coffee. The church ladies rock. It was almost 3:00, but no one was in a hurry to leave. There were cookies on the table - the twisted buttery kind that my Yiya used to make for me. After dessert, it was finally time to go. The room was beginning to empty. We stood up to put on our coats, but then my father started circling the room, making his hearty goodbyes, we sat back down again. We weren't leaving anytime soon. Have another cookie, my mother aid. My sister put a couple in a paper napkin and lodged them in her purse. We might need a snack on the way home.