Birthday Are Greek To Me

Tomorrow is my father George’s birthday, and it's hard to believe he is in his ninth decade.  He still drives his own car with the top down and acts like a much younger man. The true "Grecian Formula" may be the tradition of Name Days. Your Name Day is set by the saint you are named for and by that saint’s feast day. Traditionally name day are celebrated instead of birthdays, and years are not counted.

I know my Greek grandparents Pete and Pota probably did not know their own ages except that he was somewhat older than his bride.  When Pete had to fill out official documents here in America,  he made himself younger for insurance agents and older for census takers.

When Pete was about eighty in the 1950s, he had to go take the newly implemented driver’s test at the DMV on Indiana Avenue. George took him over there and watched through a little window. He saw his father was struggling. Even after forty some years in Washington, Pete still didn't have a firm grasp on the English language. After a few minutes,  somehow George managed to meet Pete in the bathroom. He proudly recounts that “they” got a 98 out of 100.

Next came the driving portion which involved a lot of orange cones. Pete hit every one. Fortunately, the inspector had been a customer at Churchill’s Bar and Grill, the family restaurant. George took the man aside and promised him that his father would only be driving to St. Sophia’s and to his daughter’s house and only on Sundays. He passed.

At that point in his life, Pete was wielding a large Cadillac which he kept in a tiny garage with tires hanging on the walls as parking cushions. George says he often drove right over the curb into Aunt Catherine’s yard, and she would yell at him from her kitchen window.

George is still passing any driving tests he has to take. He was born in DC where we have birth certificates, and we celebrate birthdays. George remembers he often received a five dollar gold piece on his birthday. He gave them all away over the years, but wishes he had kept one. To this day he gives his grandchildren and other kids he loves "gold" dollars as gifts. His favorite present, however, was the birthday gift that he bought himself at the age of eighteen: a used 1932 maroon DeSoto with black fenders.

Explaining Greek Easter

Easter is a big event in our family, at least on the Greek side. When I was growing up, I always got an Easter basket on American Easter, but then we would celebrate again whenever Greek Easter rolled around. The Orthodox calendar follows a different schedule, but what it usually means is that the Greek Easter bunny saves big on discounted candy. This year, however, much to the dismay of cheap Greeks everywhere, both fall on the same day.

My father George remembers going to St Sophia's for the midnight service and then a huge meal to break the fast in the middle of the night. I remember my Yiya always cooked a leg of lamb indoors. (She lived in Washington and might have freaked out the neighbors with the traditional lamb on a spit.) Later, when my Uncle Mimi moved out to Chevy Chase in the late 1940s, we could play baseball in the big side yard and roast whole animals with impunity.

If the weather was nice, tables were set up on the back terrace. I remember doing the Twist for the first time in their basement, and watching the Wizard of Oz on TV after dinner, but the best part about Greek Easter hands down is the Egg War.

All Greek Easter eggs are dyed a deep red for Christ’s blood. Some rely on food coloring, but my Yiya relied on red crepe paper. (Yikes) All symbolism aside, the seemingly sole purpose we Greeks dye a gazillion hard boiled eggs is to destroy them. To do this we take egg in hand and hit an opponent's egg or be hit. The egg that cracks is the loser, and the victor goes on until all eggs are broken, and only one grand champion egg holder is left in tact. (If you cheat like my father and uncle, you might slip in your thumb or, if really prepared, a marble substitute.)

These days my cousins, Dean and Ann have taken on the daunting task of having Easter at their house which is a frightful distance from Washington. They keep moving farther away, but it does no good. Many of us are well known for not missing a meal, and my brother drives all the way from Michigan. Some of my family can’t find their way out of a paper bag so they tend to travel in tribes and caravans with those that can.  Egg count this year is up to about 45, and the rainy forecast must have my poor cousins contemplating moving out of state, but until that happens, the Egg War will go on.