Thanks to My DC Dad

Since I lost my dad some years ago, Father's Day has become a time to remember things. George Cokinos was born at home on 9th Street Northeast to Greek immigrants in 1916. He grew up here and never left the DC area except to travel. We didn't sightsee unless we had out of town guests. We didn't go to the Smithsonian or other museums, but he did leave me an appreciation for living in the District, and I'd like to thank him for many things:

Taking me to the zoo.  A lot.  Sometimes just on the spur of the moment, sometimes for a birthday.  I suspect he liked it because it was uptown, free and outdoors.  I remember he would park our station wagon right near the elephant house and partly on the sidewalk. Crazy, right? He had a little home made sign that he would put on the dashboard which said  "Modern Linen -Making Delivery." That seemed to do the trick.

All those DC stories. George worked mostly in the restaurant world, and he had the low down on how the Italian statues got into AV's yard on New York Avenue, or how Ulysses "Blackie" Auger got his start after World War Two when everyone was craving meat after years of rationing. He sold steaks from the trunk of his car for a short time, but soon opened his own place called "The Minute Grille."  When he had made enough dough to buy the property at 21st and M, he called it Blackie's House of Beef. The kitchen was in terrible shape. One day my father and Uncle Mimi happened by to see the new place, and Blackie asked whether he should spend his money on improving the kitchen or buy a sign. My father said go for the sign, and that's exactly what happened. It was a big sign!

Introducing me to DC centric food 
George always asked for a half smoke over a hotdog. He also liked the fried chicken wing sandwich at the Florida Avenue Grill which came with another story.  Chewing right through the cartilage and spitting out the bones, he would talk about how his parents would have the priest from St Sophia's over for Sunday dinners when he was a kid.  The chicken on the table only went so far with a family of five and an honored guest.  The priest would get the biggest piece, and my grandfather would get the next biggest and so it went.  My grandmother always insisted that "Georgie loved the wing." I guess it happened so many times that he believed it, too.

Teaching me how to drive with impunity. Technically I learned to drive a VW bug with a driver's ed teacher, but my father taught me the finer points of operating a motor vehicle with his mind bending lane changes on the Beltway and sometimes stunning U turns on avenues around the city. Even though he constantly scared the crap out of my mother, he gave me a lot of confidence behind the wheel. And unlike my mother, he taught me how to pump my own gas.

Taking me to see the Watergate concerts.  I feel like I dreamed this, but there once was a floating barge on the Potomac River where concerts were held. The band played on the float, and the audience sat in folding chairs in the road or on the steps leading up hill to the Lincoln Memorial.  After I grew up, I caught the movie "Houseboat" on TV and realized it was the same venue the kids went to with Cary Grant.

It's a good thing they caught that era on film because I can't imagine stopping traffic for anything like that now. Once upon a time the staircase was meant to be part of a grand entrance into the city, but now it's just a strangely marvelous out of place phenomenon on Ohio Drive.

Taking me to Sherrill's Bakery. When I first met the "girls," as George called them, Lola, the owner, started yelling at him in Greek as soon as we walked in. She seemed angry and scary to me.  Her daughters Kiki and Dottie were less frightening, but I didn't know what was going until the scene devolved into pinching cheeks and handing out cookies. They loved my father and were scolding him for not coming by more often.

The bakery was once a mainstay on Capitol Hill and served breakfast, lunch and dinner 364 days a year in a time capsule of a 1940s diner which is when Lola and her husband Sam Rivas bought the place. A cigarette machine and a fortune telling scale flanked the front door, and I thought it was cool we didn't have to pay for the cookies. Former busboy and local film maker David Petersen almost won an Oscar and did win a well deserved Emmy for capturing those crazy and hard working women and their customers in his documentary "Fine Food and Pastries." Hit the link to see it as there's nothing left of Sherrill's except memories now.  Lola worked at the diner until she was 92 years old, but had to quit after a fall.

Showing me how the linen service worked. In the 1950s my dad and my Uncle Mimi started a company called Modern Linen which meant I got to go through the back doors of a lot of restaurants and meet the people in the kitchen. I worked at the laundry in the summertime and saw how all consuming the restaurant biz was.  Customers were constantly having crises. They would run out of clean napkins or dish towels after hours, sometimes a delivery truck would break down, and my brother or a cousins would have to jump in and drive the order in a car. When I decided to be a sign painter my senior year in high school, I think my father thought I was nuts, but he let me paint the trucks, and that was the last time I worked at a laundry. 

Soliloquy for St Sophia's Greek Orthodox Church

St Sophia Greek Orthodox Cathedral has always been a part of my life. It's the church my family didn't attend. At least, not very often. My grandparents were all in from the get-go and rarely missed a Sunday, but my mother was not Greek which meant she and my father couldn't get married at St Sophia's unless she converted. Plus they both worked at Churchills, our family diner, often until 2 a.m.  And Churchills was open on Sundays.

Still, my dad literally paid his dues to St Sophia's, and we went there for all the important rituals like christenings, funerals and bazaars. A lot of bazaars. My dad always bought raffle tickets for the Cadillac even though in over fifty years he never won and had to buy his own.

Driving down Wisconsin Avenue, it's easy to miss Saint Sophia sitting quietly in the shadow of the National Cathedral on Massachusetts Avenue. The bigger cathedral has held many a state affair, but the staff at St Sophia have waved over a few presidents starting with Dwight D. Eisenhower who laid the cornerstone in 1956.  A time capsule was included and will be opened in 2056. (I'm probably going to miss that event just like I missed this one.)

St Sophia's has seen the likes of Presidents Johnson, Nixon, Ford, and Clinton. Plus a few football players.

(That's Father John- the one without a football or plaid pants)

The church began humbly enough back in the early 1900s when a few hundred Greek immigrants scraped together enough money to rent a room downtown and to hire an itinerant priest. A Washington Star article in 1904 reported "in the heart of the Nation's Capital dwells a community of nearly 500 souls whose lives, customs, religion...are utterly alien to our institutions. It is the Greek colony. They are among us, but not of us."

Wonder where they got that idea?

By 1908 the parish was organized enough to have its own priest and to rent the upstairs of the former Adas Israel Synagogue at 6th and G NW where it remained for 13 years awaiting the construction of their own digs at 8th and L NW.

Though the congregation was small, differences of opinion soon brought on strife courtesy of the Balkan Wars. Father Alexopoulos asked the congregation to take a stand by separating- the Loyalists  had to sit on one side of the church and the Royalists on the other. (talk about division in the aisles) This is why even before St Sophia had its own building, another church, St Helen and Constantine came into being in at 6th and C Street SW.  Father Lambrides, one of St. Sophia's early priests, was so passionate about politics that he vowed to his congregation that he would rather die than celebrate the return of the throne to King Constantine. He had a heart attack that night and died the next day according to his obituary. Wow.

St Sophia finally did land at 8th and L in 1921 and stayed put for 34 years. The convention center has swallowed those blocks now- including part of 8th Street.  A commemorative marker stands nearby on 7th Street and was blessed by Father Steve last fall in a ceremony held in room 140A exactly where the original nave of the old St Sophia's was.

Even the sign got baptized.

photo by Bill Petros

The new Cathedral was dreamed up in the late 1940s as the congregation grew. Property was bought at 34th and Massachusetts, and the ground was blessed in 1950, though the church wouldn't be ready until 1955, and the plain walls would take many more years to adorn.

The founders in the weeds of the new site of St Sophia

This weekend St Sophia will celebrate its 60th year on Massachusetts Avenue and will be consecrated with as much hoopla as only Greeks can muster complete with saint's bones, incense and a whole lot of chanting. If you have ever been to a Greek ceremony you know this will take all weekend. Every inch of the cathedral has been transformed into a beautiful work of art, built with many years of hard work and long term dreams.

Skipping School

As soon as the weather turns nice, John Payne, one of my local heroes and the prefect of discipline at the Duke Ellington School, is on the move. He does't just sit in his office noting absences. Oh no. This man actively tracks down his prey whether the errant student has slipped off to Georgetown or is enjoying a park just down the street. A lot of people in my family have attended DC public schools including my parents, and during my son's tenure at Ellington, I noticed another theme running through our family: truancy.

First there's my mother and father. Bebe and George met at Western High (now Duke Ellington) in the 1930s. My mother remembers picnics outside of school with my father. He had a a Model A Ford for a quick escape, and more importantly, two sandwiches in his bag because my Greek grandmother was sure he would starve while away at school all day.

Pete and Bebe 1940s

For my oldest brother, Pete, skipping school in the 1950s meant he and his buddy Pete Stone would head for movie theaters like the RKO, the Capitol and the Palace. Back then going to the movies also included not only a newsreel and a cartoon, but often a stage show, and my brother swears he once saw Peggy Lee. Unfortunately for my brother, our father's spies were everywhere, and he was caught more often than not. 

My sister Pat, the good girl of the family, also remembers skipping school with Pete Stone, Wilson's expert truant at the time. This is her story:

"Back in the day, skipping school was easy if you knew the right people. Pete was a senior, and I was a lowly freshman. He plotted with me one evening to go to Fletcher's Boat House, and the next day, he handled the attendance records by commandeering the girl in charge. She erased my name and his from the absentee list. We then drove to the boat house, rented a canoe, and down the Potomac we went at lightning speed.

That should have been our first clue that things would end badly.

We spent the rest of the day trying to paddle back against the current. Finally, somewhere around the Tidal Basin, we were able to get the canoe out of the water. We carried the friggin' thing all the way back to Fletcher's. Returning home much later than usual and in agony with the aches of hauling a canoe over my head and a fresh sunburn, I now had to explain to the parents where I had been. I was astonished when they accepted my tall tale about too much sun during the field hockey game, but I never risked skipping school again."

Finally in more recent years, when my daughter, Zoe skipped school at Wilson, she was inadvertently caught due to Homeland Security. She and a friend had snuck out out,  just for a quick run down the block to get a soda, but during her very brief absence the entire city went into lock down mode. (Remember the Bush Administration?) Getting out was easy, but to Zoe's horror, when she returned the doors were locked, and she couldn't get back in. That's when the truancy officers picked her up, took her downtown and made her call her parents. This cured her... for a while. 

In the end I am happy to report that all of the truants in this story recieved their diplomas- even my brother Pete.

A Memorial Day Story

Back in the 1930s, the little town of Elkton, Maryland, Maryland was a happening place if you needed to get hitched in a hurry. Maryland did not have the waiting period that other states had imposed, and Elkton was conveniently located near the Pennsylvania line, not too far from New York, New Jersey or Delaware. Wedding chapels and hotels stood at the ready on main street just waiting for fresh business. Both Debbie Reynolds and Joan Fontaine got married here. So did Cornell Wilde.

And my parents, George and Bebe Cokinos. As it turns out, unlike the celebrities, their marriage actually did stand the test of time, despite the odds. George was a Greek American born in Washington, DC, but his parents were both from Greece and did not want him to marry outside the Hellenic community.  He was just seventeen when he fell hard for my very pretty, very white mother who was almost two years younger.

They both went to Western High school, and they soon became inseparable. My Greek grandparents were not happy campers. My other grandmother was alarmed as well. She sent Bebe off to live with her sister in Ohio for a while, hoping to distract her, but my mother wrote George every day. George was nineteen and Bebe only seventeen when they snuck off to Elkton to be married on Memorial Day 1935.  (Back then the holiday happened on May 30th, and was not the weekend event it is now.)

The newlyweds did not have enough money to spend the night, but their buddy Fred Brown took them out for a fried chicken dinner to celebrate before taking the happy couple back down to D.C. where they had absolutely no plan. None. Neither George nor Bebe felt brave enough to tell their parents what they had done, so they went back to their own homes and hunkered down until they could figure out how to break the news.  No-one could have predicted that a marriage, based solely on the passion and recklessness of young love, would last, but they were lucky. Despite the bumpy start, they were together truly and exactly 'til death did they part- a mere seventy two years later.

Life on the Runway or How to Save with an Electric Range

My mother spent the first half of her life raising children, working in Churchill's, the family bar and grill on Macomb Street, and coping with all things domestic including various dogs and a parakeet from Hawaii. But once the early hard ships of the Depression and World War Two were over, Bebe was ready to do something completely different. The Pepco ad above which originally appeared in 1950 in the Washington Post might have been one of her first gigs.  She had three teenage children at home at the time and was just embarking on a modeling career which would lead to fashion shows at DC's now disappeared department stores Woodies and Garfinckel's. She also did runway shows at the Mayflower and the Shoreham.

(Click on the pictures to enlarge... I love that woman's expression in the front row.)

Bebe made many modeling friends along the way, all of whom were on the "mature" side." They called themselves the Model Ts.  I don't know who the dude is in the middle, but wouldn't you think he'd be happier? Maybe his knees were killing him.

In May 1955 my sister and grandmother got into the act at a Mother's Day show for Lansburgh's Department Store. "Three Generations in Size 9!" exclaimed the caption. Both Bebe and her mother were asked what a woman might like to do on Mother's Day. My grandmother replied that she wanted to take her whole family back to Honolulu, and everyone would get a "pikaleili lei." Bebe wished that she could spend the whole day in bed with meals brought to her, then she wanted to go out dancing in the evening.  I'm pretty sure those weren't the answers the reporter was looking for because "getting down to brass tacks" Bebe added that models always needed "thousands of stockings."

Dig the crazy lids on these gals.

My sister had a daisy perched on hers.

The picture below featured in one of the Washington papers carried the description: "Dedicated to the Woman Who Cannot Make Up Her Mind. These two forward looking suits can go South now or do summer duty here later on."

I don't know where they were going, but they do look ready for anything a the time.

In the late winter of 1958, Bebe made the news again by wading through snow drifts to hitch a ride for her and "her hatbox."

She made it just in time to change out of boots and ski pants and into spring togs for a fashion luncheon at the Shoreham's Blue Room.

Later that year in June, Bebe entered a bathing beauty contest put on by the radio station WGAY for women over 40. She won second prize which was a backyard swimming pool the likes of which I never saw because she turned it down.

What? !

Yes. She turned it down and was quoted as saying: "I don't swim if I can help it. I'm strictly an indoor girl." A bit ironic considering how many bathing suits 'the mature mermaid' had to model for this event.

Here's a picture of the winner. No offense to Mrs  Rebecca Magnuson of Silver Spring, but  I think my mom, Miss Number 2, got rooked. You be the judge:

Bebe pretty much hung up her guns after that one, not necessarily because she was over forty or a sore loser, but probably because she got pregnant with me. She remained beautiful all her life of course, both inside and out, and now I know why my father never stopped giving her stockings.

Blob's Park Americana by Ben Pagac

Coming of age in the Maryland 'burbs in the 1970s inevitably lead many of us to a large, hill-side German polka joint within a stone's throw of the BW Parkway. It's curb appeal wasn't apparent at first. The name "Blob's" perhaps only drew those with a smirky sense of humor. (In fact, some might have been taken there by their parents. Ugh!)

But once discovered, it was natural to develop a soft spot for the place. One reason high on the list- cheap pitchers of beer. Even better, a weird policy of charging a $1 (returnable) deposit on the pitcher. (Did they really fit in a purse?) This turned out to be a source of much-needed income for those who closed the joint, capitalizing on the forgetful. If you were fast enough, your night could be free!

But it was more than just cheap beer. Despite bathing in the excitement of the creative Punk and New Wave DC scene bubbling during that time, there was something comforting about watching polyester-suited gentlemen and perfectly coiffed ladies move to the rhythmically predictable. And how could you help not join in the Chicken Dance, still secure in the knowledge that your ripped jeans and Ramones T-shirt made it very clear that you were just visiting-not one of “them.” It seemed so afar from what our ears and bodies were tuning into, that it sounded and felt...well, good!

Remarkably Blob’s still exists. And looks pretty much the same. Sadly no more pitcher deposits. But the mural of Prague (huh?) is still behind the bandstand. And it is now showcasing diverse, danceable music. Their once-a-month Honky-tonk night has been building steam.  The familiar neon “Blob’s” sign fell down 10 years ago, but rest assured, Blob’s is still there- for now.

*Addendum: Blob's made it for a few more years, but closed for good in 2014.

Anyone Remember the Madrillon?

According to my father, The Madrillon was the place to go in Washington in the 1940s. That's my dad, George Cokinos, with the wacky tie on the far left. They had bands there, too.

Bring your own memories or just your curiosity to the Historical Society this Saturday June 26 for a trip in the way back machine with Jeff Krulik:

Eat, Drink and Be Merry in 1950s-60s DC: 
A Panel Discussion, Slide Show and Oral History Presentation
with the Photos of Emil Press   2:30- 4:00
801 K Street, NW at Mount Vernon Square

Free 

DC Doesn't Vote

It's Emancipation Day here in the District of Columbia which is sometimes called " the capital of the free world." In reality our fair city is a bizarre little fiefdom where the denizens are still denied the right to vote basically because Republicans fear that one more Democratic voice will tip the world into the abyss. DC Vote is working to change that. Check it out.

Mayor For Life

Marion Barry. He got his comeuppance in DC yesterday when the council censured him for unethical conduct, but as a DC native, I feel a bit sorry for him today. He tries his best, and he will always love this city.

I remember in 1994 when Barry was re-elected-post that little crack smoking incident. I was depressed that people would fall for this guy, again, and that the whole world was deriding the people of Washington for voting him into office again. I was driving around Ward Circle when I heard Mayor Barry being interviewed on the "DC Politics Hour." He said that "White Ward Three" would just have to get over it, and boy, the straight up honesty of that statement made me laugh out loud, and I felt better about the whole thing.

He was right, and over the years I realized what a smart and surprising man he was.  He was a former Eagle Scout. He held a Masters in chemistry, and he had a big problem with substance abuse. His penchant for cronyism stretches as far back as his years of public service. Even as a child I remember my father complaining about him, but Barry himself would be the first to tell you he has done nothing wrong from "the bitch set me up" to the latest girlfriend incident which got him censured."Those are all just distractions, efforts by the government and the media to distract me, to discombobulate me and separate me from the community," he said. In 1992 his campaign slogan was " He may not be perfect, but he's perfect for DC." Ain't that the truth.

His biggest problem is every now and then he gets caught.

Still the bottom line is Marion Barry spent most of his life as a public servant and a civil rights activist. His summer jobs program changed many young lives for the better and fostered opportunities for kids who couldn't get a job otherwise.  He will always be a part of our landscape and has even been captured in wax at Madame Tussaud's beating out the likes of Oprah Winfrey and Cal Ripken Jr in a popularity contest.

He's also immortalized in a song by Jake Flack which I'd like to echo here: "Say what you will about him. I'll never judge that man except when I'm back in the alley next to my double wide 2 ply can. It's easy to form an opinion from the outside looking in, but Strosnider's, Hechinger's and Peoples Drug can't hold a candle to him. Marion Barry he's the man- he brought us the Supercan....and I just want to shake his hand and say thank you."

Thank you, Mayor for Life.

Snow Musing by Lynn Thorp

Nicole and Richard, December 2009

Big snows are (were?) rare enough around here that traditions and memories are firmly imprinted. My mom had traditions: always bake or make a big pot of something and instruct Dad to take an Irish Coffee to Elmo next door while he was shoveling. Without even realizing why, I stopped on the way home Friday for Irish Coffee makings. I didn't even remember the tradition until today when I offered one to my shoveling neighbor Cece.

When the news reports previous historic snow totals, they all prompt a memory:

1979 - Wearing what Dan called "weird chic" cloth Chinese shoes while walking home to 4884 MacArthur from an all-night party in Foxhall Village. Even the drugstore and Safeway didn't open for a day or two and people were skiing down the Boulevard.

1982 - Walking the several miles home from work at Georgetown University to find roommate Matthew Klena watching the news of the Air Florida crash and the Metro accident.

1996 - Being snowed in here, in Mt. Rainier, for over a week with young children. They got so sick of sledding that they just wanted to play on the plow hills at the corner. That was easy because these plow hills were right in front of the house and the kids didn't need to be so well suited up.

What will be this season's memories? Well, first the sheer number of events, including the "mess up holiday plans storm" of December 2009. Then the January 30 six inch interlude during which we held Bob's big birthday party and grilled in the backyard. For the "big one" which just passed, it will be neighbors Kathy and John coming every night to play board games with Richard and me. And neighbor Dave and I embarking upon a committed relationship with Battlestar Gallactica by watching the first disc. Also our local brewery/restaurant Franklins has a new brewer and tonight's "meet the brewer/try two new beers" will stick in my mind because many of us who made it there hadn't been anywhere in days and yet another big snow was beginning. Staff were outside to push people out of the parking lot.

It's easy to make fun of snow hysteria, but it can be rough when the power goes out or the infrastructure collapses in various ways. But it also is just unusual enough to put us in a festive mood and makes us mark those friends and family who get us through, and it imprints traditions that we barely know we have. Fare well Washington DC area friends... spring will arrive for us.

Commander Salamander Blues by Chip Py

Twenty five years ago Commander Salamander was really something to see. We used to drive all the way from Nags Head to buy clothing, sunglasses, buttons and all of the radical raging supplies a punk rock kid needed. I was really heartbroken when I heard that the store was closing. I went one more time to say goodbye, but when I walked through the doors, I had a better understanding of why it had met its demise. Except for a Cobain poster over the register, this store was no longer unique. It looked like any other store in any other shopping mall anywhere. Man, this was where Andy Warhol would shop when he came to DC! Someone totally mainstreamed their inventory and their presentation. No corrosion in their conformity. Somewhere down the line Commander had ceased to be cutting edge and unique and, like almost everything else in Georgetown (and retail in general) it became just another common denominator.

My Mother Slept Here (and here)

I don't know where exactly George Washington slept around here, but I do know that my mother, Bebe Calvert, gave him a run for the money. Her family moved at least eight times while she was growing up, and all of those addresses were within the confines of the District of Columbia starting with the old Sibley Hospital on North Capitol Street where she was born in November 1917.

For my mother's birthday, I planned a tour of all her former residences, but first we needed sustenance. We stopped in at my favorite place for soul food, the Hitching Post, where we had a fabulous fried chicken feast. The proprietors, Mr. and Mrs. Carter, have held the fort here since 1968, and their place feels more like a home than a restaurant.


After the birthday lunch, we headed just down the street to 1346 Quincy Street in Petworth. The family lived in a four bedroom row house, squeezing in Bebe parents, her grandfather Papa Bailey, two teenaged aunts, Mary Bess and Johnnie Pearl, plus a lodger to help make ends meet. The grand total was seven people. One bathroom.

Built in 1918, these homes were fairly new when my family lived there in 1922. As far as I can tell this was the second place the family lived- the first being 2107 F Street-"near the gas works" according to my mother. This picture was probably taken in 1919.  George Washington University owns the building now.

At that time Bebe's father Roger was running "Calvert Commercial Service "opening doors" for newcomers in Washington. Roger came to town in 1916 to work for Senator Sharp Williams of Mississippi so he felt he knew the ropes.  The company motto?  "We do not pretend to know everyone, but we know someone who does." The office was at 1402 F Street and in a letter home, he mused to his mother that he could walk two blocks to the White House and see the President, but couldn't get away to visit the family in Mississippi. He wasn't kidding. He goes on to mention a photograph of President Harding holding my mother's hand taken in August of 1921.  I sure wish I had that picture.

My mother's little brother Roger Jr. was born in late November of that year also at Sibley Hospital. They called him "Sonny."

The family was outgrowing F Street when they moved up to Petworth and then on to Mt Pleasant where they would settle for a few years. Sonny was baptized at Mt Pleasant M.E. Church by Brother Ray. Their next address, 1370 Irving Street is now billed as "new luxury condos." They moved again when Roger got a job managing the Argonne Apartments, built in 1921 at 1629 Columbia Road. That building is still standing. The family lived in two different apartments there.

They also lived in the Chalfont which was built in 1918 on Argonne Place. Bebe remembers lying in her bed at night and hearing the lions roar at the National Zoo down the hill.

In early 1929 their address was 2606 Motzart Place. The house is still there although the big side yard where my mom climbed a tree has given over to a parking lot just like Joni Mitchell predicted.



Bebe remembers there was a fireplace angled between the living room and the hall to the kitchen, and that she could walk out her back door to HD Cooke Elementary which was on the other side of the block.

Cutting across town we passed by the rather grand Broadmoor on Connecticut Ave. My grandparents were the first managers when it opened in 1929 just before the Big Crash. They lived in at least 4 different apartments there. (Is anybody keeping count?) Here's Bebe at age 16 hanging out with a few friends in front of the lamp post.

And here she is a few years later. (I didn't realize I took this picture in almost the same spot until I found the old one.

Back out on the Avenue, I thought we were finished when Bebe started waving at yet another building on the corner of Connecticut and Ordway. I veered over to the curb and found out that she lived there until she graduated from Western High School in 1935, and it was from this place that my mother left home for good and started another series of moves around DC. This time with my father.