A Part of My DNA

When I was a kid, my grandmother used to tell me about her childhood growing up in her horio (a small village) in Greece. Her stories made it all sound so romantic and exotic.

By the time I made a pilgrimage to Agios Vaselios (very loosely translated as St. William) in the Arkadian mountains of the Peloponnese, nearly 20 years after Yia yia had passed away, I found it far more recognizable than exotic.

 

At the time, I chalked it up to being far more worldly than I had been as a child.  When you've been in Red Square and Tiananmen Square, waded in the Baltic and the Gulf of Tonkin, seen the sun rise over the Gobi and over Angkor Wat, slept among the ancient redwoods and in the red rock deserts, a picturesque village in Greece isn't so exotic.

Don't get me wrong - seeing it, being in what was left of my grandmother's childhood home, walking the same narrow streets she had, touching the water that flowed from the fountain of lions' mouths, meant more to me than any of those other adventures. But it didn't hold the same exotic sway.

 

It wasn't until I became a father that I truly understood why her village wasn't exotic to me, it was too familiar to be - and not just from hearing stories. Nor was it because this had been her home, her siblings' home and her father's home (from whom I received my name and a red beard.) No, it is because Agios Vaselios isn't just their horio it is my horio too.

Today as I hung the laundry out to dry (to my knowledge the only person in my neighborhood to use a clothes line), and the chickens ran around the fruit trees furtively peeking over their shoulder to see if I'd noticed they were inching closer to the vegetable garden, it dawned on me: I don't need to be from Agios Vaselios to be of it.

Panagia hanging out

It manifests itself in me like a part of my DNA - I see it around my house in the everyday items that somehow instinctively had to be there: my laundry hanging out to dry, my chickens running around, the vegetable garden. I see it in the Greek flag we fly, the mati on the front door to protect us from the evil eye, the icons on our walls, trumpet vines and rose bushes in the yard.

 The boys have been asking when we're going to go to Greece like I promised them we would. Maybe in the next couple of years, I tell them. I hope when they arrive in Agios Vaselios, they'll understand that the recognition and familiarity stems from the place being their horio too.

 

 

Today's harvest of squash, tomatoes and eggs (yes, they're green-blue)

Mabel2 checking the lawn for something good too eat

Aphrodite and Stavroula checking out the shade

Yia yia Peeps and Eleni sneaking toward the vegetable garden