Photo Tribute to a Dad and two Grandpa’s

(I posted this last year on Father's Day and got such good comments that I thought I'd post it again, with the addition of a brand new father who has proved over the last nine months to be a world-class Daddy.) 

                                                                  Nick & Christos 1972

When our three children were born in the 1970’s, my husband Nick was not the kind of dad who'd change diapers, take a kid to the park or coach them in sports. But as these photos  suggest, he was always an important presence in their lives, ready to offer support, advice and unconditional love when they needed it.

                                                               Nick & Eleni circa 1976

This past week, President Obama launched the “Year of Strong Families” to do something about father absence, which he experienced growing up without a father.  Nick experienced it too, because, as he wrote in “A Place for Us”, he never knew his father, a short-order cook in Worcester, MA, until he and his sisters arrived in the U.S. as refugees in 1949 after their mother was executed during the Greek civil war.  Nick was nine years old.  His father, Christos, was 58.

                                                         Nick & Marina, circa  1979

My father, Robert O. Paulson, was born in 1906 and died in 1986.  Because my parents lived far away, he was not a real presence in our children’s lives, but when we visited California in 1973 I took these photos of him showing our son, Christos, his first view of the ocean, and reading to him at bedtime.

I only met my paternal grandfather, Par Paulson, once.  He was stern and completely deaf and the only way to communicate with him was by writing on a blackboard in chalk. But my step-grandfather, John Erickson, my grandmother’s second husband, had a special relationship with me during the years I lived near their small town of Monticello, Minnesota. 

 I still have a small garnet ring that once belonged to his mother. I remember vividly how he taught me to shoot his rifle across the wide Mississippi river, and in the spring, when it was time to get new baby chicks for the chicken yard, he would take me down to the hatchery, pull open drawers of chirping chicks and let me pick out the ones I liked.

                                                              Ida & John Erickson circa1952

 In the current "People" magazine President Obama wrote, “I grew up without a father around. I have certain memories of him taking me to my first jazz concert and giving me my first basketball as a Christmas present, But he left when I was two years old.”

 As he knows, even a one-time memory—choosing chicks at a hatchery, showing a grandson the ocean, reading a bedtime story or unwrapping a first basketball can be a gift that a child will cherish for a lifetime.

And here's Emilio Baltodano, the Papi of our nine-month-old granddaughter Amalía.  He's a full-time dad. He changes diapers, gets up in the middle of the night, takes her to the park, and can hardly wait to teach her to wind-surf--all the things that fathers did not do back in the olden days when my generation was having babies.  And he e-mails us videos, so we can share in her milestone moments.  We're expecting her first steps any day now, since she cruises everywhere hanging on to things, like her Daddy's pants legs.

Happy Father's Day Emilio!

Russian Grannies Steal the Eurovision Show

 Since this is a blog  written by a crone, often about fellow crones, I’m ashamed to say that until yesterday, when I saw something about it in the NY Times, I wasn’t aware that a team of  Babushka-wearing Russian grannies won second place and everyone’s heart with their singing and dancing version of  “Party for Everybody” during the recent Eurovision Song Contest on May 25.

In the U.S., we are blissfully unaware of the annual Eurovision Song Contest, but, as I learned when I lived in London in 1969, in Europe Eurovision is hugely important, on the level of the Superbowl here, and is viewed by some 125 million people worldwide.  It's now entering its 57^th year and the streets of Europe become empty as everybody gathers in front of the TV set to watch the votes coming in,  rating the performances of the 26 finalist nations.

As Peter Leonard of the Associated Press wrote on May 25, “A smorgasbord of revealing outfits and onstage preening is expected at Saturday’s final, but gray-haired acts from the U. K. and Russia are stealing most of the attention.”

The U. K.’s entry was Engelbert Humperdinck who, at 76, was the same age as the oldest Russian grannie.  He performed wearing a lucky necklace given to him by Elvis Presley.

Known as the "Buranovskiye Babushki" --the Grannies from  Buranova-- the six ladies “are almost certainly the first Eurovision contestants to perform part of their song in the obscure Udmurt language, which is distantly related to Finnish,” according to the AP.

According to the Daily Mail, the Buranovo the grannies “dress in traditional Russian garments and have shoes made from lime-tree bark…They hope to win the show so they can raise money to rebuild their village church which was destroyed during the Soviet era."

The contest was held this year in Baku, Azerbaijan, because that country won last year when the  contest was held in Dusseldorf.  This year the grannies performed with great  smiles and enthusiasm and their dance moves even included an imitation of making bread. Although they sang in Udmurt, I was surprised to hear two lines in accented English repeated over and over: “Party for everybody! Come on and dence!”

You can see and hear their performance on Youtube by clicking here: "Party for Everybody".

In the end, the first-place winner was the expected favorite, Sweden’s Loreen, a 28-year-old beauty of Moroccan-Berber descent with her song “Euphoria.” (In the olden days, singers often sang in their native language, but I’ve noticed that now, nearly everyone sings in English, which has become the lingua franca around the world.)

The grannies from Buranovo came in second and undoubtedly will be able to rebuild their village church, because they are planning a world tour, taking their singing and dancing on the road.  They are now officially Rolling Crones.

Engelbert Humperdinck and England came in at number 25—second to the last.

Found Art: Greek Windows

As I’ve mentioned before, when I’m traveling in Greece, I find myself often photographing windows. (In Paris it’s doors and in Nicaragua, it’s chairs!)

Greek windows, with their pristine white lace or cut-work curtains and the inevitable pot of basil in the window, are so carefully composed and so indicative of the creativity of the homemaker within, that I think you can call them found art.

The pot of basil, by the way, is not just for cooking.  It’s considered a holy plant, and brings good luck, so every home must have one.

At the recent Grecian Festival in the Cathedral of Saint Spyridon, our church in Worcester, MA,  I sold out of the packets of note cards of my Greek windows.  Guess I’d better print some more.

Here are eleven of the designs and a little about where I found them.

The window on the left, on the green island of Skopelos in the northeast, demonstrates the beautiful cutwork of the handmade curtains. The reflection shows the arched window of a church (?) next door. 

The window on the right, of a shop in the mountains of Crete, displays the colorful local embroidery and the classic caned Greek chair found everywhere throughout the country.

Both these windows are in the charming Hotel Kastro, in the walled city in Yannina, Greece, which looks exactly as it did when the Turks ruled the country.  Now the mosques have been turned into museums, but the city still has the exotic beauty that seduced Lord Byron when he came to visit Ali Pasha and marvel at his riches.  The window on the left shows the Greek tendency to train climbing vines everywhere.  In the photo on the right, I was remembering something my friend, award-winning photographer Mari Seder, once told me--sometimes the shadows are the most important part of the photograph.

On the left, a window in a popular taverna on the island of Hydra, echoes the blue and white of the Greek flag.  The miniature sailing boat in the window speaks of the seafaring history of the island.  The  window on the right belongs to a humble restaurant on Mykonos, tucked far, far away from the areas thronged with tourists.  The food is magnificent and so is the view.  If I could remember the name of the restaurant I wouldn't tell.  Its patrons want to keep it unspoiled.  (Here's a hint. The beach far below is called Agios Sostis.)

The window on the left is in a very rustic eco-resort--Milia-- high in the mountains of Crete.  The views far down the mountain are to die for.  On the right, in the unique town of Pirgi, on the island of Chios, the curtain in the window echoes the geometric designs scratched into the plaster of the exterior walls on all the buildings.

On the left, outside a taverna on Crete, is what I call the mermaid window, although it may have started life as a door before it was boarded up and turned into illustrations for the story of the Gorgona--the giant mermaid who was the sister of Alexander the Great before he cursed her.  (If you want to know the whole story of the mermaid, read it in my book "The Secret Life of Greek Cats.")

The window on the right is in an ancient church in the beautiful town of Pirgi on the island of Chios.  Originally I posted this photo in a blog post called "The Scraped Walls of Pirgi, Chios".  I said the angel-like figure over the window was a representation of the Holy Spirit, but I was wrong.  A sharp-eyed and much better-informed reader named Matthew Kalamidas wrote: "Lastly, the angel in the wall painting is actually a six-winged seraphim. In Greek, an exapterygo. Besides the six wings, the words beside it are 'Holy, Holy, Holy Lord', which is an abbreviated form of the never-ending prayer."

That's one of the great things about writing blog posts -- you learn so much.

Free Father's Day Cards

Favorite Photos Friday

Some time ago I designed a few Father's Day cards using antique photos from my collection.

Here are three of them.

Just in case you haven't gotten around to buying Dad a card yet -- Father's Day is June 17 this year--feel free to assemble your own card by printing one of these, pasting it on a blank piece of folded paper, and writing a sentiment and your name inside, with lots of "X"s and "O"'s.

Free Father's Day Card.

Take that Hallmark!

 (Inside: "You rock!  Happy Father's Day!")

(Inside:  "That's my excuse.  What's yours?  Happy Father's Day.)

(Inside: "Happy Father's Day from your dog.")

Where Does the Joy Go?

It’s been a privilege and an inspiration to spend time with granddaughter  Amalía during her first nine months of life, as she discovers her body (first hands, then feet) and the world around her.

Nearly forty years ago, when my own three children were born, I watched our firstborn’s first year—even took some notes that ended up in a child development text book—but by the second, there was no time for taking notes and by the third, not even a baby book stuffed in a closet in a bag filled with souvenirs.

I had forgotten until now the overwhelming joy with which a baby meets the world (as long as she’s not ill or in pain.)  To see Amalía light up and squeal with joy when she wakes up from a nap and sees your face is enough to make any day wonderful. 

She loves to eat (anything including vitamins and paper towels) and when she’s fed something she really likes, she will croon and sing and even clap her hand in appreciation.  Once she liked her food so much she stood up in her high chair and did a little dance of joy before plopping down and opening her mouth for more like a baby bird.  She’ll “read” her picture books by herself, pointing and squealing at the baby animals.

The things that make a toddler ecstatic are so simple: blowing soap bubbles, stomping in a puddle, playing peek-a-boo, feeding pigeons.  The things that elicit that throaty little giggle the ones that are at first surprising and perhaps a little scary but then turn out to be funny instead.

Until she was about eight months old, Amalía loved everyone, and when I pushed her stroller down the street she’d babble and wave to passers-by, even homeless people in doorways and construction workers on a cigarette break. Everyone responded to her as we passed: “Hey! That baby’s talking to me!”

Now, at nine months, the slightest tinge of stranger anxiety has crept in.  She won’t go into the arms of a newcomer until she’s had about ten minutes to get to know them. But if she’s sitting next to you in an airplane or restaurant or on the playground, she’ll soon pat you on the arm to say hello.

And although no bad thing has ever happened to her, Amalía’s starting to fear things that she never noticed before—like a large stuffed lion in a toy store, or the guttural voice that comes out of one of her counting toys.  A lot of her “job” these days is figuring out what is real and what isn’t.  And I know the stranger anxiety is a necessary skill—undoubtedly an instinct useful for survival.

All babies and children are filled with joy—just in being alive.  Look at puppies or colts in a field.  What a child needs to be perfectly happy is so simple: warmth, food and the feeling of security—knowing they are protected by someone more powerful than they are.  It’s such a shame that every child can’t be guaranteed those basic things during the critical first years of life.

And they need a person to interact with them—to echo their feelings and show them the world around them.   While pushing a stroller every day to Central Park, I kept seeing moms and nannies perpetually talking on their cell phones while the child in the stroller is staring straight ahead with vacant eyes.

Outside the apartment where she lives, Amalía hears someone vacuuming the carpet every afternoon, and the roar of the vacuum cleaner has started to worry her.  When she frets, I take her into my arms and reassure her that there’s nothing out there to be afraid of. 

How terrible it must be for parents who can’t tell their babies that with conviction—because the child is ill or there’s no money for food, or because the living situation is dangerous, as it is for those children who were executed in Syria recently.

But no matter how protected and cared for Amalía is, I know the bubbling joy she shares every day with eventually fade.  We’re all familiar with temper tantrums and the terrible twos.  Does anybody know a pre-teen so thrilled by dinner that they’d jump up and dance with joy?  Or laugh in ecstatic surprise at soap bubbles floating around them?

I think of people my own age who reply to  “How are you?” with a litany of aches and pains, and seem to walk around with a cloud of gloom hanging over their head.

No wonder friends have been telling me for years that grandchildren completely change your life. Just the sight of Amalía’s delight in her new world is all the motivation I need to try to take are of myself and stay alive longer than my parents did, so I can watch her grow and learn. I hope she can hold on to the joy. 

Found Art-- César Chavez Elementary School San Francisco

I’ve written before about the murals that fill nearly every wall in the Mission District of San Francisco—locally  designed art that expresses the hopes and aspirations, traditions and goals, heroes and saints of the many ethnic groups that make up the area.

 Most impressive to me were the painted walls of the César Chavez Elementary School on Shotwell Street in the Mission district.

 I was told that the murals were the work of two local women—I don’t know their names.  I was also told that the elementary school teaches four languages: English, Spanish, (80 per cent of the students are from Spanish-speaking families) Mandarin Chinese and American Sign Language (ASL.)  All across the front of the school is the alphabet illustrated in all of these languages.

All of the paintings are inspirational.

 Here is the back of the school, with illustrations of César Chavez, grape pickers and children learning and achieving.

 The slogan of the school is “Si, Se Puede!”—“Yes, it can be done.”

I think the murals on the walls of this school are an excellent illustration of how art, including folk art, can inspire and teach, even in the poorest and least advantaged neighborhoods.

The Faces of Civil War Vets

 Favorite Photograph Friday.

Since Memorial Day has just passed and flags are flying all over town in tribute to our country’s  military defenders, it seemed appropriate to share with you this photograph of a group of Civil War veterans assembled in Reading, Massachusetts in 1894 on the occasion of the 250^th anniversary of the town. 

I love this photo because of the faces—especially of the older men.  Each one is worth a portrait.  And you can see how proud they are of their uniforms and accomplishments.  Some of the younger men, like the boy who’s second from the left in the back row, clearly are too young to have fought in the Civil War.  Perhaps only the front row are the Civil War vets.

This photograph, which is a large albumen print mounted on cardboard, is approximately 8 by 10 inches in size.  On the back someone has written, “Reading 250 Anniversary, Commander Harley Prentiss and staff, 1894.”

(Every time I find an identification like that on the back of any old photograph, I breathe a little prayer of thanks and vow that I, like my mother, will always identify photos before I stash them away.  Of course I don’t, especially because most of my photos exist only in my computer.)

A little Googling got me this information:  “Harley Prentiss served in the 50^th Regiment of infantry of the Massachusetts Volunteer Militia in the late war of the rebellion.”  

And in a listing of soldiers I found: “Sergt. Clerk Harley Prentiss. Age 18 – Reading. Enl. Aug. 11, 1862.  Mustered Sept. 19, 1862. Mustered out Aug. 24, 1863.  Subsequent service Co. E – lst Battery heavy artillery.  Died in Reading MA.”

Now I am not one of those photo collectors who specialize in the Civil War.  I know these collectors (who are mostly men)  could tell me everything about these medals and uniforms and insignia.  If someone would like to fill me in by leaving a comment below, I’d really appreciate it.

I’m guessing that the man  seated in the center  of the first row is  Harley Prentiss, with the feathers (cockade?) on his hat.  If he enlisted at age 18 in 1862, he would be 50 in this photo in 1894.

But this guy, with his dashing hat labeled “194, G.A.R.” also looks pretty important.  (I do know that G.A.R. stands for Grand Army of the Republic.)

And this man on the far right—what’s that stick he’s holding?  I notice that some of the belt buckles have stars on them and others have eagles but what’s on this buckle, I’m not sure.

I’m hoping some of you Civil War experts out there will fill me in.  But in the meantime, let’s all raise a glass to honor the men and women who have been risking their lives in defense of our country since 1776.