Going Greek

Every year, usually in the early part of spring, I get this urge to “go Greek”. My Greek Day is often inspired by a combination of the color and the weather sometimes experienced in our New England Spring – a clear blue sky, the feeling of warmth when standing in sun, an increasing intensity of light, and the calmness that comes with little or no wind, and a fresh and shiny look to just about everything outdoors. This combination of conditions tends to take me back to the time I lived for the best part of a year on the Greek island of Lesvos.

“I need a time out!” I remember saying to my friends. “I need to get away where I can do nothing for a while.” Work and family life had been intense for a few years and I was also going through that mid-life questioning as to what really mattered in life. Through some connections I discovered the village of Molivos. With the help of my connection's friend who lived there I rented a house for six months for not a whole lot of drachma, bought tickets, took a crash course in Greek at the local community college, and then headed for the land of Helen and Hercules.

While that was then and this is now and I no longer have the urge to drop it all and head for the Greek islands, I do seem to get that pang of nostalgia every spring and it must be fed. This year I was ready for it. Before the urge hit I noticed a set of outdoor furniture on sale at the local hardware store. It was perfect. A blue sun umbrella with table and four chairs with blue and white stripes. A perfect likeness to the Greek flag. Just what I needed to prepare for my poolside Greek experience and I already had the grill.

Outdoor cooking over a charcoal grill was how most of the tavernas I had frequented in Greece did it. My favorite was surrounded by ocean on three sides.  The relaxed atmosphere, the great food, the stunning light, and the good wine did it. Who could worry about anything much while lazing under an umbrella by the ocean and enjoying a four hour lunch?

Taverna by the Sea

This photo of George's Fish Taverna is courtesy of TripAdvisor

It was early June this year when it happened. I was home for the day with no major commitments. The pool was open and I needed a day off.  Some cold beer, a chilled bottle of retsina, some octopus for the grill, and the ingredients for a real Greek salad, and all was set.

The grill was fired, some twangy bouzouki music blasted from the stereo, and the cooler was reachable beside the blue and white chairs where I sat, wearing only a swimsuit and sunglasses to soak up the sun and to eat and drink to all that was good in life.  I moved slowly as I grilled the octopus and prepared the salad.  Time did not matter today, and grilled octopus takes about 45 minutes to make it tender anyway, but who cares?

Grilled Octpus

Not Greece but Pretending

In Greece I was often surprised how quickly a day of doing nothing could pass so quickly. On many days my walk to the beach,  a bare half mile from my house,  could take up to two or three hours. Mostly it was stopping for coffee with neighbors. “Iassou, Mikalis! Ti pinis? Kafé?” I had become a regular at two or three houses along the way to the beach and felt great about accepting the hospitality offered, despite an awareness of a growing addiction for the thick sweet dark liquid that was brewed in the little pots on the stove and known as coffee.  It bore no resemblance to anything I had previously called by that name. The only problem was that by the time I got to the beach I was buzzing,  and any chance of dozing in the sun was long gone. My “going Greek” day at home was different. No ‘kafe’.

The memories soon begin to float to awareness as I lazed in the sun beside the pool.  It had been a strange time – probably one of a few times in my life when I had surrendered to hedonism beyond balance. Days were full of nothing but eating, drinking, and loving. I could feel "Zorba the Greek" springing to life from within and nothing seemed to matter. The music drew me back to wild rides over mountainous roads to raucous celebrations in neighboring villages and nights of ouzo and the smoke filled haze in the tavernas. My understanding of Greek had grown to the point that I could hold conversations long into the night with my new Greek and European friends. The end agreement of such conversations were usually always the same - nothing really mattered. Live for the moment!  Do it now! My time in Greece had given me a look at freedom, nihilism, and existentialism,  although I really didn't know it all at the time.  It also gave me consequences - a volatile and disintegrating relationship, questions about my integrity, and a lot of work to do to find balance in my life again.

Today, I look back and ask.  "What did this particular chapter in my life teach me?"

I know full well that Zorba is a part of me, and he is alive and well.  I also know that he needs exercise from time to time, and that he needs to do it within context.  The context of my life today, my priorities, the people I love, the things I value and all of the commitments I want to keep.  It was great to find him then and give him room to express, however awkwardly -  a great teacher. And today he gives me yet another lesson.

Can I expect my children to learn from my journey?  Probably not.  Yet I can relax in knowing that who I am today is a product of who I was then, but not the same.  My children learn from both - me then and me now.  They take a little piece of my Zorba.  And I think they know how to handle him more like I do today - room to play but not overpower.  But they still have their own lessons to learn in life which are not the same as mine, and they will undoubtedly set up their life to learn them, just as I did.  "Iassou, Zorba!"

Duck

As yet unpublished work in progress. Please leave me a comment if you like it or have any suggestions or publication possiblities.


Mostly I look at them swimming by on the lake but sometimes I like to eat some. I’ve never hunted ducks so until now I’ve relied on the supermarket for my supply. Last Saturday on my ritual stroll through the supermarket for the weekly groceries I happened to spy a tasty looking piece of the said bird - “Maple Leaf Farms – Half Roasted Duck”. In its beautifully enticing red and cream package with seasoned duck showing through the cellophane window, the directions said “fully cooked” - just pop it in the oven for 25 minutes at 375 degrees and dinner is ready. “That would be great for Monday night when I’d be dining alone”, I thought.
On my way home from the supermarket I stopped by our local CSA Farm. “CSA” is intellegencia speak for “Community Supported Agriculture”. Our farm known as Farm Girl Farm sells shares each year for around 400 bucks which entitles the shareholder to pick up a “share” of produce once a week. This week with the tomatoes long gone and not much else left in the field as I drove in, I did not expect a whole lot, but I was wrong. Bunches of baby beets along with lots of greens and winter squash were amongst the pickings laid out on the farm table. Happy with my harvest my mind turned to Monday’s dinner. Duck with steamed beets and braised bok choy seemed like the right combination along with a bottle of Aussie Rutherglen Shiraz that I knew I had stashed away.
I don’t mind eating alone but I’m not the “hunt in the fridge for some crappy left over and hope for the best” kind of guy. For me eating alone means “dining alone” and the selection and preparation of the repast is a big part of the fun.
So the duck went in the oven as prescribed, the beets were trimmed and set to steam and the bok-choy was in the pan to braise with a little garlic, olive oil, and lemon juice. The wine was open , the table set, the candles lit, and I was ready to dine.
“Excellent choice of wine”, I remarked to myself as I took the first sip. The beets attracted the first bite and that too prompted the remark to self “Tasty beets!” The duck looked great and so a little portion of the leg was forked and brought to mouth. “MMmmm….. so, so.” Another bite not much better. It looked good but had no real flavor. The meat was also stringy even though seemingly moist. It wasn’t dry and the preparation directions were probably right on. But something was missing here. Try the greens. “Ah, yes! I love them!” Another sip of wine. “Goes well with the meal except for that damned duck!”, came the inner voice.
For a while I went back and forth trying each until deciding to forget the duck and just focus on the beets and greens and enjoy the wine. Always adept at making good from a bad situation, I took my time to relish those parts of the meal that grabbed my palate and forego the rest. But my thoughts went elsewhere.
“Our food supply is really fucked for those of us who can taste the difference” came one voice.
“Don’t be friggin’ snob!” came another.
“But I’m not! I just want to eat things I enjoy and that duck really sucked! It was not worth the six bucks I paid for it and I feel I was cheated.”

“You were!” said a third voice. “How do you think a company can make money today with the high cost of product not to mention the huge cost of distribution now that gas is more than three bucks a gallon. Something has to get compromised in all that if you want the convenience of buying duck in your supermarket. They probably try to do it well but with mass produced product to begin with and freezing it for a long shelf life, don’t you think you’d be sacrificing something in the way real taste? Like what the fuck were you expecting?”
“Ahh.. how about something like the taste of the bok choy or the beets?”
“Dreaming! Unless you want to grow your own ducks you idiot. Haha!”
I poured another glass of wine. Damn, the decision was made. Next year was going duck hunting for the very first time.

Neighbors

This story is a work in progress. If you know a place that might want to publish it, let me know and I'll do some more work on it.

Neighbors
By Michael Lee

I was sad to hear that my neighbors are gone. Dani had a stroke and was taken off to hospital. Hopefully he’ll recover. But he and Joyce won’t be at their camp on South Twin Lake where they’ve lived for last 50 years. They didn’t waste time after Dani’s stroke and sold the place to a guy from further down the lake.

They were there when I bought my lakeside camp next door some 4 years ago. Not only were they great neighbors but have provided me with a lot of inspiration for living fully into old age. I was also in awe of their simple and happy lifestyle. I was able to celebrate their eightieth birthdays with them and always enjoyed their company along with their families and friends. They chose to make their camp their home sometime in the fifties when Dani still worked at the mill. He retired at least a decade before it downsized some five years ago. He still gets a small pension payment and social security which gave them enough to get by on if they kept life simple – and they really did.

I miss their presence and it’s lonely ‘up at camp’ now without my familiar neighbors next door. Whenever I was there hardly a day would go by without us exchanging greetings and spending a little time in each others company. I recall one such day from last winter and the adventure which followed.

“Well what do you think, Mike?” calls Joyce as I stick my head out the door around seven in the morning after over a foot of heavy wet snow had fallen overnight. Joyce is already out shoveling around the door outside of their place. She’s in pretty good shape and could easily be taken for ten to twenty years younger. Dani had been hanging tough too although recently bothered by accidents and few health problems, all of which in typical Maine fashion, he made light of.

“I don’t know Joyce,” I respond. “We could get a few more inches before it’s all over but I think I’ll get started on the plowing.” Little does Joyce know that I’ve never driven a plow truck in my life before. The previous night I visited with them after I had arrived. I had planned to spend a few days getting my place ready for summer but hadn’t anticipated the late winter extending into mid-April. There was still two feet of ice on the lake and snow drifts a good fifteen feet high around my camp. The pipe from my well was still frozen and although I had heat from a propane heater, I had no water. I’d survived for a few days like this before and it was no big deal but I had not anticipated an overnight snow storm dumping this much snow. In conversation the night before, I learned that Dani had an accident back in late February getting pinned between his plow truck and another vehicle in our shared driveway. Luckily Joyce heard his screams for help even above the sound of her vacuum cleaner, was able to back the plow truck up to get him free and then wrap his bloody legs in towels and drive him in his truck ten miles into town and to the hospital. They stitched him up and sent him home and everything seemed to be OK until one of his wounds became severely infected through to the bone. He went back for surgery and then had a vacuum inserted in the wound to help it drain and heal. “Look at this damn thing they put on me!” he said with a grin as he lifted up the tube, red with his blood, and bared his leg to show me the device.
“Geez! That must have kept you laid up for a while?” I say thinking about how they could have dealt with a Maine winter out here in the middle of no-where with not even a permanent neighbor close by.

Like me most of their neighbors are seasonal residents and stay away when the 50 knot norwesterlies blow drifting snow across the frozen lake in temperatures in double digit negatives. Dani and Joyce heat their camp with a wood burning furnace and Dani cuts and hauls the six or seven chords they need for a winter all by himself. Luckily it’s always stored away “down cellar” long before the first snows. Joyce tells me that in the last storm another year round resident from about two miles up the road came and plowed them out but they are not sure if he’s coming again after this next storm. Joyce is concerned about how I will be able to get out if the driveway isn’t plowed. “Don’t worry about me,” I tell her, “but how can I help get it done?”
“Well if you can get that god damn son of a bitch truck of mine started you can plow us out,” says Dani.
“Sure… why don’t I see if she’ll start”.
Dani gives me starting instructions. The truck is about fifteen years old and over the years has been modified by Dani every time something on it needed “fixing”. I scrape the snow from the last storm off and hit the starter. With a reluctant and sluggish sound it gives a cough and the engine springs to life. I run it a few minutes and return to tell them all is well and in the morning I’ll “plow us out”.

My oldest son Chris has done some plowing so after I get back to my camp I give him a call. “Anything I need to know about snow plowing other than just driving it with the plow down and pushing the snow away?” I ask. He laughs when I tell him what I’m planning to do but gives me a few pointers anyway.

This morning I’m excited to begin and head for the truck. She starts again just like last night. By the time I’m ready to drop the plow and begin Dani appears from his place with tube and bag slung over his shoulder. He’s not there because he’s worried about how I’ll do. Just wanting to be part of it all and help out. He advises me not to drop the plow too low for the first run and I follow his advice. What I don’t know is that the truck has very bald tires and there is a good thick layer of ice beneath the heavy wet snow. The result is that the truck doesn’t move when I drop the clutch and there I sit, truck roaring, wheels spinning, and no forward progress. By this time Dani has a shovel in hand and is ready to dig around the wheels, tube and bag still slung over his shoulder. I dismount from the truck cab and race over to grab the shovel from him which he hands over with a little reluctance and a big grin and says “OK then”.

For the next two hours or so we follow a similar routine. A little plowing, a lot of digging and sanding around the wheels to get the truck moving. A break in the routine comes when I slide the truck into a snowbank and we have to do a lot of digging. By this time Dani has found another shovel and there is no taking that away from him. Joyce observes from a distance knowing better than I that it is useless to try to talk Dani into putting down the shovel. Next thing without saying anything he climbs into the cab and decides he’ll try a little plowing himself. I look at Joyce and she just smiles and shrugs. I admire his skill in knowing just how much to rev the engine before engaging the clutch and how he gets the truck moving before lowering the plow blade. He makes a great long run up the driveway giving me a look and see lesson on how it should be done but on the reverse stalls the truck on the road. It won’t restart. “Too damned hot, goddambed truck!” he mutters as he looks for jumper cables. I’m not sure how he plans to use them as it would seem impossible to get another vehicle anywhere near the disabled plow truck parked across the access road. Just then a neighbor and his wife come driving along the road and stop where I’m waiting by the truck. ”What the hell is Dani up to now?” asks the woman. I explain.
“That man! I tell you, he’s tougher than nails!”
I nod in agreement.

The neighbor uses his truck to jump start the plow truck and I get in and continue a few more runs up and down the driveway. By now we are down to dirt in patches and it’s easier to get traction. We’re almost done when this time I stall the truck and it won’t restart. Fortunately it’s at the bottom of the driveway. “Leave the friggin thing there!” says Dani. “We as good as done anyway.” Joyce agrees reminding Dani that the visiting nurse will be coming by in a little while to check his wounds. I’m not sure she’ll make it as the access road in from the main road is awful messy. “She’ll be here all right!” says Dani. Dani retires inside and I shovel a little more before retreating to my place for cup of coffee and the removal of clothing wet on the inside from sweat and on the outside from wet snow. I notice that it is ten-thirty. How time flies when you are having fun.

Busted

This story was published in 2007 in"The Story Garden 7: The Best of Scrawl" and ezine published by the on line writers' forum "Scrawl".

BUSTED by Michael Lee

The last thing I want to do this Sunday morning is get out of bed and drive to the nearby ski mountain. But I have a date with the manager and my fourteen-year-old son.
Yesterday I dropped him and Neighbor Kid off to ski for the day. It was cold and windy but they were excited. “Not too many New York kids will be here today – too cold,” says Neighbor Kid gleefully. They hate the crowded weekends at the mountain. The ticket prices go from $15 to $50 and the crowd goes from one lane of parked cars to a parking lot full and overflowing. “How do you know who is a New York kid and who is not?” asks curious Dad. Uproarious laughter from both juvenile passengers before My Kid explains.
“Well, Dad, that’s easy. They have ALL the gear. You know … the real expensive stuff. And they can’t ski for shit!” “Mmmm,” I notice myself wondering, “should I deliver my ‘don’t stereotype’ lecture or just laugh?” I laugh.
I ask Neighbor Kid who is two years younger than My Kid if he’s all set for the day. He doesn’t usually ski this mountain and doesn’t have a season pass. “Yep… I have plenty of money for my pass and lunch,” he says. So I drop them off, shove the truck into four wheel and gun it across the still mostly empty parking lot for a little fun slippin’ and slidin’ to let out a bit of the juvenile that has rubbed off on me during the ride, gleefully looking at the kids faces in the rear view as I wave goodbye.
That evening I’m sitting at my computer when My Kid gets dropped off at home. I overhear conversation in the kitchen with Mother. Something about ‘trouble at the mountain’. I strain to listen but give up, deciding I need to hear the whole story later. I don’t have to wait long as Mother comes right in to tell me.
Seems as though the prices for tickets were more than Neighbor Kid had allowed for. He didn’t have enough for a ticket. I knew I should have waited. Here I am doing wheelies in the parking lot while Neighbor Kid is in distress. Better not tell Mother about that.
My Kid though, being the creative genius he is, decides on a plan. He will go to the office and tell them he forgot his season pass. They will give him a ticket for the day which he will pass on to Neighbor Kid and they will then both be off and skiing. He puts his plan to action, it works like a charm, and away they go. Mistake happens when Neighbor Kid gets cold and wants to buy a face mask with the money he didn’t need to use for a ticket. He discovers that if he has a season pass he can get a 50% discount. Ever eager to help out one more time, My Kid gives him his pass. Smart sales clerk checks pass with photo ID and says,“You don’t look like him!” BUSTED! Manager summons both kids to office for interrogation and subsequent confession. His decision - show up here tomorrow with a parent or your season pass will be revoked for the rest of the year.
So here I am with Mother coming along as she thinks this is serious enough to need the presence of two parents. As always she’s right. This is a big day in the evolution of awareness in this young man we call our son. Manager meets and greets and brings us to his office. He asks My Kid to tell his story again which he does with great humility, honesty, and eye contact. (Seems he has taken my coaching well. I’m impressed. Look from mother says “Don’t be!” I hide it.) Manager explains seriousness of the crime. Theft. Charges could be pressed. My Kid might not be invited back on the property – ever. He then tells him to wait outside while he talks to the parents. Immediately Manager’s demeanor changes from pissed to light. He empathizes with us. Tells us about the crazy stuff he did as a kid to help us feel better. Then asks what might be the best fix. We could just pay the money for the pass but would that be a good idea? We don’t think so. Last thing I want is to buy My Kid out of trouble unless he’s on death row or something equally serious. And I don’t want him to get away with this. Previous night, Mother had an idea. “How about we ask them if he can work it off?” she had suggested. I like it and we propose it. Manager likes the idea too. He phones the lodge and talks to Boss Lady. She agrees. My Kid can work bussing tables in the lodge. “How about next weekend, Saturday and Sunday?” suggests Manager.“Sounds like a plan,” I say. I make mental note of the benefit of small town life. No hassles about insurance, workers comp., liability and all that crap. Let's just find a way that will work for everyone.
Manager calls My Kid back in.Demeanor changes back to serious. He tells him of decision and how this particular debt to society and the company will be paid and adds, “If the Supervisor in the lodge says you do a good job you can get your pass back but no skiing all this week. OK?"
My Kid nods and then says “Thanks”, with just a hint of gleeful humility. We leave and drive home mostly in silence. I think how lucky My Kid is to get busted and now get an opportunity to redeem himself. I glance at his face and can see he gets it too.