King John Story 4: Roasting The Easter Dog

Nothing is as big and fat as Easter in a Greek home. It is the biggest holiday of the year and King John would never disappoint. We would have a small gathering of at least 50 every Easter. Preparation began Holy Week in two phases. Religious and Easter Day. The weekday religious preparations were organized and attended to by Mom. She made sure we got to Wednesday night, Friday afternoon and sometimes night services. Then Dad took over and took us to the 5am Saturday Liturgy and of course the midnight service.

Dad's real focus was Sunday. First, he built a lamb spit that could withstand World War III. He had the guys at the shop cut a 55 gallon barrel in half. Welded 1/4" angle iron supports to the front and back as feet. On the back side, he used the same 1/4" plate to build a platform for the small 2.5 horsepower Emerson motor that  could drive the screws on a Wolf Class nuclear submarine under the arctic circle. That would connect to a 1" solid, stainless rod with a point so sharp, this rod could pierce through one side of an Abrams tank and emerge through the other. Yep, dad was an engineer. It needed at least three, sober, adult men to position into place.

Next, dad would take his Italian side kick, Uncle Rich, and go to see Petros at Diana's Grocery, until it was shut down by the health department. Then it was Nick at the Parthenon Restaurant in Greek Town. The Lamb was all dressed with the requisite oregano, lemon, olive oil and other Greek spices that have been passed down to Greek men since the beginning of thyme. The biggest decision was to leave the head on or off. Yia Yia liked the head and would make soup, so dad would have the head cut off. If Yia Yia wasn't going to be there for some reason, dad kept the head. This was a head on year..... Yia Yia and Papou were in Tulsa.

Sunday morning rolls around and dad gets his posse; Uncle Ferg, a college chemistry prof, and Mr Aungst, a local attorney, neighbors and extended family, to strap the lamb, named Gus this particular year, into the spit that can withstand World War III. This was no easy task. The Posse was up to any task and this was no different. Whether it was gardening and they rototilled over one's thigh and someone had to be the ersatz ambulance driver, or finding a lost child in the woods and carrying him home, or when two kids got busted in a red neck town, you get the picture, this merry band of neighbors could tackle anything. Dad would make them 7% Greek for life and give them immunity to participate in all Greek affairs. Hence, it was a Greek affair. Gus may be a challenge, but the Posse was undeterred. The lamb, though dead, still was greasy from spices and the like. The 1" stainless steel rod was heavier than Gus and had to be rammed through him. I wanted to help, but I was chased off and, in retrospect, glad I was. Once in place, Mr. Aungst made sure the coals were lit, dad flipped the 'on' switch, and Gus was rotating. After that, The Posse would periodically check on the lamb.

This Easter was different. Our backyard had 3.3 neighbors that bordered it. One side was Gary's family. He was a state champion golfer. The Jamesons who left their heart in Sparrow's Point, Baltimore and Theo Ferg's house which took up about 60% of the one side of the backyard. The other 40% was the lot that belonged to my band director, the famous Robert G. Miller.  He and dad were always cordial but I had never seen them hang and talk. This day, Mr. Miller was on my back porch, having a glass of wine with dad. Was my music career over? Had it ever started? Mr. Miller went back home and I went out to check on damage control. Dad said Mr. Miller just came to say "Hi". Then dad and I just gazed at Gus. Johnny joined us.

Gus was spinning slowly, and when the body was perpendicular to the ground, the head, with vacant eyes seeming staring right at you, due to gravity, was parallel to the ground. The head would remain this way until the body would make a quarter turn more, parallel to the patio, and the head would just plop over, resisting gravity to the last moment. Plop.....here it comes.....plop.....repeat. It was slow, mesmerizing and just strange. It went on and on like this for hours. I also noticed something else........Mr. Miller's kids.

Mr. Miller had three kids. They were younger than me, around Jr. High age and younger. They would run up to the border between the Bratsakis/Miller properties and freeze. Just like they had an invisible dog collar on. They stared at Gus with eyes as big as saucers, a look of terror, as if they were facing down Jason and Freddie on Elm Street. They would retreat into the house, reappear, run to the property line, freeze, terror, retreat. This went on all afternoon.

Mr. Miller came back over for another drink and went back home. I asked dad what was going on. Evidently, the Miller's schnauzer had been missing since Friday. Mr Miller told his kids we caught it and were having it for Easter dinner. He had asked my dad not to say anything. Dad happily complied. They thought we were roasting the Easter Dog. It's amazing anyone born in the '60s is alive today.

Gus, the Easter Dog, with  head, lopping back and forth...was awesome. We feasted! We are Greek.

Choosing To Be Happy

 Me, at the helm of good ship "Happy", choosing to be happy and not hit a Cape Fear lighthouse.

Recently I posted a video of a woman dancing in the Charlotte Airport after her flight got messed up. She chose to be happy when it really sucked that she was stuck overnight in the airport. I think this is wise, if not really simple, advice: choose to be happy. In the hurlyburly of life, we forget to stop and smile. Bombarded by e-stimuli, focused on the next waypoint on our life journey, we look forward, squirrel, repeat. Where and why, don't we stop to cherish the moment? Why not take the energy to make the moment positive, and not take a selfie of that moment.

Choosing to be happy does have obstacles. There is a sad maxim right from the get go: "While most don't want to be the squeaky wheel, unfortunately, it seems that squeaky is the only audible level." Get stuck in a line at the airport, where the human condition is at its worst, see who gets attention. I was next to a person who was demanding luggage. She dropped the 4 letter word, "bomb", twice and they serviced her immediately . The polite people in line were overlooked and the woman got her luggage. Flip through the channels, see anyone happy? We see rich/famous, famous for being rich, or a newscaster comparing politicians to Hitler or Stalin with zero context, perpetual righteous indignation over a politicians infidelity when the other side does the exact same thing. Stop....choose to be happy. It's not easy, Shannon, you are right about that. Watch "Remember the Titans" or "Rocky" or "Star Wars" or "Used Cars". Skip Eckhard Tolle, choose George Carlin. Make happier choices. 

It's not easy, especially if you are a kindred, existential, quirky, beatnik spirit like me. Happy doesn't enter the lexicon (sex, debauchery, freedom of the human spirit, and jazz does). However, this year has been the fastest of my life. Although I've had some seismic changes take place, my bride, the Love Goddess, said she hadn't seen me laugh or smile like I have recently in several years. The only thing I can think of is that I have, maybe it's out of necessity, had to stop and make myself laugh. Laughter heals the soul. We choose to let our hearts get buried in the underbrush of the daily crap. We need to tend to the heart, part of that is choosing to be happy. Not a blissfully ignorant, Candide happy, but one where make room for a smile and maybe prayer, meditation or whatever your deity tells you to do. 

For my part, I'm only posting non-political Facebook stuff. I may write a few blogs, but the focus is humor and music. Two things that make me smile. Yeah, the outside world can suck, but I choose to be that bright red Anemone flower in the sidewalk...at least until someone thinks I'm a weed...wait, laugh.

King John Stories 2: The Road Trip...2 dads, 2 brothers

Golf is rich in history and a challenge to play. Dad loved golfing at Valparaiso Country Club. It wasn't so much the game, but rather admittance into the regional royalty that it provided. Dad was competitive, for sure, but it was the fraternity of captains of industry that would congregate at the club that led dad to golf. CEOs, bank presidents, steel company plant managers, and all the rest of the court jesters were at the Club. For dad, it meant arrival. The first kid to get a college degree in the family. His brother was the war hero, dad was the American dream.

My brother Johnny loves to play golf, no matter where, and is also very competitive. As a financial CEO, golf is part of his job. Golf provides Johnny with business access and new friends. He works hard at a single digit handicap and being a great father, husband and brother. His dream was to graduate college, get in a good training program, work his way up the food chain and become a CEO. Mission accomplished! He's as competitive at work as he is at golf.

Doc Nick was my Father-In-Law. He loved to play golf, to get some testosterone balance in his life. He liked golf just to be with 'the guys'. Doc also liked to stir the pot and have a cigarette or 6 in peace. Golf provided Doc that outlet. It's not that he didn't love his wife, but socially, things revolved around her. He gladly enjoyed supporting "Georgia". Even though she forbade his smoking, he loved her and enjoyed relaxing in the sun with her. It's just that he needed the adrenaline and nicotine rush of the fairway, rough or lost ball search.

Me, I love playing golf. I want to be better but, given a choice, I'd rather be on an urban adventure. Work travel dictates certain decisions, play a round of golf or do something with my bride, the Love Goddess. I, unapologetically, choose the Love Goddess. Call me a pussy, if you will, but that's me. I do love the fraternity that is golf. I love the game, the challenges and those moments when I have a good game. I've realized that the only time that I really enjoy golf is when I'm with good friends. I can't golf with strangers. I just want to hang, enjoy the moment and have fun. I want to not suck, too.

Dad, Johnny and Doc represent the most important men to me. I love them all and just want to have fun. In what almost was a tradition, the four of us would play golf on Father's Day. It was fun. The two dads got along great. Dad would tell stories and Doc was an eager audience. Johnny could guide us on the golf course and I could just have fun. The two dads would become kind of smart-assed and obnoxious. Johnny & I were the adults trying to keep the kids in line.

I had just started MCSI and dad wanted to buy my office furniture. He was excited and wanted to help. It was his way of saying he was proud, and after 30 some years of a tempestuous relationship, dad and I had settled into a growing one. I wanted to pay him back for the furniture when I earned the money, but he wouldn't accept. The alternative was to give him a Christmas gift of a golf trip to Hilton Head. It would be the three Bratsakis men and Doc who covered his airfare and was part of the group. Dad's first comment was, "I already belong to a club, why would I want to go play somewhere else?"

Hilton Head had no mystique for dad, it was a place to play golf that was far away, and expensive to boot. Johnny & I convinced dad it would be fun. Begrudgingly, Dad accepted.

We get to Hilton Head and stayed at a Hilton resort. Johnny knew the courses and had us set up to play. Harbor Point was great. It's where they play the RBC Heritage Invitational right after the Masters. The day was cloudy, balmy, and on the cold side, but we had fun. I'm still befuddled how I could duck hook a 3 wood, 150 yards, 130 degrees to the left into the side of a house, just missing a window. That being said, it was a rush to play a championship course. The small greens, the chutes the pros tee off through, the course management and of course, the bonding. It was just us. Boys in one cart, crazy dads in the other. Doc would spend 60 minutes looking for a ball, dad realizing he was on a championship course started feeling the power of the Heritage Plaid Jacket and history of the course. Johnny was blazing away with humongous drives, mostly on the fairway and certainly avoiding peoples' homes. In spite of my below average play, I just loved being with the guys. Hitting up to the 18th, seeing the towering trademark red and white striped lighthouse, shanking my approach into the front trap was great.

Day two was the Arthur Fazio Course. Everyone was psyched to play the luscious, undulating, curvy, green course...was I just thinking of Zoe Saldana?...I digress. The course was beautiful and on our approach, Doc asks me to stop. He is ashen white, as if he had just seen the ghost of his mother-in-law whom he never met. I ask Doc, "what's wrong?".

He replied, "That sign says that we can bit by snakes and eaten by crocodiles. I don't think it's safe."

I reply, "Doc, people golf here all the time and the Arthur Fazio course has had no casualties in, like, the last 100 years. We will be fine! The crocodiles will not eat you, not with a tasty Bratsakis or two, near."

Doc says, "Okay, but if something bad happens, you have to contact your mother-ion-law." Since I didn't wince or flinch externally, he assumed we must be safe and we soldiered on.

As usual, Johnny crushes drive after drive and we get to the third hole. Johnny blasts one on the left part of the fairway and I stripe one straight down the fairway. We play my shot and get to Johnny's lie, which may be in a separate zip code. Suddenly, I'm like where's dad & doc? Johnny replies, "I don't knooooow.........what the shit?"

At that moment we saw both Dad & Doc using there pitching wedges as epee's parrying with imaginary swashbuckling Musketeers Athos & Porthos. We turn around the golf cart to find out what was wrong. As we drew closer dad gleefully looks over his shoulder and says, "We found crocodiles" while continuing his spasmodic fencing of Athos. Doc, then looks over his shoulder, pressing Porthos, and announces, "They're just there, we're trying to get them to move."

 As they pressed the invisible musketeers back, the dads slowly were working their way down a grassy embankment to the water. There, in fact, were two large green/gray crocs, just hanging out. Now Doc had gained a slight lead on dad and imploring the crocs to "dance". The Crocs had no interest in dancing or an early meal. The crocs were just....crocodile rock, staying in place and not moving. John yells at dad to get back, we're playing slow, and they will likely get eaten, which at this point, would have gotten us back to fast paced golf. The dads just stared at us and finally got back to playing golf.

The long weekend was much better than expected and it was time to come home. We get to the airport and our flight is cancelled. The salamander shaped line was long at United check-in. People were yelling at the counter clerk. Dad & Doc got in line, both wearing blazers, nice dress pants and shirt. Johnny & I are in topsiders, Bermuda shorts and a golf shirt, unshaven with our big goatees. We looked like Izod dressed dock workers.

The dads were from the golden age of travel, where people were not a commodity, decorum was part of travel, and the airlines actually appreciated your business. They were not prepared for the modern feeding frenzy of piranha-like customers, hounding the poor counter clerk mercilessly, in line, that felt they were owed, not just a flight, but a million dollars for their inconvenience of standing in line.

Since people had become a commodity in the airline business, the poor ticket people were admirably fighting the fight. John and I knew better. Bratsakis Brothers in action! Johnny tackled the airfare issues, I tackled the car rental. Hertz is ALWAYS reliable. We told the dads we had this and they let us know they knew better, because Father Knows Best. I secured a black Ford Explorer, while John got us tickets out of Charlotte and a hotel room. It was a five hour drive, but it got us off the island, so we were cool.

We went to tell the dads but they were next in line and waived us off. The man in front of them was a Tommy Bahama, orange floral shirt, sandals with white socks and Maui Jim sunglasses wearing, raving lunatic. He yelled so loud, Johnny & I almost jumped in to break him in half, but the dads were there. After the mad diatribe, he got tickets for two days later. The dads were up. They were polite, kind of old man flirty, suave, finished, and left with a grin. Dad, "She had tickets for us to Charlotte with a hotel room. All we have to do is get a vehicle." The two dads were very proud that they had negotiated such a grand settlement. We didn't have the heart to tell them we know but that the Ford Explorer is loaded and ready to go.

The drive to Charlotte was great. Doc would often say, the trip back was one of the most memorable times he ever had. Dad, as per usual, was stoic. We ate strawberry Twizzlers for 5 hours straight.