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.
