All Gifts Were Large

                Lawrence Durrell wrote that “Greece is the country that offers you the discovery of yourself”. He was a man who would know something of this; he spent a great many years living and writing in Hellas. Guy Gavriel Kay took a different view of this ancient land, penning that “too much of Greece can sear the soul”, and all gifts it offers us are large. These are sentiments that I have come to understand. I have been to Greece, tasted those gifts, found aspects of myself, and seared myself with the burning summer sun, and chilled winter rains. But to me, Greece is more. It is an aspect that is difficult to explain. It is a land of colours, and the experiences found there are defined by those colours.

                March 3, 2014 – 18:57, a Memory of Sun

                The sky holds to it a memory of the sun. Slipping soundlessly into the sea, traces of light remain, scoring the undersides of the clouds in faded pinks, and lacklustre oranges. The gloaming settles on the cliff face opposite my veranda, across the valley. This period of un-day, pre-night is chilled. Already the varied greens of the mountain slopes fade out to black. Village lights shine now, pushing away at the encroaching dark, keeping it from doorways and street corners.

                Distantly, these halogen angels spark to life in Pentati village, almost hidden from view by the mountain’s shoulder. The clouds flee south, riding the gloom away from the oncoming night. Sitting to think, I watch their retreat. My thoughts do not stray far; to words, phrases, my private conceit with language and my facility therein. To capture this gloaming moment with my pen, the dark coming on by inches. Olive and cypress merge into a uniformed darkness. To know that the burdened limbs of the lemon trees near my terrace exist, sagging under the burden of fruit, but to be unable to see them.

                The final ochre stains leave tendrils in the western sky; not fading, but dulling, into night. Too soon yet for stars, caught now between the day that was, and what is still to come.

                March 4, 2014 – Once, Great Black Eagles

                I am the only person yet awake. The sky, which had cleared to starlight and a sliver of moon the night before, is once again painted grey. I climb the slope behind our hotel, into the olive groves owned by Spyros, our congenial host. The track is steep, the clay soil wet, and sticks to my shoes. Nets are piled neatly under the trees, ready for use next year, when this crop of olives comes due.

                There is a great deal of bird song, but unlike my father, I lack the skills to identify the species. I see only flashes of brown as the birds flit furtively from branch to branch. I mount the switch backed track, listening to the rush of water below. A creek pours loudly over the rocks below, a cascade beside citrus trees bright with fruit. Spyros has told me that in this valley there are grey eagles which roost in the pines and cypress. I don’t see any, just the momentary flits of smaller birds, which sing in the dawn glow.

                Away over the sea, rain approaches. A wind is picking up. I return to pots of fresh coffee and orange juice squeezed that very morning, from fruit gathered along the creek I had been walking beside. Clouds begin to fetch up on the slope opposite, hiding the jagged summit in rain. It falls heavily, muting even the upwards thrust of the cliff that defines this village’s geography.

                Once, great black eagles roosted upon that monument. Twenty odd years ago Spyros remembers seeing a great many. But the town grew, the increase of light and noise seemingly driving the raptors away. Now, a few transient black shapes can been seen migrating by, but none call back to Agios Gordios to roost, not for more than 2 decades. Where these birds have gone, Spyros cannot say. He only knows that they have disappeared from here, from that colossus that was once their home.

                March 5, 2014 – Colour and Grace

                The wind-cold clouds lash the salt lakes of Lefkimmi with rain; an iron grey sky, filled with a damp that settles deeply into your bones. My father and I wander through the wet, seeing the white caps breaking upon the teeth of the wind, away south of the island. These salt lakes are not protected from the sea by much, fragile looking berms of weed strewn earth.

                Graceful, wading with dignity, the flamingo’s move away from us, wary. The pale, muted pink of their bodies stands out boldly in this flat light. I crouch, and amble forwards quickly, a shambling run, hoping to draw closer to these majestic waders, close enough to photograph.

                As one, the flock lifts off. I stop, and kneel, snapping as quickly as I can. The flashes of their undersides is vibrant, deep and rich, set against the black of their wing feathers, and the sombre sky. Up, away into the rain they lift, gliding away to a distant quarter of the marsh, where they resume their meal. I feel oddly exhilarated, the bright plumage and graceful flight exciting me. I can’t help but wonder where these birds might be from, or where they will go on to from here; to Africa perhaps, to the Great Rift and the Soda Lakes?

                Spoon bills wade near a hummock as we head back to the waiting hatchback, rejoining our companions who stayed sensibly dry, but who missed seeing those pastel birds in flight. The drive around the south of Corfu has been an experience. Tiny winding roads wending their way through switchbacks, up and down the sides of mountains. Idle terraces of olive trees, and the wash of water everywhere; in places, mud slides are in evidence, in others, sections of roadways have fallen away precipitously in the deluge.

                We drive back slowly, rarely making it beyond second gear, via Pentati. Olive groves as old as Time itself, all gnarls and whorls, line the way. The sea breaks far below us. More water falls from the sky, sheening the road. The road itself appears solid, unlike its twin on the other side of Agios Gordios, which has seen a large portion fall away two days previously. The worry this causes the people here is palpable. The road brings in people and money to the town. They hope that the government will see fit to fix it. Cars can still eke by, but the larger green buses don’t have the same luxury of space. The people hope, but in Greece, hope has become a cheque that the cash starved government refuses to cash.

                I can’t help but think of those brilliant flamingos, all colour and grace, winging up into the dour grey of this bone chilled sky.

 

                Greece; the gifts it has bestowed are large. Colours and experiences mingle. It burns deep within me, and I have found more than I had hoped.

Winter Reflections on a Corfiot Terrace

                The sky is a gloomy battlefield. The rains, which bathed Corfu this morning, have moved on, south and west of the island. As I sit on my veranda, angel rays pierce the fractured clouds, lancing through the distant sheets of rain. The terraced olive groves march up the mountain side, leaves green and silver in this winter light. Darker stands of cypress stand in contrast, tight conical crowns yearning skyward.

                On the beach, local families fly kites. It is the day of kites, the start of Lent, and a national holiday in Greece. The town of Agios Gordios is quiet beyond that, despite the mass of garish neon stucco that is the Pink Palace.

                We learn from our host at the Panorama, Spyros, that times have grown lean these past few years for the Palace. Igoumenitsa has a new deep water port, and the Italian ferries from Bari and Brindisi no longer call at Corfu Town. That steady flow of backpackers that once served as life’s blood for the town now passes the island by. A hostel of near mythical proportions now struggles for survival. Agios Gordios fades from the collective minds of the budget travelling crowd, it would seem.

                The jagged spires of sedimentary rock thrusting upwards, the groves of olives and cypress crowding the shoulders of the mountains, makes for a dramatic backdrop to my thoughts. There was an explosion yesterday in the Plaka, that ancient part of Athens where we had been staying and touring. A government building targeted, as desperate citizens vent their anger at what is widely perceived as a government betrayal. Unemployment is high, around 18%. Taxation is higher. The ranks of homeless, urban poor swell. Poverty becomes a desperation to feed and clothe oneself, one’s family; this soon turns to anger, which cycles its way to violence. A chance for those without power or hope to show that they can still possess teeth, and the will to bite. I think of the crowds of innocents roaming the Plaka, and hope that no people were hurt. I also think of those happy, well fed strays, all wagging tails and eagerness for affection. Somehow, the thought of one of them injured is even worse.

                Three kites rise high, very high, above the beach, stirring in the breeze, dancing on wisps of salty air. They are so high now, that one errant tug of the line will doom the kite to a watery grave. The Ionian Sea sparkles with light, shafting down again through the mustered phalanx of grey. The rain is far gone beyond sight, lost in the great green of the larger Mediterranean.

A Dear Old Lady

                I have never seen the Agora so lit by vibrant colours. Silvered olive leaves shimmer in the winter rains. Orange trees sag under their burdens of heavy fruit, low hanging and ripe with the promise of juicy sweetness. All of this is made more vibrant against the slate of the sky, low, cloaking the shoulders of the surrounding hills. The rain is not falling hard, but it is impossible to stay dry in this Athenian winter.

                This is our second day in this place, following a red eye that brought us winging in from Toronto, via Charles de Gaulle in Paris. Day one was a reunion of sorts, a family come together after my father’s six week hiatus to the depths of Kenya. The muted celebration on our rooftop patio at Adam’s Hotel had a great deal of laughter, wine, olives, and cheer. From our seats we stared up at the looming plateau of the Acropolis, the strata of history lit by fluorescent bulbs in the darkness, as bright as E.U. funds can manage

                Night was full, the wet marble streets of the Plaka reflecting the glow of the street lamps. We are tired after our nights of long travel. Bellies are full, and the wine takes its effect. My parents, and my brother’s girlfriend all settle down for the night. But Jeremy and I, so often together it seems, decide that we need to stretch our legs. Our feet steer us unerringly towards the Acropolis, and its rumours of an older, far different world.

                We speak as we wander, of many things. My arrest, and his divorce, of the bleakness that hounded us both in the aftermath of our private downfalls. I mention to him that I miss the person I used to be, the person that walked these very same steps when we were last at large in the Plaka; wandering that warren of streets in a warm fog of cheap wine. I am better than I have been, cautiously happy even, but careworn, suspicion and jaded cynicism replacing a laughing, open demeanour.

                Our talk turns, as we pass the Sanctuary of Dionysus, to the Student Traveller Hotel and its snug, vine shrouded patio; a place where we whiled away hours with strangers who had become our friends of that hour, in that place. The hotel is still there of course, a block from our current rooms. Adam’s Hotel is lovely. Clean, spacious, with a terrace that commands an unparalleled view of the Acropolis and this ancient corner of the modern sprawl that is Athens. But it is not a budget hostel. We will meet no other backpackers, nor adventure seekers; we will not while away pleasant hours with new friends who are strangers, swapping stories, and buying rounds. It is this one aspect that makes this trip so vastly different from any other sojourn I have taken. I feel I am a tourist, not a traveller, insular and not sharing the road with those met on the way. It is not the most pleasant thought I have had of that evening. I am aware that I cannot step twice into the same river, which is simultaneously a boon and a curse.

                We pass the southern slope of the Acropolis. Amphitheatres and roadside shrines made this the province of Dionysus, god of wine and male virility. Our current level of intoxication would no doubt have pleased the jovial bearded deity. Jeremy peers through the rod iron gates of the Odeon, and stares at the refurbished marble seats. To think that in these very places, the world was given the best Sophocles and Euripides had to offer, gifting us with laughter and tears.

                We climbed on, slipping at times as we mount the rain sodden, age worn marble steps. The security gates are closed for the night, but the Gate and the Temple of Athena Nike are well lit above the grove of olive trees. We stop and admire the view, minds far away. We re-enter the Plaka, descending the northern slope with care. I fell hard, landing hard on my back, pride bruised. When we finally return to the hotel, we are wet, but invigorated. Again we sit on the terrace, brothers alone in the rain, and have a last Grecian beer.

                Dawn finds all of our small group refreshed. We retrace the steps Jeremy and I took the night before, different now by daylight. Gates that sat sealed are swung wide, making our exploration more in depth. We pass through the towering columns. There are many others of course, a mixed bag of humanity. Shrouded women from the Middle East, and poncho wearing Norsemen. Flashes from a thousand cameras pepper the summit, but the crowd cannot dim my enjoyment of this place. The Acropolis has the power to awe, those manner layers of history making me quiet and reflective.

                After a brief renewal of my love-hate relationship with Grecian toilets, we leave the summit, and meander through the Ancient Agora. Less intact, it is equally rich in history. Here Socrates posed questions to the crowds. Here where democratic notions were first enacted, imperfect though they were. We walk the Panathenaic Way, in the footsteps of those who lived on in athletic glory.

                The steady tempo of the rain has increased. My mother is footsore, her suede shoes proving inadequate to the weather. The white concrete jungle of modern Athens is lost to view as we pass the Agora gates. The Library of Hadrian and the Roman Agora are seen in a hurried blur, more lonely columns, strewn marble plinths and fallen capitals, cast about like disregarded toys by a child in temper. The Tower of the Winds receives a cursory viewing and no more as we hasten back through the warren, to a lunch date at Byzantino. My mother’s spirits rally even as her feet remain soaked and prune like. Complimentary wine flows, and food disappears as quickly as it arrives to the table.

                Athens, my dear old lady, I have missed you.

 

Elegy to a Barber

                I read once that small hands do what they must, and move the world, while the eyes of the mighty look elsewhere. This is a thought that has been much on my mind since Tuesday, and the passing of my Grandfather.

                Hilliard Laidman did not move mountains, nor did he part seas; he did not command armies, nor did he seek fame. He was a barber, a milk man, a salesman. I can say without insult, that he was a simple man. He was a man who cherished the everyday produce of a life well lived.

                Friends knew that here was a man who would give them the very shirt off his back, without reservation, a man generous of spirit. A father young, his family knew the blessing of his devotion, a blessing that only grew with age, and through tragedy. Losing the first love of his life far too early to cancer, he rallied, and found love again, one that would last him to the end of his days. He grew his family at a time when mixed family homes were neither common nor fashionable. He showed us all that true family does not lie in ties of blood, but rather in the bonds of love.

                Hilly had a youthful spirit, one he was eager to display. Children flocked to him, sensing in him a kindred spirit, despite his towering frame. Their reward was laughter and whisker burns, doled out in equal measure. Even with age, and increased frailty, this exuberance did not diminish; this is how his grandchildren, born generations apart, can share smiles and memories of this laughing eyed Bounder.

                He taught us that the only currency of lasting value is the love of family and friends. As times toughen, as they always will, it is this love that provides for us the capacity to overcome. This is the most valuable lesson a young man, often wayward, could learn from his Papa.

                Hilliard “Red” Laidman was nothing more than a simple barber from Binbrook. He was also one of the best men I have ever known.

                His body is gone, returned to the ground, but his memory lives on in our heads and our hearts. I ask that we all honour that memory today with our smiles and our laughter. I know that this is what my Papa would want of us.

"The Great Exhale"

               Festive lights gleam coldly from eaves, as sharp and as bright as wounding knives against this backdrop of snow. The air is crisp and cold, not unpleasantly so. It is Christmas, and my head is full of poetry; snippets of Yeats, and a song by the Great Lake Swimmers rattles around in my brain.

                The borrowed car I am driving slices the dark, lighting a cut fir tree. It fills the ditch, the detritus of this season of largesse already falling by the wayside. I am feeling reflective. As quick as that thought, I smile, remembering a girl, a friend, who told me that I “think the fuck out of everything.” She is young, a decade shy of my own age, which might explain it. Maybe this preoccupation I have on reflection, on memory, is the gift of age. Maybe it is just a symptom of my own private neurosis, making me a sort of sombre Jack Handy.

                Winter, and it is truly winter, the solstice having been freshly spent, is a season for deepened thought and poetry. It is a time of impatient suns, of crystal landscapes, and of long nights. I get out of the car. I am not at home, but I want to breathe in the cold, feel it in my lungs. Distant coyotes can be heard coughing out their distinctive barks, impossible to say how many fields away. Sound moves differently over snow, carries further.

                The state of my grandfather is bothering me. He is old, in his mind and in his body. His voice at the festive table was heavy, slurred with age and dentures. His body appearing shrunken, his vital fires ebbing. Days later we are to learn that he suffered a stroke this Christmas, but there in the dark I am not privy to that knowledge. It served to make the day less merry, although there had been laughter and smiles, genuine good will. Worry, though, was there, is there, an undercurrent to the season.

                The short, sharp barks sound louder, the coyotes moving closer, although I can’t be sure. The rail trail is close, and I consider taking it. I don’t have my boots with me, though, and the thought of snow in my shoes serves to still the ambition.

                I don’t know what I am here to dwell upon. I know that the crisp night warms me even as it ices my nostrils. I know that the distant constellations of bright lights across the fields house holiday gatherings, and celebrations. I know that, at least to me, my grandfather has become a living reminder of the Yeats classic “Sailing to Byzantium”; he has become a frail old man, a “tattered coat on a stick”, although I also know that he was a man who had danced under the stars, all youth and vitality. I know that we are all of us “drawing over the luminous veil” after our years of radiance and years of rain.

                It is December 25. The solstice is over, Christ is remembered, and a new year stands in the offing, looming. I stand alone in the night, smelling the cold. Primitive blood responds to the night songs of canines. Poetry fills my mind. And I am thinking the fuck out of everything.