Yiayia's Journey Part 16

In the spring of 1957, the one time peasant girl turned westernized woman assumed a new, unexpected, and ultimately unwelcome role: that of a widow. As my Yiayia had learned so many years ago from her beloved mother in Greece ~"such is the life" ~ and so one had no choice but to adapt and to endure. But now she would do so alone - in a new city still intimidating in its unfamiliarity - and beside three devastated children in need of her wisdom and grace. 

Grief-stricken and overwhelmed, she was dearly afraid. She once shared with me that she had a vision of Papou the night after his death. He was standing in their bedroom and upon seeing that blessed face once more she begged him,  "Please, let me go with you." But Papou's spirit replied, "Oxi. No. It is not time yet. You must stay and take care of the children." And so a grieving yet stoic Yiayia determined to do just that. 

On an early summer morning in 1958 - she exchanged her standard black widow garb for a white uniform - and drove her trusted Chevy to the Richmond Chase Cannery to report for duty. While daughter Chrysanthy worked at court and Anastasia and Tasso studied at nearby SJSC, Yiayia abored at the conveyer belt. Like so many other working class women, she toiled day in and day out - sorting fruit and later walnuts - until her arms ached and her back strained. 

After her shift, she would prepare dinner in their little pink home with the red door - often forgetting to set the table for four people now instead of five. And all the while she'd fend off well intentioned friends anxious to introduce a prospective new husband.  Eternally devoted to the memory of my Papou, a shrewd Yiayia would craftily evade their attention by introducing said suitors to her unmarried friends. And her clever ploy to redirect their unwanted attention often met with a great degree of success. The once feisty Yiayia might have even cracked a smile over those sneaky little coups. But mostly the days passed with much hard work, few smiles, and too little laughter. 

Yet there were beautiful, tender moments of peace and clarity as well. On those days she would grab her scarf. Lock the door. And venture on those jaunts that once brought her and Papou such joy. Except now, Yiayia walked alone ~ careful to avoid Walnut Grove Street ~ the block where Papou had died in her arms. Instead, she'd journey two blocks west of home. Destination: the nearby Winchester Boulevard. 

For there behind an imposing iron gate lay a small plot of land with a beautiful marble anchor. It bore the simple, bold script: 'John A. Conomos'. And so with loving care, she'd tend that lonely grave, share the troubles of the day, and gaze at the dual, unmarked stone ~ knowing one day it would bare her own name upon their eternal reunion. Indeed, it was a time to grieve. But Yiayia would come to remember her own words:  "change is good." And very soon a happy change would create a new, blessedly welcome role for my beloved Yiayia - the always evolving, ever surviving Penelope Conomos.