Constantine G Michalopulos: Memory Eternal

Making the Decision to Jump Ship in 1957

George’s beloved father succumbed to Parkinson’s this week.  Being an only child of an only child, I was unprepared for the grief I would feel or to see the hundreds of people who were at the services to pay their respects and say their goodbyes.  

My parents divorced when I was 8 and my mother remarried when I was 11.  I treasure the moments I had with my adopted father, but they were few and far between.

All that changed when I met George’s father, “Deno” AKA “Kosta,” (Constantine George Michalopulos).

He brought me flowers when we first met; a large bouquet with an explosion of color:  persimmon, gold, and purple. 

He did the same for my daughter, Jessica.  He asked George to stop by the florist where he found a small bouquet of little pink roses.

The flowers became a regular thing with Deno.  

George’s dad knew what Jessica and I were facing coming into a Greek family and probably knew we wouldn’t be able to navigate the waters alone.  He asked me about my own parents.  I told him they had both passed, as well as my son, Andrew.  I only had Jessica, who was quite literally everything to me. 

A cloud came over his face when I told him this.  It was later that I learned there is something amiss in the Greek culture about a woman not having a father, brother, or son to take care of her. 

Deno announced right then and there, that he would be our protector and that I was to call him “Dad” from that point forward. 

I remember feeling I didn’t deserve it.

I was so grateful to have him by my side, I often brought him a single flower.  It was my way of telling him how much I needed him and how grateful I was to be included in his family.   

Deno reminded me every time we met, every time we parted, and often in between (through George), that he loved me.  When he said I was his daughter, he meant it.  Because he was the patriarch of the family, his mere presence became a lifeline for me.

* * *

Deno was born February 26, 1934, in the village of Pyrgos Trifilias, in the region of Messenia, in the Greek Peloponnesus.  He was the firstborn son with three sisters and a younger brother.   

Deno’s father was a physician who chose to stay in the war-torn countryside of Greece during and after WWII so he could continue to help the sick and the wounded.  It wasn’t unusual for Deno’s dad to be paid with a chicken or a knit sweater.  They hid in their farmhouse (affectionately known as Vlissidhi) many times during those war-ravaged years, where a young Deno learned how to trap rabbits and kill birds with a slingshot to put food on the table.  

As a young man, Deno became a merchant sailor in order to continue to support his struggling family who had pretty much lost everything thanks to the German occupation and the Greek civil war.  For five years he traveled around the world to exotic places like Egypt, Turkey, Israel, Lebanon, Tunisia, England, Venezuela, Curacao, Aruba, Colombia, Morocco, Brazil, and finally to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where he jumped ship and took a Greyhound bus to Tulsa, Oklahoma!  It was in Tulsa where he met and married George’s mother, Katherine, in April 1958. 

Like a warrior, he never looked back.  

“Whenever a warrior decides to do something, he must go all the way, but he must take responsibility for what he does. No matter what he does, he must know first why he is doing it, and then he must proceed with his actions without having doubts or remorse about them.”  —Carlos Castaneda

Deno was as articulate and well-spoken, as he was well-traveled.  He saw traveling as essential to his family’s education, and because he was employed in the aerospace industry, he was able to take  George, his two sisters, and their mother to Greece (many times, of course) but also to Paris, Rome, Amsterdam, and even Hawaii.

As a result, all three of his children inherited a curiosity about the world which can be traced directly back to him.  

George’s sister, Renee, is a translator who, over the years, has traveled to many small villages throughout all of Greece, learning obscure native dances, which she and her dance troupe exhibit every year at the annual festival.

Gina inherited her brother’s gift of writing and is the author of several articles in various travel magazines. 

Her latest book, Vagabonderie, (Gina Michalopulos Kingsley) is an anthology of travel stories, some of her own and others brought to life through her interviews with fellow travelers.  It is well worth the read and can be purchased through Amazon or Barnes and Nobel. 

Some have described Deno as a “gentle man” and a “gentleman.”  No truer words were ever spoken.  Like George, he was very charming and had the ability to “think outside the proverbial box”, which made him an interesting conversationalist.  Through broken English, games of charades, and God’s mercy we were able to understand each other.  He was one of those people who knew something about everything, from gardening to history, to architecture, to cooking. 

Truth be told, he was a bit of a prankster, too.  Frankly, he could be “laughing out loud” funny!

When George’s son, Denny, was quite young, Deno took him to the Vlissidhi.  Deno planted a little sprig in the ground and told Denny that the trees needed “watering” by one of the Michalopulos men in order to grow.  Denny, of course, “watered” the earth hoping a tree would grow in the very same spot.  After lunch, Deno took Denny to an identical part of the orchard and pointed to a fully grown olive tree.  “See,” he said, “you watered that tree, and look how much it has grown!”  Denny was quite proud of himself, I am told.  Not too many kids can grow a tree in an hour!

Deno had a deep love for God, the Church, and his family.  How he made time to attend services, after repairing whatever needed fixing at the Church, while managing both a part-time and a full-time job, is a mystery.  When other men were out fishing, he’d be at the Church fixing a water closet, rewiring electrical circuits, receiving shipments of candles –you name it.  He was on the Parish Council, various building committees, and the head of the annual food festival.  Every Church luncheon was planned by him.  People came from miles around to attend Church on those days because they knew Deno would be cooking!  

I had some really special times with Deno when he would quote various passages to me in Greek, all from memory.  At our first meeting, he quoted the Troparion from the Feast of the Presentation.  He said that like St. Simeon, he lived to see his son, George, happy, which is something he prayed for.  

His eyes glistened with tears of joy for the wonderful son God gave him.  If you’re blessed to know George, I don’t have to explain why. 

* * *

As was our custom, I threw a single rose on Deno’s casket as they lowered him into the ground.  It was to be the last of the flowers between us and this time, there were tears in my eyes. 

Tears of gratitude for bringing this wonderful “father” into my life and for his son, George, my forever love.  There are some aspects of George I could only know through his father and I am so grateful God afforded me that opportunity.

Memory eternal, Dad.  You are indeed loved.

Mrs. M