Coastal Gem of Lancashire

That’s the slogan on the sign welcoming you to the lovely little town of Lytham. As we had a series of fine days last week, we took to the road again, this time with Blackpool as our objective. On the way, though, we found Lytham, and because our friend Margaret has spoken so fondly of her childhood holidays there, we decided to stop and see it on the way. We ended up spending a whole, delightful day there.


Lytham is full of quaint buildings, many Victorian, and some in the Tudor style, although I’m not sure they actually are Tudor. The town is full of flowers too; one banner downtown says it was a finalist in this year’s “Britain in Bloom” competition.

We arrived at lunchtime. The outdoor cafés were all full, so we had our light lunch in a tearoom on the second floor of a place at the back of an upscale little alley. They had outdoor seating, too, on a terrace. After lunch, we admired the wares in three tiny shops in the alley, and bought a trinket or two for ourselves and a gift for Kim and James, who are expecting a baby next month.

The beach in Lytham is much like other beaches in this part of the country: not very pretty. The water, of course is gorgeous, but it is very far away, with mudflats in between. Lytham used to have a pretty sand beach, but that was in the days when there was a dock for large shipping, when the shipping lanes were kept well dredged. Now the Ribble River, at whose mouth Lytham sits, has silted everything up, and except in spring tides, the water stays far away.

All along the waterfront is a paved promenade, flanked by “The Green”, spacious lawns. And at one end of The Green is an old windmill. We went to see it, noted the “Open” sign, and decided, however, to sit and admire the sea for a few minutes before going inside. When we arose for our tour of the windmill, the sign was gone and the doors were locked. Disappointment!

After having explored the high street quite thoroughly, and having had tea, we went to Lowther Gardens, because someone had told us they were lovely. Well, we never saw much of them, because we noticed a past-middle-age woman bowling. I had never seen outdoor bowling before, and it’s quite different from the kind we know in America. It isn’t tenpins. It’s one yellow ball, called the “jack”, which serves as the target. You bowl small dark balls (smaller than a grapefruit) at it, trying to hit it. The bowling balls come in sets of different weights. In competition, the winner is whoever puts his ball closest to the jack.

This woman was very good, the more so because this grassy square was a “crown green,” meaning not level, but highest in the center, sloping gently outward in all directions, its shape changing the course of the balls.

After several rounds, the woman said something deprecatory about her bowling, and we replied that she was obviously very practiced and very skilled. So that began a conversation that lasted half an hour, starting with answering all our questions about bowling.

And that’s how we met Marlene and her husband Ken and their friend, Shirley. We liked them all very much and hope they will make use of the card we gave them with our addresses and phone numbers.

As it was by now evening, we gave up on Blackpool and headed home.

We went back again the next day!  More to come.

True Presence?

The Anglicans here inform me that they do not believe that the bread in their eucharist is truly Christ's Body, or that the wine is truly His Blood.  One of them said she wished she believed it, but that's now what she was taught.  It's a memorial, it's symbolic, but it isn't the real thing.

That's odd, because when I was Episcopalian, I was indeed taught the doctrine of the True Presence. 

"So what do you mean when you speak of the 'consecration?'" I inquired.  They didn't quite know.

I concluded, aloud with a regretful shrug, that maybe they were right; maybe they really didn't have Christ's Body and Blood in their eucharist.

Love Wins, Part 06

Our Tuesday night discussion group has reached Chapter 4 of Rob Bell's book, Love Wins.  The provocative title of the chapter is "Does God Get what God Wants?"  What He wants, of course, is for all to be saved.  All. 

What stands in the way of His saving every last human being who ever lived?  Human freedom - at least, potentially.  The trouble is, if He were to override human freedom to "save" us, what He'd really be doing is the opposite:  destroying us as human persons, reducing us to the level of a clever animal.    So the very question is a kind of oxymoron, like, "Can God create a stone too heavy for Him to lift?" 

In Orthodox Christianity, we may not absolutely affirm that everyone will be saved.  We do not know this; that's the main reason we must abstain from saying so.  The other excellent reason is that to affirm it positively is to make too little of human freedom.  Doctrine must always guard our free will.

At the same time, though, we Orthodox are encouraged to hope that in the end, somehow, by Christ of course but in ways unrevealed to us, all will be saved.

So let us hope.  But in the end, as Rob Bell also says, the real, sometimes terrifying, question we need to ask is, "What do I want?"  Because I'll get it.  That bit is for certain.  What do I really, at the deepest abyss of my heart, truly want? 

Discovering Another Church

Last Thursday, our dear friend Elias took us with him to visit Fr. Christodoulos and Presbytera Maria at Holy Apostles Church in Leyland.  Leyland is less than half an hour from us by car, closer than the church in Liverpool.  Technically it's Greek and is directly under the Patriarch of Constantinople.  Not sure how many actual Greeks are in it, though, which means I'm not sure whether Demetrios will agree to go there most of the time.  At least he wants us to go there sometimes.

Fr. Christodoulos is an Englishman with an unmistakably English face.  He has white hair and a short, white beard, bright, blue eyes, and a keen sense of humor.  He used to be Pentecostal before he was Orthodox.  He said when he first attended an Orthodox service, out of sheer curiosity, he was amazed at the peace the discovered there.  "We Pentecostals were always working up a frenzy, trying to bring down the Holy Spirit," he said, "but in this church, nobody did anything like that, because the Holy Spirit was already there."

He gave us a thorough tour of the church, which the parish bought from the Methodists.  They've done a beautiful job making it into an Orthodox temple.   (If you click on the link above and then on "Gallery", you can see some pictures.)

Then he took us home to meet his presbytera, who turns out o be exactly 3 months younger than I.  She was so gracious, so kind!  We felt we had known both of them for many years. 

The conversation I cannot describe, but so wonderful was it that it brought tears to the eyes. 

We are really looking forward to knowing these people better, and the others in this parish, too.

Blog Note

Finally my slow brain noticed, upon of all places, the main door of the library, a small sign, "Free WIFI"!!!

So now I have brought my laptop to the library and plugged it in, and voila!  It works, and both gmail and my blog are fully functional on it.  Hooray!! 

The Olympics, etc.

Here, they are known simply as, "London 2012". 

Team Great Britain is currently 3rd in the medals tally, behind China and the US.  However, you'd never know the Brits weren't virtually the only team in the Olympics.  We've never seen any competitions in which there was not a British contender for a medal.  Although I know I could look it up on the Internet, I have no idea who, among the Americans or the Chinese has won any medals for anything.

We mostly see the sports at which the British mostly excel:  equestiran events such as dressage and jumping; water sports such as rowing, sculling, sailing, swimming, cycling races.

The medalists here receive more adulation than American medalists do.  The BBC, instead of using the air time to show another event, spends a lot of time interviewing these athletes and talking to supporters in their home towns and so forth.

The only other news on the television is of Syria.  (For a more balanced picture, or rather to get complementary unbalanced views, can get the pro-Syrian government side's propaganda from the Russia Today channel.) 

Even Vladimir Putin's visit to 10 Downing Street got virtually no press coverage.  It was simply mentioned that he was here and that Syria was most likely on the agenda.  There wasn't even a press conference afterwards. 

Driving Through the Yorkshire Dales

(Also, these doggoned library computers won't let me edit any of my previous posts or even view them.)



I’ve probably longed to see the Yorkshire Dales since I read the books by the veterinarian, James Herriott, All creatures Great and Small and All Things Wise and Wonderful, charming stories set in the Dales. (James Herriott is a pen name; his real name was Alf Wight.)

Skeldale House, where he lived, is open for visitors, but we aren’t quite so keen on Herriott as to need to tour his house, and besides, it is in Thirsk, a bit further than a day trip could take us. (Day trips are all we can afford for the rest of this stay, our budget having been busted by the purchase of our car, the unplanned trip to Greece, the new air conditioner for Mena, etc.)

To my delight, the Dales are exactly as I had imagined them.   See a lot of images here.  They are wide-open, grassy highlands, sometimes quite craggy hills, foothills, in fact, of the Pennine Mountains, dotted with sheep and the occasional tree. There are wide, shallow, rocky rivers and streams. There are stone stiles, barns, churches, and crofts hundreds of years old, as well as the occasional castle. There are villages right out of a story book, cobbled streets and all. In summer, the Dales are a vast, wide-open, sun-drenched, clear-aired, desolate playground for hikers and bikers and other holiday-makers; in winter they must be terribly cold, though, and bleak.

Our first stop was Hornby, on the edge of the Dales, where, spotting its castle, we hoped to tour it. Unfortunately, one cannot tour it, as the family that owns it is still in residence there. We toured the quaint church instead, then went on to Ingham, and from there to Hawes, a gorgeous, scenic drive through sunshine and high hills and sheep and grass.

A nice surprise awaited us in Hawes: it turns out to be where our favorite English cheese is made. The Wensleydale Creamery is open to visitors. So we got to see how the cheese is made and to taste about 25 varieties of it.

A craft fair was in progress, and Demetrios, having been snappish to me while we were parking, couldn't regain his peace without buying me something. We settled upon a pair of beaded earrings he spent 20 minutes choosing. (If you know Demetrios....) They are lovely, peridot colored crystal; I’m wearing them as I type.

From Hawes we drove on to Leyburn, another picture-postcard village where we found a Chinese restaurant and enjoyed for supper some of the best Chinese food I’ve ever eaten.

But by then we were tired out, the sun was low in the sky, and the only thing to do was to drive home, by a partly different route. Every 15 miles in the Dales takes about half an hour to drive. (For us, at least; the Brits seem miraculously able to go faster.)

Although there isn’t much to tell you about this adventure, as most of it consisted of scenery, yet there was very, very much to enjoy. It was one of our best ever days out.  It was only a taste of the Dales; another time when we can afford it, we'd like to spend much longer there. 

A Day Out at Martin mere

Martin Mere is a wetland, a wild bird preserve. Although it’s quite near us, we never got there before, for lack of a car. This time, we went there with Margaret and her daughter, Lizzie.

Margaret is a nurse who used to work with Demetrios back in the mid-sixties and I think she’s 92 or something like that, now, with her mind entirely intact. She even remembers nursing the soldiers returning from Dunkirk. She’s red-headed and definitely has the firecracker personality stereotypically associated with that, delightful.

Her daughter, Elizabeth, is my age. Lizzie is an avid bird watcher, so avid that she carries not only the world’s best binoculars, but also a tripod for holding them. She knows every bird in Great Britain, making her the best guide anyone could ask for to this wetland preserve.

Martin Mere has a great lake, marshy spots, artificial ponds, bird nurseries, bird boxes, trees and bushes and perfect spots for a huge variety of birds to live and/or breed. There are paths and several hides. The hides are buildings you go inside so the birds can’t see you. There is a certain etiquette for hides, such as being quiet, closing any windows you open, closing the door after you.

We saw all sorts of birds, of course, but we concentrated on a few, of Lizzie’s choice.   I wanted to show you pictures of these birds, but the outdated browser on these library computers won't let me insert an image.  Anyway, Lizzie, mounting her binoculars on a tripod, showed us:

Avocets, waders with long, upturned beaks they waggle from side to side in the water to dislodge and catch shrimp;

Lapwings, with crests longer than I ever thought any bird would have;

Godwits.

Among the ducks, besides the usual Mallards, we saw Eiders, with their wedge-shaped blue beaks and Shelducks, the size of geese, with red beaks and a conspicuous red knob at the base of the beak.

We ended up buying me a pair of binoculars, too; I’ve wanted them for a long time. My mom gave me the money for them last year for my birthday. The binocular shop had a large range from which to choose, and despite Lizzie’s resolve to stay silent, I did manage to get her advice; she thinks I ended up with the right pair for me (i.e., for an only moderately avid birdwatcher).

We had lunch in the café, and then drove Margaret home, as she tires out by lunchtime. Lizzie, with Margaret’s car, stayed all afternoon. I went home and in my birdbook, marked the birds I’d seen.

Our Excellent Adventure in Crosby

What do we do all day over here in England, some people wonder? Well, we live here. Mostly. Most days, the weather being somewhat uninviting, Demetrios goes to the library at Edge Hill University and does his reading and writing, working on his book. I amuse myself with my groups, my friends and acquaintances, knitting, etc. But we are always prepared for a fine day. England doesn’t just have fine days. When she has good weather, it’s downright glorious. In summer, we’re nearer the sun than our more southerly neighbors, and the sunshine and blue skies and super-concentrated green of the vegetation make the English countryside radiant. And on days like that, we set out in our new car in search of adventure.

You wouldn’t expect the little Liverpool suburb of Crosby to hold much adventure, but we found it there anyway.

We went to Crosby because that is where Demetrios stayed the first two weeks he was ever in England. He had been invited here by the family of John Coventry, an English friend he had met in camp. The family were especially kind to him and Mrs. Coventry, in particular, took some trouble to introduce Demetrios to the English ways of doing things. Dr. Coventry helped Demetrios find his first job, here in Ormskirk.

So off to Crosby we drove, our objective being to find the Coventry’s house on Moor Lane, the main road. We found it without much trouble, actually. Nobody was home; the neighbor, who had never heard of the Coventrys, said the occupants were away on holiday. So we wrote a quick note and slipped into the letter slot of their door. (We haven’t heard from the people since, so apparently they can’t provide us any information on the Coventry family.)

That objective accomplished, we next noticed, across the street, a windmill. Well, it was what had once been a windmill, now minus its sails and several stories high. So we thought we should go have a closer look.

The windmill was on a green side street, the quiet very surprising, given it was right off the main road. All the houses were very large (by English standards) with gorgeous, lush, colorful gardens. “Millionaires’ Row,” I said.

A man walking in the opposite direction to post a letter greeted us and we paused to chat. We told him we wanted to see the windmill.

“Och, no, ya don’t want that old windmill,” he said, “It’s full of damp. Now if you want to see a really nice house, have a look at mine. Last one on the left.”

Was the windmill occupied, we asked?

Oh, yes, sometimes. It’s owner was a porn star, who was no doubt already regretting his purchase of the place. “See there where the paint is peeling? That paint was only put on 18 months ago, and already the damp is makin’ it peel off.”

We thanked the man and continued our walk down the charming lane, pausing to admire bushes and shrubs and the lavish flowers – and enormous houses. We had gotten most of the way down the lane when the same man, returning from the mailbox, overtook us. “Here,” he said, “have a look at my house.” He swung open a pair of massive, wrought-iron gates with gilded knobs and finials, to admit us to about an acre of garden, its most prominent feature a full-size tennis court.

We oohed and ahhed over the garden and that appears to have encouraged him to invite us inside.

There was a charming, antique-looking entrance hall with a definitely antique wooden spiral staircase to the first floor. “There is a proper staircase as well,” said the man, “but I liked this one so much I’ve kept it. Found it in a museum.”

The living room was amazing, an enormous room that fulfilled every stereotype of affluent English living 75 years ago. It was full of big, overstuffed furniture and had a very high ceiling and tall windows dressed in heavy and elaborate drapery and swags. We were amazed, and the man quickly realized it. “Million and a half,” he said.

“Beg your pardon?”

“I’ll sell it to you for a million and a half pounds.”

“I will certainly buy it from you,” I said, “the next time I find a million and a half quid lying around.”

That seemed to have cleared up the misunderstanding, but the man, Robbie, showed us around the rest of the ground floor anyway, both to be polite and because he was so proud of it.

The dining room, an extension of the living room, comfortably contained a dark dining table that could easily seat 16, and at least that many chairs with it.

Past the dining room and the proper staircase was – are you ready? – the pub. Yes, it was a complete pub with a bar, well-stocked, including connections for the casks of beer and the levers you pull to fill the pints. There was even a dartboard.

But the pub’s main feature was the biggest billiard table I have ever seen. There was a brass gizmo on the wall with sliding tabs for keeping score, and around the room were signed photographs of all of England’s greatest snookers players. “They come here for the professional size table,” said Robbie. “You don’t find that in so very many places.” He then regaled us with stories about several of them and how he had met them.

But the wonders of the house were not yet finished. Past the pub was an indoor, heated, lighted, swimming pool, complete with changing room.

Robbie explained that he and his wife were separated, and although it now seemed likely then would soon be back together, they definitely wouldn’t live in this house. The boys were now grown up and the place was far too big for only two, and he really would sell it. I really might have bought it, too! If I were as rich as Robbie. And how had Robbie made his money? Well, he ad begun literally shoveling coal into hoppers. He’d had various other similar jobs before going into used cars. And from there into buying and fixing up and selling houses. Why aren’t we all millionaires? If Robbie can do it, so could we all, in theory.

On the way out, Robbie showed us something special about his very ornate, wrought-iron gates. “You see these initials? The initial ‘J’ is for Jane, my wife. The ‘R’ is for me, Robbie. And on the other gate, the two ‘K’s are for Karl and Keith, our sons. And if you look over here” – showing us another set of matching gates we hadn’t noticed before, but should have, as the driveway is circular – “My sons made me send this gate back to the manufacturer to have the C added. It’s for Cindy, the cat.”

Then he inquired where we were headed next, and we said to Formby, to see the beach. He said we ought to check out the iron men closer to here before continuing to Formby. Iron men? We had never heard of them. They’re sculptures of men, three of them, wading out into the surf. You can see a lot more of a lot less of them, depending upon the tides, as they are quite dramatic around here.

So off to see the iron men we went, stopping en route at a charming pub for some lunch.

The iron men, well, looked just like men; more interesting were the houses at the waterfront, ranging from quintessentially traditional English to art deco. Lots of fun.

By time we got to Formby, it was time to stop again for a bit of refreshment, so we had afternoon tea in a delightful little shop, newly opened, and oriented mostly to children, birthday parties and so forth. I had my first Victorian Sponge Cake, a yellow cake with clotted cream and jam in between the layers. Yummy!

The waitress, a friendly young lady who quite delighted us, told us how to get to the beach, telling us the route lay through a squirrel preserve.

Squirrel preserve? The very idea sounds strange in American ears, doesn’t it? We so often consider squirrels a nuisance. But it seems that here, the Red Squirrel is threatened by the more aggressive Gray Squirrel. So this preserve has been established for the Red Squirrel.

You walk about half a mile through it, and then you come out into a desolate landscape containing nothing but sand dunes as far as you can see, sand dunes capped with vegetation and full of birds, the only ones of which I recognized were starlings and magpies. It was beautiful in a wild sort of way. It’s a fabulous place, laced with trails, good for jogging, flying a kite, running around, playing hide and seek, and having fortresses. (You don’t have to built one; each separate dune is one already.) We saw all of these things going on, yet so large was the area that it still seemed all but deserted.

You walk a full mile, more like a mile and a half, before you catch sight of the Irish Sea beyond the last dunes. Then of course there are two miles to hike back to the car. We reached our car in the late evening, time to head home, tired but exhilarated. The drive was only 25 minutes.

It’s the people you meet make outings into adventures.

Back in England

Quiz Question:

Switzerland is famous for:

(A) watches and clocks
(B) banks
(C) chocolate

Answer:

All of the above, but who cares about anything but (C)?

We flew back to England via SwissAir, and it was quite possibly the best flight we've ever had. The seats were comfortable and relatively roomy. The on-board entertainment, with which we ordinarily don't bother, was excellent; it was a series of short clips, wordless, showing absolutely hilarious and harmless practical jokes.

For example, Demetrios' favorite was the one in a clothing store. There were three empty seats outside the women's fitting room, and as soon as a woman would enter, three men would come and take those seats. When the woman would come out to inspect the outfit in the mirror, each man would hold up a placard scoring the item from 1-10. Of course, the scores were totally inconsistent, making them meaningless.

My favorite clip was of a pretty young woman who would stand on a street corner, and as soon as some man would appear, she would wave and beckon to him. As she was quite pretty, and as there was obviously a hug on offer, the man would smile and head toward her as soon as the traffic light turned. But just as he was about to reach her, another man would sprint ahead of him, whom the woman would enthusiastically embrace. Anyway, we laughed until we had tears running down our cheeks.

And YES, the flight attendants did hand out Swiss chocolates, both at the beginning and then again at the end of the flight.

We are glad to be back in England, where everything is clean and tidy and where the weater is cool and breezy. Our mood has lightened considerably. Demetrios sang in the shower yesterday for the first time since Kostas died, and he went back to working on his book, too.

Here at the library in Ormskirk, I've even (apparently!) found a way to access my blog after all.

Quotes to Ponder, 02

"The technetronic era involves the gradual appearance of a more controlled society. Such a society would be dominated by an elite, unrestrained by traditional values. Soon it will be possible to assert almost continuous surveillance over every citizen and maintain up-to-date complete files containing even the most personal information about the citizen. These files will be subject to instantaneous retrieval by the authorities." - Zbigniew Brezinski, Between Two Ages, America's Role in the Technotronic Era, 1970





"In the next century, nations as we know it will be obsolete; all states will recognize a single, global authority. National sovereignty wasn't such a great idea after all." - Strobe Talbot, President Clinton's Deputy Secretary of State, as quoted in Time, July 20th, 1992.

Quotes to Ponder

"Today, America would be outraged if U.N. troops entered Los Angeles to restore order [referring to the 1991 LA Riot]. Tomorrow they will be grateful! This is especially true if they were told that there were an outside threat from beyond [i.e., an "extraterrestrial" invasion], whether real or promulgated, that threatened our very existence. It is then that all peoples of the world will plead to deliver them from this evil. The one thing every man fears is the unknown. When presented with this scenario, individual rights will be willingly relinquished for the guarantee of their well-being granted to them by the World Government."

- Dr. Henry Kissinger, Bilderberger Conference, Evians, France, 1991

"We are grateful to The Washington Post, The New York Times, Time Magazine and other great publications whose directors have attended our meetings and respected their promises of discretion for almost forty years. It would have been impossible for us to develop our plan for the world if we had been subject to the bright lights of publicity during those years. But, the work is now much more sophisticated and prepared to march towards a world government. The supranational sovereignty of an intellectual elite and world bankers is surely preferable to the national autodetermination practiced in past centuries."

- David Rockefeller, founder of the Trilateral Commission, in an address to a meeting of The Trilateral Commission, in June, 1991.

A Sad Visit to Greece

We came to be with Mena, newly widowed, and (originally) to see whether Demetrios might be able to help save Kostas. That latter was not to be, but we have spent most of our time with Mena. Please pray for her, as she is having a difficult time. She finds that the words of faith she is accustomed to say to others in their bereavements are of no comfort to her. She cannot, for the time being, beieve in Resurrection and paradise.

We've been to Kostas' grave three times, the latest last night, when Mena went to tend the flowers, throwing out those that had wilted, and to light the oil lantern, and to wipe or sweep away imaginary dust on the marble marker. She hopes somehow her care will help Kostas, as if he needed helping. What it will do, of course, is bring him even greater joy, since it is an expession of her love.

As Mena points out, Kostas was much more to her than a husband. He was also to her a first cousin - or so she thought until a few years ago when she found out she had been adopted. (Kostas knew all along; he remembers when his mother and her sister brought Mena home from the orphange.) He was also Mena's childhood friend. He was also a kind of teacher to her as to everyone around him, sharing, as another friend said, his simple but profound wisdom without sophistry. He was a great example to one and all, and a kind of anchor in this troubled world. He was closer to all of us than a blood relative, much more to Mena than just a husband.

In short, if Kostas is not with his Lord, then frankly, it's hard to think there's any hope for the rest of us.

We spent several days with Mena at her country home. Her new air-conditioner, Demetrios' gift in tribute to his closest boyhood friend, was finally installed on Tuesday evening, and by Thursday morning (our last day there) we had finally learned how to operate it, thanks to George and Pelagia, who stopped by on their way to their vacation home in Hakidiki. Never again will we spend a sleepless night cooking in our own sweat. The new inverter cools the whole house very nicely.

Not that we will ever come to Greece again this time of year if we can help it. The temperatures have been around 110 most days, and the days when it was less, it was still in the 90s. Demetrios is tan; I am red and freckled and my hair is a couple of shades lighter. We look forward to the cool weather in England, even if it is rainy!

There has been some joy, too, of course. Leonidas and Ianna invited us on Sunday to the baptism of their granddaughter, Natalia, who is 11 months old. She didn't cry through the whole baptism until they were ready to dress her, when she obviously felt she'd had enough stuff done to her for the time being. Once laid on the dressing table, she returned to her usual good cheer, clapping her hands as if in deight. Then she never fussed through the chrismation and tonsure and all the rest. Even though she was teething, she smiled all the way through to the end of the reception.

While visiting Mena in the country, we had two swims in the beautiful, clear, warm sea and although I wasn't quite in the right mood, it didn't escape me how lucky I am to be able to do that. Mena and I both found it therapeutic, emotionally. There is something very soothing about the wide open water and being submerged in nature and the sunshine and lying on your back and being gently rocked by the undulations that, in the Aegean, pass for waves.

Demetrios managed to strike up a good friendship with 13-month-old Aexis, one of Mena's grandsons, while I resumed an already warm friendship with his older sister, Christina. We read a story and played Monster and put curlers in her hair and drew pictures; Demetrios says I learned more Greek from her than any other way. She's very patient with my stumbling language, although seemingly puzzed by it.

Manolis and Vasilea invited us, together with another couple, to their house for dinner one night, where we sat out beside their gorgeous pool and watched the bats skimming over the water to catch insectss. That was an evening of mixed emotions. It felt good to be with them again. We shared our grief over Kostas; we didn't sing after supper the way we always have in the past; we hadn't the heart. The other couple were another Demetrios and his wife Maria, who has Altzheimer's. It was sad to see her husband having to cut up her food for her and hand her the fork from time to time. It was heartening to see how he did it, with so little apparent concern, not making any fuss about it, displaying no grief, as if it were normal and a matter of course and not in any way making Maria feel uncomfortable.

Besides the death itself, Mena has all the aftermath to deal with. One complicating factor is that Kostas left no will. Imagine that, a lawyer with a heart condition, not having a will. He was in the process of drafting one, but was conflicted about who should get some of the furniture. It's been 20 years since I've seen the upstairs of his apartment, but the downstairs has little, if any, furniture his children will want. Neither has his house in the country, with he possible exception of an enormous antique dining table. In the absence of a will, says Mena, Greek Law gives the widow 25% of the estate and the rest goes to the children.

Demetrios is spending today in Katerini visiting his brother, Christos, whose emphysema has progressed to a horrible degree. He can't climb two stairs, or walk 10 yards, without stopping for breath and he finds driving difficult. Demetrios had a confeence with Christos' doctor, who wants to hospitalize Christos for a couple of days to run tests and see if it's time for him to have extra oxygen. Christos has agreed to do this, although whether he actually will isn't clear. The oxygen will only make him feel more comfortable, no more.

Greece is dying. There is no possible way, now, for her to be an independent, sovereign nation in the foreseeable future, barring divine intervention. (And if you are thinking to yourself, "Thank God it's not my country," you are being far too naive; this is a warning fo all of us.)

Every other shop is closed. Pensions are being further cut. Taxes are still rising. And the same old government that has betrayed Greece is still in control. Well, they aren't, but their backers are. The Church, because she is speaking out, will be targeted soon. Much courage will be called for, and much prayer.

Hints from Helen:

If you want to have Christian faith but find you cannot, start today doing all you can to find God; and be assured that if you persist, He will find you.

If you have no Last Will and Testament, make one today or tomorrow. Don't put it off. Don't do that to your loved ones. You never know.

If you smoke, stop. Now.

The Ninth Day

There was a Trisagion Prayer service at Kostas' grave today, as is customary on the 9th day after death. We lit some of those very thin candles and stuck them in the ground, where they almost immediately bent over double in the direct sunlight. (Temps today still near 100.) We laid the rest flat on the ground, lit.

We poured red wine over the grave; anybody know the symbolism of that? I don't, and neither did any of our friends. Blood of Christ?

We scattered a bit of koliva (boiled wheat) over the grave, too. At least I know what that means; it symbolizes the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection, for Christ said that unless a grain of wheat fall to the ground and "die" it cannot grow into a new wheat plant.

Greek graves are different from ours. One reason is that the bones are usually dug up after 3 years, cleaned, and stored in an ossuary. This makes space for another burial, the available land being in short supply.

So Greek graves have a headstone, which apparently stays there no matter who is currently occupying the plot; to this is affixed a marble plaque with the name of the reposed person carved into it, along with the dates.

At the foot of the grave is something like a narrow marble cabinet. It may contain a glassed-in frame, built in, for displaying a photo of the deceased. It may have another place for an icon, an attached vase, an attached oil lantern, a locked comartment for storing candles, matches, incense, oil. It is also carved with the name, birthdate and death date of the deceased.

All these are already in place at Kostas' grave.

How can a person be here one day and so completely gone the next? Ths sad, brutal truth that hit me as I looked around at our friends is, we are all going to bury one another, unless we go first. (Demetrios says I shouldn't say that, so I didn't, in company; instead, I write it here.) I miss his sly grin when he was about to tell a joke, and his giggles afterward. He was the only man I ever knew who giggled - except of course for his best friend, Demetrios. He giggles, too. I miss his resounding bass voice, so dramatic when passion crept into his arguments; how I wish I could have heard him in court, arguing a case!

We spent the weekend with Mena, his widow, at her country house. The temperatures ranged between 100 - 110, and she had no air conditioning. So it was misrable, made more so by mosquitoes and cigarette smoke, as several our our friends are smokers.

She has invited us again for Monday, with promises of swims in the Meditteranean, but I intend to beg off unless she has her new air conditioner installed by then.

Greece!

We had plans to visit Cambridge last weekend, and a friend from church had also invited us to Dublin for next weekend. All our plans, however, have been thrown into disarray with the untimely death of Demetrios' dearest friend since their boyhood. Our dear Kostas reposed in the Lord on Wednesday morning. Demetrios flew to Greece a few days before, in a frantic effort to save him, and I came Friday. Kostas had had a cardiac arrest a month ago. He was standing outside a pharmacy when his heart stopped, and inside the pharmacy was an emergency room doctor, who promptly resuscitated him, so we thought that rather a miracle and said to ourselves it obviously wasn't Kostas' time yet. But then he was subjected to the malpractice (and I mean that literally) of a Greek hospital, and that sealed his fate. It's hot here; 40 degrees, centigrade, which is 104, Fahrenheit. We are are used to English temps more like 15 - 16 centigrade, which is somewhere in the sixties, Fahrenheit. And that's the HIGH temp! Much colder at night. We've (obviously) been spending all our time with the newly-widowed Mena. Today we are going to catch up on things like unpacking. Returning to England before long, to finish out the "summer" there, such summer as they have there. Hard to believe, the last thing I did before leaving there was turn off the radiators! More another day; I don't feel much like writing today; we are still trying to process the absence of Kostas. So, so strange, that someone should so entirely disappear that in some moments, as Demetrios said, it seems he must never have been here at all. And yet he was... didn't Emily Dickinson write a poem that ends, "And oh, the difference to me!"? Kostas made a huge and wonderful difference.