Posts Tagged: serafimidis
TBT – The Thread of Time
About the time my son was born, 10 years ago now, I succumbed to family pressure to do something about my mother. That something was to move her out of her home in Fresno, where she had lived since coming to America 42 years before, and bring her to live here in the Bay Area. I’ll never know whether it was the right thing to do. There probably is no fact of the matter that would make it right or wrong. It was just one possible thread rather than another.
Four years ago, we moved mother again. This time, from independence in her apartment to dependence and supervision in a board and care home.
During the subsequent dissolving of an internally coherent jumble of artifacts and ephemera, I endeavored to document each particle, every trivial item, every talisman of personal narrative, before casting it into nothingness.
Occasionally, some string is needed to secure a package, or truss a chicken, or tie the current moment to a memory. And to another. And another still. But for some, there is no need anymore. Not now. Untied, memories spill to the floor and are lost. Those that remain come and go as they wish, masquerading as experiences, unstuck in time.
White Front closed its doors in 1975.
Lehigh Twine from White Front, Inventory of Efrosini’s apartment, February 2009.
93 or so
Effie turns 93 (click to view large)
My mother turned 93 or so, Monday, or so. We’re not really sure about any of it, but that’s what her US passport says. Of course, I had to work yesterday, so I brought her to my house on Sunday. We didn’t really do anything special to celebrate per se. We just hung out for a while in the late morning, had some vasilopita (Greek new year’s bread) and Greek coffee. We talked about the same things over and over; I told her it was her birthday and how old she is, how old I am. I tried to clarify again how long I’ve been married, how old her grandson is, and so on. Then, after a while, the familiar cadence of alertness and fatigue progressed and she was ready to go home to the facility.
There was never much emphasis on anyone’s birthday in my family. I suppose this is because Greeks celebrate name days more so than birthdays, but in America that seemed only to happen as a brief mention during or after church. Consequently, I never had a real sense of either of my parents as celebrated or as celebratory. They just plugged away, day after day. (I, of course, had birthday parties, but they were typically muted affairs. Three or four friends would come over for cake and we’d run around in the back yard for a couple of hours.) Once I was older, I tried to celebrate both of my parents birthdays. I wanted to show my love for them, but in my American grown-up way. Neither ever seemed very comfortable with it. Maybe it was because they were already quite old and didn’t really want to be reminded, I don’t know.
Anyway, she seemed pretty sturdy and in good shape, all things considered–especially in the flannel shirt. I’d never seen it before, so I suspect it was a holiday gift to one of the other residents. They don’t seem to worry much about whose article of clothing is whose at her place. The glasses aren’t hers either. That’s probably just as well; hers have the thickest lenses I’ve ever seen and resulted from, I think, communication problems and confusion at her last eye exam a couple of years ago. She can’t tell how far away anything, like the next step or the handrail, is when she wears them.
But she did pretty good on this day.
So, happy birthday, ma. Here’s to another year.
The Sugar Bowl
The Sugar Bowl
Just over two and half years ago, I moved my mom out of her apartment nearby, and into a board and care facility. As I prepared to move everything out of the apartment, I decided I would photograph everything in it. Every thing. I did. The aim was to document all the objects which held some significance before casting anything to oblivion. Actually, it was to document everything and figure out later what has significance. The truth of the matter is that every single thing did. That’s just how I am.
There were just a few things I missed because they were not in the apartment at the time. A sugar bowl had been in use at my house for a couple years. It was my parents’, probably my father’s from before his marriage to my mother, and I remember it from early childhood. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned what depression glass is, or that it is somewhat collectible.
A month or two after I had completed the documentation project, I decided to photograph the few things that were scattered around my house. The sugar bowl was in heavy use near the stove. I thought to wash it before photographing it. That’s when I dropped it in the sink and broke it, and my heart. Though broken, I decided I would still photograph it, but I didn’t do it then. I was too disappointed at the time. I finished washing it and put it up on the shelf above the stove for later. Two and half years later, I’ve finally got it over with so that I can now,… cast it into oblivion.
Today’s Narrative #2
Efrosini
I picked up my mom from the board and care home today and took her with us to have lunch at my cousin Aglaia’s home in Oakland. She really was not in a particularly good mood today. I don’t think she was feeling all that well, and she was showing her surly, stubborn side a bit, so i wasn’t sure how well this luncheon was going to go.
It’s about a 20 minute drive, and on the way, she asked if were going home about four or five times, about every two minutes. Each time, I explained to her that I had just picked her up from her home and that we were going to Aglaia’s house. She’d say, “Oh, okay” and be silent for a minute. Then ask again. After a few iterations of that, the conversation moved on to whether they would have food for us, and we did that repetition only about 4 times. Then she returned to the theme of us going to our home.
Effie: After we are done, take me back to our house.
Neo: I’m going to take you back to where you are staying mom, the place where you have a room.
E: Back to the hospital?
N: Its not a hospital mom, its a γηροκομείο (old folks home).
E: What do I need that for? I’m not old. They aren’t doing anything for me; they aren’t giving me therapy or medicine or anything. They aren’t doing surgery.
N: Mom, we have you there because you forget everything, that’s the illness you have. And what do you mean you aren’t old, you are 92 years old.
E: 92? What does that have to do with it?
I couldn’t help but laugh. Sarah and Theo in unison asked what she said that was so funny. When I related the conversation, they laughed, too.
Today’s Narrative
Efrosini
Ok, so this isn’t “today’s” narrative anymore, since I got sidetracked after starting it. But it’s the only one I’ve got, so I’ll stick with it for now.
I try to see my mom every weekend. Usually, I go pick her up from the board and care facility and bring her to my house for an hour or so. Mostly we just talk. Sometimes, I’ll make her a little lunch with some feta cheese, olives and bread, or some Greek coffee.
Of course, these are not normal conversations on account of her dementia. In fact, it is charitable to call them conversations, but they are still important to me, and to her, I think. For example, we usually cover the same ground over and over again. Sometimes we only utter about eight to 10 different sentences; we just repeat them, sometimes with different inflections, or emphasis.
Interestingly, though she can’t really remember much anymore, she manages to maintain a theme for an entire visit, sometime over the course of a couple visits. Today’s narrative was something like this.
Effie: Come here pulakimou (my little bird). I don’t remember much anymore. But I think I loved you when you were little. Didn’t I?
Neo: Yes, momma, you loved me. You loved me too much. You let me get away with too much.
E: You have to indulge the children. We had a good life.
N: Yes, we did.
E: I took care of you didn’t? I don’t remember much.
N: Yes, mom. Do you remember Fresno?
E: Oh yes. You were there too weren’t you?
N: Yes, of course, momma.
E: I don’t remember much anymore. But I think I loved you when you were little. Didn’t I?
And so it goes, through a few repetitions on the same topic. Naturally, on different visits she is interested in different things depending on what dreams she’s been having, or something. And so, we get different narratives on different days.
It is quite striking to me how different her memory will be from one day to the next. One visit she’ll be out of it and not remember much of anything about the recent past, say 20 years. Then the next time she’ll even remember really recent things I’d told her over and over again on previous visits, that I was sure would never stick. It’s easy to get optimistic when the good days happen and think that maybe she’s getting better. But it doesn’t take long until the tide of memory recedes back to a low ebb.
Theo and Effie
Theo and Effie / © neo serafimidis
I am about 10 DVD’s behind in backing up my photo hard drive. I have been thinking about getting around to it every now and again, but the death of my laptop hard drive shocked me into action. Once I started going back through the folders to do a light cleanup before burning to disk, I found all sorts of photos I had totally forgotten about. This was an interesting one. My mother and son in late 2009. Boy was that a tough year, but there were some sweet moments here and there.
Over 50 Years Later
Today is my mother’s birthday. She is 92 years old, we think. Happy birthday mom. I love you. I wish you didn’t have to live there at the γηροκομειο. I wish a lot of things were different.
Here she is on her wedding day, more than half a century ago. She was 41 and my dad was 61. She never expected to be married at all, by that time, and he didn’t really expect to get married again after being widowed. But there it is. And here I am.
I feel a confessional coming on, but I’m not in the mood for it, and I’ll bet you’re not either. So, I’ll just leave it at that.
Family Heirloom Project: Flowered Print Dress
From the Family Heirloom Project. My mom made all her own clothes the entire time I was growing up. It had been awhile since I had seen her wear this one. I can’t even remember when I saw her in it. But it is typical of the kind of fabric she would buy. She did sew some some elegant things. But curtains and the occasional dress got the gaudy treatment with outlandish prints, usually with lots of blues and greens.
East Harlem Period
NY Petition for Paul Serafimidis, 1931
Two or three years ago I had a little jag of doing family research on the Web. It can be frustrating because very often, in between you and the information you want there is a lot of noise. And the noise isn’t random; it is designed to get you to pay for what you can usually get for free, or even just to search. My longing for lost youth and family identity has not yet reached the point where I will fork over money. For the time being, I satisfy myself with what can be found with free online searching. One day, I managed to get this little scrap of a scan with my father’s name on it. I have been meaning to do some more digging but never quite get around to it. Yesterday I came across it on my cluttered desktop, and I wondered if this address is still legit. So, naturally I mapped it on Googgle to check out the street view.
When I saw this, I immediately wondered what it might have looked like when my father lived there in 1931. I did some more searching to learn a little about the history of East Harlem. I noticed that right around the corner on 103rd St is St George-St Demetrios Greek Church. From what I can tell from Google street view, the outside it looks like a brick building with something of a byzantine motif. The inside does seem to be more like what one would expect in a Greek church. I wonder how long it has been there. I am quite sure that it wasn’t accidental that my father to settled somewhere near a Greek church or community. But in reading about East Harlem, I found mention primarily of Italians and later, Puerto Ricans, and after that African-Americans. Nothing about Greeks.
There is, however, something coincidental in this. This is the first time I have seen a church named for two saints rather than just one, and both are familiar names. Our church in Fresno was St George Greek Orthodox Church. Whenever I hear the name, I will always think of my parents and their many years of membership there. Sarah and I lived in Seattle for several years, and near us was St Demetrios. And we had dear friends who lived across the street from it. Weird. That’s all, just weird.
Anyway, I eventually had a melancholy train of thought about what it would have been like to sit in front of the computer with my father and show him his old neighborhood on Google maps. Would he be at all impressed? What would he think of being able to see it like that, to be able to travel virtually. I can just see him smiling and letting out a “Holy Toledo”, his eyes mere slits behind his thick glasses. We’d stay up late cruising the streets and searching for places he worked or lived or ate. And he’d tell me some of the same stories I’d heard many times before over the years. Only now I wouldn’t roll my eyes at them. I’d hang on every word.
You must be logged in to post a comment.