The Journey from Kalamata by James B. Tsagaris Edited by Ellen Tsagaris, his daughter.

 

(40 souls; I’m old take my son, Policaria)

 

The Journey from Kalamata by James B. Tsagaris

Edited by Ellen Tsagaris, his daughter.

Copyright 2024

 

If. . . men cannot always make history have a meaning, they can always act so that their own lives have one.  

 

                        Albert Camus

 

Forward by Ellen Tsagaris, his daughter:

 

            My dad was an amazing story teller; from the time I was a toddler, I listened to him talk about his experiences at the hands of the Fascists, NAZIS, and communists, of his time in the airport, fairy tales he made up for me, his adventures on his trips for work, you name it.   What was all the more fascinating is that he could tell stories in Greek sprinkled with pretty good Italian, and English.  Like Joseph Conrad, Dad didn’t speak English first.  He spoke Greek, picked up Italian from Fascist soldiers, studied Ancient Greek, and then had 12 or more years of French, the latter of which he hated passionately.  He learned English as a young adult, and soon commanded it.  He edited my dissertation and two of my books, and handled all communications for this company in his professional life.  He also learned to drive as an adult, and became the best driver I had ever known.

As a young man, he was a world class runner who ran in both the ancient and modern Olympic stadiums, winning many honors and awards. His coach was a former Olympian who ran against Jesse Owens in Olympics.  He was a great swimmer and soccer player. He loved football, basketball, The Chicago Cubs, and later in life, enjoyed walking his dogs, Killer and Smokey.

As a loving husband and father, he planned long family road trips all over the United States, and especially to California, where he knew the way to San Jose better than anyone else.  Always an excellent driver, he faithfully drove his family to work, class, conferences, etc. He enjoyed making furniture and doll houses for his family, enjoyed Westerns, politics, philately and coins, books about The Civil War, singing, and dancing traditional Greek dances. He loved Greek music, and read military history, and biography. His two favorite songs were “Somewhere over the Rainbow” and “White Christmas.” He was supportive of his wife’s career and of his daughter’s adventures as well.

 He was an officer in the Royal Hellenic Air Force and served with NATO and the U.S. Air Force. In Athens, he studied at the military academy and taught mathematics for the air force, then became a pilot.   He was stationed at Scott Air Base, Belleville, IL, and studied there engineering and radio.  After marrying in Athens and starting a family, he ran for office in Athens, and then decided to move to Rock Island.  He soon became an American Citizen, which was the proudest accomplishment of his entire life.   Much of this book centers on his early military career.

 

Later, he worked as an electrical engineer for Golf and Western Eagle Signal, Uticorp Technologies, and other companies.  He became Sales and Quality Control Manager for Uticorp where he served for many years.

Jim, as he liked to be called, traveled the world for his job and for the military, visiting every continent but Antarctica.  He was an independent thinker, fair, and passionate in his beliefs.

 

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                        The Start of the Journey to America by James B. Tsagaris

 

            The old air force headquarters building as located on Amerikis St.off Stadium Blvd close to Constitution Square in the heart of Athens.

            A few days earlier Athens radio had announced that the candidates who made the entrance exams for the A.F. Technical Academy should report there, at the AF headquarters, at 8:00 AM in the morning of October 9, 1950.  Now October 9^th dawned bright and shiny o Athens and the time for the start of the events which would change my life forever was approaching.

            Amerikis Street was, I guess it still is, a very narrow street not allowing too much margin for error in car traffic, ad parking space was at best questionable, if nonexistent, but the AF buses which would transport the prospective cadets to the school in Tatoi AF Base had managed to park by the entrance of the HQ building when I and my father arrived there round 7:30 that morning.

            My old man had not uttered a word about the Air Force and the real consequences of my joining the service, since we lf our home town, Kalamata, a couple of days earlier.  Now, when the jig was finally up, we were both trying very hard to avoid the issue and we just stood there, mostly in silence, or at times talking about all sorts of trivial things, avoiding even to acknowledge he reason why we were there outside the Air  Force Headquarters on  hat cool, sun drenched October Moring.

            The 1950 class of the Academy was 100 strong and as the hour of 8:00 was approaching it seemed that all 100 young people and those who had come to see them off were there milling around making mall talk and waiting for someone to give the signal to board the buses for the trip to the unknown, for which we had competed so fiercely during the preceding weeks. We took written exams and subjected ourselves to the indignities of all the medical screenings and the competition of the track and field events.  You see, the Air Force only wanted to take in the cream of crop, and out of the hundreds and hundreds of Young Turks who participated in the entrance exams, the “Olympics”; at the end, the lucky 100 were about to board the buses and be delivered to the upper classmen in Tatoi, who were waiting to convert them from mamas’ boys into first class cadets in less than twenty for hours.  At last, the time for boarding the buses came and slowly the boy started boarding with some officers overlooking the process with smiles, and  at times, an all knowing nod and expression on their faces that somehow indicated that they knew something that we innocent young lambs had no idea whatsoever about the fate awaiting us at Tatoi!

            I delayed getting on the bus, and I stood there close to my father who still kept silent, but, by now, I could tell that he was under terrific strain to control himself.  Finally, I made a move towards the open door the bus trying to say something like good bye, and at that moment I realized that my father was holding on to my hand and he was talking to me. At first, I did not comprehend what he was saying, but then he repeated it, and I realized that he was trying to tell me not to get on the bus.  His voice was cracking and he was trying very hard to avoid sobbing while he kept telling me that I proved tat I could pas the exams and all, but I should better not join the service.  He practically begged me to stay off that but and go back home with him to the town of Kalamata where I was born and had lied up to that time, but I boarded the bus, not knowing that the less than an hour bus ride to Tatoi AF base was the start of a journey that would take me to America to become a Yankee from Greece!

            So, there I was! Together with the other 99 chosen ones, most of us not even 18 years of age, riding the bus to our appointment with destiny!  Now, of course, for most of these young lion this “destiny” was not exactly something that happened of good or bad luck, or the result of some other sinister coincidence, but rather, the culmination and synergy of a lot of effort on the part of the candidates and their families politics, shameful and shameless use of one’s connections in high laces, etc.  You see, under reasonable circumstances, being admitted to a military school those years meant a free education and a secure future career in an honorable profession, that is why passing the entrance exam and getting into a military school required fierce competition and above average abilities in academics physical condition, and athletic endeavors.  Naturally connections in the right places, like people in the military and politicians, could be quite beneficial to a  candidate because even top notch candidates in academic subjects, etc., sometimes needed a little help to negotiate all the obstacles in the steeple chase!

            I have a very sneaky suspicion that the way these things are conducted in my home country haven’t changed much since the time I had a small part in these games in 1950! So, it must be said  that he wide eyed boys who at the end of the bus ride to Tatoi AF base would be subjected to henceforth unimaginable hazing and cruel initiation ordeals, not only had they asked for it, but they had tried awfully hard to be the recipients of the treatment in exchange for a chance of a career in the venerable  Greek armed forces.

            But, what about me?  How and why did I find myself riding the cadet express that day in spite of my family’s objections and my father’s desperate last minute attempts to dissuade me from joining?  The reasons that put me on that AF bus were, I guess, the same ones that caused the other candidates to follow that path; that is, getting a great education had the desired to meet somebody out of myself in service.  I should also add the fact that mine was a family of limited means, and therefore, the possibility of an education beyond high school was out of the question.  Also, my rebellion against my poor circumstances, and the desire to break away from anything I knew in my young life up tot hat time.  The irony of it all I, though, that it all happened without my planning ahead of time on my part, let alone any planning by my family Yes, I wanted to ‘break loose, but the how and where and through what means I would accomplish this I did not know, until about three months before the bus ride on October 9, 1950.

 

*********************************************p. 3-4

 

            The epiphany occurred one day sometime during the first part of June 1950 immediately after graduation from high school.  It seems that in the afternoon of that fateful day for me, all the gods on Mount Olympus joined together to conspire and draw me back to the high school which had just gradated me days before.  A class mate of mine asked me to walk with him there to check some grades which were supposed to be posted on the bulletin board.  So, off I go to the old Alma Mater, and sure enough, the grades are posted, and we proceeded to do a little looking over of the information on the board, when out of nowhere appears the old high school custodian, who by the was, was immediately relieved that I and my friend were among the graduated class.  Many times we had certain differences of opinion with him during our tenure in high school.  Now you may wonder, “So what if the custodian shows up in the old school yard?  He is the custodian of the damned place and he has to be around there all the time.  Well, yes, and no.  Remember, this is early June in Kalamata, it is summer, and it is siesta time.  It’s hot and humid, not a leaf on the mulberry trees moves, and all is quiet.  Under any other circumstances the old buzzard should be snoozing it off somewhere in the shade of the tree, but no sir, not today!  Today we’re working during siesta.  And what kind of work do we do?   Well, didn’t you know it?  We put up various announcements on the bulleting board, nad the first one he sticks up there right in front of my nose is this paper with the logo of the department of defense which announces to all young men in the land that Mamma Greece needs one hundred high school graduates to make engineering types of out of them!

           They spelled out everything on that document, boy! I read it, and as I was reading it, all the pieces of the puzzle of my future started fitting together.  Of course, there are various documents that have to be collected and submitted to the Air Force, and everything has to be approved and signed off by my old mane (I wasn’t yet legal age), details, details.  Somehow. I was going to be on that bus come hell or high water, and I was going to school at Tatoi AF base.  The fact that I did into have the foggiest notion where on the map Tatoi was, or what in the hell I was going to do was there did not bother me at all.   What mattered was the exhilarating thought that I had found the ticket for my way out of Kalamata!  All I had to do was, first of all, break the news to my mother and through her to the old man.

            Next, prepare a pile of documents to send to the Air Force in order to qualify as a candidate.  Study for the entrance written exams, and evaluate my situation in regard to “connections” in case I needed help any where on the way to the Promised Land.  The most critical of all the “must do” things were talking to Mamma first, and getting all the necessary papers in view of the fact that there was only one week left until the deadline for filing the required paperwork with the Department of Defense.  Apparently, the custodian or somebody of the powers that be in the school, was sitting on the announcement for the government; they did not put it up on the bulletin board until the last possible moment.

            Now, what took place between the time I saw the invitation from other Greece and made up my mind to go fir it, and October 9^th, when I boarded the bus outside of the AF headquarters is a strange story in itself.  I’ll try to put on paper all the turns and twists of my life during those three months which had such tremendous consequences for the rest of my life.

            Greece in 1950 was struggling to her on her feet and recover from the calamities of the Second World War and the German/Italian occupation.  Worse  yet, the cataclysmic consequences of the Communist ‘third round” were still permeating every aspect of socioeconomic and political life in the country.  Yes, it’s true that Democracy was born and raised in Greece, but it was obvious that of the time being it had taken a sabbatical and things weren’t very democratic at all in my old country during that period.

            Against that background, getting employment in any field in the public sector to becoming a member of the armed forces required very detailed screening of the person who was a candidate for anything having to do with the Greek Uncle Sam.  Not only the candidate himself or herself, but his or her immediate or once, twice, etc. removed relations and their friends, and even heir dogs nad casts would come under scrutiny.  In other words, one should be the epitome of Mr. Clean and there should be no trace of political pink shade anywhere in the person’s and the family’s background.  So, when, I was talking about paperwork to be collected and forwarded to the government, I meant all kinds of documents and certificates which would show that I was not contaminated with any parasitic ideas which would be unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman.

            I had to have papers proving to the Air Force who I was and what I had been doing for eighteen years prior to the summer of 1950.  Of course in a case like this, you must always start with your birth certificate.  That’s what I tried to get first.  So, the morning after the revelation at the high school yard, I was up bright and early and headed for city hall where, in several occasions before, they had issued birth certificates for me when my folks registered me in first grade, highs school, etc.

            The city hall people knew my family because the mayor, who was a medical doctor by profession happened to be our family doctor and he and my father were pals from way, way, back.  I had always walked into the Kalamata city hall offices with an air of familiarity, as if I were one of them, and I behaved the same way that morning. 

            Peter, the city clerk, was at this desk when I walked in and I told him what I was after.  “Sure thing”, he said,” I’ll have you ready in a second.”’ He got a birth certificate from the 1932 births registrations book and he started filling in the appropriate parts of the document.  Suddenly, he frowned, nad then thumbed back and forth between some pages in the registry as if he were looking for something that he was supposed to be there, but he could not find it, and the n, with an expression of utter disbelief, lifted his eyes towards me and said, “my boy, according to this book here, you are a Mr. NO Name case1”  well, what was this supposed to mean?  I argued with him but the book was not lying.  What was wrong was that fact that there was no first name registered for the boy born to Basil and Helen Tsagaris on March 14, 

Dad's  Fig Tree poem, below:

 

Αγαπητέ καθηγητή είχε τώρα γνωρίζουμε

 Aπόσο σας άρεσε το δέντρο σύκων,

 εμείς θα έχουν φυτευτεί ένα που σας

 αλάκα!

Dear Professor, had we known how you

Loved the Fig Tree,

 We would have planted

 One in your , , , 

 _________________________________________________________________________________           This piece of bad new must have done something to my posture and appearance because I was standing there in the yard of the court house, I had a weird feeling that I was drawing attention fro the people around me, this birth certificate business was turning out to be such a disappointment, and the more I though about it, the more I started blaming my mother nad father for this eighteen year old “sin” which came up to screw up my plans at such a critical point of my life.  But, a in many other times before and after in my life, the right thing happened again [Divine Providence, and the road to the Air Force school which eventually would lead me to Yankee land was cleared for me once again.

            This one time, the helping hand belonged to a priest  I seems that this good old man of the cloth happened to have some business in the Palace of Justice that day, and luck had it that the Father of the flock at the church of Archangels Gabriel and Michael saw me, looking like a lost sheep I the middle of the yard of the court house, and decided to stop and inquire.  Now, what as strange about the whole thing, was the fat that the Church of Archangels Gabriel and Michael was our parish church and the priest knew me personally and by my first name.  I cannot ay that the good Father knew me because I was a devout Church goer of a choir boy  I fact, the opposite was true.  I was known to him as the gang leader who was organizing the soccer games in the open square in front of his church, an activity which was causing much consternation to the priest ad the surrounding neighborhoods, especially during summer siesta times!

            The priest approached me and I remember him asking me “What is the matter, son?.. Slow down, you’re going to hurt yourself…can I help? “  I thought to myself, if any one could help he sure as hell could, and I proceeded telling him the whole thing about the deadline for the Air Force, the mix up with the birth certificate which I could not have, my suspicion that my parents were the source of my problem, etc. I also let him in the secret that my family knew nothing about my escapades so far, and I sort of begged him to keep everything under his frock for the time being.

            The good shepherd of my church listened to the story with suspicious interest, and at times, I thought, in disbelief.  When he saw that I had calmed down, he asked me some questions and apparently he decided that my case represented a genuine worthwhile case for divine intervention.  He looked at me with the confidence of a man who had already figured out the solution to the problem, and he commanded me, “let’s go!”

            I followed him and I realized that we were heading for the church, which was about a mile away from the court house.  On the way there, he found time to lecture me gently about not telling my folks right away my plans about the Air Force, and for getting angry at them.  Hen, he emphasized to me that he was definitely going to help me if I’d promise to let my family know about my plans regarding the service, etc.

            Of course, I promised that I’d do so as soon as I’d straightened out the birth certificate mess, not only because he wanted me to, but also because my old man had to sign off on everything before the Air Force Examinations Board would  even allow me to participate in the entrance exams! When we arrived at the Church, the Father sat me down in his office and after he inquired from me about the day, month, and year of my birth, he called the custodian for the Church who at the time w was busy making candles in a small annex close by, and he asked him to go downstairs where they kept the Church archives and fetch the book of baptismal records for the year 1932, so the book was retrieved and was placed in front of the Father, who, after he put on his glasses, opened the book ad began searching for the record of my baptism  To our collective disappointment, there was no such transaction recorded in the book; therefore, I still was a man without a first name! But, he turned to me and with a reassuring voice he said, “we are not ready to abandon ship, yet.” And, “what’s the city Clerk’s name there at the city hall”  I replied, “The name is Peter and he knows me and my folks really well on account of my father being good buddies with the Mayor

            “Very well”, he said, “One way or another we don't have time to determine where you were baptized; we’ll find that out from your parents, later.  Right now, I assume that you were baptized and your people did not bother to register your first name with the city bureaucrats so, we are going to do this now, retroactively!”  And, that’s what happened!  The priest  called Peter at the city hall and he got him to agree to play the game the priest’s way.  So,  first he good father found a little empty space  in the baptismal records book, and under the date of April 30, 1932, he entered the act of my christening, then he proceeded to issue a certificate to City Hall witnessing that I was baptized on such and such a date, and I was given the name of  Demetrios! Peter at the City Hall, on the basis of the certificate from the Church, went back 18 years in his books and registered my first name, and I had my original birth certificate!  That  afternoon when I returned home from the City Hall, I approached mother and made inquiries about the circumstances surrounding my christening, etc.,  at fist, she seemed quite surprised that I was asking all these questions and she sort of attempted to turn’t he tables on me and asked me why I was all of a sudden thing so curious about my baptism, but my questions brought back memories of  that, as she called it, “glorious” day, and her surprise was overcome.  She started describing the events of that glorious day by showing me a group of  picture of a seemingly very happy bunch of people; in the center of the picture between my father and mother, there was a man holding in his arms and infant who seemed to be th only little soul who did not agree with what was going on around him because it was obvious that the baby was forty days old, and minutes only after I had been dunked in the colibithra, a large vessel full of water where the Orthodox Church simulates the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River], and th place was the yard of the famous monastery of the Madonna of “Demiova” up in the mountains which rise precipitously east of my hometown.

            Apparently my parents, I suspect my Father ore than my Mother, were greatly overjoyed that the third time was a charm and they got their wish for a “prince” after the two “princesses” they had ahead of me, and they embarked on a long celebration to mark my arrival. I was told that the christening festivities lasted three days and that my father and his cronies ate, drank, and made merry for a whole week following that!  Is it any wonder that no one thought to go back to the City Hall to register the baby when they got back to town after that orgy?  I will come back later in this book, in some other chapter, to describe the reason for the long celebrations and the peculiar attitudes of some Greek fathers when sons are born to them and not daughters.  I’ve been gone from the place I was born for more than fifty years now and I only have limited contact with people and current events in Greece; however, I’m willing to bet that, to this day, nothing much has changed in this respect in the old country!

            By the way, the monastery of Demiova where I was baptized was blown off the face of the mountain by German army artillery during The Occupation.  Gone were all the records, and all the religious artifacts, some of which dated back to the Byzantine times.  The Germans had announced that the monastery was supporting resistance fighters and one day, they bombarded the place to smithereens and set it on fire with their canons from Kalamata.  That day is still vivid in my mind; I don’t know if the place was rebuilt after the war.

            At any rate, the necessary paperwork was collected on time and after some family squabbles and my adamant insistence on taking the entrance exams for the school; my old man signed whatever he had to sign, and the papers were submitted to the air force.  That triggered the beginning of the events which put me on the bus to Tatoi AFB on that October morning. Of course, the time between my application for permission to take the exams and the bus ride to the school, a period of four months from mid-June 1950 to October 9^th of that same year, was one of the most interesting and trying times of my life up to that point.  That’s why I think it’s worth mentioning as part of my personal story.

Entrance Exams and other games in the summer of the year of our Lord of 1950!

            Sending he papers to the AF was, as I said, the beginning of a new set of worries, expectations, hopes, and self doubts about the outcome of the effort to break away from the dead end situations I was faced with in my hometown Kalamata.  I knew that my parents were secretly praying that something would happen to upset the apple cart and force me to forget all about the AF, however, they kept all those secret wishes to themselves and they were trying very hard to show that they were willing to help me accomplish my goal.

            The process by which I would get to the school started with the documents which were already in.  The next step would be acceptance of my by the service to be a candidate.  If accepted, I would have to go to Athens for the various exams which consisted of medical screening, track, and field events, qualifications, and finally, academic subjects which consisted of essay type knockout written exams staring with  modern Greek composition and continuing with three subjects of math, trig, algebra, analytic geometry, general physics, chemistry and geography.

            Naturally, after I sent the paperwork to the Air Force, I felt like I was sitting on red hot coals, and every day I was living for the arrival of the mail, waiting for the postman to deliver the good news of the start of my deliverance form Kalamata!  The good happening occurred sometime in the final part of July when I was notified that I was accepted as a candidate an was invited to proceed to Athens on such and such date and time to report to the AF hospital to start the required medical screening.  Up to that time, I was conveniently pushed aside to the outer orbits of my memory the medicals and the possibility o f flunking the doctors because of an orthopedic problem that I had acquired during my junior and senior year I high school. And what was that problem?  Well, nothing too serious just the fact that due to lack of proper medical attention and ignorance, I came very close to having my left arm amputated!  Believe it or not, in the span of tow years I fractured my left arm four times.  First time, playing soccer, second during a track and field event when I had a very awkward landing after a high jump, third time darned soccer again This third time was really stupid because it happened the same day they removed the cast from the second fracture!  Yes, sir! In the morning the cast was removed and in the afternoon the gang whispered sweet nothings in m ear and I followed them to the soccer field. They said, we’ll be careful.  Al in too was a little innocent fall, and there I was. The same arm, the same bone, the same spot. I am about two miles form home, and of course, there are no ambulances or telephones to call for help.  Cousin Soulis, who was the organizer of the recreational activity that afternoon, was invited to help me get home, but he decline!  He said that Aunt Helen, my mother, would give him hell for what happened.  I walked the two miles home clinching my teeth and getting in and out of fainting spells, and I got home where my father blew a gasket and let me know in no uncertain terms what he thought of me!

            The first two times I was treated by some old lady practitioner in the art of setting bones ( Dad broke his arms a total of seven times.  The last time was thirty years ago.  He feel down the steps leading to our ravine.  When my Mother went to pick him up at the hospital; he was sitting on the end of a gurney with a group of residents sitting at his feet listening intently, as Dad explained the many ways to set a broken arm). This third time they took me to a hospital where the put me under (have you ever breathed chloroform?)and the bone was set and a cast installed.  Then surprise! Surprise! The cast was removed after about two months and we found out that the good doctor who had worked on me screwed up! The bone was set alright, but at an angle of about twenty degrees.  Again ignorance prevailed, and based on old women’s tales we forgot the doors and we ended up with some charlatan at the other end of town. This guy almost did my hand in.  That SOB was putting a piece of wood on the crooked part of my arm and then tied the whole thing really tight hoping to straighten  the bone that way  He kept doing this for about a month and all this time, I was wearing long sleeved shirts, although it as summer, because I wanted to hide my crooked arm.  In the meantime my entire left hand , starting from the shoulder, was getting discolored and kind of thinner.  The procedure which was supposed to straighten the bone was choking blood circulation in my arm and it had caused severe atrophy in my arm and shoulder.  My old man who was kind of slow to admit that I was in trouble, finally decided to come with me during one of the treatments, and he got in an argument with the voodoo doctor.  We started for home not knowing what to do next,, although Dad’s best buddy was a medical doctor and a good friend of our family; all we had to do was to let him know what was happening.  Again, Divine Providence came to the rescue!  That very same morning while we were returning home, who doe we run into?  Old good doctor Christos Coumandos!

            After we exchanged pleasantries, he inquired about what was bringing us to that part of town, and why wanted to know why I was kind of favoring my left arm, and why the long sleeves in 90 degree weather. My father mumbled something about my arm and that made the doctor more suspicious; he literally ordered me to pull up by sleeve.  I still remember his reaction when he saw my arm and heard the story of how it had gotten that way. On one hand, he let my father have it, and at the same time, he told him to go home while he grabbled me and led me directly to the hospital, where, within an hour, I was in the operating room were my arm was fractured and reset by another surgeon.  My arm and shoulder had suffered almost irreversible atrophy and now, a few months later, when I as about to under go medical screening by the Airforce flight surgeons, the atrophy was very much visible and I had legitimate fears that I would be cut out for medial reasons and would participate in the big dance.  Once more, the situation was evaluated, and of course the thrust of my efforts was towards finding someone with the proper connections to hive me a helping hand with the medical screening. This tie my mother came to y rescue by remembering tat  long forgotten second or third cousin was a military doctor.  relations in Athens were mobilized ad word came back that indeed the uncle was a military doctor, and luck of all luck, e was an Airforce doctor!  So mother went to work and wrote a litter to my new found uncle laying out the whole nine yards about how her boy had his heart set on going to the Airforce school and about the arm problem which could derail the boys lofty plans to join the service.

            The good doctor did go to the trouble of answering my mother’s letter, and he instructed me to go and meet him at his home as soon as I arrived in Athens. Did I do that?  No sir!   Partly because I washy, and partly because I was overwhelmed by the whole thing ( small town boy being lost and getting homesick  by the day!)  I kept postponing going to meet my uncle till it was to late.  The medicals were taking place at the air force general hospital in Kipseli, Athens, where the candidates were reporting in by alphabetic order.  The procedure was such that each candidate would undergo the  screening the various medical departments , and at the end of  this ordeal, they would be interviewed by the chief fight surgeon and his committee. This interview was the final event in the medicals phase of the entrance exams.  If one had any remarks scribble din his medical file by any of the individual medical departments, the committee would reexamine and accept or reject the candidate and there was no appeal of their decision.

            With my last name  starting with “T” I was in the last group of candidates to report, the last few hundreds. Then, silly me, I thought that if I waited to go through the orthopedics department onwards the end of the day, maybe the doctor would be tired and perhaps I could squeak through without anybody noticing my golden arm, and therefore, not having to have any bad diagnosis in my file.

            Of course, my thinking was as good as a hot summer  night’s dream, and as soon as a nurse positioned me in front of an X-ray machine to take chest x-rays, she called a nearby doctor and the two of them had a brief pow wow which resulted in a guilty verdict remark in my file.  Utter devastation!  Now what?  The next step was the audience front of the flight surgeon’s committee where I knew my uncle was the chairman of the board, but I did not even know what he looked like and it was too late to try to get in touch with him or anybody!  I knew I was in a terrible fix, but there was nothing else to do but put on a brae face ad walk into the chamber of the Supremes and face whatever consequences were in store for me.

            The board consisted of seven members and they were all sitting on a dais where I guessed that the chairman was the guy in the middle because he was kind of older than the other members; he had more stripes on his epaulets indicting higher rank, and he was flanked by the rest of the members, three on each side. So, there was the uncle. But how can I get a signal to him?  I was sure as hell  I could not just say, “hi uncle!  I’m cousin Helen’s boy; please take care of my problem!” As I realized later there was a danger that it was possible to go through the process without him even seeing my file with my name on it.  My problem was an orthopedic problem and the orthopedic surgeon of the committee would review the problem listed in the file and could make a decision without consulting any other member or the chief surgeon.  Fortunately for me, the doctor who looked in my file came down from the throne and he started examining my suspect arm, trying to establish if I had enough strength and control with my arm.  Then, the miracle happened.

            The doc who was playing with my arm turned to the chairman of the committee and he said, “Sir,” is it possible to take a look at this problem here?”  M uncle came down from the dais and joined the other doctor who handed him my file, and after they exchanged some doctor talk about the case, he sort of moved to the side and let my uncle examine my arm.  Up to that moment, my uncle had not even seen the candidate’s name in the file, but I decided that my moment was right there and with all the audacity that I could mast under such taxing circumstances, I took advantage of a split second when he was by my side and being careful not to be heard by anyone else, I sort of whistled into his ear, I am Dmitri, Helen’s boy.  Please help me!”  You should have seen the surprised expression on  that man’s face!  He recovered quickly and he told me not to worry while at the same time, he scolded me for not going to his home to meet him ahead of time. Of course, I was again invited to visit with him and his family at home, but again because of the exams I did not make it.  The next time we met I was a three month old freshman cadet in the school, and he was on an inspection tour of the school.  After hi s official duties he arranged through my squadron commander to see me in private, nad that’s where I literally got what I had coming from him.  Naturally, I did visit with him and his family many times during my ears in the school and many times later after I turned from my training in the states.

            Now, some people might think that what I did in order to get through the med exams was not exactly kosher.  I don’t know  The truth is that I served in the air fore of my country for twelve years, and I never had a sick day in my career! Then, too, I remember what happened to cousin Soulis.  He went to the Greek West Point, but to get there, e had to use, with the cooperation of some people in the right places somebody else’s chest X-rays because as an infant he had a bout with bronchitis and that would show in the and he would never have made it through.  Well, do you want to now hwat happened to Soulis?  He served with distinction in the Greek infantry for thirty five years, and retired with the rank of a three star general.  Unfortunately, my dear cousin and best boyhood friend died in April 2003 at the age of 73  The cause of his death had nothing to do with bronchitis.

            The next phase in the process of the exams was the track and field event.  This part of the entrance games did not bother me.  In high school, I had been a member of the track and filed team and my personal record in the events that the air force required us to compete in were far superior to the ones required by the admission regulations. I literally breezed through the evens, 100m dash, 1500m, run, high jump and triple jump, but one of the people who were running the games for the air force was a buy named Christos Madicas, and his presence there reared some interesting situations for me later in the service.  Mr. Madicas was very well known in Greece because he was one of the finalists in the 100m dash in the 1936 Berlin Olympics and he happened to be the track and field coach for the air force.  Also, he was doubling up, I later found out, as a recruiter for one of the biggest athletic clubs in Greece. During the athletic events of the entrance exams he would keep his eyes peeled for nay talent he would spot in the incoming classes of the air force schools and he would nudge all the talent he could lay his hands on to the club of Panathinaikos, or Pan Athenian Athletic Club.

            I cooperated with the coach in whatever was required for my participation in the air force track meets and the Greek armed forces annual Olympics but due to the military school schedule I did not participate in civilian clubs competition.  That fact resulted I many frictions and disagreements with my coach, and even with some big brass of the air force, who wanted me to get involved more with athletics, and less with my normal military and academic duties in the school.

            Had I listened to them, I could have a very easy life going through the school; however, I was cognizant of the fact that academics and military conduct would determine my seniority for life in the service, and at  that time, the main thing in my mind was my future career in the air force.  We were, however, capable of pranks and often teased civilian instructors.  Literature was not our favorite class, and we wrote an original proem about our prof and his beloved fig tree, with a refrain that suggested where he could plant his fig tree. We also spent time twanging rubber bands to annoy another prof.

All other factors being equal if you are at the top of the class come graduation, time means a lot for future promotions and assignments. It was not unusual after a few years from graduation  to have people of that same class holding ranks separated by as many as three grades because of their ranking in the class graduation .  Of course, if you let cynicism dictate your thinking you may at times be absolutely right if you think that sucking up and being a flatterer to your commander ad his lady would get you the same  things.  That’s the Airforce for you.  And Life.  I felt great admiration for the candor of one officer’s wife, an American woman frustrated with rules that allowed the military to interfere with her home life.  When brought before a committee of officers to discuss the matter, she called them all fascists.  “Madame,” one officer stated indignantly, “This is the birthplace of Democracy!”

“It might have been her birth place, but she grew up and left!” shouted back the irate wife.

My Dad had a distinguished career with the Royal Hellenic Air Force, and even stood attention as late King Constantine inspected the troops.  He told many stories, including some involving Turkish officers, with whom he became steadfast friends.  He also spent time with the US Air Force at Scott Field, near St. Louis.  My father in law, Italo Milani, was also there at one point.    He had many adventures, and gave up his seat on the bus he was riding to an older African American woman.  It was 1953.

During this time, he met up with the Gramatis family in St. Louis, which led to him meeting my mother in Rock island, at her home on 21^st avenue.  The joke was that my Mother’s sister, Aunt Connie, saw Dad first, but that my Mother, Clara, pushed her off the porch.  Connie denied this ever happened.  She was simply not amused.

They met at my Uncle George’s tenth birthday party.  When my mother died in 2008, I received a letter from a little girl who had been th that party.   My future parents hit it off, and wrote to each other  for seven years.  Their letters fill a large suitcase, carefully curated by Dad.  My three uncles and Connie also wrote, along with my grandparents.  My grandparents loved Dad as if he were their own son. 

Finally, in 1959  my mother, grandfather, and George, sailed on The Olympia, a  ship from the White Star line, like the Titanic.  Ultimately, they married in Greece, with air force officers, one my future godfather, in attendance.  It was a beautiful wedding, lavish and formal.  My parents lived in Greece two years or so, and I cam along in Ju.1960.I have pictures of standing on the Acropolis with my mother. 

It  took Dad nearly two years to get out of the  Royal Hellenic Air Force. My folks wrote to the Queen of Greece, the President of the United States, senators, and congressional representatives.  My mother and I had come home to my grandparents’ house a  year or so before.   My uncle Tom, an artist, picked ups up at the airport.  My mother said I reached out to him, and it was love at first sight.  Tom and Jim, my older uncles, were close to Dad and to us for the rest of their lives.  I remember it was December 1 when he came home, like it is today.  Mom and Dad pulled me on my little wooden sled.  I wore a red snow suit. It had also snowed, and it was only my second snow fall.  It didn’t snow in Athens.

My mother died in 2008, my  Dad in 2017.  I promised I would get his memoir out for him; Dad I have kept my promise.  May their memories, and those of the rest of my family, be eternal.

 

 

 

           

 

Deliverance, a Review

Deliverance, a Review

Our Museum

The more I run the American Doll and Toy Museum, the more I realize a lot of people of all ages have no clue what a museum is. “What is the purpose of this?” asked one woman in her seventies or early eighties. She grew up in our area, which has several museums besides ours, including The Putnam Museum, The German American Heritage Center, The Hauberg Indian Museum, and The Rock Island Historical Society, to name just a few. I don’t think she has been in any. She wanted to know if we bought and sold dolls and other things. No, I answered, we aren’t retail. Our purpose is to educate, and to tell the story of humanity through dolls and toys. Our collection represents Prehistory to the Present. Many of our artifacts also represent the ethnicities or our community. They tell the progress of immigration in our area. We also curate to preserve, even things no one else may want. We have several libraries of books about our objects, but also about them. Our best visitors are children twelve and under. They are fascinated by the antiques, and delight when they find something they recognize. They behave well, and aren’t jaded. Their favorite exhibits are Polly Pockets, My Little Pony, and Disney Princesses. I direct those who want to know more about to museums to the blog, “The Future of Museums.” My cousin who is a pastor, calls the museum a ministry for children, both because we try to preserve objects for posterity, but because we are dedicated to childhood and its pursuits, to a time more innocent than today. We a 501c not for profit; we do not make money in this venture, far from it. Dolls and toys are humanity’s historians. Dolls are often the only thing left to us from civilizations long gone from the earth, and are portraits of their creators. Brick and mortar museums exist to teach as well as entertain. There museums for kitchen utensils, washing machines, tractors, trucks, textiles and mores. What is our purpose? Come see us to find out, but if you have to ask, well . . .

We're just past Christmas, and what have I Done?

Memories assault us at Christmas, and the current year never seems to be as good as Christmas Past. I tried to honor those memories; I baked my mother's sweets, and other things, starting before Thanksgiving. Decorated sugar cookies, spanakopita, baklava, chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies. I took out ornaments out of starte from my grandmother's including a turkey family I painted, and home made ornamednts of tinsel, cloth, and bits of glass. I found a few things I did when I was eleven. Each year, I sitll send cards; this year, I sent a couple to old friends I'd not heard from in years, but who are close to my heart. Occasionally, I get a card or letter from someone I haven't heard from, and this is better than a present to me.

Record snow, injuries and illness stopped me from hitting all the after Xmas sales; of course, everyone starts before the holiday, even holding Xmas sales in some places at Halloween. I tried to paint and make a few ornaments, another tradition. Whenever possible, I listened to or played on the piano, Christmas songs and carols, espeically the Harry Simeone version of The Little Drummer boy. During our California Christmases, we may have had roses blooming, but the house smelled wonderful from all the baking going on, and the air was filled with carols, traditional carols, my all time favorites. 2024 has begun with crippling snow, and the usual sadness created by those we love dying before their time. I go into a kind of hibernation till late August brings the promise of turning leaves, cool crisp air, and hte rpomise of The Holidays.