Greeks!

I think anyone would enjoy reading this story. Every ethnic group has their "Heros", and they are remembered for one reason or another. Enjoy! This was written by my cousin Steve Chiotakis, a radio announcer in Birmingham Alabama. He posted this on his blog www.SteveChiotakis.com.
Her birthday was actually in January, but I could not get it off of my mind and thought I would share.

Written by Steve Chiotakis:

Today would've been my grandmother's 102nd birthday. We think. She told us she was born in 1906, but we weren't really sure she was telling the truth.

She probably didn't know either. Papers were changed for reasons no one knew, and who the hell had a birth certificate in a tiny Greek village at the turn of the 20th century? They were still talking about the Turkish occupation.

See, she was brought to this country (to Morgantown, WV) as a young teenager to marry a man 30 years older than her. It was a typical Greek wedding arrangement. Not big or fat, just matrimony. Pure wedding bliss. Yeah, it's hard to know what it was like. Times were different then and certain things were expected of people; it's a little different today.

But yaya was strong. She raised three kids from her first marriage and two from her second with limited income. She scrubbed toilets at the U-S Steel Gary works in Indiana. They called her "Midnight Annie" because of her work schedule.

Her husband (my grandfather) died at a young age -- when my mother was 9. So that was how she made ends meet and did that for years and years and years and retired and collected a pension. She lived for so long, mostly with us. She was mom, dad and friend most days to my sister and me; my parents both worked (typical 70s latchkey kids) and she watched us after school. She made wonderful food; God, could she cook! And the sweets... baklava, koulorakia, kourambiedes, paksimadia, everything a cool red-blooded American kid could want.

You know, a growing boy needs nourishment. Topped with tons of flour, sugar and honey.

Hardly a day goes by when I don't think of her and her effect on my life. She was a strong, often stubborn, always loving woman who could tie you up like a pretzel and then melt you like butter. She grew up old school -- without going to school, much. We spoke to her in Greek and English (when Greek didn't work) and she spoke to us in English and Greek (when English didn't work). What an arrangement.

Yaya died more than eight years ago at the age of 93. We think she was 93.

Her life gave me depth and passion and a sense of reality. She overcame poverty and lived the American dream -- even if she was too young on the island of Crete to've dreamt it and too busy raising a family and working to've known it. She loved this country with all her heart, and her life made it and the world a better place.

Xronia Polla Yaya... and Ya'sou!