Preservation of American Hellenic History
Preservation of American Hellenic History
by Jason C. Mavrovitis
Our garden provided us with the visual images that defined the change of seasons (photos). By late February the crocus were sticking their heads through the snow. They were followed by daffodils and tulips, carefully planted in the late fall by Papou and my Dad. As spring progressed buds broke into leaves on the grapevines, rosebushes and trees, and finally, in May, the magnolia tree burst into bloom. That event signaled the time for Papou and Dad to start planting tomatoes, peppers, radishes, carrots, lettuce, and dandelions (yes, they planted dandelions in rows), and occasional experiments with watermelon, pumpkin, and one or another variety of melon.
Until I was twelve, Mom, Nitsa, and I summered at Carelas' farm just west of Saugerties, New York, so we missed experiencing the garden for most of the summer. We were amazed to find the jungle of growth when we returned to the city just after Labor Day. For a few weeks we enjoyed the vegetables Papou and Dad had husbanded all summer.
Many early or late summer evenings before we left for or returned from the farm, I would look down onto the garden from the second-story window of the bedroom that my sister and I shared. A single light bulb, suspended from an extension cord that ran over the grape trellis through the window of the kitchen that faced the garden and to the nearest electrical outlet, illuminated the area under the thick cover of vines that hid Louie, Jimmy and their friends. The women sat to the side in the dark, conversing with unseen animation and rising from time to time to serve the men refreshments.
Fireflies were like sparks in the dark border around the space that held a card table and the enthusiastic, happy players. There were a jug of dark red wine, half- filled glasses, servings of karpusi (watermelon), cups of café (aromatic Greek coffee), betting of pennies and nickels, and expletives that proclaimed the luck of the cards drawn. I fell to sleep listening to the conversation and laughter that rose to our window.
Fall was a time for garden cleanup, pruning, and preparation for winter. Dad squeezed in two or three Sundays of effort on the weekends that he, Bill Rusuli, and Louie Dimitroff did not go to Carelas' farm for fall hunting. The Thanksgiving holiday anticipated winter. The garden looked bleak as the days grew short until, on the morning after the first snowfall, the garden became a beautiful white-blanketed landscape with tree limbs shimmering in coats of ice. There were times that the garden was the Yukon, a polar ice cap, or a valley high in the Rocky Mountains, and my imagination created adventures for me in each setting as I lost myself in fantasies in the snow.
Over time, the garden changed. The trellis and its grape vines were removed, a cherry tree replaced the fig tree, and later, young Jason enthusiastically cut down the cherry tree. An azalea was added here and a rosebush there. Periodically, Nitsa and I repainted the garden furniture in garish orange and green.
For almost forty years, the garden was the site for family photographs that recorded four generations, many celebrations, and times of change.
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