My Big Fat Greek Funeral: Part I

In the beginning of the end, there was a lot of hope. Pappou was rushed to the hospital on a cold January morning. For my superstitious audience, it was Friday the 13th. The nurses, doctors, and hospital staff did their best to keep Pappou Yianni with us. From every face, we felt compassion and kindness for what we were going through. All our family and friends came to visit, which gave us strength. We did not feel alone; we felt their compassion through their hugs and encouragement to pray for a miracle. Alas, Pappou Yianni passed away a few days after arriving at the hospital. Our dear friend, Demetrios, described what friends do in life, "…they are there for us to share the joy at weddings and bear the burden at funerals."

He loved the village he grew up in. For him, it was paradise on earth with mild winters and sunny and cool summers. The town was named after Mary Magdeline. The Church was built in her honor. Legend has it that her ship needed repairs on her voyage to Rome. Her boat was docked at the harbor. In ancient times, villages were frequently situated high and far from the sea, fearing the threat of raiding pirates. Mary Magdelene remained in the town in the mountain valley overlooking the port as repairs were being made to her ship. She was such a good and pious lady that the whole village fell in love with her. Impressed with her purity, the villagers embraced her teachings and converted to Christianity within the two weeks that passed. Once her ship was repaired, she continued her journey to Rome.

There was no discussion about where to bury Pappou Yanni. He must return to his childhood home. He had built a family crypt in the cemetery just outside his village. He had it made for his family. His mother and father were buried in the family crypt soon thereafter. But to ship a body clear across the hemisphere, let alone to plan a funeral five thousand miles away, was beyond what anyone could imagine. After enduring all the hardships, obstacles, and frustration of shipping a loved one overseas, my mother-in-law exclaimed, " Just bury me where I die; I don't want my children to go through that ordeal again."

Pappou passed away on January 19th. Ironically, it was the day that he had booked an airline ticket to fly home. He was going home, but not the way he had expected. 

The first obstacle was finding the funeral home, or rather funeral homes. But if you think about it, having a body shipped overseas, arranging a funeral across an ocean and on a different continent, let alone a different country, was a logistical nightmare. My wife could handle it better than Amazon, UPS, and Federal Express combined. And that was without supercomputers and shipping labels.

Pappou Yianni had two daughters, Virginia and Janice. Virginia took it upon herself to plan the funeral. She was the daughter who excelled at school. She did well because she always paid attention to the fine little details. Notebook in hand, she made a list of every little detail, everything that needed to be done. When she planned our wedding, all the guests commented that everything was elegant and perfect. No mistakes in the seating arrangements -  no one was forgotten. The band was perfect; they had a perfect arrangement of songs and played them very well. We even had guests from the wedding party next door crash and dance at our wedding. The food, the flower arrangements, the dessert table, and the wedding cake were all stunning. She even had two swan ice sculptures at opposite ends of the dessert table. She was always attentive to details in all of her endeavors.

Virginia converted her dining table into her desk. She had four notebooks, one for every funeral director. The first page was her to-do list. The second was her contact phone numbers, and the third page was devoted to her questions for the funeral director. The third page was quickly filled out, and often, her questions required more and more pages. She penciled in her calendar book every event that was scheduled. What time the viewing and visitation would be held in St Louis when her father would arrive and leave from the airport in Chicago, when her father would arrive in Athens, and when her father would be picked up by the undertaker and driven five hours to the ferry boat waiting to transport across the Ionian Sea to the island of Zakynthos. On the island, Petro, the funeral director from Zakynthos, would receive her father and make the arrangements for the funeral. Nestled in the valley atop the mountain is Pappou's childhood home. The funeral would happen the next day in the tiny village of Maries.

Unfortunately, Virginia could not accompany her father on his final journey. She had two small children who had just started school after winter break. Our two children were traumatized by Pappou's death. Tina cried all day when Pappou had his cardiac arrest. But she became more hopeful the next day when she learned he was still alive at the hospital.

Nicholas was more deeply affected. He refused to go to school. He stayed in his room most of the day. We had to coax him to come out of his room. His appetite was gone. Teasing him with his favorite foods like macaroni and cheese and French fried potatoes had no effect on him. All he would do was look up and ask us the same question, "Is Pappou going to come home soon? I want him home." Our little Nicholas stayed home for a week. He didn't want to go to school. 

One day, I decided to take him to school. I was going to walk with him to the principal's office and explain to her what had recently happened. I wanted the school to know why he hadn't been in school. I also wanted the school to see how affected my son was by the tragic event. I called the school and informed them of what had happened and that I was bringing Nicholas to school. We walked through the school side by side in silence. Nicholas kept his gaze down. We walked through the double doors, entered the school building, and walked to the principal's office together. We were expected by the school secretary with a warm white smile. She wore a blue blazer over a white blouse.

"Nicholas, we are so happy to see you returning to school. We missed you so dearly. Have a seat while I let the principal know you are here." Nicholas dutiful pulled himself up to the chair and sat squarely across the secretary's desk. I sat next to him. The principal came out to greet us; she kept her eyes on Nicholas. Nicholas only stared at his white sneakers.

"Nicholas, I am glad you are feeling better and decided to attend school. The school missed you. Would it be OK if we go and visit your teacher and classmates? I'm sure they would be excited to see you. Do you want to see some of your friends?"

Nicholas meekly nodded his head yes. The principal extended her hand and waited for Nicholas to take hold, and they walked together out of the principal's office and down the long central hallway to his classroom. I followed the pair down the hall. The classroom was lined with windows, and I could easily see his teacher teaching her class. As soon as Nicholas entered the room, all the students turned and stared at Nicholas. All the students smiled; one girl jumped out of her seat, excited. Nicholas reacted by smiling. His first smile in days.

The principal kneeled in front of Nicholas, so they were eye to eye, "Nicholas, if you want, you can sit at your desk and stay for a while with your friends. Your Dad will talk with me for a little while, and when we are done, if you want, you can go home with your dad. Is that OK, Nicholas?"

Nicholas looked away and scanned all the faces in the classroom. He turned back to face the principal and nodded yes. He walked silently to his desk. The boy behind Nicholas tapped him on the shoulder. Nicholas turned around, and the boy behind him gave him a high five. Nicholas capitulated and returned his high five.

I left my son at his desk with his class. Nicholas' teacher smiled at me as I left the classroom. I felt so at ease knowing that the principal and teacher understood Nicholas's shock and were willing to help my son recover from his loss. I walked back with the principal and explained what had transpired when Pappou had his heart attack. I told her the whole story of how Nicholas was present when his grandfather had a heart attack. He had called 911 and was calm enough to give his home address to the police dispatcher. I also recounted how Nicholas ran into the house to lay a blanket over his grandfather, who had fallen on the snow. I thanked the principal and the school for teaching my son to memorize his home address and telephone number. I never realized the significance of such a small task. I was so happy and thankful for Nicholas' wonderful school. And I was especially happy to see my son return to his classroom with a smile. 

My wife had the children and her dental office. We couldn't take the children out of school because they had returned from winter break. We were especially worried that the tragic event may affect our children's progress in school. Both were good students, and we feared the tragedy might set them back in school. Virginia also had patients scheduled into mid-April. She couldn't leave her office. So many patients depended upon her.

Only the three of us would travel overseas for the funeral. My mother-in-law would stay for two months. My sister-in-law, Janice, and I would only stay for two weeks. The funeral was to take place three days after we arrived in Greece.

Virginia and I called the funeral parlor a day after her father died. It was a Saturday. We made an appointment to meet with the funeral director on Monday. Our house was chaotic that weekend. Everyone was calling us, both here and abroad. Everyone asked what had happened, how are we doing, and how is yiayia handling the death of Pappou. Everyone who called from Greece asked where we would have the funeral. I thought it was an odd question, but under the circumstances, it wasn't odd. The weekend was surreal. The questions were uncomfortable and painfully restimulating. I didn't want to talk about his death, but I answered all their questions out of politeness. 

Our children were confused about death. We realized that, as adults, we were just as confused. We wondered what was next. How would it be without our Pappou? It felt surreal, so out of place, as if we were thrown into a different dimension and universe. A universe without Pappou. We tried to smile and push the tears away. A futile endeavor. Seeing our children get easily upset with our sad emotions, we tried even harder to be happier than we were. We tried to put our happy faces on; they fell off like loose masks. We smiled, cried, and cried again until we slept.

Do you want to wager a guess on how many funeral homes were needed to bury my father-in-law overseas? I assumed two; everyone would logically assume two. One funeral director handles the death certificate and the preparation of the deceased, assists in the visitation and viewing, and prepares to transport the body to his final resting place. Another funeral director receives the body at the final destination and arranges for the funeral and burial.

My mother-in-law, wife and I arrived at the funeral parlor Monday morning. It was a cold, overcast day with a bitingly fierce wind. We scurried from our SUV and entered the funeral parlor. We walked into the atrium of the building and proceeded down the main hallway. A gentleman in the middle of the hallway, dressed in a black suit and tie, greeted us cordially.

"May I be of some assistance to you," he asked kindly and respectfully.

Virginia replied, "My mother and I have an appointment…" My wife couldn't bring herself to continue. She was about to say, "My father's funeral arrangements," but she lost her composure and started to fog up with tears. She stood there alone, fumbling in her purse for a tissue. The tall gentleman in the black suit gracefully went to the nearest podium at the entrance to one of the visitation rooms and handed her a tissue box.

"My condolences to you and your family for your loss. I will escort you to the director's office. I believe Mr. Silverman is in his office expecting you. Please follow me." 

We followed the distinguished gentleman, who was very tall and upright. His thick silver hair and chiseled jawline framed a kind and gentle face. We entered an office with two high-backed chairs facing another gentleman behind a desk. Our concierge politely offered, "Please, be seated. My name is Alfred, and if you need anything, please ask. May I offer you coffee, tea, or water?" My wife and mother-in-law kindly accepted his offer, asked for some warm tea, and sat in the high back chairs. Alfred momentarily disappeared and reappeared with a leather-backed armchair for me.

On his desk, closest to us, was a box of tissues. The man behind the desk wore a black jacket, a white shirt, and a long, slender black tie. 

The funeral director spoke kindly and gently, " First of all, my deepest sympathies for your loss. If there is anything you desire from us, we are happy to accommodate. I cannot imagine how difficult these past few days have been for you and your family."

Virginia answered for all of us, "It has shaken all of us. We did not expect it. It was all of a sudden. My father was always moving, full of energy. His nickname was 'Pedouli,' which in Greek means the kid…the little boy that is constantly moving, always on the run. Six months ago, he was dancing the tango at our village panegyri. 

I interjected and explained, "A panegyri is when the village celebrates its patron saint on her feast day. The village that they are from is called Maries. The village is named after Mary Magdalene. And her feast day falls on July 22nd, and the village celebrates with dancing and music."

"My father loved to dance. My mother had back issues, so he asked his cousins, friends, and nieces to dance. He loves to tango and the waltz. All the girls couldn't keep up with him. He must have danced with five different ladies. He would dance and twirl them round and round; they all became dizzy or exhausted. He outdanced girls fifty years younger than him. Everyone in the village was shocked by the amount of dancing my father did that night. He was so happy, and he wasn't tired."

I let out a chuckle and started to giggle. My mother-in-law and wife turned around and gave me a stare that quickly dissolved the smirk off my face. My wife asked," What's so funny? She didn't care why I laughed; she was irked that I interrupted her. She hates it when she is interrupted. But she liberally cuts me off when I try to communicate my thoughts. 

I couldn't help myself but to laugh. I remember that day vividly. The night of panegyri was simply magic. I felt I was in the middle of a classic Italian movie. So many people were at the panegyri; people from all the neighboring villages were there. People were pouring in even at two a.m. There was nowhere to sit, but no one cared. Everyone was laughing, kissing, and hugging. The dancing lines twisted and weaved with one another like snakes in a basket. Everyone was dancing to the band's beat. The music was vibrant and pulsing. The band never stopped to take a break; they played and kept playing straight through the evening until dawn.

And my father-in-law was center stage. He asked my mother-in-law to dance with him. But she knew better. Her back was acting up; if she danced with him, she would suffer dearly with severe back pains for weeks. She respectfully lifted her hand and said, "It's enough, no thank you." He then turned to Aunt Helen. She had forgotten how good of a dancer he was. But as soon as they hit the churchyard, she started to get dizzy after the first twirl. Round and round they went. Leading with his left arm, slicing through the air with her hand securely gripped. She felt trapped in his dancing frenzy. After several songs, she asked to be released from the dance floor. My father-in-law acquiesced and escorted her to her husband. But as soon as she had sat down, my father-in-law found a young niece of his in her twenties and began to dance again. He never slowed down; he never stopped. He never broke a sweat. He kept dancing round and round. Finally, one man approached me and asked," What are you feeding that wildman, Viagra."

"I understand why his demise was such a great shock to all of you; I am shocked just you telling me his story." The funeral director looked straight into our eyes and conveyed his sincere empathy. "I take it that you wish to have him buried in his village, Mariss."

"No, it's pronounced Ma-riés. It's Ma-RiÉS." my wife corrected the funeral director. "The I is pronounced as a long E, and the accent is over the short e. But to answer your question, yes. He wanted to be buried in his hometown. My parents are from the island of Zakynthos. He had built a family crypt in the village; my grandparents are laid to rest there."

Mr Silverman had accommodated several requests to transfer loved ones overseas. Many of them were foreign tourists who had arrived to visit close family and friends. Usually, the parents came from the old country to visit their children and grandchildren they had never met. Unfortunately, he informed us that our Pappou Yianni had to be transported to the nearest city airport with a Greek Embassy. For St. Louis, Pappou Yianni had to first stop in Chicago before continuing to Greece. Mr. Silverman stated, "We require a funeral home to receive him in Chicago and coordinate with the Greek Consulate before flying overseas. The consulate officer will inspect the deceased, the coffin, the death certificate, and our funeral papers before granting an entrance visa permitting travel back home."

"Can we go with Athenasis Funeral Home? They are a Greek-owned funeral home. They handle a lot of Greek funerals. I would go with them," my wife responded. "Since they are Greek, they would be the most experienced funeral home to handle the paperwork with the Greek Embassy in Chicago. I don't want delays or complications with transporting my father to Greece. I want no hiccups."

Mr. Silverman reached for his reading glasses and grabbed a few sheets of paper on his desk. He shuffled to the last page and scribbled the name of the Chicago funeral home. Looking up from his glasses, he spoke directly to all three, ensuring we were attentive to what he was about to say, "I have no problem with that; I will call them this afternoon. Their services, mind you, are not included in our price. I do not know their fees, but it should not be costly."

I wasn't expecting to pay for two funeral homes, but there were more to come.

The funeral director continued," I need you to call the funeral director in Greece. He will arrange for your father to be delivered from the airport in Athens to your father's village. The funeral director will handle all the arrangements, including the funeral, flowers, and the gravesite. Oh, I almost forgot, how large is it?"

"Excuse me, how large is what, the church, the cemetery? Why is that important?" I blurted out. I didn't understand his question.

Mr Silverman smiled and said, "Forgive me, I wasn't very clear. You mentioned the family crypt earlier. I need to know the dimensions of the crypt. I want to ensure the crypt will accommodate your father's coffin."

"I will call my cousin Dionysia; she lives in Maries," my wife said. "She helps out with the church. Dionysia can help me find a funeral director from Zakynthos. I will call her later tonight. By then, it will be the morning; there is an eight-hour time difference."

Mr Silverman stared down through his reading glasses, scribbling down more notes to himself. "I cannot emphasize that I need an exact measurement. You will have to contact the funeral director from the village. He will need to measure the dimensions of the open crypt for me." The funeral director looked at all three of us through his reading glasses and emphasized," Again, the funeral director's services in Maries are not included in our fees. So there is the added expense there also."

Mr. Silverman discussed needing a week or 10 days to process everything. The timeline was dependent upon both funeral directors. The casket had to be large to accommodate the stainless steel container required by law for all international transports of loved ones. Pappou Yianni will be encased in an air-tight steel container within the coffin. There are two reasons for this. The primary reason is for health and sanitation. The second reason is to discourage using coffins for illegally smuggling cash, drugs, or weapons. 

Mr Silverman continued, "You will also contact the airlines and arrange for air transfer for your father. Off the top of my head, two airlines handle trans-Atlantic funeral transfers: British Airways and KLM. I'm afraid one of you must make the flight arrangements for your father. Do not call just yet. I need to call the funeral director in Chicago. Remember, we still need to get approval from the Greek Embassy to transfer him back to Greece. Again, the transportation costs are not included in our fees, so there is an added expense there also."

We luckily chose a funeral home in St. Louis that had done overseas shipping for funerals. The funeral director looked up from his papers and asked Virginia's mother, "By the way, does your departed husband have a valid passport"? 

Our faces became blank. It seemed a bizarre question to ask. But after further thought, it made sense. But it seemed weird that a dead man must carry his passport. Thank God Pappou Yianni kept his passport current. An image came to mind: what would we do if his passport had expired? Do we run to the nearest photographer with the deceased and get two passport pictures? Thank goodness he doesn't have to smile for the pictures. Since time was of the essence, did we make a mad dash to the US Passport Office and wait in line with papers in hand and his expired passport with Pappou in his coffin? What do people do if the deceased has an expired passport? No funeral back home? Thank God we did not have to find out.

Virginia contacted her cousin, Dionysia. Immediately, Dionysia conveyed her condolences to my wife, her mother, and me. Dionysia kept repeating the same few lines,"… We were expecting him to visit us this week, but not like this. He was such a great man, the whole village was shocked and saddened by the news of his death….I do remember,… the whole town still talks about how well and long he danced at the panegyri,…. he out danced all the young ladies with his dancing, ….oh, he was the best dancer I have ever seen, he danced Greek, he danced the tango, he danced the waltz….I heard that he also had a beautiful voice. I was talking to my father-in-law,…. he grew up with your father..…. Did you know he had a great voice?… Late at night, all the young men would walk around to the houses of young, attractive girls in the village…Your father serenaded your mother the day before he proposed…. Uncle Jimmy on the Guitar, my Uncle Panagioti with his accordion, and your father singing Kandathes…. under the moonlight, late at night…May God forgive him, and may his memory be eternal. Zoe se sas (God grant you and your family Life)….

 Dionysia instantly flipped through her address book and found the name and number of Petro, the funeral director in Zakynthos. Virginia thanked Dionysia and hung up the phone. Within that instant, she dialed Petro. 

Petro, the funeral director from the village, answered the phone. Ironically, he knew Virginia's father. Virginia realized that her father was well-liked and remembered by many on Zakynthos. Petro foremost gave his sincere condolences to our family. He recounted he had run into my father-in-law on several occasions during funerals. As a youth, my father-in-law had a truck in the early 1950s, and he crisscrossed the island delivering in his truck. Few trucks were on the island, and he went everywhere, shipping everything you could imagine. Groceries, fruit, olive presses, tractor parts, etc. Naturally, he befriended many clients from every corner of the island. Later in his years, My father-in-law would hear one of his friends would pass away. As a sign of respect and love, he paid homage to all his friends who passed away over the years. Petro was impressed by how approachable he was. He was witty and always had a story that made everyone laugh at life's little quirks.

Petro informed my wife that he could not receive her father at the airport in Athens; we needed a funeral director to receive the body at the terminal, process some paperwork with the airport officials, and then transport her father in the hearse to the island of Zakynthos. Petro calmed our fears and told us that he works with a funeral director in Athens. His associate in Athens will receive her father, process the paperwork with the airport officials, and then transport her father in the hearse to the island of Zakynthos. Petro had done many funerals with him before and never had any problems. Petro's Hearse would receive her father from the other funeral director before embarking on the ferryboat to Zakynthos. From there, Petro would prepare the coffin with flowers and drive her father to Maries and the church for funeral service and burial.

Returning to my original question, how many funeral homes were needed to bury my father-in-law overseas? I assumed two; everyone would logically assume two. The answer was four.

That night, we were home, relieved that the funeral directors would handle most of the hard work of planning for the funeral. It was nothing new to them and could easily be handled. Then, it finally hit me: this funeral will be expensive. One funeral required four funeral directors. And then there were the airline tickets. Thank God he didn't die during the expensive summer season. I remembered the old adage: two things in life are certain: death and taxes. Well, I discovered a corollary to that adage: two things in life are certain to be expensive: Taxes and destination funerals.

I guess the moral of this story is to Remember to die in your own country. It's much cheaper, and you'll save a lot of money. And always carry a valid passport…just in case you have to depart unexpectedly.