“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR STAVROS.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.”
Colourful ribbons, streamers and helium balloons filled the Bakoyannis home. One large one, strung across the room, said, “Congratulations on your 90th.”
“Why can’t Pappou have 90 candles?” asked Oliver.
“The cake can’t hold that many and he would never be able to blow them all out,” replied his father, Derek.
Oliver Bakoyannis watched his Pappou being pushed to the table in his wheelchair. His Pappou, once a tall handsome man, with jet-black hair, and sparkling ocean blue eyes, was now frail and stooped. His strong jaw line was accentuated by a life long lived. His old cardigan was laced with ‘senior’ food stains. He stood, hanging on to one arm of the wheel chair to blow out his 9 candles.
Sitting, with his hands folded in front of him, Oliver noticed how wrinkled his Pappou’s hands were. His dark blue veins were bulging with blood being pumped throughout his frail body.
Stavros Bakoyannis lived in an aged care facility.
“”Pappou, can I come to visit you next week?”
“Visit me?” said Pappou. “I never have visitors.”
Derek looked at his Father and said, “I visit you twice a week but you don’t remember”.
Oliver caught the number 78 tram along Chapel Street to visit his Pappou as promised.
“Do you know where you Grandfather is?” asked the receptionist.
“Yes I’ve been here with my parents,” replied Oliver.
Oliver knocked on the door.
“Hello, Pappou. How are you?”
“Much better for having seen you, Oliver,” said Pappou Stavros, with a grin.
“Would you like one of my chocolates, Oliver?”
“Yes please, Pappou. That would be AWESOME.”
Oliver asked curiously. “What sort of work did you do when you were young?”
“Oliver, I had to leave school at thirteen. I had to get a job, because my family needed money to survive.”
“What sort of work Pappou?”
“Shoveling coal in a coal mine. I was paid two pounds, six shillings per week. That’s around $6 in today’s money.”
“WHAT! For the whole week?” Oliver couldn’t believe it.
“YES, for the whole week,” said Pappou. “My hands were blistered badly, and often became infected. Some older men used to urinate on my blistered hands to prevent infection.”
“YUCK.”
“It helped. There were no medical facilities underground in the coal mines.”
More stories followed;
“When I turned 18, I joined the air force and became a fighter pilot.”
“Did you fight in WWI1?”
“No, not during WWI1. I was only a young boy then. I was one of the few Australian pilots, to fight with the British, during the 1956 Suez Canal conflict.”
“DID YOU KILL ANYONE?” asked Oliver, staring, anxiously waiting for his Pappou’s answer.
“YES, Oliver, I did. Let me tell you, it’s the most gut-wrenching thing these hands of mine ever did. But, if I hadn’t allowed my hands to do that, I wouldn’t be here today telling you about it.”
Tears flowed out of Oliver’s Pappou’s blue eyes, running along the crevasses of his weathered face.
After an hour, Oliver said, “Pappou, I’ve got to go now. Would you like me to come back next week?”
“That would be wonderful, Oliver. I look forward to It.,” replied his Pappou.
“Oops, I nearly forgot your gift. I made you a number plate for your wheelchair. I’ll put it on before I go.”
At home that night, Oliver said, “Dad, I saw Pappou today and found out lots of things. Can I go back and visit again?”
“Absolutely, Oliver, your Pappou needs company to keep his mind active,” replied his father.
“I’m writing a story about old people. Can you take a look at the questions and let me know what you think, Pappou?”
“Sure thing Oliver. I’d love to read what you have written. You mightn’t know this, but I wrote two books. I can’t remember their names, but one was about my life in the air-force, and the other about my great-grandfather, who was a general in the Australian army.”
“ARE YOU FOR REAL? Pappou, that’s FANTASTIC!”
“After the Suez War, I became a carpenter. With these hands I built my own home, hammering thousands of nails into freshly sawn timber. See these fingers? They’re injuries due to building accidents. With these hands I forged a life for your grandmother and our children, your father, Derek, your Uncle Charlie and your Auntie Stella. These hands held your Yiayia Eleni as we walked down the aisle to get married. These hands. stroked the face of the love of my life, before she passed away. My hands are old and wrinkled, but when I held her hands they felt tender, soft, and as smooth as silk.”
“What kind of job do you want to do with your hands Oliver?” Pappou asked.
Oliver wasn’t sure. What he wanted to do though, was help people.
Oliver liked hearing Pappou’s stories, even when he repeated bits, or mixed up names. Later, when Oliver was bike riding with his brother and sister, he told them about their Pappou’s wrinkled hands.
“Our Pappou has done so much with his life. When I grow up I want to do something important with my hands. Not all old people are boring. You just have to ask them the right questions, and listen.”
Oliver’s father woke him up. “I have some bad news. Your Pappou Stavros has just been admitted to hospital. Apparently, he got up during the night and had a fall.”
“How is he?” Oliver asked, with tears splashing on his pillow.
“Not good, Oliver, but before he went to hospital, he told me how much he enjoyed your visits.”
Oliver’s AWESOME Pappou died at the age of 95.
Many years later Oliver qualified as a surgeon, using his hands to mend patients. And he kept his Pappou’s number plate on his bike to remind him of a life well lived.
