Closed Borders

Kostas, the Roofer has been on my mind lately. He sometimes emerges in my thoughts as I think about the Covid19 border closings.

By all rights Kostas should be known as Kostas, the Baker, having been denied his true profession through the actions of a few men who gathered one night to draw lines on a map. And thus change the trajectory of Kostas's life along with a few thousand others.

Back in the 1940s, when Kostas was a child, his family home was located in a place called Northern Epirus in Greece and the family bakery was in the port of Igoumenitsa. The house and the bakery were not terribly far from each other. Travel between them was somewhat like commuting from today's suburbs to a nearby city. The bakery was a successful business, one that would be passed down to Kostas as he came of age -- as was the Greek custom on the countryside and still is today in many cases.

However, in 1946 the winners of the second world war split their bounty and a line was drawn overnight, absconding a piece of Greek land that instantly became Albanian land under a communist government.

The borders were immediately sealed.

Kostas's father had decided to stay in the bakery to work a little extra that night, while his wife returned home with the children. In the morning she awoke to find she was a single parent living in the communist country of Albania. The quality of life in communist Albania was far from that which the family had been accustomed to, with their modest lifestyle in Greece. They suffered greatly.

And Kostas never saw his father again.

Forty-four years later, the Albanian border opened -- along with the fall of other communist countries in Eastern Europe. The "Albanians" mostly disregarded the legal avenues of immigrating to Greece and poured over the border looking for a better life. My mother-in-law, Chevi, was known to have harbored some of those transients as told in the blog post, The Rebel. Some of them had not known much of their heritage in Greece, while others had heard stories from parents and grandparents of days gone by. For Kostas, the ability to see Igoumenitsa again was a dream he'd hoped for since the day the borders were sealed.

"I'm going home," he told his wife. Now an older man with married children and grandchildren, he became part of that exodus. He settled in Igoumentitsa alone at first.

His children were Albanian. They were among those who only knew Greece from their father's stories. Kostas's plan was to work and send provisions or cash back to them as they were unable to make the trip legally, for only he had the required Greek citizenship papers.

Kostas is the roofer who worked on our Margariti house, and basically saved us from the devious Roofer of Senitsa. Kostas is the one with the straw hat in the photo.

Here is an excerpt from The Nifi featuring Kostas's role in our life:

. . . The circumstance was bearable only because we had expected The Roofer From Senitsa to begin construction soon and when it was done, we'd be able to move back into the rooms of the little house. But he didn't show up and time passed. Nick sought him out and talked to him again, and he promised to begin within a few days, but a few days turned to weeks and then we questioned whether The Roofer From Senitsa would ever begin.

"Don't worry," he reassured us, "I'll work on it when you've left and you'll have a perfect roof when you come back."

That's when Nick realized what was happening and with a few choice words, he told The Roofer From Senitsa what he could do to himself, and fired him. But I was baffled.

"What's going on?"

Nick explained. "This guy is waiting for us to leave so he can do the job when we go home—when no one’s here to see what he’s doing. He wants the money and then he’ll probably use fewer beams, probably not the quality I want. Without me or my brother here to watch how he's building it, he could pretty much do whatever he wants."

Eftihia told her brothers of a quality roofer she knew in Igoumenitsa, but he didn't drive. He would need a ride back and forth every day.

There were only eleven days left and although The Igoumenitsa Roofer had a son-in-law who worked with him, two single workers would not be able to finish in that time. Nick and Fotis would have to help. Eventually, we would all help by carrying the roof tiles up the ladder, handing the workers tools, and bringing them water.
The work was started early every morning. Chevi would cook a large midday meal which we all would stop to eat, but no one would take a siesta—including the neighbors, though they had no choice in the matter—and after ten days, the roof was finished, one day before our departure. Chevi, in keeping with the old traditions, insisted on affixing a wooden cross to the roof with a clean towel hanging from one end and some apples from the other. This was to show that the final step in making the structure a true home—the completion of the roof—had been accomplished. The cross, a symbol of a Christian home, was something of importance to a woman who rarely visited her church but was ingrained with memories of a time when one's religion determined survival. The towel was a message to all who viewed it that this was a family who respected its workers, thus providing a towel for their use, and the apples symbolized a fruitful future for the inhabitants of the home.

The year of the roof left us exhausted, and it was time to go back to a schedule more grueling than any in the past. The bitter taste of that summer kept me away for several years, while Nick took some off-season visits to see his mother and to install windows and screens in the house.

The Amazon.com link for The Nifi

The Amazon.co.uk link for The Nifi

A Man named Malaka.

It wasn't until--with great confidence--I spoke to this man using what I thought was his name, that I realized the naughty Greek word was not actually anyone's name.

Walk back in time to a brief moment in the early 1980s. Sit at the end of the counter on one of those round red swivel stools and watch my 20-year-old self on her first day working as a waitress at The Expressway Diner on Long Island. The predominant language is Greek, so listen carefully, keep a watchful eye and sometimes you'll understand the body language but never the actual words. . .

Within the first few hours someone had mentioned something about the cooks all basically having the same few names, which turned out to be sort of true (Gus, Nick, George, you get the idea). But with my own excellent hearing and my ability to quietly observe, I had determined that there was one small man behind the gargantuan dishwashing machine who obviously had a different name. His was Malaka.

So during the mad rush of lunchtime that first day, desperate to get his attention so he'd bring more coffee cups to the counter, I shouted , "Hey, Malaka!" and it was at that moment, with the roar of laughter from the other Greeks in the kitchen that I suspected it was not his name. My suspicion was verified milliseconds later when Andrea, the Greek-speaking waitress who was training me, said with eyes as wide as saucers and a jagged line of dismay across her brow, "Never use that word!"

This memory flooded back to me recently when I read a humorous post using the same naughty word in a Facebook Group called, The Greek Chain,  It's a Facebook Group I highly recommend if you want to have fun while learning the Greek language. I enjoy it tremendously!

Here are the links for The Nifi, Your Own Kind, and Among the Zinnias. I hope you'll give one of them a try!

Amazon UK

Amazon.com

2-Place Illness

The Covid-19 virus has us quarantined, worried, and emotionally frazzled. But longing for another place, a location steeped in memories, keeps insanity at bay and brings hope. It's a fickle life, that which is divided into a love of two places. When you're in one, you long for the other and thus, you're never satisfied. Maybe I'm alone in this overthought philosophy but I suspect there are many others who are pining for a favorite place right now.

For this grecophile, that place is Epirus!  "Epirus again?!" I hear you. "Enough, Linda!"

Well, I'm sorry, I can't help it. Epirus is a place of creativity, stunning topography, unconventional wisdom, unending curiosity and a place where ordinary food tastes extraordinary!

What place are you dreaming of?

Here are the links for The Nifi, Your Own Kind, and Among the Zinnias. I hope you'll give one of them a try!

Amazon UK

Amazon.com

Magical Margariti Museum

Choices made in years past sometimes take an eternity to show their fruit. It's not a bad idea to revisit that past in order to remember the truth about our present state. Thus, I bring you the Margariti Museum, an absolute masterpiece! It holds a warm place in my heart and in my family's past because it is the house Nick and I were going to purchase back in 1993. The museum was a far better idea, though I sigh when I think this fairytale  view of the village from the second floor might have been mine.

The Culture Administrator of Margariti, Mr. Mparatsas, met us at the gate with his wife and son. They were kind enough to be our tour guides. For me, it was one more highlight of my Margariti life and I thank them with all my heart for their patience and kindness.

Our journey begins at the gate of this typical Old Margariti house which has been restored and preserved with funds from Greek philanthropist, Stavros Niarhos. It is the villagers, however, who have made it most authentic by donating original items from their own homes. The archway above the gate is adorned with the signature flower  that is seen throughout ancient Greek architecture.

Walking into the gated courtyard, we're met with a tiled  overhang that covers the cooking area where an old style domed oven, or fourno, would have been. The entrance to the house has a beautiful wooden door. And walking through that door is an experience like no other.

24 Hours in the Mountains of Epirus

They stand at attention one after the other as far as the eye can see, the mountains in the village of Vitsa. You and I are alone on a balcony, a balcony that fits a tiny round table and two chairs and nothing else, characteristic of the architecture in this area of Epirus. The only sound seems to be the far off tinkle of animal bells--probably goats, judging from the climb of these steep inclines. The beauty is obvious, but it’s the un-noise that has me mesmerized. The sound of nothing.

Nature barely makes herself known with the bird songs so muted it’s as if they’re whispering. The distant rumbling of a car as it makes its way along the winding road alerts my ears. And yet at home, in New York, the hum of the highway--no not hum, because that conjures up a pleasant un-annoying rhythm. Rather, it’s the bang and rumble of voluminous lives passing at top-speed-- that is a constant jar to the senses. Yet, here a small intermittent motor sound as it passes between trees and makes its way up the mountain, jolts us from the quiet and I think of times long passed.

Igoumenitsa's Irony

When the serpent in the Corfu Channel made its way to Igoumenitsa Bay one cool autumn day back in the late 1950s, it terrorized some unsuspecting shepherds. One of the local children of that time, my husband, Nick, remembers the story well, or perhaps his memory comes from the repetition of the story over the years. 

The shepherds were from the Metsovo area. They had bought cheap land at the bay as a means for bringing their sheep to lower land in the cold mountain months, many of them leaving the mountains for the first time. They were people of some very high peaks and had little to no experience with the sea. So, when they heard the moan of the creature long before they saw it, they rode their horses with the speed of light through the mountain trails to Margariti Village where they had friends and relatives. They were there to escape, to warn, and to prepare for defense.

It's in Margariti where they learned the truth and I'd venture to say it was not told to them in a patient understanding way or the story would not have outlived them, as it has.

The moan was, of course, a ship, one that was unable to dock near land because at that time there were only a few small fisherman wharfs aligning the tiny sea port. Thus, the ship's steam horn alerted potential passengers of its arrival so those people could get in the assigned dingy and be rowed or motored out to the ship. The name of the ship was "The Seagull," and it came at regular one-month intervals. This was something the locals knew and something the shepherds learned that day. Ignorant shepherds? I think not. From that family, rose the entrepreneurs who started the Corfu / Igoumenitsa ferry service. 


Here are the links for The Nifi, Your Own Kind, and Among the Zinnias. I hope you'll give one of them a try!

Amazon UK

Amazon.com

My Life as a 3-minute Topless Sunbather

In the 1980s, Valtos Beach in Parga, Greece, was a bit of a trek down a dirt path on the other side of the castle. But it was always worth it.

In those days, a woman wearing a bathing suit top seemed most out of place. The topless sunbathers were abundant on both sides of the castle and I envied them.

Such freedom!

I was visiting Margariti that summer, alone with my small children. Our routine was somewhat predictable as the village offered so little for a non-Greek speaking bride. Each morning we'd take the bus to the heart of Parga, stop at the bakery for a sweet or two, and then spend most of the day at Krioniri Beach between the sand and the island, frolicking or whatever one could do with two high energy children. Eventually, after our lunch, we'd make our way to Valtos Beach to rest, possibly to encourage a bit of siesta so mama could have a break.

On one very sultry evening, as I was feeling a bit weighed down by the drudgery of motherhood, I thought it would be a wonderful sensation to swim in that warm salty sea without my bathing suit top. It seemed so simple and so natural. A therapeutic moment. We were alone on the beach so it was safe enough for a puritanical, uptight, American. Even alone, however, the courage did not arrive until I was completely submerged in the water, as both children played in the sand on the beach. Both oblivious to my intentions. I took off my top and threw the wet garment onto the sand.

It was glorious!

Until I heard the putter of a small boat and saw what looked like a fisherman coming to shore. He could not have gotten closer without drowning me. He gave me and my bobbing neon-white breasts a nod as he jumped ashore and pulled his small boat to safety. Then, he stood on the shore, his hands on his hips, an oversized mustache encased around a smoking cigarette. And waited.

I did not want to get out of the water but what about my kids? They were standing on the shore now, calling, "Let's go, mommy!" Any hope of emerging unnoticed was lost.

So with all the courage of a hunted rabbit, I walked toward them. As the water released me, their little perplexed eyes squinted. They scrunched their eyebrows,  pointing their fingers, mouths agape. And screamed.

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Here are the links for The Nifi, Your Own Kind, and Among the Zinnias. I hope you'll give one of them a try!

Amazon UK

Amazon.com

This Spinning World

Author, Jim Potts, channels his Greek life in places such as Corfu, the Zagori Mountains, and the city of Athens as he spins some very entertaining tales in, This Spinning World, 43 Stories from Far and Wide, published in September of 2019.

I originally was led to this author when I read, The Ionian Islands and Epirus: A Cultural History, a book I absolutely love and continue to reference frequently. So when I realized he had this new one,  I thought I'd give it a try. I was not disappointed. This is an author who has had a very interesting and diverse life that includes a career in international cultural relations that has taken him all over the world. And that experience is etched in his stories. As I spun through This Spinning World, I laughed and cried and turned the pages. There is something for everyone.

It's that Greek connection that originally attracted me to the stories but actually Edward, the main character in the story, "January," is my new BFF. Edward seems to be my kindred-spirit-of-declining-years. "After 60 years, close to his contractual age of retirement, he had finally come face to face with the overpowering sense of the Absurd." To see oneself and one's thoughts so clearly laid out in print, no matter how disturbing, is very cathartic. To know that aging and its mind blowing realizations have a commonality to them, is to smile while reading lines such as, "His horizons felt as limited as the Stockholm skyline in snow." Yes, Edward, I understand. But take heart, Edward works everything out and thus, the reader does too. That is the beauty of these stories. They are human and relatable while being thought provoking and engaging.


Most of Mr. Potts' books are on Amazon:  Amazon UK

He also has a more recent work, Reading the Signs (a collection of 111 poems) and for these newer books, colensobooks@gmail.com handles the ordering.

This Spinning World: ISBN 978-1-912788-02-6
Reading the Signs: ISBN 978-1-912788-06-4

I leave you with some imagery from the collection in Reading the Signs:

Plaka, 2003

Watching the tourists

come traipsing down from the Acropolis

I don't think they look

like their lives have been changed.

They're glad to flop down

in a shady taverna

with a plateful of squid, in Plaka.

There are always more marbles.

Finite,

the fruits of the sea.

Excerpt from Dry Stone Hideaway 
(Vitsa, 1983)

Before I came I'd had the dream,

A cobbled path, a kalderim,

leading down the mountainside

to a high-arched bridge, an ice-cold stream.

The village houses, split mountain rock, 

flagstone slabs to slate the roofs, 

the cistern in the high-walled yard.

Water pure, of melted snow, the shaft well-made, 

made long ago, eggshell-coated, calcium-sealed.

Ammoudia: Then and Now

In 1988, Ammoudia, in Epirus Greece, had only a few riverside cafes along the mouth of the Acheron River. The surrounding delta where fresh water meets the salty sea was mostly marshland. There were no hotels, houses or cafes along the fanned-out sand.

To the older generation, most of them gone now, Ammoudia is known as Splanza, named after an Italian general who inhabited the area during one of the wars. So, until the area was opened up by the 1990's infrastructure improvements and the influx of tourists, I only knew the place as Splanza.

At that time, the tables were arranged beside the river and we could sit with our feet in its soft sandy dirt. The branches of the river trees sheltered us from the sun as we enjoyed the quiet splash of the water that drifted by. After we had eaten, we would wade into the river and wash our hands.

That was the year my parents came to Greece to see who it was that I had married and to meet his extended family. My father always had an appreciation for good food and the fresh fish of Ammoudia helped to soften the blow of my elopement to the young Greek immigrant I'd met back in New York.

Fish in Greece is usually served whole, bones and all, but that is not something that we non-Greeks had been accustomed to, especially back then. So, at first it took some adjustment in attitude, but eventually we figured it out. We were always sure of its freshness when we saw it pulled from the river and brought to the frying pan. I haven’t yet found fish quite as tasty. And to that list of tasty food, you can add the fresh fruit and vegetables that reached our plates hours (sometimes minutes) after they’d been picked.

Nowadays in that same space, you will find rows of cafes with cement walkways that go right up to the water's edge and drop off into the river, creating docks for the small boats that will take you for a tour of the river or of the surrounding coastline. Or if you prefer, a day trip to one of the nearby islands. There is also the opportunity to walk to the end of the man-made jetty to fish or pick fresh capers. Or stand atop the boulders and experience the incredible view of the mountains, the Ionian Sea and the Acheron River, all in one glance.  

Here are the links for The Nifi, Your Own Kind and Among the Zinnias. I hope you'll give one of them a try!

UK Amazon

Amazon.com

The Neighbors

In the summer of 2014, I worried deeply about a family I left behind in Margariti, Greece. They seemed to need a little more help than the other families. They were living outside our balcony window, atop the electric pole. A family of storks.

Storks choose one mate for life. They raise their children together in one nest and if something happens to one of them, the other stays alone for the rest of its life.

When I first arrived in Margariti in 1983, the stork nests dominated the scenery. They were everywhere.
This giant nest on the old house was the residence of the first stork couple with whom I would become well acquainted. The sound of their clacking beaks each morning was part of the countryside cacophony. They would swoop down to pick up snakes and other tasty treats or fly off to the lake and return with their prey squiggling in their beaks. They often landed beside the house to peck at dried sticks and grass, choosing carefully for their nest, a nest that would soon contain a few chicks watching in awe as the adults took flight.

The children had black beaks in contrast to the red adult-beaks which indicated that they were too young to fly. But by the end of August those beaks were adolescent pink. So the young  birds began their hesitant departures from the nest. First in small circles--wobbling through the air with their parents gliding gracefully nearby, later flying far from the nest, away from the watchful eyes.

The storks' annual departure was one made for a Hitchcock movie as it all happened within twenty-four hours. It was a bit eery. In one afternoon, all the swallows that had lived under the balconies and the eaves of the village houses, would line the electric wires. It was an unofficial signal that the end to the summer was at hand.  The very next day, both the swallows and the storks would be gone--on their way to Africa. We'd awaken without the noise of those clacking beaks that had been present every morning before, and every nest, stork and swallow, would be completely empty.

Then and now, the storks mostly prefer electricity poles for a building location secure from predators. You can see one in the 1983 photo to the right.

But occasionally one or two might be electrocuted when wet straw of their nest touched a live wire. As a result, the village government put large plastic containers at the top of the poles and the birds learned to build their nests inside those protective containers.

That nest in the photo is now across from our present-day balcony. We watched that same couple raise their little ones over many years, the children flying away, the parents moving to Africa for the winter and then returning to the same nest each summer to raise a new batch of babies--a cycle renewed. I didn't think much about it until a few years ago when one stork came back alone. That bird sat by itself in the nest all summer and again the following summer until one year no bird returned and the nest was left empty for several years.

However, in the summer of 2014, a new young stork started checking out that location. Eventually there were two of them and they  worked to fill the plastic container with straw and sticks.  It was a little late in the summer for setting up house, so at first I thought they were just using that pole to rest.


I snapped a photo of the reflection in the balcony door, a sort of clandestine move on my part. I was so excited to see a new young mother moving in, I  didn't want her to know I was spying.  You can see her working with the beginnings of a nest. And a few weeks later there were baby birds in that nest.

I watched them each morning as they grew, but when the swallows lined the electric wires, those babies still had not left the nest. And the next day when every swallow and stork nest was supposed to be vacant, that one family was still there. On our last day in Margariti, I saw the baby birds being taught to fly. I hoped they were able to make it down to Africa without the help of the flock. I tend to think the parents, with their adventurous spirit, having waited longer than the rest of the flock to have their children, were resourceful enough to get the family south. I thought about them all that winter.

I'm guessing they made it there  because the parents returned and took up residence again the following summer, and the one after that, each time producing one or two offspring. And this year they are back.

It appears we have neighbors who love to return as often as we do . . .  and who can blame them? It's a perfect location to spend the summer!

Among the Zinnias, Your Own Kind and The Nifi are available with this link. I hope you will give one of them a try!

Independent authors often have quite a challenge in getting exposure for their work. I hope, dear reader, you will consider writing a review on Amazon or Goodreads.com.

NOT a Bucket List

A "bucket" list implies the end of which I'd rather not contemplate. Instead the list I've decided to embrace, is a little bit different but still carries the same charm, and it rhymes with the original. This list is generated when people tell a person he or she is too old to do something, and the reply is, as it should be, "F---it! I'm gonna do it anyway!" Hence, the other list.

Number one for this old biddy is water skiing. I've wanted to do this since I first watched fellow campers water skiing on Lake Chateaugay in the mountains of New York about fifty years ago. So why didn't I? Oh, it was too dangerous or I didn't want people to see me above water with my butt hanging out of my bathing suit or, more recently, it might throw out my back. . .

The instructor at Lichnos Beach in Epirus Greece, helped me finally realize this dream. Okay, so I never said I expected to stand on the water, only to ski, hence the name of the activity. And as a very short and insignificant post script, I did throw my back out. Darn!

But there's something to be said for putting your fears on the back burner and allowing yourself to just do it! And so, though my back may delay my next attempt, I now know what it is to feel that brief moment of flying atop the water because I did make it to a standing position for about 3 seconds, which of course was not memorialized by my "photographer." However, he is forgiven, as I'm pretty sure he was startled by the shriek I let out as my knees straightened, and he was probably more surprised by that momentary success than I!

Onward to number two on the list. Run a marathon.

Well, running a marathon probably requires some preparation, so that item has been tailored to running a 5K which I can run perfectly well on my flat even treadmill, with the added fan feature cooling off my face.

As it turns out, though, nature's terrain is a bit more challenging with her monstrous hills. And the chatter and competitive nature of the other runners can be a distraction. AND! For Goodness sake, aren't there supposed to be those tables with little cups of water when you get to the top of a hill??

So let's just modify that "running" to "finishing." I did maintain a slow trot that never became a walk. . . and for that I am proud, placing three hundred and thirtieth as I met the finish line, which is evident by the normal town activity going on in the background as they'd already cheered 329 people and probably thought the race was over. However, I was not last and my bib number is hanging proudly on the wall of our home.

I look forward to other activities like hang gliding, paddle boarding and yes, parachuting! But lately I've been sidetracked by several experiences that scream:

"You ARE too old . . . you just don't know it!"

Winter Epirus

I always thought it was a bit dramatic, my husband's insistence that we cover the beautifully tiled floors of our New York bathrooms with some not-so-beautiful rugs. It's too cold on the feet, he always says, this from a man who could suffer the most numbing circumstances without complaint.

With my experience of a February Epirus, however, I now realize the sensation he's been avoiding comes more from an Epirote memory than the present-day winters of New York. No matter how long the heater in the Margariti house has been running or the house air has been warmed to a comfortable temperature, the tiled floors remain painfully cold to the touch. And this is in a fully formed, windowed, modern, heated home. I can barely imagine how it was in his childhood home, a home I arrived at in the sweltering summer of 1983. A home with no heat, no running water (so forget about a warm shower on a winter morning) and enough space under the doors to allow entry to creeping creatures or winter winds.

In this Winter Epirus, there are several unexpected surprises. One such delightful surprise is the water . . . it's  everywhere!

Rivers run off the mountains, into the sea, from every direction. And flat valley fields have become lakes filled to capacity, their farm roads submerged with only the smallest edges peeking up through the water to let the unknowing eye understand that these are, in fact, not lakes! Such abundance of water exists, of course, because of the winter rains--constant and steady. And that rain brings idle time. For many of the villagers, cafes and taverns remain the favorite places to pass that time. The summer crowds have dwindled to local residents and rather than familiar outdoor living, they huddle beside warm fires in well sealed taverns. At first glance, a village that appears sleepy and void of residents is actually bustling with life. It's just mostly indoors.

The Epirus winter siesta is the fuel that fires the evening rendezvous as the summer-siesta ritual is carried into these darker days. Most shops still close at 2:00 (and not one second later, as I learned one day when I tried to get something from a launder in Igoumenitsa). The schools let out at the same time so the students and the workers can go home for the afternoon meal and customary snooze. For myself, however, I find waking up in the winter darkness a bit disconcerting, as sunset occurs within the siesta window of time. But the siesta seems to be the norm as shops reopen around six in the evening and cafes spring back to life.

On the Greek Countryside: An Unforgettable Lesson

During one warm Epirote month in 1964, the Margariti elementary students, under the direction of one imaginative and cunning teacher, created the most memorable of projects. It was a museum filled with the artifacts that the villagers had collected over the years, mostly ancient coins and other paraphernalia from history, some found while digging on the family farms, others passed down from generation to generation.

The teacher understood the value of these items and sought the children's help to collect and display them, creating a wonderful museum right there in the classroom. They worked for days, writing descriptions of each item and then they proudly wrote the owner's name of each contribution on a small place card. It was meant to be a secret project until its unveiling on opening day -- a temporary museum that provided a multi-layered lesson of history and language, one that required research and note-taking, a lesson greater than any the children had learned prior, or ever would learn afterwards. 

Unforgettable.

My husband, Nick, was one of those students and he recalls the excitement of the time. Each day a new coin or ancient relic would be brought in. The contributing student, a star at the head of the classroom, would describe his or her piece and gain the much-sought-after attention and approval of their teacher. My father-in-law, Toma, had a nice little collection of coins that Nick gingerly wrapped in a handkerchief and brought to school. It was a variety of coins that out-shone the other students' contributions. Nick was very proud.

The students created invitations for their parents. They also created posters to be hung within the village so that everyone could share in this open invitation -- enjoy the beauty of the artifacts and admire the students' creativity. Two days before the grand opening, the museum pieces were placed around the room and carefully arranged. The school was decorated while the beautifully sculpted invitations and posters lay upon the teacher's desk, ready for distribution the following day. The children's excitement could hardly be contained as they pulsed with the delicious secret they awaited to share with their parents.

But, the next day, the teacher was gone and so were all the artifacts.  

And no one ever saw him again . . . or the artifacts.  

So much was stolen that day.  The disappointment those children felt is indescribable, but worse is the horror of those who had lost gold and silver that they had held for generations. We can only hope that this man suffered in some way for his crime against Margariti.

Perhaps one of the gods caught up with him.

Among the Zinnias, The Nifi & Your Own Kind are available with this LINK. I hope you'll give one of them a try!

Independent authors often have quite a challenge in getting exposure for their work. I hope, dear reader, you will consider writing a review on Amazon or Goodreads.com.