A deeply personal eulogy
I don’t know how to describe who my father truly was. To all of you who are here today to honour him at his funeral, he was Fotis – the man who always greeted everyone warmly, the man who spent years upon years designing and measuring plots of land with some of you, the man who played backgammon and drank his coffee at the traditional neihbourhood café with others. He was Fotis whose name day brought so many friends to our home to wish him well, and who welcomed them dressed in a suit and tie. Our house would fill with joy and with gift bags -mostly whisky and pastries that we would later eat together conspiratorially: you with your favourite almond nougatines, me with the chocolate ones. And I was happy and proud, Daddy, that everyone loved you so much.
To your two nephews, whom you loved as your own children, you were a steady support and someone who truly cared for them. To my husband, you were Mr Foteinoulis, as he affectionately called you – the man whose stories he loved to listen to, stories from times we ourselves never lived. You loved him and embraced him as a son, and he -especially towards the end- cared for you with such devotion. He remembers how you stood by him during his own father’s illness, when the end was approaching. And now, surely, the two of you are watching over us together from above, because you were both upright, honourable, and profoundly conscientious men.
To your granddaughter -«my love» as you called her, a love without unconditional and unlimited- you were, sadly, the only grandfather she ever knew, but also the very best one. Always concerned about how she was doing at school, whether I might be pushing her too hard with her studies, whether she had enough pocket money. And she loves you so deeply, Daddy. Do you remember how worried she was about you in recent years, how she would hold your arm as you walked so you wouldn’t stumble? To my mother, for fifty-seven years, you were her constant thought, her care, her love ever since the day she first saw you strolling through Karditsa, wearing your hat and leather gloves. «The best-dressed man», she still says, even now.
Indeed, Daddy, you loved elegant clothing, beautiful things – you honoured moments. On my birthdays you welcomed my childhood friends, little primary-school children, wearing a jacket and tie. On holidays you took my mother to fine fabric shops so she could choose materials and later have dresses made by the seamstress. And when I was little, as soon as school ended and before we left for the summer holidays, you would say to me «On Saturday we’ll go to ‘’Snow White’’, the children’s boutique, to buy you a new swimsuit and shorts! No one will match your style, just wait and see!». You liked dressing me in shorts at a time when other girls my age were not even allowed to wear trousers. Even just two years ago, one Sunday evening in September, I stopped by your house after a night out. I was wearing navy blue shorts with a matching blazer, and as I was leaving you proudly said, «That’s how you should dress. That style suits you». Someone else, with a daughter my age -a daughter who herself has a teenage daughter- might have said I should dress more seriously, more conservatively, “according to my age.” What do I want to say? That you were always a perfectionist, Daddy – but never conservative.
You were many other things as well, above all an enthusiastic lover of life and of its moments. You enjoyed Christmas like a little child, singing carols and “O Christmas Tree’’. When I used to call and ask Mum how you were, she would say, «Can’t you hear him? He’s driving me mad singing all day ‘O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree…». I also remember the photo we took at your first COVID vaccination: you were sitting cross-legged, wearing your mask, making the victory sign. You loved life, Daddy, and I believe life returned that love to you – with many years, with care, warmth, and affection.
I will not tire you any longer. Μemories and moments, after all, are endless. I only want to say this: until recently, I believed I was a good person because when I travel, I bring gifts back for my family and as many friends as I can. Writing these words, I realised that you did exactly the same whenever you travelled for work: whether it was lobsters from Skyros that we put in the bathtub to see if they could swim, a carved silver knife from Crete, sweets and sausages from Karditsa, or a T-shirt for your granddaughter from Skiathos. Even last summer, you made sure to bring traditional spoon sweets from Pelion for your friends in Athens. So you, my Daddy, were good. And generous. And so many other things.
But above all, for me, you were everything. And I will always be your Arietti.
