William Reardon’s Blog

“No”, she insisted, “he’s going to be Theo“. Then it clicked. One of our uncles wasn’t known as Uncle Jimmy or Theo Dimitri, he was known simply as Theo. I’m not sure why, it’s just always been that way. Everyone one in the extended family simply referred to him as Theo, to understand why would probably require understanding why young children pick their first name for people that they do.

Jimmy, having been named after my uncle Dimitri, albeit in Americanized fashion, figured that he would automatically get the title of just “Theo” with our nephew. That, plus they both share a reputation of being a bit ornery and, at times, a bit of a grouch.

I used to work for Theo. On Saturdays, my mom would drop me off at his local grocery store on the way work & then pick me up when she was done. At the end, Theo would take me to the register, ask me what time I had gotten there, figure out the hours & then pay me with cash for the day’s work. It wasn’t much, but for a boy in his early teen, it paid for comic books, which was good enough. The job was simple: stocking the shelves, moving displays, cleaning coolers, that kind of thing. I’d show up in the morning & he’d telling me what to do for that day.

Theo had a deep voice & spoke in broken English. Often, when I’d only half-understand him, I’d start on what I thought was the most obvious task based on his pointing & gestures. If I started about it wrong, he would respond with a deep “no, no, Billy” and a finger wag. After a cycle or two , we’d have it sorted and he’d leave. Checking up on the job, he’d usually return an hour or so later with a “Bravo, Billy. Bravo.”

When it came to cleaning, my uncle was particular: Ammonia cleaned everything. It didn’t matter the task — ammonia solved it. When washing the floor, if he thought there was a particularly bad stain, he would show up with a bottle off the store shelves & dump the whole thing on the stain, then point and say “Good job, Billy.” “Good job” in this particular context being an instruction, not a compliment.

Remember the dad from My Big Fat Greek Wedding? The guy with Windex? That was my uncle, only with ammonia.

One weekend he wanted me to really clean a potato stand that must have been in produce aisle since the store had opened. We emptied it, took it in the back and in Theo fashion, he doused the thing in ammonia. Not one, but two bottles. I set out scrubbing for the next half hour or so, giving it all the elbow grease I could muster. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in an enclosed space with that much ammonia, but some twenty years latter, I think my sinuses are just now recovering.

After a bit, it was clear that the ammonia wasn’t having much affect on some of the stains. He stood up, apprised the situation and must have decided this after 40 years of ammonia, his beloved ammonia, perhaps it was time for more drastic measures. He left and my eyes went wide as he returned with a bottle of bleach, already unscrewing the cap. I’m not sure if it was my frantic hand waving or the alarm in my voice that gave him pause, but after a few minutes I convinced him to call my mom. I explained the situation to her (who found it funny. WTF? I’m the first born male. Surely that still means something.). I gave the phone to he phone to him so she could translate in Greek that he was about to kill us both. He seemed unphased, but relented, laughing as he hung up and patting me on the back, “Smart boy, Billy! Bravo, bravo!”

Later, I found that if things where tight for a family member, my uncle would simply show up at their house unannounced with bags of produce and food from the store. If Greek pride prevented one from accepting it, as Greek pride often would, he would argue with them to take it. If they shut the door on him, he’d simply leave the food on the stoop and then show up again a few days. I think maybe it was that kind of stubbornness that could be mistaken for being cantankerous.

When he passed away on Sunday, there was a small group of us in his room. It had been four or five days since he was admitted to hospice and his course of treatment changed from care to comfort. He hadn’t been conscious that whole time, but much of the extended family was there. On Sunday, after a particularly long Saturday, it had made sense for some to leave for quick showers, grab a bite to eat, etc.

His daughter, Katie, and his friend, Carol where by his beside. My sister, Terri, and my mom nearby. I was by the window, entertaining Quinn, turning Play-dough into little balls that he when then squish with glee. Afterwards, he’d hand it back to me, scream “Ball!”, then jump up & down, with the type of raw excitement often found in two-year olds.

As Terri & my mom comforted Katie & Carol, I made a few calls to let people know to come back. Too young to know what’s going on, I took Quinn to the field outside that he like to run around in. As he hopped, jumped and ran, I thought of my uncle. Working at his store, dinners at Christmas & Greek Easter, his last few years. It broke off mid-thought, as Quinn, either having worn himself out or simply wanting more direct attention, was grabbing my leg, raising his arms and saying “Up, ‘eo ‘illy! Up, up!” As I lifted him off the ground, I thought about that. Theo. Theo Billy. I smiled & went back inside.

Rest in peace, Theo. We’ll miss you.