Tribute to Cousin Larry
When we visited Detroit when I was a kid, my mother was totally in her element, practically glowing with laughter, and my father was less angry and frustrated, both of them full of talk of the complicated politics of the 70s and early 80s mixed with memories from the old days. The grown-ups gathered around a long table beneath a thick cloud of smoke and spoke in rapidfire Greek or slow English with long vowels and harsh, sputtering consonants. There would be an endless parade of mousaka and baklava, kourambiethes, retsina, and strong Greek coffee. We would be allowed to stay up late and dance with the teenagers and adults to music blaring from a spinning record player or small stereo, depending on the year.
The next morning, my sister and I, the youngest of the Manolis’ in those days, would play on the sidewalk beneath a giant maple whose seeds looked like Ikaros’ wings. We knew the story of Ikaros well. Our family was from Ikaria, the island named for the winged boy who collapsed into the sea because he flew too close to the sun, wanting the best possible view of whatever was below. We never tired of watching those winged seeds spin.
Theo Georgo was my father’s first cousin. When my dad jumped ship in Baltimore, he hitchhiked his way to Theo Georgo and Thea Anna’s front door—and the rest is history. The Manolis’ were friends with my mother’s family in Akron, Ohio, and before long, my mother had agreed to marry my father so immigration would get off his back. Eventually, for reasons that will be forever debated among the elders in the family, there was a real wedding in the church in Akron—followed by visits back and forth between Detroit and Akron for many years.
The Manolis brothers sort of blurred together in my mind. I knew their names and had some vague idea of their birth order, but they were all older than me by between 10 and 20 years, and they seemed to move in a big mass of muscles and thick, dark hair. I was a little bit afraid of them, except for Larry, who stood out as the gentlest of them all, the most likely to be standing on the sidelines, ready to have a quiet conversation. I can’t say I remember talking much to him, though—only that I was aware of a certain quietness in him. He watched people, rather than joining in at the center of everything, so even as a little girl, I noticed he was a little different.
The visits to Detroit dissipated after my mother’s death when I was 13, and by then, the six Manolis children were grown up with their own families or homes. The first adult conversation I remember having with Larry was at my father’s funeral nearly 20 years later. He asked me about Minnesota, where I had been living by then for almost 10 years. He had questions about everything from the weather patterns to the soybean industry to the population changes that I couldn’t answer—and as we talked, it became obvious that he knew way more than I did about my own home state. I think I broke his heart when I told him I’d never been to the Twins stadium. I couldn’t discuss its unique design or how it was funded or built. I couldn’t even discuss the team’s record!
About six months later, Larry picked my daughter and I up from the airport when we came to Detroit for a Pan-Ikarian convention. “Want to take a couple detours?” he asked, but I was anxious to get to the hotel and see the rest of the family. Even so, he pointed out a few buildings along the way, describing their history and unique architectural details. I perked up, realizing that he would make a brilliant tour guide. I told him I wanted a rain check on that detour—that maybe he could give us a real tour the next time we were in town.
I cashed in that rain check last summer, not knowing it would be the last time I would see Larry. When Lisa, my significant other Tara, and I agreed to go with him on a tour, we had no idea that we were going to spend six hours in a car, idling in front of some of the most run-down buildings we had ever seen, or cruising through rough neighborhoods that we would never have never found, considering they were hardly tourist destinations.
My daughter sat happily in the front passenger seat, chatting with Larry as if she’d known him forever, even though they had only met a couple times before the drive. She told me later she felt safe riding with him—rare for someone with her history of abuse at the hands of so many men. When I asked her if she knew why, she said, “He just seemed so gentle. Like he couldn’t hurt anyone even if he wanted to.” I understood; I had sensed the same gentleness in him when I was a little girl.
Tara and I sat in the back, and Larry always made sure to park at an angle that would allow us to see whatever site we were visiting. Sometimes he would inch up slowly, or drive at a snail’s pace around the block, just to make sure all three of us had a good view.
Now that I know I won’t get another tour of Detroit from Larry, I wish I’d taken a notebook along, or a camera. I wish I’d asked more questions. I wish my mind could hold onto facts with even a quarter of the agility that his did.
I do remember a few key moments, though. I have more of an affinity for language than for images, so I can hear him speaking in these moments, and the city is a backdrop, scenery rather than the main show.
Tiger Stadium
Larry was a serious baseball fan. We parked at least four different times while he pointed out details in Ford Field and that I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed—a certain tile on the wall, the shape of a particular window, the subtle changes in the image of the mascot over time. I wish I had the kind of brain that could have held onto these facts.
As we drove away, he pointed out a hotel whose name I don’t remember. “Remember when we had the Kariotiko there, back in the 70s?” he asked. I said I didn’t remember, but I was sure I’d been there--my parents never missed a Pan-Ikarian convention, and my sister and I were always with them, even when we were little girls. He laughed, saying he had forgotten how young I was.
His family, of course, had not reserved a hotel room for that convention—they lived in the city, after all, and were probably hosting a houseful of out-of-town guests—but some of our cousins had, and he’d gone to a party in their room one night. He told us, slowly, reverently, that he had caught a glimpse of the city through the window during that party. He said he had just stopped and stared. “Here I had lived in Detroit all my life, but I had never really seen the city until that moment,” he said. “That was the moment, I think, when I knew I would be an architect someday.” We were all silent, even my daughter, who was prone to interrupting the tour with questions that were only vaguely relevant.
“That’s amazing,” my daughter finally said.
“I haven’t thought about that in a long time.” Larry pulled onto the freeway to get to our next destination.
Michigan Central Station
On the way to the abandoned train station in the center of Detroit, Larry pointed out old warehouses that were now artists’ studios, saying he thought that this was a sign the city was redefining itself. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked, but he didn’t answer.
My first glimpse of Michigan Central Station was not particularly impressive. I saw an old, dark, fenced-off building looming above the freeway, surrounded by abandoned train cars and unreadable graffiti. But as we got closer, I noticed the Corinthian columns, the stone archways as elegant as any historic site in Greece. He idled in front of the building, where a sign read: “Be a part of the rebirth of Detroit.” He spoke for awhile about how the columns had been made, then proceeded to drive slowly around the building so we could see it from different angles. I’d forgotten my camera, but Tara got out her phone and snapped some of the only photos we have of this tour.
“Some guy bought it, I guess, saying he wanted to fix it up, but then it sat here empty for a long time. Probably he ran out of money. But it looks like they’re working on it now.” He paused, then added, “I always thought if I won the lotto, I’d buy this place and…” his voice trailed off, but I caught a glimpse of his face in the rear-view. He looked, for one second, exactly like his father, the same crooked half-grin I remembered on Theo Georgo’s face. I almost expected him to light up a cigar.
“You should open a Detroit tour business,” I said to him, completely serious. “Nobody else could give a tour like this.” He laughed in a way that was also familiar—his mother’s laugh, and his sister Diane’s—a murmur that stops and starts, until it finally settles into silence. I felt tears pressing against the backs of my eyes for some reason. I remember wishing Larry would win the lotto. How many people hope to win the lotto because they want to make their hometowns beautiful and relevant again? Larry had been laid off for two years, after working as an architect. The economic downturn had devastated not only the city, but also his own life. But he took it all in stride. “I’m anxious to see how this all turns out,” he said as we drove away.
The Detroit Riverwalk
We drove through Greektown with its long strands of plastic Greek flags, its torn up streets and sidewalks, past the casino with its tacky multi-colored Olympic flames. We couldn’t find parking, which was just as well; Greektown was one place in Detroit where I’d spent plenty of time over the years.
I’d been to the Riverwalk, also—but I knew the experience would be different with Larry in tow. We parked the car and got out to walk. It was a beautiful day, overcast but warm. Larry was overweight and quickly out of breath; we slowed down, and for the first time all day he seemed to be willing to just look out over the water, no longer performing for us. We stood there silently for awhile, watching the boats go by, then moved slowly toward the fountains where city kids showed up en masse in their bathing suits in front of the auto headquarters and mall.
Tara snapped the only photo of Larry that I have on that walk: he’s wearing his father’s a half-smile, and if you look carefully, you can see that he’s just lowered his hand after gesturing toward the skyscrapers that are outside the camera’s frame. He looks a little surprised. Soon afterwards, he launched into a long explanation of when and how each of the buildings had been built.
“How do you remember all of this?” I asked him.
He laughed, again, the laugh that is so classically Manolis. He didn’t have an answer, of course, because that was just who he was—he had a knack for paying attention that most of us couldn’t develop even if we tried.
Pewabic Pottery
We visited the old landmark that dates back to 1903 where beautiful tiles and other pieces of pottery are still being made. We spent a long time there toward the end of the tour, when all our energy was a little bit low.
“I had a feeling you would like this place. It just seemed like you,” he said. I was touched, because Larry really didn’t know a lot about me, but he was right.
There was an art show on the second floor, paintings of old buildings in Detroit, and I remember he became very troubled because there was a painting of a church he didn’t recognize. He got up close, trying to place it on the map of Detroit that I imagined was burned into his brain, some fantastic maze of lines and architectural details.
I picked up tile after tile, and almost bought one with the image of winged seeds pressed into its surface. Ultimately, I couldn’t justify it—our home is small, and there’s precious little space on the walls for more art—but I remember trying to figure out why I was so drawn to it.
I’d forgotten, somehow, how much my sister and I had loved those spinning seeds outside the Manolis’ house, how we had spun stories to match their silent cadence as we watched them spin.
Belle Isle
When we got to Belle Isle, we drove around what appeared to be a completely deserted park. He pointed out an old casino, slightly similar in shape and design to the train station we’d seen earlier. There was an aquarium and a conservatory, both closed, as far as we could tell. A lone biker passed us on the side of the road—as usual, Larry was driving slowly so we could see clearly as he narrated. A giant, slightly crumbling fountain suddenly appeared, guarded by massive stone lions. Little angel-boys gripped the back of fish, whose open mouths suggested that there had once been water streaming from them.
We drove along an overgrown beach. We were going slowly enough that I could see needles and condoms along the side of the road.
“It’s a different place now, but when we were kids, we came out here and played around, went swimming…” He went on with details I don’t remember about particular features of the beach at that time, but I was somewhere else, imagining Theo Georgo and Thea Anna carting six kids across Detroit to go to the beach. In my mind’s eye, I could see them scrambling out of the car—did they all fit in one car? The boys’ bodies gleamed in the sun, tanned and tough, as they rushed toward the water, while Diane and Nancy followed, stepping gingerly over the rocks. I watched Theo Georgo light up a cigar, slow motion. Thea Anna spread out a blanket and plopped down a picnic basket, an old, wicker thing like the ones I had seen in old photos of Pan-Ikarian picnics from the 1950s.
I remembered then, for the first time, the tree outside their house with its Ikaros-wings. I wished I’d purchased that tile. I thought about the legends that had led to my father’s crossing the Atlantic—legends grander, even, than the story of Ikaros. I thought about how long it must have taken for him to find his cousin, imagined him opening a giant Detroit phone book and looking for the last name Manolis, squinting hard, trying to sound out the unfamiliar English letters.
I saw myself as a little girl reaching up to catch those spinning seeds—then arranging them on the sidewalk to spell out words I knew--giant V’s which, when connected, could be W’s or M’s, or, when crossed with blades of grass, A’s or tiny stars. Through the window I could hear Thea Anna’s laugh, and then my mother’s, louder and longer, the voices of our ghost-fathers, mine and Larry’s, arguing politics in their thick, Ikarian accents.
Larry told us that the city and the state were fighting over Belle Isle. There was a plan to charge an entrance fee, use the funds to fix the place up—and another to sell it off to developers—and what would be best or worst in the long run, anyway? He asked this question out loud, but I could tell he didn’t want an answer—he was either wrestling with the question himself or too humble or shy to tell us his opinion.
“It’s a good thing, at least, that everybody wants to fix it up, whoever ends up with it, right?” I said. He didn’t answer.
By the time the tour was over, I was convinced that Detroit was the most picturesque city I had ever visited. Larry had made me care about the Tigers’ stadium even though I couldn’t have told you, prior to the tour, the name Detroit’s baseball team. He transformed a place strewn with drug paraphernalia, overgrown grass, and keep out signs into a family destination. He made me believe that the fountain on Belle Isle would spring to life and that somebody’s kid would sprint to its top to throw in a treasured lucky penny. He made me wish I knew somebody rich enough to buy an old, abandoned building that loomed like a shadowy ghost over the city—then give it to Larry.
We want to believe, though we’ll never know for sure, that Larry died doing what he loved most in the world—driving around Detroit, looking at what buildings were going up or coming down, tracking the progress on Detroit’s rebirth. He ran into some bad luck, unexpected icy roads and fog.
We Manolis’ are rooted by blood and legend to that winged boy who died too early. We sprouted from seeds of tragedy and loss, but also from hope, from a firm belief that the future might be better. That’s why our ancestors settled that rocky island named for a foolish boy, fought on the losing side of the war, jumped ship, hitchhiked their way to the front doors of first cousins they had never met.
No matter how quickly we spin through our lives—no matter how thick the haze of smoke or fog, how loud the music or the silence—all of us who loved Larry also love Detroit. We’re rooted there in the city’s tragedies, but also in its glory days—the ones gone by and the ones he believed were yet to come.
The next morning, my sister and I, the youngest of the Manolis’ in those days, would play on the sidewalk beneath a giant maple whose seeds looked like Ikaros’ wings. We knew the story of Ikaros well. Our family was from Ikaria, the island named for the winged boy who collapsed into the sea because he flew too close to the sun, wanting the best possible view of whatever was below. We never tired of watching those winged seeds spin.
Theo Georgo was my father’s first cousin. When my dad jumped ship in Baltimore, he hitchhiked his way to Theo Georgo and Thea Anna’s front door—and the rest is history. The Manolis’ were friends with my mother’s family in Akron, Ohio, and before long, my mother had agreed to marry my father so immigration would get off his back. Eventually, for reasons that will be forever debated among the elders in the family, there was a real wedding in the church in Akron—followed by visits back and forth between Detroit and Akron for many years.
The Manolis brothers sort of blurred together in my mind. I knew their names and had some vague idea of their birth order, but they were all older than me by between 10 and 20 years, and they seemed to move in a big mass of muscles and thick, dark hair. I was a little bit afraid of them, except for Larry, who stood out as the gentlest of them all, the most likely to be standing on the sidelines, ready to have a quiet conversation. I can’t say I remember talking much to him, though—only that I was aware of a certain quietness in him. He watched people, rather than joining in at the center of everything, so even as a little girl, I noticed he was a little different.
The visits to Detroit dissipated after my mother’s death when I was 13, and by then, the six Manolis children were grown up with their own families or homes. The first adult conversation I remember having with Larry was at my father’s funeral nearly 20 years later. He asked me about Minnesota, where I had been living by then for almost 10 years. He had questions about everything from the weather patterns to the soybean industry to the population changes that I couldn’t answer—and as we talked, it became obvious that he knew way more than I did about my own home state. I think I broke his heart when I told him I’d never been to the Twins stadium. I couldn’t discuss its unique design or how it was funded or built. I couldn’t even discuss the team’s record!
About six months later, Larry picked my daughter and I up from the airport when we came to Detroit for a Pan-Ikarian convention. “Want to take a couple detours?” he asked, but I was anxious to get to the hotel and see the rest of the family. Even so, he pointed out a few buildings along the way, describing their history and unique architectural details. I perked up, realizing that he would make a brilliant tour guide. I told him I wanted a rain check on that detour—that maybe he could give us a real tour the next time we were in town.
I cashed in that rain check last summer, not knowing it would be the last time I would see Larry. When Lisa, my significant other Tara, and I agreed to go with him on a tour, we had no idea that we were going to spend six hours in a car, idling in front of some of the most run-down buildings we had ever seen, or cruising through rough neighborhoods that we would never have never found, considering they were hardly tourist destinations.
My daughter sat happily in the front passenger seat, chatting with Larry as if she’d known him forever, even though they had only met a couple times before the drive. She told me later she felt safe riding with him—rare for someone with her history of abuse at the hands of so many men. When I asked her if she knew why, she said, “He just seemed so gentle. Like he couldn’t hurt anyone even if he wanted to.” I understood; I had sensed the same gentleness in him when I was a little girl.
Tara and I sat in the back, and Larry always made sure to park at an angle that would allow us to see whatever site we were visiting. Sometimes he would inch up slowly, or drive at a snail’s pace around the block, just to make sure all three of us had a good view.
Now that I know I won’t get another tour of Detroit from Larry, I wish I’d taken a notebook along, or a camera. I wish I’d asked more questions. I wish my mind could hold onto facts with even a quarter of the agility that his did.
I do remember a few key moments, though. I have more of an affinity for language than for images, so I can hear him speaking in these moments, and the city is a backdrop, scenery rather than the main show.
Tiger Stadium
Larry was a serious baseball fan. We parked at least four different times while he pointed out details in Ford Field and that I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed—a certain tile on the wall, the shape of a particular window, the subtle changes in the image of the mascot over time. I wish I had the kind of brain that could have held onto these facts.
As we drove away, he pointed out a hotel whose name I don’t remember. “Remember when we had the Kariotiko there, back in the 70s?” he asked. I said I didn’t remember, but I was sure I’d been there--my parents never missed a Pan-Ikarian convention, and my sister and I were always with them, even when we were little girls. He laughed, saying he had forgotten how young I was.
His family, of course, had not reserved a hotel room for that convention—they lived in the city, after all, and were probably hosting a houseful of out-of-town guests—but some of our cousins had, and he’d gone to a party in their room one night. He told us, slowly, reverently, that he had caught a glimpse of the city through the window during that party. He said he had just stopped and stared. “Here I had lived in Detroit all my life, but I had never really seen the city until that moment,” he said. “That was the moment, I think, when I knew I would be an architect someday.” We were all silent, even my daughter, who was prone to interrupting the tour with questions that were only vaguely relevant.
“That’s amazing,” my daughter finally said.
“I haven’t thought about that in a long time.” Larry pulled onto the freeway to get to our next destination.
Michigan Central Station
On the way to the abandoned train station in the center of Detroit, Larry pointed out old warehouses that were now artists’ studios, saying he thought that this was a sign the city was redefining itself. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked, but he didn’t answer.
My first glimpse of Michigan Central Station was not particularly impressive. I saw an old, dark, fenced-off building looming above the freeway, surrounded by abandoned train cars and unreadable graffiti. But as we got closer, I noticed the Corinthian columns, the stone archways as elegant as any historic site in Greece. He idled in front of the building, where a sign read: “Be a part of the rebirth of Detroit.” He spoke for awhile about how the columns had been made, then proceeded to drive slowly around the building so we could see it from different angles. I’d forgotten my camera, but Tara got out her phone and snapped some of the only photos we have of this tour.
“Some guy bought it, I guess, saying he wanted to fix it up, but then it sat here empty for a long time. Probably he ran out of money. But it looks like they’re working on it now.” He paused, then added, “I always thought if I won the lotto, I’d buy this place and…” his voice trailed off, but I caught a glimpse of his face in the rear-view. He looked, for one second, exactly like his father, the same crooked half-grin I remembered on Theo Georgo’s face. I almost expected him to light up a cigar.
“You should open a Detroit tour business,” I said to him, completely serious. “Nobody else could give a tour like this.” He laughed in a way that was also familiar—his mother’s laugh, and his sister Diane’s—a murmur that stops and starts, until it finally settles into silence. I felt tears pressing against the backs of my eyes for some reason. I remember wishing Larry would win the lotto. How many people hope to win the lotto because they want to make their hometowns beautiful and relevant again? Larry had been laid off for two years, after working as an architect. The economic downturn had devastated not only the city, but also his own life. But he took it all in stride. “I’m anxious to see how this all turns out,” he said as we drove away.
The Detroit Riverwalk
We drove through Greektown with its long strands of plastic Greek flags, its torn up streets and sidewalks, past the casino with its tacky multi-colored Olympic flames. We couldn’t find parking, which was just as well; Greektown was one place in Detroit where I’d spent plenty of time over the years.
I’d been to the Riverwalk, also—but I knew the experience would be different with Larry in tow. We parked the car and got out to walk. It was a beautiful day, overcast but warm. Larry was overweight and quickly out of breath; we slowed down, and for the first time all day he seemed to be willing to just look out over the water, no longer performing for us. We stood there silently for awhile, watching the boats go by, then moved slowly toward the fountains where city kids showed up en masse in their bathing suits in front of the auto headquarters and mall.
Tara snapped the only photo of Larry that I have on that walk: he’s wearing his father’s a half-smile, and if you look carefully, you can see that he’s just lowered his hand after gesturing toward the skyscrapers that are outside the camera’s frame. He looks a little surprised. Soon afterwards, he launched into a long explanation of when and how each of the buildings had been built.
“How do you remember all of this?” I asked him.
He laughed, again, the laugh that is so classically Manolis. He didn’t have an answer, of course, because that was just who he was—he had a knack for paying attention that most of us couldn’t develop even if we tried.
Pewabic Pottery
We visited the old landmark that dates back to 1903 where beautiful tiles and other pieces of pottery are still being made. We spent a long time there toward the end of the tour, when all our energy was a little bit low.
“I had a feeling you would like this place. It just seemed like you,” he said. I was touched, because Larry really didn’t know a lot about me, but he was right.
There was an art show on the second floor, paintings of old buildings in Detroit, and I remember he became very troubled because there was a painting of a church he didn’t recognize. He got up close, trying to place it on the map of Detroit that I imagined was burned into his brain, some fantastic maze of lines and architectural details.
I picked up tile after tile, and almost bought one with the image of winged seeds pressed into its surface. Ultimately, I couldn’t justify it—our home is small, and there’s precious little space on the walls for more art—but I remember trying to figure out why I was so drawn to it.
I’d forgotten, somehow, how much my sister and I had loved those spinning seeds outside the Manolis’ house, how we had spun stories to match their silent cadence as we watched them spin.
Belle Isle
When we got to Belle Isle, we drove around what appeared to be a completely deserted park. He pointed out an old casino, slightly similar in shape and design to the train station we’d seen earlier. There was an aquarium and a conservatory, both closed, as far as we could tell. A lone biker passed us on the side of the road—as usual, Larry was driving slowly so we could see clearly as he narrated. A giant, slightly crumbling fountain suddenly appeared, guarded by massive stone lions. Little angel-boys gripped the back of fish, whose open mouths suggested that there had once been water streaming from them.
We drove along an overgrown beach. We were going slowly enough that I could see needles and condoms along the side of the road.
“It’s a different place now, but when we were kids, we came out here and played around, went swimming…” He went on with details I don’t remember about particular features of the beach at that time, but I was somewhere else, imagining Theo Georgo and Thea Anna carting six kids across Detroit to go to the beach. In my mind’s eye, I could see them scrambling out of the car—did they all fit in one car? The boys’ bodies gleamed in the sun, tanned and tough, as they rushed toward the water, while Diane and Nancy followed, stepping gingerly over the rocks. I watched Theo Georgo light up a cigar, slow motion. Thea Anna spread out a blanket and plopped down a picnic basket, an old, wicker thing like the ones I had seen in old photos of Pan-Ikarian picnics from the 1950s.
I remembered then, for the first time, the tree outside their house with its Ikaros-wings. I wished I’d purchased that tile. I thought about the legends that had led to my father’s crossing the Atlantic—legends grander, even, than the story of Ikaros. I thought about how long it must have taken for him to find his cousin, imagined him opening a giant Detroit phone book and looking for the last name Manolis, squinting hard, trying to sound out the unfamiliar English letters.
I saw myself as a little girl reaching up to catch those spinning seeds—then arranging them on the sidewalk to spell out words I knew--giant V’s which, when connected, could be W’s or M’s, or, when crossed with blades of grass, A’s or tiny stars. Through the window I could hear Thea Anna’s laugh, and then my mother’s, louder and longer, the voices of our ghost-fathers, mine and Larry’s, arguing politics in their thick, Ikarian accents.
Larry told us that the city and the state were fighting over Belle Isle. There was a plan to charge an entrance fee, use the funds to fix the place up—and another to sell it off to developers—and what would be best or worst in the long run, anyway? He asked this question out loud, but I could tell he didn’t want an answer—he was either wrestling with the question himself or too humble or shy to tell us his opinion.
“It’s a good thing, at least, that everybody wants to fix it up, whoever ends up with it, right?” I said. He didn’t answer.
By the time the tour was over, I was convinced that Detroit was the most picturesque city I had ever visited. Larry had made me care about the Tigers’ stadium even though I couldn’t have told you, prior to the tour, the name Detroit’s baseball team. He transformed a place strewn with drug paraphernalia, overgrown grass, and keep out signs into a family destination. He made me believe that the fountain on Belle Isle would spring to life and that somebody’s kid would sprint to its top to throw in a treasured lucky penny. He made me wish I knew somebody rich enough to buy an old, abandoned building that loomed like a shadowy ghost over the city—then give it to Larry.
We want to believe, though we’ll never know for sure, that Larry died doing what he loved most in the world—driving around Detroit, looking at what buildings were going up or coming down, tracking the progress on Detroit’s rebirth. He ran into some bad luck, unexpected icy roads and fog.
We Manolis’ are rooted by blood and legend to that winged boy who died too early. We sprouted from seeds of tragedy and loss, but also from hope, from a firm belief that the future might be better. That’s why our ancestors settled that rocky island named for a foolish boy, fought on the losing side of the war, jumped ship, hitchhiked their way to the front doors of first cousins they had never met.
No matter how quickly we spin through our lives—no matter how thick the haze of smoke or fog, how loud the music or the silence—all of us who loved Larry also love Detroit. We’re rooted there in the city’s tragedies, but also in its glory days—the ones gone by and the ones he believed were yet to come.
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