Love was served with Greek salads and ice cream cones in a house right off Hawthorne Boulevard. This house was built in the 1940s by Greek immigrants finding home in what was then a field of strawberries. My great-grandfather can be seen on an old film reel building the house; my papou (grandpa) playing in the lawn as a young boy. A scene far more serene than the noises marching down the road now.
As Hawthorne grew, so too did the lives of my relatives. Simple dinners made way for parties hosting every Greek in the neighborhood. The basement overflowed with cigarette smoke and laughter.
Likewise, the strawberry fields faded into old photographs. Businesses and more houses filling the contemporary picture. Coffee shops, restaurants, record stores, book shops, theaters and thrift stores all call Hawthorne their home now.
Nearly every Sunday of my youth was spent in that house off Hawthorne.
As a child, after church I’d run through the door and hear the screen slam behind me, my yiayia’s (grandmother’s) “I love you” overpowering any sound from the street. The entire family would shuffle in as my papou brought extra chairs into the kitchen nook where chicken strips with A-1 sauce were stationed to be eaten. I took my post-liturgical nap to the noise of conversations flowing with coffee being poured.
The house is quieter now and I live in the basement as a college student.
I was told it was the first basement in Portland that had windows, an east coast touch my great-grandmother added. The bar I sip my coffee at was handbuilt along with the bookshelf my current course textbooks rest in.
My family still visits every Sunday. My papou makes the same chicken strips and Greek salad spread that our palettes have become so accustomed to. We still share stories and laughter, even though the volume of these things has diminished as family members have departed from their places in that kitchen nook.
In the evening, I take walks down Hawthorne and see the neon signs radiate through the sounds of shops closing and bars opening. I still walk into Powell’s Books on Hawthorne and browse paperbacks I won’t ever buy.
This boulevard was and still is my world. I have grown up here, and continue to grow here. Everything I could need resides in these city blocks. My memories, my family and my interests all call Hawthorne home.
It is an important exercise to take into account what exactly makes the places and people we call home special. For some, like myself, the familiarity and love of a certain location is what makes that house off Hawthorne the best home for me. However it does not have to be a place that one has a long history with.
Perhaps home is conversations with a particular person. Maybe it is cooking your favorite meal and indulging in the tastes and scents associated with it. Home could even be a song in which a myriad of memories reside.
Everyone has a special place they call home, but the best house will always be off Hawthorne Boulevard.
Noah Carandanis is the Living Editor for The Beacon. He can be reached at carandan26@up.edu.
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