OPA!

As a kid, I lived next door to a Greek immigrant couple. 

Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula were like a doting aunt and uncle. They'd bring over Greek treats, like rice pudding with raisins. In summer, I'd swing past their patio for some loukoumades - dough balls soaked in a honey-cinnamon syrup and sprinkled with powdered sugar. At Christmas, we'd benefit from Greek pastries. 

It was more than food, though. Any time Mr. Nick would see Dad come home with a bag from the hardware store, the phone would ring. 

"David, what you doing?" Mr. Nick would ask, his accent as thick as a cup of coffee served across from the Acropolis. 

Once Dad would explain the project - installing a new vanity, repairing the kitchen sink drain - he'd say, "I be over." 

He'd examine the situation, muttering, "What the matter be…" And when a part or tool didn't work right, inevitably you'd hear, "DAMN SHIT!"

He taught Dad a lot about homeownership. And me, too. I've been known to yell, "DAMN SHIT!" at a piece of malfunctioning plumbing. 

Mr. Nick died around my birthday when I was in fourth grade. Mrs. Kula died earlier this year. 

But often, my family would attend the Greek festival in the Baltimore area. And Dad would get a shot of ouzo - like Greek sambuca - and toast Mr. Nick, yelling the traditional "OPA!" afterward.

When I became of age, I'd join Dad. And we'd tell stories about Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula. 

Earlier this week, I got my dinner from a Greek Orthodox Church in Scranton. They had a food festival, though there was no rice pudding with raisins, loukoumades or ouzo. 

But over my lamb shank, Greek salad and piece of baklava, I toasted Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula, and thought about the Greek immigrant couple who had a big impact on my life. 

OPA!