My dad

My dad Joseph (Iosif in Greek) Economakis was born on May 1st 1925 in a small mountainous village called Vatoudiari in Crete. He grew up in a family of nine kids with six boys and three girls. Vatoudiari is the definition of a farming town, with sheep grazing and olive trees dotting the landscape. According to the internet, it has a population of 60. My dad didn’t believe this stat and claimed that they must be counting the dead as well. Even today, it feels like a voyage back in time closer to 1825 than 2025. Visiting the village is a form of time travel. To give you an idea, electricity was only installed in the sixties. It is a rugged, beautiful place in the heart of Crete.

My dad did not have an easy upbringing. He worked in the fields at a very early age which was the norm. Everyone had to pitch in. He only went to elementary school. Going to high school was out of an out of reach opportunity for most. As a young teenager, he endured a traumatic injury when he fell from a tree, severely damaging his hip. It required multiple surgeries leaving him with a limp for the rest of his life. But that didn’t dissuade him or slow him down. Despite humble beginnings, he was determined to make a life for himself.

The war

My dad was 16 when the Nazi army invaded in the battle of Crete in 1941. It was the first airborne invasion in military history. 22,000 German paratroopers jumped off bombers to conquer the island. The Cretans defended themselves ferociously, inflicting around 6,000 casualties on the Germans. The island however was quickly overtaken by a vastly superior force. The battle was also partially responsible for delaying operation Barbarossa, the German invasion of the Soviet Union. The resistance movement during the German occupation was a heroic effort led by mostly farmers and villagers determined to fight back. This often led to brutal repression which cost the lives of many including a few distant family members.

As legend has it, my dad and his friend Spiros each picked up a rifle and fought back in the mountains of their village. They both shot at a German soldier in the distance, hitting him before he stumbled away. We’ll never know who fired the bullet that found its mark and if the soldier survived. That was irrelevant for me. My dad shot a nazi and that is super badass. To this day, the island remains strategically important as the home to an important US naval base in the bay of Souda.

Crete

To understand my dad, you have to also understand Crete. It’s of course Greek but also very much a place that values its unique identity and is fiercely independent. As shown during the second world war, the Cretans are no pushovers. The island is renowned for its warm and generous hospitality (philoxenia). Welcoming guests and strangers alike is a deeply ingrained tradition, with sharing meals as the centerpiece. Strong family values and respect for elders are central to Cretan life.

Cretans have a profound sense of pride in their heritage, history, and traditions. Honor and duty are highly valued, and maintaining personal and family reputation is important. The honor thing can be a double edged sword. We grew up often hearing about vendettas aka blood feuds. These conflicts often started from disputes, such as murder or theft, and led to cycles of revenge that spanned generations. My sister and I would often joke that they started with the theft of a goat. Well, one cousin did steal a goat from another cousin which caused a commotion. We weren’t that far off. They are no longer a thing in Crete but the cultural code is still present.

I highly recommend that you visit the island if you have the chance. The natural beauty is unmatched. There are amazing mountain ranges and tropical beaches. The food is great with all locally sourced ingredients (few vegetarian options though!)

Throughout its history, Crete has faced numerous invasions and hardships, not to mention famine during the war. This has imbued the people with resilience and a rebellious attitude. My dad personified this spirit, he wanted to carve his own path which led him away from his native land.

Coming to Canada

After the war, my dad stayed in Crete and became a cheesemaking instructor. He was a public servant for the agriculture ministry and had a small school in Chania. He held a few odd jobs but economic opportunities on the island were scarce especially after the country’s bitter civil war. He made the difficult decision to leave and migrated to Montreal in 1964. There was a huge wave of Greek immigrants coming to Canada. I often asked my dad why he left a beautiful warm country for cold unforgiving winters. It was about economic opportunity and building a better life for himself.

Greeks first started to come to Montreal in large numbers in the 1950s, fleeing poverty in post-war Greece. Restaurants became a common venture for the newly arrived immigrants. My dad worked at an Italian restaurant called Paesano on Cote-Des-Neiges (owned by Greeks of course). He ran the management and procurement for many years. Later on, we would often hang around in that neighborhood on weekends, my dad loved visiting the oratory that bore his name. When the restaurant closed, he co-owned a profitable supermarket in Longueuil but was physically forced out by unscrupulous business partners that betrayed him. He then worked as a janitor and security guard at a shopping mall in Longueuil and a Greek grocery store in Parc-Extension.

He saved up, bought a grocery store and operated it with two partners (Niko and Menio) at the corner of Crémazie and St-Denis. He ran Mon Jardin for 25 years before he ultimately retired.

Family life

My dad would travel back often to see family in Greece in the early years. In 1975, my dad went back to Crete, was introduced to my mother Argiro. They came back to Canada to start a new life. My sister Helen was born the following year. My parents owned an apartment block in the east end but fell on hard times and had to declare bankruptcy. They moved from Christophe-Colomb to Parc-Extension in 1979. I was born two years later.

We led a simple and happy family life. We never desired for more and always had food on the table. Food was always an important part of our family’s culture. My dad was always asking me if I was hungry and if I had eaten, more so than if I was doing well in school. He remembered the pain of being hungry when he was little and didn’t want us to live through that trauma. The pestering about food was constant. Every time I would visit my parents, my dad would keep trying to hand me a bag of oranges or some other assortment of fruits & vegetables. “It’s ok Ba, I buy my own groceries” was not a satisfactory answer.

Our summer vacations were spent in Cape Cod and Plattsburgh and we had a happy childhood. When my sister and I misbehaved as kids, our mom would sometimes give us a quick slap with her slipper. If things got serious, my dad would threaten to take off his belt. That was enough to calm down the situation. The culture clash was sometimes painfully apparent. In one parent-teacher meeting in grade 3, my dad advisied the teacher that she had his full permission to hit me if I stepped out of line. I sat mortified in the corner.

We grew up Greek but not really. We grew up Canadian but not really. It was a strange fusion of two worlds. During the 80s and 90s, Parc-Extension was a microcosm of Greece with newspapers, banks, bakeries, churches, restaurants all serving Greeks in their language. Every immigrant Greek kid will tell you that their dad is exactly like the dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Nothing could be more true. We felt like we belonged and my parents found a neighborhood they can call their own.

Immigrant success story

My dad taught me the importance of hard work and keeping my head down while plowing through challenges. He provided for the family while my mom took care of us at home. This allowed my sister and me to attend private high school and Cegep, as well as Greek school on Saturdays—a commitment I resented at the time but have since grown deeply grateful for.

He worked at Mon Jardin until my early twenties. It was my first official job. I worked there on weekends starting at 10 years old. I mastered the cash register and would do local deliveries. It was honest work in a rough neighborhood during that time. The store got robbed plenty of times at gunpoint. It was never made to be a big deal, just part of running a business. The Québecois cashiers were even taught code words in Greek as a discrete warning system for burglaries. My dad would go to the bank to deposit the store’s earnings. He would hide the cash inside his jacket and carry a paper bag as a decoy. One time, just outside the store, someone snatched the paper bag and ran off in the middle of the busy street with my dad yelling at him. What the thief didn’t know is that he had stolen a bag full of rotten fruit.

He worked 6 days a week for as long as I can remember with either Christmas or New Year’s as a day off – never both. He would leave at 7am and come home often past 9pm. He learned both French and English, his French was quite good. He even picked up some Italian when he worked at Paesano. Once in a while, he would bust out an Italian expression. Una faccia, una razza signifying the close bond between the Greeks and Italians. Or his favorite: Finito la musica, passato la festa. When the music stops, the party is over.

He loved riding motorcycles and hunting back in Crete. His favorite Christmas gift was books on astronomy. He loved learning about the universe and pondered about how seemingly small we are. He was always curious. His mind always drifted back to Crete and wanted to go back yet knowing that he never would.

He was deeply grateful for the opportunities his country and province provided and took great pride in fulfilling his life’s mission: raising a family. He deeply valued education, recognizing it as a privilege he himself hadn’t been afforded. He took immense pride in seeing my sister and me pursue our studies, knowing we were achieving something that meant so much to him.

Health is wealth

My dad had his share of health challenges throughout his life. He was hospitalized for three months after my sister’s birth due to osteomyelitis. A stomach ulcer in his 60s kept giving him complications. Later on, Alzheimer’s made him forgetful. He kept calling René-Lévesque street by its original name Dorchester. Another frightening moment came when I was 17, as he experienced a mild seizure that was the beginning of epilepsy.

Despite these challenges, my dad had a good quality of life. He would leave the house every week to go grocery shopping, go to church or run errands. It’s rare to see someone in their 90s leave the house alone and come back with groceries. He adamantly refused going to a retirement home loudly proclaiming he would rather die. Is there a secret to this longevity? I would hazard to say that living on a mediterranean diet and constant activity come to mind. He also never smoked and drank very little. I like to think the biggest reason was his relentless spirit. He never saw himself as “retired” which was a foreign concept. He worked well into his late seventies and always found something to keep him occupied.

I was his caregiver helping around the house and the numerous health issues. It gave me a sense of duty and my dad was always grateful. I have to thank the nurses, doctors and hospital staff that took care of him. A special shout out to the Jewish General Hospital where he was hospitalized many times. We spent many nights there and always felt safe and well cared for. Living until 99 is seen as an accomplishment and I feel extremely lucky to have had him for this long though it doesn’t dull the pain of his loss. He witnessed so much in his life. The birth of his granddaughter last year brought him immense joy. His eyes would light up with happiness every time he saw her, a sight that remains one of my most cherished memories of him.

If my friends come over

My dad will be most remembered for his kindness; everyone who met him spoke of his heart of gold. My dad always put his friends and family’s interests above his own. He brought a calm and kind presence to every room he entered. He was always smiling and sociable, friendly to everyone he met. He loved life and time with friends but cherished family above all else and sacrificed a great deal for us. The memories of my dad that stand out most are the small, thoughtful gestures of kindness he showed us.

A renowned Cretan song beautifully captures his spirit, Μάνα κι αν έρθουν οι φίλοι μου.

If our friends come over, don’t bother them. Set the table for them to feast, a bed for them to sleep. And when they wake up in the morning and bid you farewell, then tell them I have passed away.

Καλό ταξίδι μπα