This letter was given to my παππούλη when he turned 100. George Sakoulas died in August 2026 at nearly 103.

Dear Popoule,

I’m 35 years old and feel immensely fortunate. How lucky I am to be this age and still have you in my life! Many of my peers no longer have their grandparents.

I wanted to mark your 100th birthday by reflecting on memories that have meant much to me over the years. Like doing yard work at your house as a boy, trying to get you to go inside, out of the heat. You would pay me extra on those hot days, explaining that the army called it “hazard pay.” I was proud to be the grandson old enough to help.

Going out to breakfast or lunch, just the two of us. On the mornings of yard work, I knew this was coming when you and Yia Yia started speaking quietly in Greek. 

Christmas at your house. This was a highlight of the entire year — family, laughter, gifts, feasting. Playing pool in your basement. Once or twice looking into the forbidden Popoule’s office, marveling in the dark at all the papers, books, and trinkets. Christmas at Yia Yia and Popoule’s was formative, unforgettable, for all of us.

You bringing donuts over for my siblings and me. You are a kind soul, a sweet man, generous.

Interviewing you for a school paper I wrote, a mini-biography, which I still have. “I was just a boy on my bicycle,” you began. Your frustration that you didn’t make it to the front line during the war stuck with me.

I remember many instances of your humor, often dry and biting and unexpected, accompanied by a delightful, infectious laugh. You once talked about the importance of developing good social skills. You said, “When I was a young man, I would go on a date. I wouldn’t say anything. And she wouldn’t say anything.” You held a long pause, as if demonstrating the awkward silence. “So.” Another memorable moment occurred when a few of us were at a hotel for a cousin’s graduation. We went into our separate rooms for an hour to rest. When we reconvened in the hall, you looked right at me and asked, “Well, did you get to take a little nappy-poo?” 

And of course, I remember our discussions about history. And languages. And politics. About the Greeks and the Depression and the war and root words. Your intellect and memory, even at a century old, impress me. Thank you for all the books — and for singing in Italian.

Thank you for these moments. Thank you for loving us and making our lives rich. Happy 100th — I love you.

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