submitted by George Poulos on 11.05.2014
has become a ubiquitous and powerful image throughout the Kytherian world" over the past 10 years.
kythera-family.net turns ten. Χρόνια Πολλά. Να τα εκατοστήσεις
I found Vikki Vrettos Fraioli on Kythera-Family.net and mailed her regarding her Hlentzos connection, and since the first email a couple of days ago, I have had many many emails from her with a huge amount of information regarding my relatives. If this website was not available to us, all this information would never have been shared."
Heather de Marco, April 2013
It is now ten years since we first launched kythera-family.net (kfn). If you don't already know how it came to be, here's a short recap of the story:
The seed was actually sown back in 1996 when I put on a photographic exhibition called "A Village on Kythera" in the Bondi Pavilion. There I met so many lovely Kytherians (and others – like a group of Sicilian grand¬mothers who cried when they saw my pictures because it reminded them of home...). Many of the Kytherians told me of their collections of vintage pictures from Kythera. I would have loved to help them collate and scan and publish their pictures but it wasn't until about 2001 that I found an affordable and practical solution: to use the internet.
Back then, "community sites" were almost unheard of and the founder of Facebook was probably just out of nappies. So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that my idea to create an online heritage repository, to which members of the Kytherian community could upload their family material to the site for the rest of the world to share and enjoy, fell on deaf ears in the beginning.
Then a man, who, up until that time, had never used the internet himself, saved the day: Angelo Notaras. Ann Coward suggested I get in touch with him and it didn't take long for Angelo to recognise the potential benefits to the Kytherian community and he put his conside-rable reputation behind the project. He and his equally generous brothers, John and the late Mitch Notaras, put their money where their vision was and helped convince others to financially support the endeavour.
Next came the ebullient George C. Poulos to the party and, when he wasn't fervently preaching to the less internet-savvy members of the Kytherian Association of Australia (KAA) that the internet wasn't just a fad, he was motivating community members to entrust copies of their heritage material to him to upload to the young site. He and Angelo managed to persuade the KAA Board to embrace the concept, and the latter have been loyal supporters ever since, as evidenced by this article.
The initial problem was that the people with the most knowledge and material on Kythera were of a generation who were still fazed by mobile telephones, never mind by "websites", "uploading" and "urls". Ten years on, even if that generation doesn't use the internet or emails regularly themselves, they generally know what it is about and allow their children and grandchildren to upload their family stories and picture to our site.
Over the past ten years the 3,000 registered users have submitted over 19 000 entries to KFN: life stories, maps, recipes, and other documents to the site, which are viewed by around 20 000 visitors each month!
The extensive Message Board on the site gives evidence of the hundreds of connections made by the site between Kytherians separated by thousands of kilometres, or far less. Two of our most avid contributors live only a few kilometres from each other in California, but discovered their family link through our site.
The possible significance of one group photo from Kythera from 1920 with a dozen people in it is exponential: a fifty-year-old in that picture might have had five children and twenty grandchildren and forty great-grandchildren. That makes sixty-five descendents per person in the picture and a total of 780 for all the subjects. Now, how many of those 780 will have ever seen that picture? Not many if it is stored under someone's bed. But online all of them have access if they care to look.
And the nice thing about a website as opposed to a publication is that there is virtually no limit to the amount which can be presented on it. So it's not too late to post your grandmother's Greek passport or your great-great-grandfather's birth certificate. It's the best way to make sure that your own great-grandchildren will be able to find it one day.
The ten-year anniversary of kythera-family was celebrated with a well-attended party held at the Mill Resort, Mitata, Kythera, in July 2013.
In Australia it was celebrated at the Kytherian Association November Family Dance, Westside Reception Lounge, Marrickville on 23 November 2013.
I agree with James that the key driver of kfn has been Angelo Notaras OAM. I also agree that the success of the web-site can be attributed to a number of superior features inherent in the site: The web-site is generative. One photograph or one story can elicit a great deal of additional inter-related information.
The web-site is connective. Individuals, families, and organisations have been connected, and re-connected. At every level, the spirit of kytheraismos has been greatly enhanced.
The web-site is revelatory. New information is being uncovered all the time, which most of the world’s Kytherians had previously been unaware of.
The number of Kytherians and Philokytherians who, like Heather der Marco, quoted earlier, who have derived immense pleasure from kythera-family.net? Unknowable! What we do know is that an economic and architectonic infrastructure has been put in place to ensure that www.kythera-family.net will be maintained indefinitely. Hence it will always remain a key force in the preservation, maintenance, and enhancement of Kytherian history, culture, artefacts, ethos and heritage.
By its very existence kythera-family.net has helped energise its principals and supporters to create new and exciting projects – many of which most Kytherians around the world would not guess have derived from kfn. These include the publishing accomplishments of the Kytherian World Heritage Fund – as of mid 2014 thirty-one books with a Kytherian theme available for sale in Australia and in Greece.
kfn has also forged powerful links with the Society of Kytherian Studies in Athens, who have also published 25 books with a Kytherian theme in the Greek language, and the Departments of History and Philosophy at Athens University through Professor’s George and Athanassia Leontsinis. Strong links with KIPA and the Kytheriasmos Institute have also been created. The website has already inspired a Masters Thesis in Germany by Angeliki Pentsi, and Alexander Riedmuller will soon publish his Ph.D thesis on the the kfn website in Bamberg, Germany.
kfn aids people in research, sometimes on a daily basis. For example, on the 7th of April 2014, I received an email from a person thanking kfn and me for providing information on the site which helped him with a paper he delivered the previous week to the 10th Panionian Conference. The topic being "Kythira-Smyrna: The steamboat connection between two places during the 19th century and their unknown perspective." Rosa Cassimatis's name found its way into all.
After research I have concluded that Rosa is NOT buried, as most believe, in the Angelo Cavallini tomb in the Saint Spyridon of Kapsali cemetery but was, most likely, buried in Corfu where she died. If she had been buried in Kythera she should have been mentioned on the gravestone, as her (second) husband died much later than her. No such thing. The Corfu Mental Hospital Archives do not report any final resting place, but as she died in 1882 even if she had been buried in the city of Corfu cemetery her grave is probably lost. Again I'd like to thank all contributors to the site who helped me with my research”. This is a tangential Kytherian interest. But the communication indicates into how many different areas kfn managed to penetrate.
kfn inspiration also led to the preservation and archiving of the Fatseas collection of plate glass negative photographs. This in turn led to the publication of the books, A Kytherian Century and Panayotis Fatseas: Kytherian Faces, 1920-1938, and an Exhibition in the prestigious Benaki Museum, Athens.
Other Special Projects included the importation into Kythera of medical and aged care equipment to benefit residents and patients at the Aged Care facility and Hospital at Potamos. The importation into Kythera of Library shelving from the USA, and later the organisation and funding to completion of both the interior and exterior of the Kytherian Municipal Library, the first Lending Library established on Kythera in 3,000 years. Principals of kfn also aided in creating the first Greek Australian Museum of migration in Australia – the Roxy Museum, located within the Roxy Museum ‘complex’ in Bingara.
James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) asserted that "creativity is not the finding of a thing, but the making something out of it after it is found." By that criterion www.kythera-family.net is a very creative entity indeed. Να τα εκατοστήσεις.
You are the authors! Kythera-Family.net - the online cultural archive for Kythera - aims to preserve and reflect the rich heritage of a wonderful island. Members of the community are actively invited to submit their family collection of Kytherian stories, photographs, recipes, oral histories, and home remedies etc. to the site. Uploading directly to the site is easy and free. Thus we can help make available valuable and interesting material for current and future generations, and inspire young Kytherians to learn more about their fascinating heritage.
submitted by Kytherian World Heritage Fund on 09.11.2013
Author: James Prineas
When Published: 2013
Publisher: Kytherian World Heritage Fund
Available: In Australia from the Kytherian World Heritage Fund & The Kytherian Association of Australia
George C. Poulos: 02 93888320
Email George Poulos
Email Angelo Notaras
Order more of the 30+ books from the KWHF catalogue by downloading the Order Form, here:
Kytherian Association of Australia, Book Orders
or Email Administration, Kytherian Association of Australia
In Europe, available from James Prineas.
Email James Prineas
From 2014, thye book will be avaialble from all good book shops on the island of Kythera.
Description: Beautiful coffee table book printed on 118gsm art paper. 272 pages. Hardback.
Essays: Kiriaki Mavromattes-Orfanos
Translation: Irini Renieri
Greek Editing: Elena Panagopoulou
Plane piloted by: Kyprianos Biris
The book contains photographs of the various villages and places on the island of Kythera, taken from the air.
Subjects: Kythera, also known as 'Cerigo', is a Greek island situated between the southern tip of the Peloponnese and Crete. Its more than sixty villages reveal their organic development from neolithic to modern times. Roads twist like climbing plants into almost every corner of the island. These 280 aerial photographs taken in the verdant winter months, capture the beauty of the entire island.
View / Download a .pdf of 8 sample pages, (pp.72-79) here:
Some reactions to the book:
Georgia Pine, California, USA.
"I've been enjoying the various photos and reading the essays. It's going to take a while to get through it as it is heavy to handle. What a terrific legacy for all of us and for future generations! Great idea to include surnames with each village."
Dimitris Koutrafouris, the Bank Manager of the National Bank of Greece, branch, Potamos, Kythera, placed the book on display in the summer of 2013.
As locals and Kytherians of the diaspora thumbed through the book, their first instinct was to try and find their own houses, or those of their grandparents and relatives.
Most were not satisfied until that were certain that they had found their houses. Often they had to solicit the help of realtives and friends to help locate them.
The book contains virtually every structure on the island, in every part of the island, which makes it a very valuable Kytherian resource.
submitted by Kytherian Book Review on 10.10.2013
Author: Jim Saltis
When Published: 2013
Publisher: Jim Saltis
Available: From Jim Saltis or Tina Andrew. 02 9399 9767
Email, Jim Saltis
Dewey Number: A823.4
The launch was conducted at the Australian Hellenic Educational Progressive Association (AHEPA) Hall, 394 Princes Hwy
Rockdale NSW 2216, from 6:00 pm on Sunday 1st October, 2013.
The launch was hosted by the Association of Greek Writers and Artists Australia ( EELKA ) in collaboration with the Center for Literature and Poetry " Kostis Palamas " AHEPA.
The master of ceremonies for the evening was the Secretary of the Union Litsa Diakovasili. Dsicussion of the book was hosted by the President of the Union, Popi Anastasiadis Mallianou, and excerpts read by : Kiki Betty, Bethlehem Georgelli , Dimitra Milatou and Rosa Gialopouli, Board members of EELKA. Many passages were read from the book, and all acknowledged that the style and flow of Jim's novel was exceptional.
Visitors welcomed the President of AHEPA's Kostis Palamas " Mr. George Lianos.The presentation was attended by the Consul General of Greece Dr Stavros Kyrimis, and many other distinguished members of EELKA & AHEPA.
The launch was attended by a substantial number of people, as can be testified by this photograph.
Jim's friend, Tina Andrew accompanied him. This was appropriate as Tina's father Angelo Christianos was one of the founding members of AHEPA. He attended , one of the first AHEPA meetings held at Scone in 1935. A photograph of the Scone meeting adorns the AHEPA Hall.
Many of Jim and Tina's exctended family, attended the launch.
The book is based on Jim Saltis's personal experiences, growing up as he did in a family of 7 children, in the pre-WW2 period in Alexandria, Egypt.
Authors Prefactory Remarks
Alexandria, Egypt, was the city of my birth, nurture and finally my departure in January 1949 without any hatred or wickedness.
I started writing my book Blessings, Curses and Exorcisms back in 1988, after my divorce. I bought a unit at Camspsie and attempted to reorganise my life as a bachelor. My days were grey and the nights were endless. I was craving for same sleep but it refused to intervene and bring some relief to my aching body and a break to my forever active brain. I named the Book “Mrs Stamata.” which was the name of the mother. It took many years to return to the skeletal draft and complete it.
The novel is a collection of experiences that I encountered, fictions that were creations of my cerebral fantasies the perpetually moving mind and my invisible soul.
All the persons that you will encounter in the story were real. Even the beautiful Flora (Madeline) who lived a daringly prodigal life was lucky to meet Milton and experience the immensity and tranquillity of true love. I compromised the tragedy of Alekos and Sofia’s love and gave a happy ending because of the philanthropic action of her boss Leon. Stamata died but she lives on as a ghost at the Greek section of the cemetery at Chatby awaiting the next Resurrection.
Now all of us who were born in Egypt and more particular in the cosmopolitan Alexandria we have dispersed at all corners of this hospitable planet. We travelled to new seas; we flew in skies and lands of places that we have learned in our Geography lessons. Most of us are well established in our new countries and we live carefree existences.
Yet we are grateful that we were born in Egypt.
This is Jim's second book. His first book, My Four Homes was published in both Greek and English.
Jims speech at the My Four Homes Book Launch
Download an interview with Jim Saltis on SBS Radio, Australia, here:
This interview refers mainly to Jims previous book, My Four Homes, but also makes reference to Blessings, Curses and Exorcisms.
Ευχές αναθεματισμοί και εξορκισμοί
Παρουσιάστρια: Πόπη Αναστασιάδου-Μαλλιάνου
Ο Δημήτρης Πρωτοψάλτης, γνωστός και ως Jim Saltis στο μυθιστόρημα του Ευχές αναθεματισμοί και εξορκισμοί μας πηγαίνει πίσω στο παρελθόν και μας κάνει να νοσταλγούμε και να ονειρευόμαστε. Μας περιγράφει με έντονα χρώματα μια Αίγυπτο που δεν υπάρχιε πια. Την Αίγυπτο της δεκαετίας του 1930. Βαθύς ψυχολόγος και γνώστης των ηθών της εποχής, μας αναλύει εκτενώς κοινονικά φαινόμενα. Μέσα από την ιστορία της ζωής μιας οικογένειας με επτά παιδιά μας περιγράφει ρεαλιστικά την Αίγυπτο και ιδίως την Αλέξάνδρια εκείνης της εποχής, την αγαπημένη του Αλεξάνδρια, την Αλεξάνδρια στην οποία γεννήθηκε(Βηθλεέμ Μπήκανε στο τράμ για το Μπακός...το εξαιρετικό προσωπικό του και την ακρίβεια του. ) Μια έντονη αίσθηση ιστορικότητας χαρακτηρίζει αυτό το μυθιστόρημα, όπως και το προηγoύμενο μυθιστόρημα του (Τα τέσσερα σπιτια) Στα βιβλία αυτά ο συγγραφέας αναλύει και τεκμηριώνει την πολιτική σήψη που υπάρχει στην δεκαετία του 30. Ο Πρωτοψάλτης είναι κοσμοπολίτης. Στο πίσω εξώφυλλο του βιβλίου του μας λέει; Σήμερα όλοι που γεννηθήκαμε στην μαγευτική πόλη της Αλεξάνδριας και στην Αίγυπτο ζούμε σκορπισμένοι στον φιλόξενο πλανήτη. Ταξιδέψαμε σε καινούργιες θάλασσες και πετάξαμε σε ουρανούς και πατρίδες που μάθαμε από τα βιβλία της Γεωγραφίας.
Το φάσμα των πάσης φύσεως προβληματισμών του είναι ευρύτατο. Αντλεί τα θέματα του από το παρελθόν που έχουν όμως απόλυτη σχέση με τα σημερινά δρώμενα. Εξετάζει όλες τις πτυχές της κοινωνίας με καταπληκτική οξυδέρκεια. Επίσης μας αναφέρει τις διάφορες δυσιδαιμονίες και προκαταλήψεις που υπήρχαν εκείνη την εποχή όπως π.χ. το χύσιμο του λαδιού που το θεωρούσαν μεγάλη γρουσουζιά. Κακός οιωνός όπως έλεγαν. (ΔήμητραΤο Μπουκάλι με το λάδι γλυστρησε από το χέρι της...μα τι φταίει πάλι ο άνθρωπος σκέφθηκε.)Πάνω σ’αυτές τις δυσιδαιμονίες και προκαταλήψεις βασίζεται και ο τίτλος του βιβλίου του Δημήτρη. Ευχές, αναθεματισμοί και εξορκισμοί. και μας μιλά και για τα μάγια που έκαναν για να σταματήσουν ανεπιθήμητους γάμους, η για να εκδικηθούν κάποιον που τους είχε ενοχλήσει η απλώς κάποιον που δεν συμπαθούσαν. Διάφοροι επιτήδιοι εκμετάλευονταν τις προκαταλήψεις αυτές και κέρδιζαν χρήματα από τα ανύποπτα θύματα που πίστευαν σ’αυτά που τους έλεγαν ότι δηλ, τα μάγια θα φέρουν το ποθητό απότέλεσμα. Παρ’ολό που αυτά που περιγράφει ο Πρωτοψάλτης στο βιβλίο του έχουν λάβει χώρα στος αρχές του 20 ου αιώνα το θέμα είναι πολύ επίκαιρο διότι κάθε τόσο βλέπουμε στα μέσα ενημέρωσης παρόμοιες καταστάσεις και στις μέρες μας, όπως τους δύο μάγους που συνέλαβε μερικά χρόνια πρίν, η αστυνομία στα Δυτικά προάστεια του Σύδνευ, που είχαν πελάτες-θύματα με Πανεπιστημιακή μόρφωση.(Κική Είμαι έτοιμη τώρα κυρία...Αμα το φέρεις τότε θα κάνουμε και το επόμενο βήμα.)
Αφίνοντας την φαντασία του ελεύθερη ο Πρωτοψάλτης, ζωντανεύει το παρελθόν κατά τον πιο θελκτικό τρόπο. Ο χρόνος, οι βαθειές εσωτερικές δονήσεις τα πάθη συνθέτουν ένα αρμονικό σύνολο. Με απλά λόγια με πέννα που ρέει, μας παρασέρνει να τον παρακολουθήσουμε με τον πιο αβίαστο τρόπο (Δήμητρα Θυμάμαι καλά τον πολιτικό τους γάμο...η ευτυχία μπήκε στο σπιτικό τους.)
Δεν λείπει το ρεαλιστικό στοιχείο, ενώ οι κοινονικές συνθήκες της εποχής αναλύονται με αξιοπρόσεκτη ακρίβεια. Οι διαγραφές των χαρακτήρων του είναι ακριβείς ενώ οι χώροι και οι περιγραφές των τοπίων αποδίνονται θαυμάσια (Βηθλεέμ,Ομως σκόρπιες σκέψεις χτυπούσαν την πόρτα του μυαλού της...και ο Θεός της είχε χαρίσει 7 παιδιά. .)Ρόζα.Αραπάδες.... της ερωμένης του)
Επίσης ο συγραφέας μας περιγράφει με μαθηματική ακρίβεια τον έρωτα, σαρκικό και πνευματικό σε μια εποχή δύσκολη, υποκριτική, σεμνότυφη, εποχή σεξουαλικής καταπίεσης. Οι ήρωες του, αγαπούν πολύ, στη ζωή τους. Αγαπούν δίχως σεμνοτυφίες και όρια και πολλές φορές περνούν τα σύνορα και σπάνουν τα καλούπια της ηθηκής με ολέθρια αποτελέσματα(.ΡόζαΗΦλώρα γύρισε στο σπίτι της....που αρνήθηκε την οικογένεια της.)
Βαθύς γνώστης της ανθρώπινης φύσης μας περιγράφει με έντονες μελανές πινελιέςτην καθοδική πορεία ατόμων-θυμάτων, που παραδίνονται σε ακραία πάθη και καταστρεπτικές συνήθειες επιρεάζοντας αρνητικά την ζωή τους και τις ζωές προσφυλών τους προσώπων. (Κική Είχε επιθυμήσει να περάσει....από την οικογένεια της.)
Μια άλλη πρωτοτυπία του βιβλίου είναι ότι συχνά παρεμβάλλονται διάφορα σχόλια και φιλοσοφικές παρατηρήσεις. Στος τέλος του βιβλίου υπάρχουν πολλές ωραίες φωτογραφίες κτιρίων και τοπίων εκείνης της εποχής.
Συνοψίζωντας μπορούμε να πούμε ότι το (Ευχές αναθεματισμοί και εξορκισμοί είναι ένα πρωτότυπο, αξιοπρόσεκτο έργο που αξίζει να διαβαστεί.
Συγχαρητήρια λοιπόν στον Δημήτρη Πρωτοψάλτη και του ευχόμαστε να δεί το έργο του διαδεδομένο διαχρονικά και πάντα με ανοδική πορεία.
Πρόεδρος Ελλήνων Λογοτεχνών
submitted by Roxy Theatre, Bingara, NSW on 18.04.2011
OFFICIAL LAUNCH PETERS CAFÉ & MUSEUM
SATURDAY 9TH + SUNDAY 10TH APRIL 2011
Upload a pdf version of the Media Release, here:
There is nothing remarkable about a story regarding the demise of a Greek café in rural Australia. There is something quite extraordinary however, about such a café being brought back to life.
Forty-five years since serving its last mixed grill, The Roxy Café in Bingara, northern New South Wales, has been faithfully restored to its original splendour.
On Saturday 9th April and Sunday 10th April, The Roxy will celebrate its 75th Anniversary with the launch of the refurbished café and preview of the site of a museum that will be integrated into the venue.
The Roxy was built by three Greek partners from the island of Kythera. Opening in 1936, The Roxy complex boasted an architecturally striking art deco cinema, café, three independent retail premises and a guest house.
The venue operated as a cinema until 1958 when it shut down and spent the next forty years virtually lying dormant. The Roxy Theatre was purchased by the then-Bingara Shire Council in 1999 and fully restored.
In 2004, The Roxy theatre was re-opened to the public as a cinema, performing arts venue and multi-purpose function centre that includes a variety of conferences, seminars, weddings and private functions.
In 2009, the Gwydir Shire Council was the recipient of a substantial grant from the Department of Heritage, Environment, Water and the Arts to restore the art deco café adjoining the cinema and incorporate a museum.
The museum will be dedicated to the history of Greek settlement in country Australia (with a focus on NSW and Queensland). It will become a place of national and international significance that collects, conserves and protects the important cultural associations between people and place. It will pay tribute to the remarkable legacy of the Greek café and cinema operators to ensure the impact they made on the daily lives of millions of people is not forgotten.
The next stage of the project will be to complete the fit-out of museum which is currently a ‘blank canvass.’ With the museum yet to be established, it is the café that will be the star of the show on the 9th and 10th April.
What is particularly unique about the café restoration is the number of fixtures and fittings from the original café that have been brought back to life. Wood paneling, mirrors, cubicles, tables and chairs, as well as the spectacular neon sign that hung under the awning in the 1930s, have all been reinstated.
Greek cafés changed the course of Australia’s cultural history and left a significant legacy on our culinary and cultural landscape. Very few Greek cafes operate as they did 50 years ago. Even fewer complexes that incorporate a functioning cinema and café remain. Once complete, The Roxy may be the only original purpose built theatre with adjoining café operating in New South Wales, possibly in Australia.
The town of Bingara has a great deal to celebrate by launching the café. It is important to note, that while the doors to the café will be thrown open to the public over the April weekend, it will not begin trading commercially until a later date when a suitable operator has been appointed.
The shared narrative of The Roxy’s history exemplifies the Greek migration experience: one that made an outstanding contribution to the development of Australia. It is therefore fitting that following the official launch of the café, a Gala Ball be held. Bringing the glamour of the 1930’s back to Bingara, the Black Tie Gala Ball will be an unforgettable evening of Greek feasting and festivity.
Paying homage to Hollywood’s Golden Age, a superb selection of screenings will light up the silver screen over the weekend. Highlights will include well-known actor John Wood presenting the television episode he filmed featuring The Roxy, as well as the first film ever screened at The Roxy opening in 1936. Roberta, starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
The 75th Anniversary Celebrations on the 9th and 10th April will be a step back in time into Australia’s future by celebrating an icon to be enjoyed by generations to come.
Locked Bag 5,
tel: (02) 67 240 003
mob: 0427 241 582
submitted by Peter (Panagiotis) Prineas on 26.10.2010
Front cover of the book:
Published October 2009
Soft cover, 415 pages, bibliog., notes, index.
Published by Plateia Press
'BRITAIN'S GREEK ISLANDS' was launched by Associate Professor Vrasidas Karalis of the Department of Modern Greek at Sydney University's Nicholson Museum on 14 October 2009. Professor Karalis has described the book as 'a labour of love, meticulously researched' and 'a fascinating personal account of the Seven Islands which were "British" before becoming Greek'.
The book tells the story of five decades in the early nineteenth century when the British ruled Kythera and the Ionian Islands. It is a very readable history, painstakingly assembled from hundreds of hand-written letters and documents, most previously unpublished.
It conveys the texture and detail of life, society and politics in the island of Cerigo (Kythera) and the Ionian Islands (then known as Corfu, Paxo, Santa Maura, Ithaca, Cephalonia and Zante) and illuminates important but largely forgotten events.
Based on extensive research in the archives, and illustrated with maps, photographs and historic prints, 'Britain's Greek Islands' reveals the sometimes turbulent relations that existed in the Protectorate named the 'United States of the Ionian Islands'.
The narrative is placed within the wider history of Europe and the Near East, from the Napoleonic Wars, through the Greek War of Independence, the Crimean War, and conflicts over the 'Eastern Question' that resonate to this day.
ORDERS AND INQUIRIES
By post: Plateia Press 32 Calder Road Darlington NSW 2008 AUSTRALIA.
Telephone: 61 2 9319 1513
Mobile: 0429 322 857.
AUD$38.50 (plus postage and packing)
Australia - Visa, Mastercard, cheque or money order
Overseas - Visa, Mastercard, international transfer or money order
'BRITAIN'S GREEK ISLANDS' is also available from selected bookshops, including Gleebooks and Abbeys in Sydney.
submitted by Roxy Theatre, Bingara, NSW on 21.06.2010
Map shows the location of Bingara, in relationship to the North West of New South Wales, the New South Wales coastline, and the Queensland border.
The Kytherian "sacred sites", Roxy Theatre, Roxy Cafe, and Roxy Museum are located in Bingara.
Roxy THEATRE Main Page
Roxy CAFE Main Page
Roxy MUSEUM Main Page. Overview of the history of the Roxy, published in the Royal Historical Society magazine
Katsehamos and the Great Idea, the BOOK, Main Page
submitted by Kytherian World Heritage Fund on 24.04.2010
PLANS. .pdf versions.
The $1.4 million Grant
The Australian federal government approved a grant of $1.4 million dollars in November 2009, to Gwydir Shire Council, in order to restore the Roxy Cafe, the Tourist Information Centre, and to create a Roxy Museum, which will be a "Greek-Australian" Museum, and ostensibly a "Kytherian-Australian" Museum.
This will be the only Greek-Australian Museum outside of Melbourne, Victoria.
It will also be the only operational "Kytherian Museum" in Australia, and the World. [The Kytherian Museum in Hora, Kythera, is closed as of 2010.]
This expenditure of $1.4 million, must be added to a previous expenditure, by various Local, State, and Federal Governments, of $1.6 million, to restore the Roxy Theatre.
It is extraordinary that in a town of 1300 residents, such large sums of money have been expended on these projects.
Lets not be under any illusions about this. The Roxy Cinema, Roxy Cafe, and Roxy Boarding House, are "Kytherian" creations. This has been well researched by Peter Prineas, and beautifully explicated in his book Katsehamos and the Great Idea. All are "Kytherian" heritage structures of the first order.
They will all soon be restored to high levels of design excellence, and become living memorials to Kytherian heritage in Australia.
submitted by Kytherian World Heritage Fund on 22.04.2010
After a Kytherian-Greek & Australian Greek, visit to the Roxy Theatre, Bingara, NSW.
Con was obviously very moved by the experience.
submitted by George Poulos on 29.04.2007
This banner can be seen in quite a number of photographs that are now being submitted to kythera-family.
It will be displayed in the future at all events at which www.kythera-family.net is represented.
Download/save a copy of the Banner as a .pdf format here:
Banner Kythera-family net proof.pdf
It features two persons who have become the most-sighted Kytherians in world history, by virtue of being chosen by James Prineas to be the key Logo-type figures designating www.kythera-family.net
On 18th March, 2007, when I asked James to provide me with a brief biographical background for the pair, James answered:
They are, Yanni and Katina Feros of Mitata. Katina is still alive, Yanni died in about 2001. Yanni and Katina had a garden
(perivoli) down at Paliopoli. The went down there almost every morning and picked fresh vegetables, then drove to
Hora to sell them at the platia. Always smiling, they were cheeky and lively. They weren’t even married - Katina was
at that time a widower. They just happened to share the same surname.
Yanni had terrible rheumatism and not long after this picture was taken he had his legs amputated, such was the pain. He still worked - (Iragged himself around his garden with pads on his elbows. In the last year of his life they lived down in their little spitaki at Paliohora. Lovely people. Yanni used to drink I or 2 litres of his own wine each night, mostly at Stamatakou’s restaurant. He probably had to drink to reduce the pain so he could sleep.
Ordinary Kytherians...but Oh..so typical!
The base of the kythera-family banner carries our Mission Statement:
With the help of interested Kytherians worldwide, Kythera-Family.net aims to preserve and reflect the rich heritage of a wonderful island. Members of the community are invited to submit their family collection of Kytherian stories, photographs, recipes, maps, oral histories, biographies, historical documents, songs and poems, home remedies etc. to the site. Uploading directly to the site is easy, but if you wish you can also send your collections to us by email or post and we will submit them for you. Thus we can help make available valuable and interesting material for current and future generations, and inspire young Kytherians to learn more about their fascinating heritage.
submitted by Kytherian Cinema Review on 01.08.2006
This is the original call sheet from the first day of filming in October 1977.
Call sheets provide a listing of which actors will be required for which scenes, when they will be required on set, as well as other information including the filming locations.
Feral Child (Emile Minty) and Max (Mel Gibson), in George Miller's Mad Max 2, (1981).
MAD MAX 2
Written by Terry Hayes George Miller
and Brian Hannant
Novelisation by Carl Ruhen
A Q.B BOOK
A Q.B Book
Distributed by Progress Publications
506 Miller Street, Cammeray 2062, and Gordon & Gotch Limited
114 William Street, Melbourne 3000, Australia
Copyright: Film Script © 1981 by Warner Bros. Inc.
National Library of Australia Card No. and ISBN 0 7255 1183 4
Novelisation: All rights reserved.
Printed in Australia by New Century Press Pty Limited
5 Cumberland Street, Sydney 2000
Max roves, Max ranges. It is all he can do now, this gaunt, hollow-eyed man, he and the machine and the dog, which is all he has left in the world that is crumbling all around him, burning up the highways, through the dust and the stinging flurries of sand that is whipped by the hot wind against the windscreen of his black-on-black pursuit car, which bears the scars of the many times he has had to beat back the bands of marauders attracted by the fuel he is carrying in his tanks.
The machine and the dog — and his memories. The sun’s fierce heat pounds relentlessly down on the baking earth. Beneath the shimmering heat, the clusters of rocks seem as if they are in constant motion. Mirages seem to float upwards out of the beating heat. Images form, a face, faces, people and planes, parachutes dropping from the sky which then becomes a ‘deep, thundering black, black and purple, and shot through with searing flames.
The wasteland is tinged with red. It is strangely beautiful. Like the end of the earth, the sun large in the sky, and all life having shrivelled away to nothing. Max drives fast, but the thoughts keep crowding in, glimpses, flashes, there’s no way to escape them, no matter how much you put on the speed — like there’s no way to escape the marauders, the vultures, bloodsuckers, and all along the highways, into the fields where they have been chased, littering creek beds, there they are, the smashed, rusting, burnt out hulks of the vehicles that have fallen prey to them.
The heat plays tricks on the eyes, which are heavy and gritty through lack of sleep and the effort of concentration, the necessity not to let the guard drop for a single moment. But one thrives on this energy, borrowed and stored away in the system —one just goes, and goes, and goes.
A woman’s face, sleepy, smiling, flushed with the lovemaking that has just ended, a voice murmuring in his ear, a baby crying.. . Jesus, no! Foot down on the pedal, the engine roaring, and the countryside spinning past, a monotonous sameness about it, hills and gulches, all red, so barren. Yes, one just keeps on going, one couldn’t stay still, no place to settle, the search was going on all the time. No end to it. It’s funny when you think about it, the way — the manner — in which the world is ending. Cataclysmic, the way everyone expected it would, somehow —but still funny. It had to happen, and it is happening, the population has scattered everywhere, and the cities — see the cities now — are crumbling and slowly falling apart. The decay has set in, and there is nothing that can be done to stop it, even if the will were there. The cities are nothing more than shells now — towering monuments to futility. Perhaps it is funny, this thing that is happening now, while Max forages, because people had actually believed in the permanence of things, that it go on and on the way it was, and they could put up buildings — glittering spires — that reached higher and higher, that they could reach for and conquer the universe. Perhaps it was the smugness of those days that made it funny. Maybe there was bitter humor to be found in panic, in looting, death and wholesale destruction.
Even when all the signs were there, and the satellites beamed the flickering images into every household — those images of confrontation and conflagration, the screaming hordes that swept all before them, the blazing buildings, the execution squads, the assassinations, and all other forms of violence that had taken on a comfortable domestic aspect — there was still no reason to believe that a stand-off wouldn’t be reached just this side of the brink, a brief defusing hiatus, a withdrawal within a continued state of hostility, a problem never, never to be solved, because there just was no solution. It was like the surf, rolling in, drawing back, the one motion complementing the other, a law of nature. It was inconceivable that the tide wouldn’t ebb, that the moon wouldn’t continue to wield its timeless influence. But no, not this time...
It was the fuel that mattered. Banknotes fluttered in the streets of those silent cities. They were caught in drifts, piled up in gutters, against walls and in doorways. The wind caught them and sent them in flurries across the open ground, across squares and plazas, and the parks which had become veritable jungles by now. And gold — stockpiled, forgotten, useless. Only the fuel. The institutions had gone —the banks, stock exchanges, those great corporations that had spread their tentacles across the globe, those great palaces of glass and marble, deserted now, dank and crumbling mausoleums.
‘Max, there’s something bothering you. You’ve hardly said a word all night.”
A distant voice, a smile, flickering candlelight. What was it? A celebration?
“Just tired, I guess, honey. Nothing wrong. I’m all right.”
The way the light caught Jessie’s hair, a gentle rippling of soft light every time she moved her head. Pure gold. A smile hovering, a stirring of desire.
“I don’t believe you, Max. You can’t fool me. You never have been able to fool me. I can see you’re worried.”
Her eyes shining. Everything about Jessie shone. “Why should I be worried?” How unconvincing it sounded, a hollow voice. “I’ve got you and Sprog —the three of us — that’s all I care about. As long as I have you. And the kid.”
Jessie frowning, her voice low and serious as she abstractedly stirs her coffee, the spoon going round and round, making small chinking sounds against the side of the cup. ‘There’s been talk.”
“What sort of talk?”
“Disturbing talk. About you. About your life expectancy. You know, there’s a book being run. It’s odds on that you won’t last a week.”
But he had, and the week after that, and the weeks, and months and years, so many years after that — he was the one who had lasted. He was the only one left, and frankly, there were times when he wished he wasn’t.
The contented roar of the powerful engine, hands loose on the steering wheel, and a cloud of dust rising behind him as he sped through the weird, arid country, with its isolated outcrops of rock, the dried riverbeds, the clumps of saltbush and spinifex.
Proclamations, declarations, the lines of cars that stretched and stretched, the queues that grew longer each day to soak up what remained of the fast-evaporating fuel supplies, the cost of which rocketed and rocketed until it seemed that no amount of money was enough to purchase a single gallon of that very limited stock that had not already been commandeered for the essential services, which were fast breaking down in any case. The outbreaks of fighting in the streets had become steadily less sporadic. The mobs had surged this way and that, a devouring monster that destroyed everything in its path turned loose. Factories had ground to a standstill, useless now, the starved machinery choking in rust.
And back further, to the time of the Nightrider, the Toecutter — names now, nothing more — the screech of tires, and the Toecutter’s bike hurling itself between the front wheels of the huge road rig that had come lumbering up over a rise in the road, and the Toecutter still conscious under the grille until the second the sump guard ripped his head and shoulders off at the chest. The Toecutter had paid for what he had done — done to Jessie and Sprog — he and the others, but even so, Max had felt he had been cheated in some way. The Toecutter hadn’t deserved to die as quickly as he had, no way, and even that split-second of awareness that remained to him after his bike slewed in beneath those gigantic wheels wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
The past rolled into the present, and the present rolled into the future. Sometimes it was difficult to disentangle them. Movement. Ceaseless movement, on and on. . . and shit, there wasn’t a future. Why think about a future? All the lights had long been turned off.
Max is not alone on this stretch of road. At what precise point he realised he was not alone on this stretch of road, he can’t be sure. His instincts, being what they are, so highly tuned, must have registered the movement, a new element in the composition of the red landscape, maybe even before his eyes had picked it up. Something different, an alarm bell triggered. But now he can see them, clearly now, burning up the road behind him, steadily gaining on him, specks at first, tiny black specks materialising through the shimmering heat behind him, growing larger, looming, gradually taking on form and substance. Three of them. They have picked up his scent — the scent of fuel, another tank to be drained, another metal carcase to be systematically dismembered. The supercharger roars, brute power unrestrained. Ah...
He can see them now in the mirror, make out what they look like. There are three vehicles behind him, closing up the distance. One of them, a big powerful bike, has a passenger riding pillion. The rider is all black leather and metal — metal shoulder pads, a breastplate — and his head, bare except for a pair of goggles, is shaven except for a bright red swatch on top. A Mohawk, this one who veers his bike in an attempt to cut Max off from the inside, but Max is ahead of him, blocking him, forcing him to swing back and lose ground. Almost naked, the pillion passenger is tightly hugging the rider, leaning with the movement of the bike, his long golden hair being whipped back by the airstream.
There is the bike, then the chrome and brown street racer, and then the dune buggy covered with animal skins. The noise of the engines hammers through the rippling heat. Max swings the black-on-black — the old pursuit car from his police days —from side to side, forestalling the efforts of his pursuers to creep up inside of him. The heat, and the noise, and beside him, the dog whimpers a little. The tiredness has gone now; the adrenalin shoots through him like quicksilver, the shrieking in his ears, his head full of the sound that seems to be punched into it through dozens of holes, and a curtain of red dust at times partially obscuring the three vehicles close behind him.’
A bend, and taking it close on the inner side, the dune buggy coming around it in a wide sweep, and the street racer, cutting in between it and Max. The bike has fallen behind.
The road rises. His foot hard down, Max takes the rise, and for an instant, the briefest fraction of time, it seems as if his wheels have left the ground, and he is airborne. Then there is a thud, a bump, and the car is slewing to one side of the road. A wrench on the wheel to correct the drift, and at the bottom of the rise, blocking the road, a tangle of wrecked vehicles, one of them a trailer down on one crumpled wheel, cars that had been torn apart, wreckage everywhere, scattered and strewn across the road.
No time to decide, or even to slacken speed, just take it as it comes, trust to luck — always trust to luck, and luck had always brought him through in the past, maybe it would again... No time to think even, with the heart feeling large and tight in the chest, the marauders only a matter of a few yards behind him. To slow down now.. .no chance. The supercharger drums and throbs, there is the reek of petrol. His reflexes as finely tuned as the great engine over which he has taken such loving care, tinkering, adjusting, polishing, treating it like a baby, and now.., now...
The landscape lifts and turns half a degree or more, seems to be vibrating, breaking up.. .the trailer looms, fills the windscreen, and then, once again, a matter of only feet away, a wrench on the wheel, and he is locked into a sweeping curve to the right, past the trailer, and through the wrecks that are scattered around it, cannoning off them, ploughing through them with a tortured scream of rending metal.
Still going, pushing the wrecks out of the way, dislodging them and pushing them deeper into the dust, which shears up from beneath the spinning wheels, and behind him, as he comes around in the curve, slamming broadside into another rusted hulk, bouncing off it, forcing a way through, the no-name dog barking furiously, jumping up and down in agitation in the kiddies’ seat — behind him, then to one side as he pulls the car out of the curve, he sees the bike with the Mohawk and golden passenger flying through the air with a sort of effortless grace, swooping through the air like some great bird clear over the trailer, and in that quivering instant before it hits the ground, lurches a little, then righting itself, begins to weave its way through the wrecks, it seems as if it is stuck there, suspended against the sky from which the heat has drained all color.
The road racer doesn’t quite make it over the trailer. It knocks against the trailer, then spinning, clips one of the wrecks, swerves, bumps another wreck, the engine racing furiously, dust swirling. Max has straightened out of the curve, and is heading across the open country, aware now that the third vehicle, the dune buggy, has managed to avoid the wreckage, and has veered off to the right in an attempt to head him off.
Then Max is swinging back to the highway again, ducking in between it and the buggy, which cuts sharply in after him. The bike and the racer have already left the wreckage behind them, and are heading up the highway towards the point where Max rejoins it, with the buggy bouncing across the rough terrain behind him.
“You’re a good kid, Max. One day you’ll make a good cop.”
One day. Maybe it was something then to be a good cop. Maybe it meant something to be a good cop. One thought about cops in those days, bad people and cops, the division not always so clear cut, but they existed, and people talked about law and order, the need to keep order, but that was at a time when there were laws to be kept, although they were fast disappearing even then, those laws to which people — those good people, law-abiding people — still paid some sort of lip service, because old habits died hard. A good cop. One day, Max you’ll make a good cop.
The light had been reflected from the Chief’s high shaven skull. It had gleamed on black leather. Superimposed on the harsh, dry landscape that is rushing up at him, the same monotonous landscape, and with his pursuers, the marauders, gaining on him again on this long, flat stretch of road, the Chief’s face, the thick neck, the broad shoulders and powerful forearms, that ugly, lined face, and the nose that had been battered so many times in the years he had been in the forêe that it was now a squat, shapeless blob spread across his face, which made his flinty eyes appear far too close together, and the mouth too small to balance it. The Chief, worn out, disillusioned, no longer even making a token attempt to keep up the morale in his disintegrating force.
“I don’t know any more, Max. I don’t know any more about one goddam thing.”
Thoughts and speed, and everything falling apart, tires gripping the road surface, and then, suddenly, the loud whooping sound that rises up from somewhere beneath the dashboard of this racing charger, and which seems to drop around him in waves, like hoops that are being thrown over him — hoops that become tighter and tighter as they drop over him. Christ, it’s the fuel, running low — the alarm letting him know the fuel is running low — and, shit, there’s nothing for it but to cut out the supercharger, and once that has been cut out... No choice. Take it as it comes. Good cop, Max.
Slowing down now. The alarm has faded away, but the echoes remain, flying around inside the head. As the speed falls away, it seems now that Max is crawling along. With speed there is life, but without speed, just going along, 100 or more, it is as if an essential part of Max has fallen away, choked away by the whoops from the alarm. So. . .So the dog has crawled under the seat. The dog knows there will be trouble. Max’s relaxed posture is -deceptive; every nerve end is keyed up. It has
happened before, many times before, more times than he can remember, even if he wants to remember — and it will happen again. Expectant, waiting, the marauders fast closing the distance, the bike coming up on the passenger’s side, looming up in the corner of Max’s vision — another nomad biker with his golden lover clinging tightly to him as they draw abreast. Brief impressions, disjointed and flick15
ering, the biker raising something and aiming it at him, a bow it looks like, a crossbow, but there’s hardly time for Max to notice this, to really register what it is the fiery Mohawk is aiming at him, as the road racer is drawing up on his side, the passenger in the road racer also raising a weapon, and glancing at it, Max can see that it is a gas-powered porta-pak gun from the large rounded barrel of which protrude six metal arrows. The finger tightens on the trigger. Bracing himself, Max hits the brakes.
The locked tires screech their protest as the car skids until it is almost at right-angles to the road. Caught unawares, both the bike and the road racer surge past him, just as the porta-pak looses its deadly arrows. The car is still shuddering as Max lines it up with the road again, as two of the arrows smack uselessly against its side, and as one of them thuds into the fleshy upper part of the biker’s arm. The bike swerves, and leaves the road, weaving erratically across the dry, rutted ground, and that’s one of them out of the picture for the moment, and maybe not for very long at that, once the rider has picked up his balance again and brought his bike back onto the road. The dune buggy is still coming in across country to try and head Max off and the road racer just in front of him, so now that he has a slight advantage, it’s time for Max to take the initiative. He can do something now, with that racer just in front of him; he needn’t feel so useless, so much the victim.
Changing down, hitting the supercharger again, and that low rumble rising to a high scream, that great surge of power that lifts him and carries him forward, fast closing the distance between him and the racer, ramming into the rear of the racer, a bump, a jolt, the metallic clash of metal on metal, wheels screaming, again, and again, drawing back slightly, then hurling the raging machine against the racer — and now there is another intersection ahead of them, and a long road rig abandoned at the side of the road. The dune buggy is cutting right in now; it has almost reached the intersection, where besides the road rig, there is a mass of debris scattered about, junk, bits of furniture, broken things. Max eases back again, nerves tingling now, a delicious feeling, in action, judgment cool, calculating his chances, then foot down again, the pedal pressed right down to the floorboards, flush with the floorboards, the engine howling as the car springs forward again, ramming the road racer, hurling it away just as the speeding dune buggy bumps back onto the road.
Beautiful. What could be more beautiful, or satisfying to see the road racer smash into the rear of the dune buggy, catching it, lifting it and flinging it away like a broken toy? What music there is in the echo of that scream that has come from the racer just as it hit the buggy, and sent it spinning like a top into the side of the road rig. There is poetry, surely, of a rough and savage kind — and it seems that the action has slowed down enough to give emphasis_ to those curves and parabolas that are so intricately described — in the sight of the road racer sliding around in a half-circle and ramming hard into a power pole, which splinters and snaps with the force of the impact, and slowly, slowly topples onto the road. There is no sign of movement from the road racer, and the dune buggy is nothing more than a pile of twisted, crumpled metal beneath the implacable bulk of the road rig. A wheel spins, dust settles along with the silence.
Throwing on the handbrake, Max — the valiant, the victor — swings the black on black around in a tight turn, and pulls up in the middle of the intersection. Winners and losers, victors and vanquished. Fuel is streaming from the ruptured tank of the dune buggy. Swinging himself out of the car, Max reaches into the back and pulls out a jerry can. A soft moaning sound is coming from the crumpled buggy. The spilt fuel is forming a widening rainbow pool on the bitumen. Bending over the broken fuel tank, Max wedges the jerry can beneath the gushing fuel, he whips the bandana he is wearing from around his neck, and begins to mop up the gasolene from the bitumen with it.
“For without fuel, they were nothing. They had built for themselves a house of straw...”
The gushing fuel rattles the can. Max squeezes the soaking bandana out into the can. The moaning from inside the dune buggy is barely audible now. That, and the gasolene drumming into the can are the only sounds.
But, suddenly, there is another sound, a shrill whistle that slices keenly through the silence and desolation. Max looks up, and sees, on the crest of a low hill overlooking the intersection, the scarlet Mohawk straddling his bike and grinning down at him, a figure in black leather and metal that glints in the harsh light. Still with his arms around him, the golden boy’s face is expressionless; it might have been chiselled from stone, yet how sensual are its lines. They stare at each for a long, vibrant moment, these two, wandering Max and the grinning Mohawk, and then, slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving Max, the figure on the hill raises one hand, and closing it around the haft of the arrow that is embedded in his arm, gives it a sharp tug, and the arrow comes free. A trickle of blood runs down his arm from the wound. Triumphantly, the biker nomad holds up the arrow, brandishing it at Max as he screams his defiance and hatred of the man who has, for the time being, outwitted him.
Then, slipping the arrow into the quiver at his hip, the biker guns the motor, and swinging the bike away, disappears from the crest of the hill. The sound of the engine fades into the distance, and Max is alone.
submitted by George Poulos on 27.11.2005
I found this paper bag in the Gilgandra Rural Museum - not to be confused with the Coo-ee Heritage Centre just up the road - in November, 2005.
Partially destroyed by silverfish, it has subsequently been laminated - thus, preventing further damage.
The Pentes referred to is John Pentes.
John Sklavos, adopted his Kytherian parachoukli (nickname) - "Pentes" - as his Australian surname. Supposedly it was easier for the Australians to pronounce. John Pentes - was always known as "Jack".
Jack was born in the town of Mitata, Kythera. He had arrived in Gilgandra in 1929, and purchased the Carlton Cafe - previously known as the Gilgandra Tea Rooms, from an English lady. This was located at 33 Miller Street, Gilgandra.
The English Tea Rooms, origin and "style", is clearly evident from art work on this paper bag.
Jack married Stavroula Flaskas, from the town of Kythera, Kythera. Jack and Stavroula worked the Cafe for 10 years. Catherine Pentes recalls that "...the crockery from the Carlton was a heavily glazed white, adorned with a crest - green with white background, with the name Carlton Cafe, Gilgandra written in pink".
In 1939 - Jack sold the Carlton to George Peter Psaltis, who was from Potamos, Kythera. George soon after changed the name of the cafe to the Monterey.
For more information:
Gilgandra. NSW. The Kytherian presence in the town. PART ONE
Gilgandra, NSW. The Kytherian presence in the town. PART TWO
Peter Tsicalas makes reference to, the fact that Jack Pentes traded as Pentes & Gleeson (in fact Gleesos), initially, at least, through to 1931.
Peter couldn't determine who Gleeson was, but coincidentally Stan Gleeson (Stefanos/Efstathios/Efstratios Emmanuel Glytsos) spent about 9 months at 'nearby' Binnaway after landing in 1924. He moved on to settle permanently at Kyogle - and married Katina Coroneo in 1932. Andrew Mina Glitsos also landed in 1924 and spent 9 months in Gilgandra, amongst other places, before settling at Manilla.
The 1931-1932 timing for Stan Gleeson - suspected partnership termination in 1931 - and marriage a year later - 1932 - and move to another town - all serve to fit the "Gilgandra events" profile.
Questions remaining to be answered, however, include:
Can we obtain more information about the mysterious Mr Gleesos?
Can we determine conclusively that Stan Gleeson is the same person referred to as Gleesos on the paper bag above?
When did the partnership between Jack and Mr Gleesos cease?
submitted by James Prineas on 28.06.2003
This is the envelope with logo from my grandfather Dimitri Prineas' (Dimitrelou) café in Holbrook. He ran it until 1949, when, on the night of their departure party, the day before he and his family were to move to Sydney, he died of a heart attack.
Teacher, journalist, poet and author, Sydney NSW Australia
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