This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2007, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
He may have had no family when he died, but on this day - about 17 years later - Aposstolos Borovilos is not forgotten. Two pots of bright flowers adorn his simple gravestone and, with heads bowed, a small circle of people surrounds it to offer prayers.
Leading the way is the Rev. Michael Kouremetis, the head priest of the Greek Orthodox Church of Greater Salt Lake. The priest prays for the rest of Borovilos' soul, for the forgiveness of his errors "both voluntary and involuntary" and then, together, the group sings a hymn asking that the memories of this one man be eternal. It's a short service Kouremetis will repeat again and again, over the course of about four hours, just as he does every Memorial Day when Americans honor fallen soldiers.
"We are all soldiers of God," Kouremetis says of the annual tradition of blessing graves, one he says is observed by other Eastern Orthodox churches, too. "All of us fight the good fight of life."
Wearing a red and golden stole atop his long black cassock, as well as sunglasses, the priest moves around Salt Lake City's Mount Olivet Cemetery, answering the beckoning of families who await his time and blessings.
Some wave to get his attention. Others pace around, hoping to catch the priest as he hurries across the grounds. Others aren't as patient.
Flailing her arms, an older woman shouts in Greek - among other words an interpreter refuses to share - "I'm hollering, and you don't hear me!"
Kouremetis says he must race around "like a horse with blinders," taking care of one family at a time.
"Gimme a minute, OK?" he calls out to one group he passes. "Be right there," he screams to another. "I'm gonna grab this one and then shoot that way," he yells to a third.
People pass him index cards or scraps of paper listing the names they want blessed. The lists represent those buried in the cemetery, but in some cases even include loved ones interred in Greece.
"The prayers are universal," the priest says.
The headstones are a burst of color, surrounded by flowers. Small clouds of smoke run skyward from incense burners, carrying prayers to the heavens, Kouremetis explains. Members of the community hug or kiss the priest, slipping money into his hand. The bills fill his pockets and will serve as offerings for the poor and needy.
To travel the cemetery with Kouremetis is to take in lessons about the area's Greek Orthodox community.
Mike Giamalakis stands before the grave of his uncle, Angelo, the man who took Giamalakis in when - like so many other young male immigrants - he arrived from Greece alone at 14. George Miller, choir director at Holy Trinity Cathedral, honors his parents, Evanthia and Pete Milionis, who were renamed Miller at Ellis Island.
Connie Ligeros, 82, grasps her walker with her left hand and motions with her right. "That's my mommy and daddy over there," she says, pointing right. "My brother. . . my sister and her husband's up there," she continues, turning forward.
At her feet are the stones for her two sons and her husband. To the left are the markers for Wanda and William Ligeros, her brother-in-law and his wife, who died when their plane crashed into Japan's Mount Fuji in 1966. Nearby are "Mommy and Daddy Ligeros," and so on and so on.
Indeed, she is surrounded by loved ones who have gone before her. Coming to the cemetery is "like visiting family," she says. And now that they have all received their Memorial Day blessings, she slowly walks away, knowing she has done right by them.