A Thank You to Dr. King

Me - 1969 graduation

Recently I was talking to my granddaughter about how school was going.  She told me she was working on an essay about Dr. Martin Luther King.  I told her maybe I could add something to her essay because when I was in school in the 60s it was the height of the civil rights movement. 

She perked up and became real interested. I guess she didn’t realize that grandma was that old.  She asked me if I marched with Dr. King. I chuckled and told her that where I grew up in Fresno we didn’t really have any marches.  Nor did we have the kind of problems they had in the south, such as forcing black people to sit in the back of the bus or drink at separate water fountains, yet we still had issues.

In Fresno at that time, I explained, the people of color lived on the other side of the tracks, literally.  They had their own part of town where the railroad marked their territory.  You would otherwise never see a black person living or participating in life anywhere else.  My father’s business, a box manufacturing plant, bordered that area and several of his employees were people of color.  In fact his foreman was black and his yard boss was Latino and was affectionately called poncho.  Everyone loved him and he loved everyone.  I never learned bigotry or racism in any form from my parents.

I still have the picture of my very white father attending the wedding of the foreman’s daughter.  My father seemed so happy and was smiling so big; the only white guy there.

My father - at the wedding of his foreman's daughter - 1950s

My granddaughter’s essay brought me back in memory to that time and place.  I told her that I may not have been involved in any marches, unless you count Berkeley – marching against the war - but I remember that time in America so vividly. It was exciting in many ways, there were the controversies and there were the victories.  Many things were changing.  We all followed Dr. King’s speeches and listened to every word. 

For me as a high school student, these changes affected my life.  I explained to my granddaughter how in high school where I lived in the north part of town, way far away from those railroad tracks, they bused in young people of color to attend classes with us at my school.

My memories are that all of us students welcomed our new fellow students with open arms. It was a happy time.  We were thrilled to be a part of these new changes. I don’t remember anyone being upset or critical in any way, shape or form.  We all wanted these changes to take place and for a people oppressed to feel welcome. I became good friends with one of the students in particular. I still remember her name, Johnnie James.

My granddaughter’s eyes were wide and she was so surprised that I experienced these things in my lifetime.  I found my old yearbook and showed her a picture of Johnnie and her sweet message to me which she read with enthusiasm.  We talked about other things in the yearbook, the times, the feelings, the experiences. 

As we parted and she clutched my yearbook, she said, “Grandma, may I borrow your yearbook for awhile?”  How could I say “no”?  I watched as she took my piece of history and carried it away next to her heart.

So today I want to thank Dr. King and his memory and the memories he made for me and that I was able to meet Johnnie and move forward in my generation and for future generations.  Let’s not forget his speeches that motivated us against hatred.

Update:  I am including a picture of Johnnie and her sweet comment to me in my yearbook.

One Christmas Story

Our blended family with other relatives

Since Christmas is only a few days away I've been reminiscing on the past and how our large family often suffered during those days.

My husband and I are a blended family and ended up with 11 children between us.  Some weren't always with us but at any given time we often had 8 children in our crowded home.  My husband had to return to college to study for a career to support all of us.  During this time we had very little money.

In spite of our lack of money, we always welcomed those around us who were in an even worse plight.  And for those who were lonely, which can be so devastating during such festive holidays, we gave them a special place at our table.

Most of the time we were able to have a nice Christmas due to the compassion of strangers and such organizations as the Salvation Army and our local schools and churches.

There was one Christmas, however, where nothing like that happened, my hubby was interning as a student teacher and had no income.  When Christmas came, we had very little in the way of presents.  We told the children we should just be happy with whatever God gave us and we should be thankful and think of all those who have even less.

About mid morning we saw a strange sight.  One of my daughter's friends had adopted us as her family.  Her father had been quite young when she was born and her mother had addiction problems.  She spent a lot of time at our home.  His name was Barry and we got to know him through his daughter.  Imagine our surprise when we saw him walking up our pathway with presents tucked under his arms.  He was a trucker and had just returned from the road.  At one of the truck stops he thought of us and bought presents for the kids,  We dubbed him our new Santa Claus.

What a great day that was.  Probably one of my happiest memories.  We spent the day eating turkey with Barry and watching the kids play with their new remote controlled cars out on the street.

I hope that all those who are lonely or needy this Christmas will find those who exhibit such a Christian message to give to those in need.  I pray no one feels alone. I know this is an impossible prayer, but even if a few more lives are touched, that would be the good news we all want to hear on Christmas.  Merry Christmas.

Happy Thanksgiving 2016

Here's something I wrote about Armenians and holidays back in 2010:

While flipping through my families’ photo albums, I was struck with the enormous amount of pictures we have from our holiday gatherings.  Armenians are an emotional, gregarious race and nothing was spared for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners.

The holidays were a time for our family to get together with all our relatives.  Not only were the meals huge and plentiful, but out came the best Armenian food ever.  We had cheese boreg with just the right amount of cheese, butter and a flaky crust – yum; green beans and lamb stew; yalanchi and sarma created with the loving and experienced skill of grandmas, aunties and cousins; Armenian string cheese; barstarma; and paklava for desert.

I swear my grandma made the best kufta and yoghurt soup ever.  Each kufta (a ball of cracked wheat and meat) was filled with pieces of nuts.  Out of the whole pot, there was one kufta that had a walnut in the middle.  Anyone who had that kufta in their bowl was the lucky one.  She also made choreg; a wonderful twisted, sometimes cheesy sometimes sweet bread.

My mother and grandmother cooked mostly with lamb. My grandmother owned a bakery and would personally go to the butcher and pick out the best lamb for her lahmajoon.  In those days there was always a butcher behind the counter at the supermarket and my grandmother and my mother would pick out the nicest piece of lamb and have the butcher grind it up for her.

Believe it or not but we ate a raw meat dish called khema (similar to steak tartare).   Well, that’s what we called it though I see on the net that other Armenians call it chee kufta or kebabs.  It’s in the shape of kebabs, but it’s raw so we called it khema and I loved it.  My mother made this so carefully with only the best ground lamb selected and carefully handled in order to be able to eat it raw.

It is on these memories that I say my Thanksgiving prayer for 2010.  Thank you God for all the blessings we have in our lives; that we can enjoy our meals freely without hindrance or strife; that our children can grow up educated, smart and pursue their talents and desires; that we can visit each other from across the country or across the world; that we can invite new friends and acquaintances to our tables and share with them in our abundance; that our ancestors can look down on us and smile because it is due to their sacrifice and stalwartness that we are able to enjoy these blessings. 

At the same time that I am rejoicing in my gratefulness, I am also sad hearted to think about the many people in our world who are not enjoying the same things.  Instead they are hurting and suffering great perils and strife.  I pray for those suffering in the world today.  

Living in an RV full-time and other stories: A Tale of Two Families

Living in an RV full-time and other stories: A Tale of Two Families: A Tale of Two Families The Okoomian family in Turkey When I was a little girl, around 1956 (I was about 5 years old), an event happ...

A Tale of Two Families

A Tale of Two Families

The Okoomian family in Turkey

When I was a little girl, around 1956 (I was about 5 years old), an event happened that has come full circle in my life (I am now 65).  Sixty years ago my grandmother found her sister who had been torn away from the family after the parents were killed during the war.  The war I am talking about was WWI.  The land I am talking about is Turkey - my parents’ and grandparents’ birthplace.

We are Armenians; we are displaced Armenians.  Both sets of my parents and grandparents escaped the atrocities of that war and found themselves settling into a far away land that promised them peace and prosperity.  They went about putting the pieces of their lives back together.  Meanwhile, those left behind did not fare so well.  Most were killed or died on the death marches.  Forced to leave their homes, they were marched into the desert and left to die.  Including two sets of my great grandparents and numerous aunts and uncles I was to never meet.

My grandmother along with her brother and sister were sent away before the death march that was to be the end of the Armenian presence in Eastern Turkey.  Too young to travel to the new land, their younger siblings were left behind.  My grandmother kept in touch with her sisters until the parents were killed and her sisters were taken by Turkish soldiers.  One sister, Markrid, was able to keep in touch through clandestine methods until that source dried up.  Markrid, was given by the Turkish soldier to a Turkish family.  She was married to one of the sons, a court reporter.  She was only nine years old.

Forty nine years later after her husband died, Markrit felt free enough to look for her sisters and brother in America.  She put an ad in an Armenian-language newspaper.  My grandmother, Mary, saw the ad and promptly had her sister flown to the United States for a tearful and emotional reunion.  Markrit spent 6 months in California getting to know her other family.

Markrid arrives California 1956

Three sisters meet - 49 years later

After Markrid returned to Turkey, my mother made two trips to visit her and her family.  Also, in 1967, Markird’s grandson, Namik and his brand new wife, Sevinc, came to visit us in California.  I was just a teenager then and Sevinc was even younger than me.  Because we were both teenagers, we were given the task of entertaining each other.  This was difficult because I did not speak Turkish and she did not speak English.  We had fun walking around the yard and stroking each other’s cheeks.  Sevinc did nothing but smile and say sweet things to me in Turkish. I never forgot that day.

Namik and Sevinc 1967 in front of my house

Ozzie visits Markrid in 1967

Fast forward to life in the 60s, getting married, divorced, travelling the world and nearly forgetting those teenage days.

  I returned to help my mother in the last 10 years of her life.  She passed away in 1999.  The task was given to me to go through her garage full of boxes of things.  My mother was a known pack rat.  Some opined that it was her days of growing up in France with nothing but her family to hold on to.  And then her father left for the Promised Land only to be reunited 4 years later rather than the 4 months as promised.  Worse, she was made to travel all the way over the ocean leaving her baby brother behind due to visa problems.   Hripsema (my maternal grandmother) remembers little Ozzie (Azadohi) crying all the way to Ellis Island.  It was a long 6 months before her adored baby brother, George, joined them in Philadelphia.

My mother kept every memento possible.  While going through her boxes of pictures, letters, notes, etc., I ran across the story of Markrid, Mary, Elizabeth and brother John as well as all the pictures of Markrid’s visit and letters back and forth between families.  I decided I was going to reunite the families again so I wrote letters to every address I found in my mother’s address book.  I even had a friend translate the letter into Turkish so there would be no confusion.  Every single letter came back.  It appears that all the addresses I had were no longer viable.  Frustrated, I put them away.  Meanwhile, I put the story up on a blog that I had at the time called Armenian Eyes.  I used Markrid’s Turkish name as well as my grandmother’s.  Imagine my surprise when one of the great grandchildren of Markrid (named Burcin) contacted me on my blog.  Their family was so excited to find our family once again.

I struck up a great relationship with Burcin and she helped me fill in some of the blanks on the family tree that I was doing.  I was supposed to go to Turkey and meet everyone but it just never happened.  Sadly, my friendship with Burcin was cut short when she passed away at an early age.  I knew something was wrong as I had not heard from her in awhile.  I contacted a professor friend of mine in Turkey who looked her up in the directory of the college where she had received her schooling.  And there he found her obituary.  I was devastated.   I felt bad for not trying harder to visit and letting that opportunity pass.  Worse, I had no other address or email contact and had once again lost touch with our Turkish cousins.

So, a couple of years ago I started this current new blog and put the story up once again.  Plus, I used my maiden name on social media in case other family history enthusiasts might want to get in touch.  I was surprised again when the same college students found me on both FB and my blog.  Wow.  I was so touched and it brought me to tears.

Fast forward to last month.  The same couple who had visited our family in 1967 decided to make a trip all the way to Fresno and meet our family again.  So Namik and Sevinc and I revisited our 1967 meeting.  We had a whirlwind visit that lasted only a few days but will be a lifetime worth remembering.

Namik and Sevinc
 in front of  my old house 2016

My cousins and I had a wonderful time getting to know our Turkish cousins.  My cousin, Verjene, who was named after the younger sister who, apparently, was taken by a gypsy band and died young, told her story to Namik and Sevinc.  

Verjene
with Markrid 1957

Verjene
with Namik and Sevinc 2016

With my cousin, Pam,
tearfully saying goodbye at the Fresno Airport

This time I will make every effort to meet my long lost cousins and visit my parents’ homeland.

RV Fairy Garden

An RV Fairy Garden.  You read that right.  I miss my garden and my whimsical stuff that I laid out here and there in the yard.  To satisfy my creative juices, I made a fairy garden but with a twist.  I used an old miner's pan, various rocks I have collected, miniature forest animals, a few items from the craft store related to BBQing and/or camping.

It's only a prototype.  I'm still looking for an RV to add to it.

This has a forest and camping theme because that's where we are parked until October, in the Sierra National Forest.

Can you see the animals?

Independence Day 2016

kids in the back of the pick up

How many people can claim that they get to work in the place where they love to live.  That is how we view our work now that we have retired and live where we actually like living.

The RV park where we work celebrated Independence Day a day early because it was Sunday.  So last night we got to drive around the park with the kids and the old folks together under a canopy of pine and Cedar trees and the night sky.

With the smell of campfires and smores, we wound around the RV park while waving at all the campers lined up along the little parade route.

Kids on decorated bikes, dogs and various family members made the trek behind the lead truck and the park's old military Jeep.

We were honored to be serenaded along the way by a military band member and Vietnam vet who played the fight songs of all the branches of the military on his trumpet.

Today, Independence Day 2016, we got the chance to tool around the lake in a little motorboat and Bob tried to figure out his new fishing pole.  The weather was perfect and the lake was up after a devastating drought  last year that saw the water level down lower than anyone could remember.

The Lake - at a higher level

Bob - Lakeside, enjoying the view

Picnic and soaking up the view

Tree formed by the winds coming off the lake

That's our celebration this year and thank you to all military members who sacrifice so much for their fellow country men and women.  Off we go to a potluck hosted by fellow RVers.