The purpose of this column over the next few weeks is to establish an historical record of conversations I had over 30 years ago with my mother, Takouhie Charverdian Apigian. I located what I loosely call my family archives, related mostly to my mother’s side of the family. This information is taken from precious notes and tapes dictated to me by an Armenian female in exile, Takouhie Charverdian, from her days in Dovrag and Zonguldak, Turkey, to 1989 when she passed away.
It is especially historical because it includes the first names and surnames of family members who, during the 1915-23 genocidal campaign by the Ottoman Turks, were denied their rights as members of the human race by scoundrels incited to rape, loot, dismember, and murder. There was no mercy.
I cannot even imagine the horror, fear, and degradation our ancestors felt in those killing fields of Historic Armenia. Rivers flowed red with the blood of Armenians. Mountain chasms were filled with the bodies of people who committed suicide to escape.
Mind you this, deniers: “We shall never forget, we demand reparations” is our battle cry.
Unknown cousins are now roaming the earth, hopefully as useful citizens, unaware that their cousin Takouhie, now deceased, and her daughter remember them in the Armenian Weekly, even after 100 years.
These faceless names represent my lost family of aunts, uncles, grandparents, and a multitude of cousins who, because of the heinous Ottomans, I never got to know. The historical oral account of these people, my family, the innocents who were killed or escaped if fortunate, are remembered by an exceptional woman. Perhaps someone somewhere reading this account will recognize the names and a connection will be made, God willing.
Takouhie is the Armenian word for queen, and it suited my mother just fine. She was born on Aug. 13, 1906. Armenians equate that date with the holiness of the Blessing of the Grapes, one of our five major Feast Days. Mary is the new Eve and Jesus is the new Adam.
I don’t believe my mother’s birth at this auspicious time was an accident. I can only say she was a spiritual person, a believer, a person with a kind demeanor enabling her to be admired for her warmth, charm, and loyalty to family and friends.
I was a very young child when she taught me to cross myself, and in childlike pronunciation I repeated, “Ahn-eh-hor, vevert-voh, surpoh, ahmen“—incorrect, but it remains with me to this day. Since then I have continued to pray on a daily basis.
May 1 reminds me of how Takouhie always had her girlfriends over on May Day for “gatov sourj,” strong Armenian coffee made with milk substituted for water. On this day, her friends would arrive at our house, all the deegeens like Sarah, Victoria, Makrouhie, Elsig, and Yeranouhie. They’d sit in our living room sipping gatov sourj and dining on pastries wearing neat housedresses and sensible shoes with their legs crossed lady-like at the ankles. Deegeen Makrouhie even taught a few of the ladies to smoke in their battle to shed unwanted weight.
Mom always said, “Gatov sourj was the custom in the yergir.” The yergir for my very traditional Armenian mother was Dovrag and then Zonguldak, on the Black Sea north of Bolis (Constantinople). She was born in Dovrag; then for safety’s sake her family moved to the French-operated coal mining town of Zonguldak.
I love and very much miss my mother. She was my advisor, my grnag (backbone), my strength, and my confidant in safe times and in troubled times. Her passing away at age 84 in 1989 left an emptiness in my heart that has never been filled.
Mother’s Day? She would be nicely dressed, makeup on, hair freshly permed, her face fragrant with Coty Lorigan powder emanating a sweet aroma when you kissed her cheek. Her dining room table was a banquet set for her family. She was attractive, very fair skinned, with auburn hair. She was my father’s queen, the youngest daughter of Nectar (Keshishian) Charverdian and Ohannes Charverdian. His birthdate is unknown. He married my grandmother Nectar when she was 25 and he was 55. He died at age 78, apparently of natural causes. He was very tall, had light hair and blue eyes. He married late because he raised a widowed sister’s children, a most admirable gent. My grandfather was a saloon owner.
Nectar Charverdian Apigian died in 1939 at age 68 of a heart attack at our home in Pontiac, Mich. She also had high blood pressure. Both ailments run in our family to a degree still today. She is buried in Oakhill Cemetery in Pontiac as Nectar Apigian because she was brought to this country as Mamigon Apigian’s mother for immigration purposes, rather than as his mother-in-law. My father was her sole caretaker and means of support during her life in Canada and the U.S.
It is important to note that grandma’s stay in the New World was not without problems. On three occasions, Armenians turned grandma into the immigration authorities as an illegal alien. My father had to return her to Brantford, Ontario. He found her room and board until they chanced her return across the border to our home in Pontiac. Armenians did this three times. My frustrated father threw his hands up in anger saying, “I am the one taking care of her, she is not a burden to the U.S. Do what you want with her!” They in turn said, “It is your own people reporting her. We don’t care at all that she is here.” At that point, grandma was left in peace to live with my parents. She died when I was nine months old. She is lovingly remembered as she served as a nurse/caregiver to many Pontiac Armenian women after giving birth.
Her grave marker says “Nectar Apigian, erected by Grandson Abe.” My brother Abraham sent home money from his World War II army earnings to erect the marker. Dad put flowers on her grave every Memorial Day and throughout the summer. I agreed to fulfill that duty when he passed away for both grandma and aunt Haygouhie Palulian.
After my father died in 1972, my mother accepted a cousin’s invitation to vacation at her San Diego home. I was surprised that a lady who had never left her husband’s side could fly to California; she even visited Las Vegas and Mexico. A lace mantilla and yellow bangle bracelets remain as her gifts to me from that trip. My yearning and need to still be in mom’s company has never diminished. Over tea and choreg, she would tell and retell many stories into the late hours of the evening. She had excellent memory retention even until death. I never tired of conversation of the yergir with mom.
This column will continue to recount from my notes. I can still hear her loving voice talking to me. “I love you, Mom,” is all I can say. You were wise, patient, and an exemplary lady, and an excellent hostess. I hit the jackpot when it came to having fantastic parents who were in love and well-suited for each other.
For the sake of history, I intend to include everything just as she told me.
Betty Apigian-Kessel
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