Growing up in Pontiac, the drive to church in Detroit to the Waterman and Livernois area would have been a daunting task for my parents, consuming a large part of their day. Visits to church were connected to holidays and weddings.
Marriage and children changed all that. We made the decision to take our sons to Sunday School in 1975 regardless of distance. I didn’t have a clue who the “regulars” were at St. Sarkis Church in Dearborn. It took real dedication to make the 40-mile trip from our suburban home, but as parents we saw it as our Christian responsibility.
They say marriage makes you “bloom.” Shyness played a small part in my reserved behavior, but coming from a family that entertained often it became easy to meet new people as I grew up. Getting used to the church crowd wasn’t too difficult.
It is time to give credit to someone I observed keenly each Sunday during the first few weeks, someone who taught me the basics. Thanks, Rose Maloian. You never knew you were my teacher and I the student. By observing you, I learned the ritualistic behavior required during the Ekmalian Badarak so that even after errant attendance I have the rhythm.
I was reminiscing recently with Ann Krikorian and we started talking about events of years gone by. I know, as soon as a person starts dwelling on the good ol’ days, you date yourself. Many of my gang of backroom girls are now parents of kids in their 40’s who have blessed them with grandchildren. On the other hand, I didn’t catch up with them till now.
It was Ann Krikorian who organized our group, and whose duty it was to package the mas every Sunday in the backroom near the altar. The group was comprised of Ann, Seta Mesrobian, Nazely Keyorian, Florence Sharigian, myself and, before she moved to California, Helen Kassamanian. It was our exclusive territory and we liked it that way.
Badarak was at 11 a.m. and we were loyal to our responsibility. We would arrive shortly thereafter appropriately dressed and, of course, wearing those high heels. Seta would sprinkle water on the frozen mas, which remained in a cloth till pliable enough to tear into portions. Given the go ahead, the rest of us would begin filling the parchment envelopes till there was enough to supply that Sundays’ attendance. Conversation made the task go quickly.
More than one time our Der Hayr Rev. Dr. Gorun Shrikian would have to remind us to keep the chatter to a low roar. He patiently put up with us and it was interesting to observe his transformation, assuming his role as religious leader when he donned his clerical robes. His patience with us was admirable. Seta was the expert seamstress responsible for the beautiful new vestments for Der Hayr courtesy of the Ladies Guild.
We were convinced we were doing God’s work, but along with that we managed to catch up on what was going on in the community. This was not gossiping, it was called “public relations” or “social work.” Sometime the public relations got pretty interesting. It was a lesson in humanity to be part of the mas ladies group. We discovered Armenians faced challenges just like the rest of the real world. Our lips remained sealed to what we heard.
Again it was Ann who convinced the same group to join the Ladies Guild, which was comprised of the aging survivor generation and needed new blood. They were a sweet group of ladies and we gladly joined their ranks. They immediately voted Ann as president and per usual me as secretary. We loved working with those women whom we respected like our own mothers. We learned a lot from them.
Then our gang of five decided to start bringing fresh-baked goods from home for the after church coffee hour, and to actually stand behind the buffet table and pour the coffee for each parishioner as they came into the Lillian Arakelian community room after church to mingle and have refreshments. It was a great way to start a week: Badarak and the social hour afterwards.
On Saturday afternoon after playing outside all day, my two sons would come into the kitchen, sniff the sweet aroma of fresh-baked goods, spy the cookies and cake on the counter, and in unison teasingly chime, “We know, it’s for the church!”
The bazaar baking sessions were the responsibility of the Ladies Guild and again it was Ann who took over the chairperson’s helm assigning duties to each of us. She did a marvelous job each fall. We had enough baked goods for a three-day bazaar. It was after attending only one of these bake-a-thons that I received another lesson: to pull back and shut up. These ladies had their own way of doing things and were not timid about telling you how to do it their way. “Asang ereh, anang ereh” (do it like this, like that), they would say.
Yeretsgin Arpine Shrikian, now deceased, was always there working and keeping an eye on the progress as she rolled out two and three katah doughs at one time. No one else did that.
I chuckled to myself, held my tongue, and decided that if I was going to keep quiet, I’d have to find myself a quiet corner to carry out my assigned duties. I had learned how to bake and cook from my very domestic mother who was considered to be an exceptional cook, and I decided these women did not know my capabilities nor did they need to. I had been trained by the best, but I wasn’t here to showboat. I found the situation comical.
Comedian Dottie Bengoian was coming to entertain at one of the Ladies Guild’s big evening events. We were preparing a very lavish buffet fit for King Tigran when my cover got blown. Ann handed me a mountain of chickpeas and said, “Here, clean the skins off these.” I looked at her with dismay. Was I being punished? To this day every time I open a can of chickpeas to make hummus I think of that day. Now she tells me that she just throws them into the food processor. Yeah, Ann, all that fiber is very good for us. Too bad you didn’t know that then.
Times change. Our lives took on different patterns but recently Ann, Florence, and Seta remarked about how much they enjoyed that time of their life and how those were the good ol’ days. “Asang, anang.” On that we all agree.
Betty Apigian-Kessel
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