Woe to those of you who did not have the privilege of knowing Herman Hrant Torigian (dubbed “Uncle Herman” by those in the know) and Vartkes “Bob” Haroutunian (known as the patriarch of Pontiac because he served as a deacon at St. Sarkis Church in Dearborn for so many years).
No community could possibly be as fortunate as the Metro Detroit area for being able to lay claim to such colorful, loveable characters who had Armenia in their blood. No one can ever fill their goshigs (shoes). They were a breed apart.
I realize how fortunate I was to grow up knowing these two young men, children of survivors of the Armenian Genocide, who played a major role in my youth. Herman was the die-hard Vanetsi from Highland Park and Vartkes was his equal as a Keghetsi from Pontiac. Both served the Armenian community as members of the Armenian Revolutionary Federation (ARF) and valued members of St. Sarkis Church.
Although both have passed on to their reward, their memory lingers on. Every time I drive to my son’s property on Leach Rd. in Auburn Hills, I pass the Good Humor Distributor located there. The significance? It brings back memories of Uncle Herman in the late 1940’s selling Good Humor ice cream from his truck at the corner of Opdyke and Auburn Roads. It wasn’t until much later in life that he drove a purple taxi cab, and still today I see their headquarters every time I drive down Woodward Ave. through Highland Park, causing me to chirp, “There’s Herman’s cab!” Don’t I wish he was still here.
As a kid I hit the jackpot. On Sunday afternoon drives, my sisters would go to the intersection in Auburn Hills where the Vanetsi and the Keghetsi, Herman and Vartkes, would be plying their trade on opposite corners. In those days the area was considered the “andars,” sparsely settled by mostly southerners who came up to work in factories during World War II.
Vartkes would be manning his popcorn truck, turning out the best caramel corn and candy apples, while Herman sold ice cream. I was always treated to their products without charge. I guess it had something to do with the fact that I had unmarried older sisters who knew both of them by being members of the Armenian Youth Federation (AYF) and from dances at the Findlater, better known as the Armenian Community Center (getron), where so many marriages resulted from these weekend parties.
I can still see Herman, in his mid 20’s, heavy set and always jolly, wearing his white jacket crossed diagonally with a strap, to which a metal change maker was attached. I was 10 and was intrigued by this apparatus that held jingling coins; when you pushed a lever, coins would tumble out.
Vartkes later worked at the Pontiac Retail Store where I bought my first brand new car, a 1960 triple Coronado red Catalina convertible. My father insisted I buy from Vartkes, the Armenian son of one of his best friends. Before his passing, Vartkes owned a shoe repair shop in Waterford.
When my father died in 1972, it was Vartkes who planned a fedayee funeral for “Baron Mamigon.” It was the ultimate tribute paid to this dedicated Armenian revolutionary member. The sight of my dad’s “Raffi” Gomideh ungers carrying his casket out of the beautiful white chapel on their shoulders and the huge basket of flowers emblazoned with red, blue, and orange ribbons singing heghapoghagan songs was as dramatic and endearing to our family as was entombing JFK in Arlington National Cemetery to the whole country.
While Herman was an AYF advisor in Detroit, Vartkes did the same for our Pontiac “Aharonian” Chapter in Pontiac, and urged our little chapter on to glory when we won the Central Executive’s trophy for compiling the most educational points. We crow about that to this day.
How many times did Herman take a group of AYFers to the Howard Johnson’s in H.P. for his favorite coffee and coffee ice cream? Or me and cousin Clara to Greek Town after a dance for late night dinner, to extend the night in friendship? Or to Sayig’s for pizza? Or Kef Time at the Cape, or the Poconos, Chicago, Cleveland, Boston, Olympics, seminars? That is why Herman was called the Ambassador.
I remember the time my cousin Ned Apigian, accompanied by Herman, unexpectedly stopped by our house on Prospect St. on a Sunday afternoon after we had already had our dinner, and my mother jumped up to prepare a meal of pork chops, pilaf, and salad for the dghas (boys) because that was the proper thing to do.
Their lives were totally entwined with their Hyegagan heritage. They loved people and that love was returned many fold. They were good Americans and great Armenians. Herman’s early death at the age of 61 in 1987 left a void that has never been filled. Not seeing Vartkes on the St. Sarkis altar where he served as deacon still seems strange, as though anytime now the portly patriarch will step out from behind the altar.
Oddly enough, both men, bigger than life, are buried in Troy’s White Chapel Memorial Garden, far from the Woodlawn and Woodmere cemeteries where so many Armenians are buried. Uncle Herman’s final resting place is very near I-75 where the consummate Hye can watch the busy coming and going of the world. I can still see Hachig Kazarian playing the clarinet when his good friend was committed to the soil. Sometimes memory can be damned for the playbacks they put you through.
How many times, as I accompanied my parents to shop at Highland Park’s Royal Market for Armenian products, did Herman happen by? Frequently. I remember blue-eyed Danny the Armenian clerk, and Aram and Charlie the owners who had merged their two separate businesses. My dad took me with him to shop when Mourad was still located in the busy Eastern Market.
My memory bank is filled with wonderful memories of the survivor generation and those Armenian picnics and dances. Yes, those were the days filled with good times at Palmer Park, the old getron, Lake Chmung, and Armenian Night at the Stockade. No one did it better. He was a complex man and I don’t think he got the respect he deserved, but his death brought a realization that brought us to our senses. It wouldn’t be the same again.
No more Herman? No more Vartkes? Who’s going to run to Victor Bakery for more pita for the picnic kebab? Will the caramel corn at the fair be as tasty as that made by Unger Vartkes?
Hold their memory close to your chest. The likes of them will never pass this way again. Of that I am sure.
Herman, Vartkes, this community misses you and we salute you for all the good deeds you did in the name of your Armenian heritage. You are the dghas that will never be forgotten. You are Detroit legends.
Betty Apigian-Kessel
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