I was having a marathon phone conversation with Anne Krikorian when I was interrupted by my husband Bob: “I am going to the drug store. Do you need anything?”
Without thinking my reply was automatic. I sang out, “Bring me a surprise!” Anne was still on the phone and in hearing my response jokingly responded in like manner, “Bring me one too.”
As the youngest of four children in the Apigian family, and 10 years younger than my next eldest sibling, I was the fortunate one. They were children of the Depression and my father was responsible for the care and feeding of his wife, three children, and his mother-in-law, whom he took care of like his own mother. He went to the ends of the earth to provide for his family and did a heroic job of it.
My arrival into the world came at a slightly better time.
Hayrig had hoped that I, his fourth child, would be another boy. He was joined in this feeling by my brother Apraham, 14 years my senior. He was the first born and only male already dealing with two younger sisters. They were a close threesome.
Apraham’s wish for a brother was not to be. Serpouhie Nictar Charverdian Apigian (Betty Lou) was born at home on Prospect Street in Pontiac, Mich., at five in the morning, which accounts for my still-bad nightowl habits. My brother’s hopes for a brother were dashed, but he wished to confirm it on his own. When notified of my arrival he opened my diaper and, upon discovery of the tragic news that he had another sister, he just spit on me and left the room.
Handsome Abe with the green eyes and black hair has been eternally labeled by my parents as “Voski deghas” (my golden son), and this sentiment was more obvious with my mother. Male Armenian sons are deemed as a very special gift from above and get treated like princes. He served in the U.S. Army during World War II, was in the invasion of Normandy, and was later seriously injured in a bombing in Germany, earning a Purple Heart. He finally arrived home safe bearing schrapnel scars.
Upon his homecoming my parents said, “Heemah hankisd schoonch guh kashem“(I can now breathe a sigh of relief).
Apraham may have preferred a brother, but during his 60 years of life on earth he treated me with extra special love and care, indulging me on Christmas and my birthday even when his financial circumstance was not of the best degree. He accompanied the adult me and Hayrig to the Pontiac Retail Store to purchase my first new Pontiac convertible (and my dad said it had to be the red one).
I remained the little darling of my indulging father and whenever he went out to do shopping, I would call out, “Bring me back a surprise,” and he always did, often without my asking. Old habits die hard and consequently somehow the timing was perfect to repeat my favorite saying this day to Bob.
When I was quite young the surprises came in the form of a large pumpkin for Halloween, pomegranates in the fall, Santa Claus candles at Christmas, a badminton set, and a two-wheel bike.
The price and surprises got more expensive as I grew older. It was a portable Remington typewriter when I was in highschool, a record player for my bedroom, and a bookcase for the Armenian-themed books he always purchased for me. I still have the lavender leather purse he purchased for me to match the knit suit and heels I absolutely had to have, even though I was then working at GM.
A trip to downtown brought back doughnuts and muffins from Tasty Bakery, and when it was time for shoes, no less than two pairs were purchased at one time from the stylish Arthur’s Women’s Apparel store.
My dad, Mamigon, was just that kind of father, but all this came with a warning label, that a certain behavior was expected at all times: No spoiled brat syndrome would be tolerated. All he had to do was give us “the look.”
My mother, Takouhie, made sure I helped her with the house work and sometimes the baking. When she launched into the tedious time-consuming task of making mante, I had the job of pinching off pieces of hamburger to place on the center of the dough squares and bringing the ends together, so that each morsel resembled a tiny canoe. I then placed them into the buttered baking pan shoulder to shoulder with her eagle eye approval of the whole process.
She was a demanding taskmaster and her words still ring in my ears, “Meesuh pavehtsour” (Make sure you distribute the meat so that there is enough for all the dough). There always was enough. Her exacting habits rubbed off on me. Among the many recipes she dictated to me was the one for mante. Recently I pulled it out of my recipe box and realized how yellow it had gotten over the many years. I have a deep appreciation for her teaching me so well. I hear her voice like it was just yesterday.
Christmas shopping with my father was a regular expedition. He and I would travel the 20-plus miles to Detroit’s Eastern Market to Mourad Grocery where his Tashnag ungers, Aram and Mourad, had all the Armenian necessities of lamb, bulgur, pistachios, cheeses, and the other goodies to celebrate the holiday.
Then we would go out into the mammoth open-air market for fruits and vegetables, Dad always bought in huge quantities because he believed in being prepared to entertain relatives and extended family. He was generous to a fault. The term hunter/gather perfectly describes my father.
With our now-frozen feet we would stop at the outdoor vendor’s stand and purchase hotdogs and coffee to relish inside the warmth of his red Studebaker truck. The truck had the fragrance of cheese and basterma, but the last stop was to be at Victor Bakery in Highland Park for freshly baked pita.
The Apigians ate well, and company always sat down to a table full of food. One person said our house was like Grand Central Station, a compliment of sorts. When you lose your parents and sisters to a genocide like my father did in Dzermag, Keghi, perhaps you value the closeness of survivor cousins and khnamees (in-laws).
Dad’s sterling character, love, and respect of the Armenian community was visible at the fedayee funeral bestowed upon him with several hundred people attending. It was unforgettable. He was my prince, and sometime there is a tendency to exaggerate a person’s qualities when they die, but I assure you my Hayrig deserves respect as my knight in shining armor.
Just ask Bob. He will tell you, “No one can live up to Betty’s opinion of her father. She will even tell you when Mac (Mamigon) got older he was still better looking walking his daughters down the aisle then any of his three sons-in-law, and she has the photos to prove it.”
A daughter’s love for a father is not to be questioned. I have many wonderful memories of dad as my teacher, guardian, and role model, and I am here writing this column to honor my Hayrig (and that is no surprise at all). He was an exceptional husband, parent, friend, and a true Tashnag. I love you, Hayrig.
Betty Apigian-Kessel
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