‘Tis the season to eat, drink, and be merry.
No, I’m not thinking Christmas. Plenty of time for that.
There’s nothing better during these lazy days of summer than your traditional picnic. It’s where friends meet friends and your appetite never seems to wane. Dance to your heart’s content or find a quiet spot for a game of tavlou or a conversation, provided you can talk above the music.
In my community, we have three picnics. And then you have the option of going to others at Camp Haiastan (an hour’s drive for me) or a bit further to hit Whitinsville and some of the other outlying communities.
If you look hard enough, there’s one every week. If you don’t find them, they’ll find you.
In some ways, it’s the perfect outlet. If a crowd of distant relatives wish to invite themselves to your summer camp and put you through a hard day’s worth of hospitality, not to worry.
Just tell them…
“Oh, so sorry. We made plans to support the local picnic.”
And off you go into someone else’s cookout.
No excessive food to buy. No dishes to wash. No toilet to unclog from abuse. A septic system can take only so much. I have a sign that’s usually ignored. It reads:
“In this land of sun and fun, you do not flush for Number 1.”
On second thought, sometimes it’s more peaceful just to stay home and lock the door. Last Sunday, I waited in a long line to order my kebab, then scrambled past a crowd with their hands extended to the beverage counter for my drink.
Next task was to find a table and a couple empty seats. Walking the labyrinth at the Armenian Heritage Park in Boston might have been easier.
“Let’s go sit with the Hagopians,” came the word.
“We saw them only yesterday. What about eating with the Arakelians? We haven’t seen them in an age.”
“They’ll talk your ear off,” I reply. “What about those two seats over there by the Bedrosians? They’re always so full of gossip. Wonder what happened with their inheritance?”
Over we go to the Bedrosian table, only to find out the seats are reserved. Finally…
“Hey, you two over here! Come join us.”
My cousins from Never Never Land. No problem. We took our place and opened our lunch boxes, ready to dig deep with the plastic cutlery.
One mouthful of chicken and pilaf later, on comes an entourage of people in overdose conversation, looking to chat about everything from church affairs, to politics, to grandkids, to health issues, to vacation spots and whether or not you were going to next week’s picnic in Worcester.
Or was it Providence?
We search the crowd for members of our own church and came to the reality that such affairs bear no division or rank. We are all one extended family of Armenians in one locality, keeping our heritage vibrant and exercising our social inhibitions.
Six hundred Armenians in one spot on a summer’s afternoon are bound to perk up a dreary soul. Unless, of course, it rains on your parade.
Had we not gone to this picnic, we would have missed Hagop’s update on his stress test; Bedros’s trip to Historic Armenia; Garabed’s prediction on the upcoming New England Patriots’ season; Anto’s knee replacement (he did the “Tamzara”!); not to mention a dozen other things to keep you updated.
But alas! It’s the comfort of meeting old acquaintances and being introduced to new companions. My parents took me to picnics as a child and I wound up doing the same with my children. Hopefully, they will follow the same example with their kids.
I remember being introduced to one Armenian girl after another at the picnics from eager-eyed parents serving as matchmakers. As kids, we had more important things to think about, like making the Little League team and figuring out how to get an increase in our allowance.
“This is Anoush. Isn’t she a sweet girl?” my mother would say, probing me forward. “Why don’t you get up and dance?”
I look back on those halcyon picnic days of youth and refinery. The trip down memory lane never reached an ultimate destination. It’s still being traversed.
I taught my grandchild how to do the “Halleh” at one of these picnics. Hopefully, she’ll grow into a decent Armenian woman like the one I married.
Tom Vartabedian
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