Guest Posted November 11, 2000 Report Share Posted November 11, 2000 October in the early 1970's. My grandparents, my mom, my Uncle Rich and I are heading down the San Diego Freeway to St. James Church in Los Angeles for their Annual Harvest Bazaar. We arrive and the parking lot is full. It the second of three days and everyone is here. After parking, we can see Sam cooking kebab under the bright lights of the parking lot. We say "Hello" and walk down into the underground parking where the din of conversation and tavloo, and the smell of pilaf fill the air. Immediately we see my Uncle Carnig. Hugs and kisses all around. Uncle Carnig is my Grandfather's uncle and the well-respected head of the family. He's a funny and intelligent man with a great accent that I can still hear in my mind. Other uncles and aunts are seated next to them and all around. Some are really uncles and aunts, some aren't. Everyone knows everyone. My Uncle Rich and I head over to the games to see what is happening. As usual, eveyone is gathered around the wheel of fortune betting nickes, dimes and quarters on what will numbers come up. Older cousins are there with cigars betting and having fun. The bazaar is in full swing. We are summoned back to eat. My grandpa pays and we get our little red food tickets. Auntie Aslig (Uncle Carnig's wife) is working the food line and knows how much I love rice so she fills my plate. I now carry back to my chair a beautiful plate of shish kebab, rice, salad and a big, thick slice of Armenian bread. Someone in family finishes whatever scraps I don't eat. After eating I hook up with my cousins. We spend the rest of the evening playing the carnival games, looking at the used toys for sale at the "White Elephant" table and running up and down the stairs that run from the festival area to John Goghian Hall. I could live in those stairs. Two years ago I walked them and I might as well have been 7 again. Upstairs in the Hall, the otherworldy sounds of John Bilezikian, Richard Hagopian or The Oasis Band can be heard. It'll be a good ten years later before I will realize how much this music has permeated my soul. We watch people dance inbetween running up and down the stairs. Everyone dances beautifully. My mom and grandma know all the different dances to songs that all sound the same to me. "How do you know which dance to do?" "I just do." It's a mystery to me for years to come. The band takes a break and it's raffle time. Once again we just miss winning the TV set by a few numbers, but at least Auntie Pauline won it this year. Time for dessert. Not being a fan of Armenian pastries, I opt for a cupcake or cookie. By now people are leaving, but my family all congregate upstairs in the Hall. I get drowsy on a chair to the sound of Armenian conversation, the oud, clarinet and dumbeks. I'm nudged awake. Time to go. For $1 I get a huge plate of leftover rice to go. My Armenia. [This message has been edited by Pilafhead (edited November 12, 2000).] Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted November 13, 2000 Report Share Posted November 13, 2000 That's so beautiful Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted November 14, 2000 Report Share Posted November 14, 2000 I love your style of writting. Please let us enjoy more of it. Thanx in advance. Aneta Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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