My grandpa dear, Bobeeg Jahn, had an innate grandpa spirit that spilled out like sweet cream on a bowl of strawberries.
It didn’t come from any experience he had; it came instead from his pure spirit.
I didn’t speak Armenian and he didn’t speak English, but he managed by speaking to non-Armenians and me in basic English phrases he had concocted.
Like when looking for work: “Sure ya, boss, I do good job cleaning for you at best price; you gonna like.”
He was very sweet natured, quiet, guileless, and ever on the lookout for ways to please his family.
He’d amuse himself by sitting on the edge of his upholstered rocking chair in front of our little black and white TV and watch live wrestling and cowboy movies.
I’d watch him while he watched TV because he was more fun than the program because he really got into it.
When the wrestlers were fighting he’d sit on the edge of his rocker, his fists punching the air while the fighters hit each other.
This was the only aggression I ever saw him express. Or was it a form of being totally there and submerged in the entertainment? Maybe both?
Was he in a state of mindfulness (as some might call it today)?
As a night janitor, his favorite job was working for the Sherman Music store in downtown Los Angeles, mainly because of the whimsical music boxes lining the shelves, whose keys, as he dusted each one, he wound up so that one tune after another played as he dusted the shelves of miniature pianos, ceramic mugs painted with nursery scenes like Jack and Jill rolling down a hill, Santas in all shapes and sizes, and many angels sparkling and holy looking, ready for customers to ogle at the next day.
Armenians celebrate Epiphany on Jan. 6 in a three-hour-long church service in which everyone in the Armenian community comes together.
Each is dressed up, especially the women, and wearing gold necklaces and bracelets and flashy rings, stylish hats and shiny shoes. They would mingle, worship in the ancient rite of the divine liturgy, and listen to a passionate sermon delivered from an ornately vestment-clad Der Hayr, the clergyman.
So American Christmases — filled with glittery made-in-Japan decorations, Christmas trees flocked with snow or not, beautifully wrapped presents, colorful holiday cards, special foods made only for Christmas — were a powerful eye-opener for Armenians, my Bobeeg Jahn included.
One of the incredible things he discovered while roaming L.A. late at night was that Americans decorated department store windows for Christmas, not with just a few artificial garlands here and there draped over mannequins dressed in holiday finery but with extraordinary scenes of holiday magic.
He was awestruck by each and every one. And I was lucky that he wanted to share his excitement by taking 6-year-old me to see them — sights he could never have imagined when, as a child in 1915, he had sat, abandoned by his dying mother, at the edge of a dirt road during the death march exportation of all Armenians by the Turks.
The American missionaries found him and brought him to the United States, the land of everything no one could ever imagine.
Off we went in his powder-blue Pontiac station wagon to see a big “sueprize.” I sat in my favorite place in the front seat next to the wind wing, which blasted crisp air in my face, and close to the glove compartment, where he kept a box with a stash of Beeman’s clove chewing gum, LifeSavers rolls in five flavors and my favorite — Jujubes — all for me to find.
There were no lively discussions as we drove toward downtown because I didn’t speak his dialect of Armenian and he didn’t speak English.
That was OK with me. I loved looking at the billboards that whizzed by us with their glorious saturated colors and large-scale scenes of people doing things like taking airplane trips, grocery store produce with oversized strawberries, grapes, and slices of juicy watermelon, and couples dancing in fancy clothes in elegant rooms festooned with red silk drapery and glittering chandeliers.
When we arrived at Bullock’s there were crowds of people out on the street craning their necks and kids jumping up and down — all trying to get a good look. I sank in my seat and thought, “only American kids will be able to get close enough to the windows.”
But Bobeeg had a plan. As soon as I tumbled out of the station wagon, he hoisted me up and onto his shoulders so high that I could see pigeons sleeping in the corner of the top window.
It felt like I was riding a camel — bobbing up and down, sideways, this way and that.
He walked steadily forward and, like Moses parting the Red Sea, somehow an unobstructed path opened for us until he stopped and stood where I could see everything there was to see from the top of his broad, strong shoulders.
No doubt about it: it was the best seat in the house.
Crowds of kids were clamoring, straining and pushing to get a look at the Santa’s Workshop window filled with all sorts of parts moving to a continuous loop of Christmas music: industrious green elves banging with hammers turning out toys for all the good little boys and girls. A big fat Santa popped in and out of a red-brick chimney, Ho-Ho-Ho-ing and waving back and forth until I could swear I heard his artificial joints squeak and creak for lack of a grease job.
A line of pretty blond ballerinas danced around a Christmas tree covered in fluttery silver icicles and twinkling colored lights that looked like bubbling candles.
The ballerinas wore sparkly pink tutus that stuck out all pert and cute. They knocked themselves out with unending twirling until I was dizzy watching them and had to avert my greedy eyes.
But the unmatched pleasure of looking at the enchanting windows was that I was on top of the world on grandpa’s shoulders with an unimpeded view of magical places of fun and falling fake snow in fanciful Christmas scenes.
Every once in a while a kid would toss his head way back and look up at me. And I knew what he was thinking even if he didn’t say it out loud: “Lucky!”
There was only one other time I had a ringside seat. It was when he took me downtown to see his favorite wrestler, Gorgeous George, at the Grand Olympic Auditorium.
When golden-hair George saw me on Bobeeg’s shoulders above the crowd, both of us cheering for his win, he jumped over to us, reached up, and handed me a gardenia that someone had tossed to him, a beyond-fragrant flower that was the furthest thing from the smell of a wrestler who had just finished beating the hell out of the Italian wrestler, Baron Michele Leone.
These were some of the very few times in my life that I felt I was lucky to be me.
My grandpa dear, Bobeeg Jahn, had an innate grandpa spirit that spilled out like sweet cream on a bowl of strawberries.
It didn’t come from any experience he had; it came instead from his pure spirit.
I didn’t speak Armenian and he didn’t speak English, but he managed by speaking to non-Armenians and me in basic English phrases he had concocted.
Like when looking for work: “Sure ya, boss, I do good job cleaning for you at best price; you gonna like.”
He was very sweet natured, quiet, guileless, and ever on the lookout for ways to please his family.
He’d amuse himself by sitting on the edge of his upholstered rocking chair in front of our little black and white TV and watch live wrestling and cowboy movies.
I’d watch him while he watched TV because he was more fun than the program because he really got into it.
When the wrestlers were fighting he’d sit on the edge of his rocker, his fists punching the air while the fighters hit each other.
This was the only aggression I ever saw him express. Or was it a form of being totally there and submerged in the entertainment? Maybe both?
Was he in a state of mindfulness (as some might call it today)?
As a night janitor, his favorite job was working for the Sherman Music store in downtown Los Angeles, mainly because of the whimsical music boxes lining the shelves, whose keys, as he dusted each one, he wound up so that one tune after another played as he dusted the shelves of miniature pianos, ceramic mugs painted with nursery scenes like Jack and Jill rolling down a hill, Santas in all shapes and sizes, and many angels sparkling and holy looking, ready for customers to ogle at the next day.
Armenians celebrate Epiphany on Jan. 6 in a three-hour-long church service in which everyone in the Armenian community comes together.
Each is dressed up, especially the women, and wearing gold necklaces and bracelets and flashy rings, stylish hats and shiny shoes. They would mingle, worship in the ancient rite of the divine liturgy, and listen to a passionate sermon delivered from an ornately vestment-clad Der Hayr, the clergyman.
So American Christmases — filled with glittery made-in-Japan decorations, Christmas trees flocked with snow or not, beautifully wrapped presents, colorful holiday cards, special foods made only for Christmas — were a powerful eye-opener for Armenians, my Bobeeg Jahn included.
One of the incredible things he discovered while roaming L.A. late at night was that Americans decorated department store windows for Christmas, not with just a few artificial garlands here and there draped over mannequins dressed in holiday finery but with extraordinary scenes of holiday magic.
He was awestruck by each and every one. And I was lucky that he wanted to share his excitement by taking 6-year-old me to see them — sights he could never have imagined when, as a child in 1915, he had sat, abandoned by his dying mother, at the edge of a dirt road during the death march exportation of all Armenians by the Turks.
The American missionaries found him and brought him to the United States, the land of everything no one could ever imagine.
Off we went in his powder-blue Pontiac station wagon to see a big “sueprize.” I sat in my favorite place in the front seat next to the wind wing, which blasted crisp air in my face, and close to the glove compartment, where he kept a box with a stash of Beeman’s clove chewing gum, LifeSavers rolls in five flavors and my favorite — Jujubes — all for me to find.
There were no lively discussions as we drove toward downtown because I didn’t speak his dialect of Armenian and he didn’t speak English.
That was OK with me. I loved looking at the billboards that whizzed by us with their glorious saturated colors and large-scale scenes of people doing things like taking airplane trips, grocery store produce with oversized strawberries, grapes, and slices of juicy watermelon, and couples dancing in fancy clothes in elegant rooms festooned with red silk drapery and glittering chandeliers.
When we arrived at Bullock’s there were crowds of people out on the street craning their necks and kids jumping up and down — all trying to get a good look. I sank in my seat and thought, “only American kids will be able to get close enough to the windows.”
But Bobeeg had a plan. As soon as I tumbled out of the station wagon, he hoisted me up and onto his shoulders so high that I could see pigeons sleeping in the corner of the top window.
It felt like I was riding a camel — bobbing up and down, sideways, this way and that.
He walked steadily forward and, like Moses parting the Red Sea, somehow an unobstructed path opened for us until he stopped and stood where I could see everything there was to see from the top of his broad, strong shoulders.
No doubt about it: it was the best seat in the house.
Crowds of kids were clamoring, straining and pushing to get a look at the Santa’s Workshop window filled with all sorts of parts moving to a continuous loop of Christmas music: industrious green elves banging with hammers turning out toys for all the good little boys and girls. A big fat Santa popped in and out of a red-brick chimney, Ho-Ho-Ho-ing and waving back and forth until I could swear I heard his artificial joints squeak and creak for lack of a grease job.
A line of pretty blond ballerinas danced around a Christmas tree covered in fluttery silver icicles and twinkling colored lights that looked like bubbling candles.
The ballerinas wore sparkly pink tutus that stuck out all pert and cute. They knocked themselves out with unending twirling until I was dizzy watching them and had to avert my greedy eyes.
But the unmatched pleasure of looking at the enchanting windows was that I was on top of the world on grandpa’s shoulders with an unimpeded view of magical places of fun and falling fake snow in fanciful Christmas scenes.
Every once in a while a kid would toss his head way back and look up at me. And I knew what he was thinking even if he didn’t say it out loud: “Lucky!”
There was only one other time I had a ringside seat. It was when he took me downtown to see his favorite wrestler, Gorgeous George, at the Grand Olympic Auditorium.
When golden-hair George saw me on Bobeeg’s shoulders above the crowd, both of us cheering for his win, he jumped over to us, reached up, and handed me a gardenia that someone had tossed to him, a beyond-fragrant flower that was the furthest thing from the smell of a wrestler who had just finished beating the hell out of the Italian wrestler, Baron Michele Leone.
These were some of the very few times in my life that I felt I was lucky to be me.
My grandpa dear, Bobeeg Jahn, had an innate grandpa spirit that spilled out like sweet cream on a bowl of strawberries.
It didn’t come from any experience he had; it came instead from his pure spirit.
I didn’t speak Armenian and he didn’t speak English, but he managed by speaking to non-Armenians and me in basic English phrases he had concocted.
Like when looking for work: “Sure ya, boss, I do good job cleaning for you at best price; you gonna like.”
He was very sweet natured, quiet, guileless, and ever on the lookout for ways to please his family.
He’d amuse himself by sitting on the edge of his upholstered rocking chair in front of our little black and white TV and watch live wrestling and cowboy movies.
I’d watch him while he watched TV because he was more fun than the program because he really got into it.
When the wrestlers were fighting he’d sit on the edge of his rocker, his fists punching the air while the fighters hit each other.
This was the only aggression I ever saw him express. Or was it a form of being totally there and submerged in the entertainment? Maybe both?
Was he in a state of mindfulness (as some might call it today)?
As a night janitor, his favorite job was working for the Sherman Music store in downtown Los Angeles, mainly because of the whimsical music boxes lining the shelves, whose keys, as he dusted each one, he wound up so that one tune after another played as he dusted the shelves of miniature pianos, ceramic mugs painted with nursery scenes like Jack and Jill rolling down a hill, Santas in all shapes and sizes, and many angels sparkling and holy looking, ready for customers to ogle at the next day.
Armenians celebrate Epiphany on Jan. 6 in a three-hour-long church service in which everyone in the Armenian community comes together.
Each is dressed up, especially the women, and wearing gold necklaces and bracelets and flashy rings, stylish hats and shiny shoes. They would mingle, worship in the ancient rite of the divine liturgy, and listen to a passionate sermon delivered from an ornately vestment-clad Der Hayr, the clergyman.
So American Christmases — filled with glittery made-in-Japan decorations, Christmas trees flocked with snow or not, beautifully wrapped presents, colorful holiday cards, special foods made only for Christmas — were a powerful eye-opener for Armenians, my Bobeeg Jahn included.
One of the incredible things he discovered while roaming L.A. late at night was that Americans decorated department store windows for Christmas, not with just a few artificial garlands here and there draped over mannequins dressed in holiday finery but with extraordinary scenes of holiday magic.
He was awestruck by each and every one. And I was lucky that he wanted to share his excitement by taking 6-year-old me to see them — sights he could never have imagined when, as a child in 1915, he had sat, abandoned by his dying mother, at the edge of a dirt road during the death march exportation of all Armenians by the Turks.
The American missionaries found him and brought him to the United States, the land of everything no one could ever imagine.
Off we went in his powder-blue Pontiac station wagon to see a big “sueprize.” I sat in my favorite place in the front seat next to the wind wing, which blasted crisp air in my face, and close to the glove compartment, where he kept a box with a stash of Beeman’s clove chewing gum, LifeSavers rolls in five flavors and my favorite — Jujubes — all for me to find.
There were no lively discussions as we drove toward downtown because I didn’t speak his dialect of Armenian and he didn’t speak English.
That was OK with me. I loved looking at the billboards that whizzed by us with their glorious saturated colors and large-scale scenes of people doing things like taking airplane trips, grocery store produce with oversized strawberries, grapes, and slices of juicy watermelon, and couples dancing in fancy clothes in elegant rooms festooned with red silk drapery and glittering chandeliers.
When we arrived at Bullock’s there were crowds of people out on the street craning their necks and kids jumping up and down — all trying to get a good look. I sank in my seat and thought, “only American kids will be able to get close enough to the windows.”
But Bobeeg had a plan. As soon as I tumbled out of the station wagon, he hoisted me up and onto his shoulders so high that I could see pigeons sleeping in the corner of the top window.
It felt like I was riding a camel — bobbing up and down, sideways, this way and that.
He walked steadily forward and, like Moses parting the Red Sea, somehow an unobstructed path opened for us until he stopped and stood where I could see everything there was to see from the top of his broad, strong shoulders.
No doubt about it: it was the best seat in the house.
Crowds of kids were clamoring, straining and pushing to get a look at the Santa’s Workshop window filled with all sorts of parts moving to a continuous loop of Christmas music: industrious green elves banging with hammers turning out toys for all the good little boys and girls. A big fat Santa popped in and out of a red-brick chimney, Ho-Ho-Ho-ing and waving back and forth until I could swear I heard his artificial joints squeak and creak for lack of a grease job.
A line of pretty blond ballerinas danced around a Christmas tree covered in fluttery silver icicles and twinkling colored lights that looked like bubbling candles.
The ballerinas wore sparkly pink tutus that stuck out all pert and cute. They knocked themselves out with unending twirling until I was dizzy watching them and had to avert my greedy eyes.
But the unmatched pleasure of looking at the enchanting windows was that I was on top of the world on grandpa’s shoulders with an unimpeded view of magical places of fun and falling fake snow in fanciful Christmas scenes.
Every once in a while a kid would toss his head way back and look up at me. And I knew what he was thinking even if he didn’t say it out loud: “Lucky!”
There was only one other time I had a ringside seat. It was when he took me downtown to see his favorite wrestler, Gorgeous George, at the Grand Olympic Auditorium.
When golden-hair George saw me on Bobeeg’s shoulders above the crowd, both of us cheering for his win, he jumped over to us, reached up, and handed me a gardenia that someone had tossed to him, a beyond-fragrant flower that was the furthest thing from the smell of a wrestler who had just finished beating the hell out of the Italian wrestler, Baron Michele Leone.
These were some of the very few times in my life that I felt I was lucky to be me.
My grandpa dear, Bobeeg Jahn, had an innate grandpa spirit that spilled out like sweet cream on a bowl of strawberries.
It didn’t come from any experience he had; it came instead from his pure spirit.
I didn’t speak Armenian and he didn’t speak English, but he managed by speaking to non-Armenians and me in basic English phrases he had concocted.
Like when looking for work: “Sure ya, boss, I do good job cleaning for you at best price; you gonna like.”
He was very sweet natured, quiet, guileless, and ever on the lookout for ways to please his family.
He’d amuse himself by sitting on the edge of his upholstered rocking chair in front of our little black and white TV and watch live wrestling and cowboy movies.
I’d watch him while he watched TV because he was more fun than the program because he really got into it.
When the wrestlers were fighting he’d sit on the edge of his rocker, his fists punching the air while the fighters hit each other.
This was the only aggression I ever saw him express. Or was it a form of being totally there and submerged in the entertainment? Maybe both?
Was he in a state of mindfulness (as some might call it today)?
As a night janitor, his favorite job was working for the Sherman Music store in downtown Los Angeles, mainly because of the whimsical music boxes lining the shelves, whose keys, as he dusted each one, he wound up so that one tune after another played as he dusted the shelves of miniature pianos, ceramic mugs painted with nursery scenes like Jack and Jill rolling down a hill, Santas in all shapes and sizes, and many angels sparkling and holy looking, ready for customers to ogle at the next day.
Armenians celebrate Epiphany on Jan. 6 in a three-hour-long church service in which everyone in the Armenian community comes together.
Each is dressed up, especially the women, and wearing gold necklaces and bracelets and flashy rings, stylish hats and shiny shoes. They would mingle, worship in the ancient rite of the divine liturgy, and listen to a passionate sermon delivered from an ornately vestment-clad Der Hayr, the clergyman.
So American Christmases — filled with glittery made-in-Japan decorations, Christmas trees flocked with snow or not, beautifully wrapped presents, colorful holiday cards, special foods made only for Christmas — were a powerful eye-opener for Armenians, my Bobeeg Jahn included.
One of the incredible things he discovered while roaming L.A. late at night was that Americans decorated department store windows for Christmas, not with just a few artificial garlands here and there draped over mannequins dressed in holiday finery but with extraordinary scenes of holiday magic.
He was awestruck by each and every one. And I was lucky that he wanted to share his excitement by taking 6-year-old me to see them — sights he could never have imagined when, as a child in 1915, he had sat, abandoned by his dying mother, at the edge of a dirt road during the death march exportation of all Armenians by the Turks.
The American missionaries found him and brought him to the United States, the land of everything no one could ever imagine.
Off we went in his powder-blue Pontiac station wagon to see a big “sueprize.” I sat in my favorite place in the front seat next to the wind wing, which blasted crisp air in my face, and close to the glove compartment, where he kept a box with a stash of Beeman’s clove chewing gum, LifeSavers rolls in five flavors and my favorite — Jujubes — all for me to find.
There were no lively discussions as we drove toward downtown because I didn’t speak his dialect of Armenian and he didn’t speak English.
That was OK with me. I loved looking at the billboards that whizzed by us with their glorious saturated colors and large-scale scenes of people doing things like taking airplane trips, grocery store produce with oversized strawberries, grapes, and slices of juicy watermelon, and couples dancing in fancy clothes in elegant rooms festooned with red silk drapery and glittering chandeliers.
When we arrived at Bullock’s there were crowds of people out on the street craning their necks and kids jumping up and down — all trying to get a good look. I sank in my seat and thought, “only American kids will be able to get close enough to the windows.”
But Bobeeg had a plan. As soon as I tumbled out of the station wagon, he hoisted me up and onto his shoulders so high that I could see pigeons sleeping in the corner of the top window.
It felt like I was riding a camel — bobbing up and down, sideways, this way and that.
He walked steadily forward and, like Moses parting the Red Sea, somehow an unobstructed path opened for us until he stopped and stood where I could see everything there was to see from the top of his broad, strong shoulders.
No doubt about it: it was the best seat in the house.
Crowds of kids were clamoring, straining and pushing to get a look at the Santa’s Workshop window filled with all sorts of parts moving to a continuous loop of Christmas music: industrious green elves banging with hammers turning out toys for all the good little boys and girls. A big fat Santa popped in and out of a red-brick chimney, Ho-Ho-Ho-ing and waving back and forth until I could swear I heard his artificial joints squeak and creak for lack of a grease job.
A line of pretty blond ballerinas danced around a Christmas tree covered in fluttery silver icicles and twinkling colored lights that looked like bubbling candles.
The ballerinas wore sparkly pink tutus that stuck out all pert and cute. They knocked themselves out with unending twirling until I was dizzy watching them and had to avert my greedy eyes.
But the unmatched pleasure of looking at the enchanting windows was that I was on top of the world on grandpa’s shoulders with an unimpeded view of magical places of fun and falling fake snow in fanciful Christmas scenes.
Every once in a while a kid would toss his head way back and look up at me. And I knew what he was thinking even if he didn’t say it out loud: “Lucky!”
There was only one other time I had a ringside seat. It was when he took me downtown to see his favorite wrestler, Gorgeous George, at the Grand Olympic Auditorium.
When golden-hair George saw me on Bobeeg’s shoulders above the crowd, both of us cheering for his win, he jumped over to us, reached up, and handed me a gardenia that someone had tossed to him, a beyond-fragrant flower that was the furthest thing from the smell of a wrestler who had just finished beating the hell out of the Italian wrestler, Baron Michele Leone.
These were some of the very few times in my life that I felt I was lucky to be me.
