The Armenian Weekly Newspaper

It’s a glistening, tinselly, cheerful time of year. The excitement of Christmas started right after Halloween and I welcomed it with open arms. Bring it all on, the glitzy storefront windows, the radio stations playing Christmas music all day, the corner tree lots, the greens markets, the TV ads blasting deep discounts for early shoppers, the nighttime gentle snow falls, the trips to the ice cold attic to retrieve decorations, and the inevitable question, “Where did you put my winter boots?” And the “Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!”

Bring it on: Those homes with tastefully decorated fronts, red-ribboned wreaths and roping festooned with little white lights. Those who have thrown caution to the wind and have covered every inch of their property with Santa’s sleigh, replete with reindeers, choirs of mechanical angels, a manger scene, singing chipmunks and lit plastic candles. The house in Royal Oak near Twelve Mile is a must drive-by, so many lights making it a riot of color, so many Christmas scenes, and every bit of it delightful to the senses—maybe more this year than ever.

You know, every time we drive past the Pontiac dealership on Main Street in Royal Oak I tell my husband, “There it is! That silver Pontiac Solstice convertible with the black top! That’s what I want for Christmas.” The still car-loving, sporty kid in me cries out for driving excitement. This car will be relegated to my “If I win the lottery” wishlist that consists of a summer house on Lake Michigan and a trip to the Cairo Museum and the Hermitage. A diamond ring to choke a horse wouldn’t be bad either.

In reality, I will have a flocked tree aglitter with hundreds of white lights, a manger scene on the fireplace, a multitude of lit candles and a pot of green hydrangeas; some of a lifetime collection of holiday decor will emerge and find its place in our house, too. My husband will comment that the trees seem to be multiplying in the attic, although there are really only three artificial ones up there. I love Christmas! I will take delight in knowing the tourshi (pickles) staying cool on the attic steps is my own handiwork, along with the rojik (soujouk with nuts) that I can still open dough Armenian style—big and wide and buttery—and the sarma that will be made with handpicked grape leaves Bob planted along the back yard fence. The bowls are filled with lab-la-boo, raisins and nuts, pistachios and pumpkin seeds, the choreg and cheese boeregs are in the freezer. Bob’s favorite fruit cake was amply sampled way before Christmas.

It is now time to march into the post office and request religious-themed stamps for my Christmas cards. For many weeks, our nighttime drives will give us satisfaction to what has become a yearly ritual to see properties with trees are loaded with lights for our pleasure. The trees begin to feel like old friends we look forward to seeing every year. “Look! There’s our tree. It has even more lights on it this year.”

It was the first time we did not grumble that they started Christmas too early. No, they can leave the lights up till the first crocus bursts forth as far as I am concerned. It’s a welcome respite from the dismal world news of doom, war and terrorists.

Bob has promised me a trip to Greenfield Village (The Henry Ford), where one snowy night we will go back in time in a horse drawn carriage, sip warm cider, hold each other close in the cold and thank God we still have each other. Our parts may be wearing out but the spirit of Christmas always shines brightly in our hearts. I recently re-read to him each and every get-well card he received after open heart surgery last year, and we marveled at our friends’ thoughtfulness, their love and sincere concern, which warmed our hearts even more the second time around.

This year, of course, the youthful exuberance we feel is because we now have two grandsons to delight in: two-and-half-year-old Cole and 11-month-old Armen. I have already baked ishley (nut-filled cookies) with Cole, whose attention span was amazing throughout the process.

In our warm and cozy bed nestled under a satin comforter filled with the wool from my maternal grandfather Charverdian’s sheep back in Zonguldak brought over in 1923, I think of the conditions my paternal Armenian ancestors lived in before the genocide. What kind of Christmas did they have in that frigid, snowy environment in Keghi in their mud brick dwellings? How thankful they must have been for the smallest of food treats, for being warm and for just being safe from the Turks and Kurds. Until...! It is their sacrifice that has given us the sensual pleasure and indulgencies we now enjoy. Imagine, from Sepastia to Dearborn, from Keghi to Bloomfield, from Van to Farmington Hills, from Yozgat to Beverly Hills, from Bursa to Canton, from...

God Bless Armenia with prosperity. May her borders remain safe, the tri-color reign long and proud. Let her leaders guide her wisely, unselfishly and for the good of all the Hayastantsis. Let the world know the value of this ancient civilization’s survival and let each person who has Armenian blood in their veins know how imperative it is for the Armenian language to be preserved. Learn to speak Armenian!

May 2008 see even more diasporan Armenians being vocal and taking part in all aspects of our community life, including politics. I especially want to extend thanks to all my readers and to the Hairenik Association and its editors for their leadership, dedication and very existence. Merry Christmas to all and to all Shnorhavor Soorp Dznount yev Paree Nor Daree.