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VIP Forums Group · 05 Feb 15, 16:04

I remember them all so fondly, those elderly Armenian bachelors back in the 1950’s when I was a teenager. They were survivors of the Armenian Genocide who had found a home and social acceptance at the Armenian Revolutionary Federation’s (ARF) “Raffi” Gomideh agoump on 223 Ferry Ave. in Pontiac, my hometown. The agoump is forever a place of fond memories, never to be equaled in my lifetime. It was our home away from home.

Their surnames and burial places have been forgotten, but parental expectation has taught me to still respectfully refer to them as the “Barons.” They are Baron Donig, nearly blind Baron Agaghag, Baron Vanetsi, Uncle Pete, Baron Kholkhotsi, Baron Pilos, and Baron Jack, the agoump’s caretaker and manager.

They were variously described by the local Armenian community as “meghk,” “peroushan,” “kheghjoug,” “der diragan chounin,” or just plain “bekarner-uh,” the bachelors. These were Armenian words closely describing them as unfortunate souls, bachelors who had no one.

I saw them frequently as I made my way to the lower level of the agoump to attend Armenian Youth Federation (AYF) meetings or Armenian School classes with my teacher, Baron Hovagim Hovagimian. He was a high school teacher in Trabzon before ending up in a German concentration camp and being freed through the combined efforts of George Mardikian and the ANCHA (Armenian National Committee to Aid Homeless Armenians).

“Club gertam,” we called out as we headed to the agoump for meetings, lectures, khnjouyks, or just to sit and enjoy strong Armenian coffee or tea of a dubious nature. The Armenian Relief Society (ARS) held meetings there as well; consequently, it was open seven days a week and well frequented.

Youth is not wasted on the young. I certainly noticed the bachelors, and knew of their unfortunate place in history as victims of exile and deportation, but in my youthful innocence I did not realize what a valuable interview resource I had at my fingertips.

The Barons’ past had played out in the violent and vicious manner known as genocide. The Ottomans believed in a “Turkey for Turks,” and sealed the death of 1.5 million Armenians. The wives and children of these elderly Barons had also fallen victim to that hatred of Christians. The genocide had been an attempt to annihilate an ancient nation. The bachelors never remarried out of respect for the ones they lost.

I am grateful that these gentlemen enriched my life beyond measure—and not only as a writer. They added color to my life to draw upon layer by layer.

It is the 1950’s, and the Barons were already elderly men who arrived at the club on foot slowly shuffling with the assistance of a cane. They left behind their grimy boarding house domiciles to share camaraderie and to drink strong Armenian sourj (coffee) with their fellow Hyes, who like themselves were exiles but now had the benefit of family and home.

The Barons had a friendly place to gather, the Tashnag agoump. A few belonged to the organization and there was no khdraganoutiun (discrimination). They were Armenian, and that is all that was necessary.

Blind Agaghag was severely handicapped. One wonders what this very quiet man witnessed. I now believe both age and suffering at the hand of the Ottoman Turks left them with the weight of the world on their sagging shoulders. With no familial support system, the agoump and fellow ARF-ers became their sanctuary. Redemption was their fight for a free and independent Armenia.

Baron Donig always wore a navy suit, white shirt, and tie. He was a chain smoker with evidence of dropped ashes on his suit vest. That was part of his charm. I remember him as quiet and gentle.

Baron Pilos, also known as Mike Thompson, was a tall, strong construction worker who was the comic and an entertainer with his antics. He’d return from his muddy job, go upstairs to the grocery store boarding house, and return spiffed up with suit, shirt, tie, and hat. At weekend events, when a cake would be raffled, he would frantically compete for the prize. He knew he was being baited but his generous heart thought of only the charity that would benefit. And besides, he loved the attention and limelight.

Baron Pilos always got the cake, which would have cost far less at a local bakery, but now his fun would begin. The ladies would giggle and laugh as Baron Pilos took center stage, bending and slapping his knees, dancing in celebration as the packed hall roared and clapped with approval. He would whirl and twirl with reckless abandon. Now I wonder just what his personal losses were in his native Keghi that caught so much of the Turkish bludgeoning.

Let me set the scene at our club. You’d climb cement steps to get inside, where you’d fond hooks for your coat and a water-filled Coke cooler, which also had Nesbitt’s Orange soda in it. The main hall was always filled with cigar and cigarette smoke, for which the wall fan did little good.

The formerly sagging wood floor was replaced by a solid one through the generosity of our family friends, Harry and Vasganoush Kalajian. They had been guests at a family engagement party and saw the floor was an accident waiting to happen. He was a Detroit industrialist/philanthropist who came to the rescue, and the ARF members pitched in the labor to replace the floor.

We actually used to get a kick out of watching a substantial portion of the floor heave up and down as the community fearlessly danced to the music of either the Gerjekian or Dertad’s Armenian band.

The agoump walls were lined with large photos of Armenian heroes such as writers, lawyers, and fedayees, like the handsome General Antranik and General Dro on his horse. They were the men the Tashnags revered. The men in the photos gazed approvingly from their vantage point as the people read the Hairenik Daily newspaper, played the card game “scambile,” or drank coffee or tea. You were amazed at how many cups of tea Baron Jack could get out of one tea bag, and you’d better not complain. Ladies ordering tea examined the glass for cleanliness, but dared not raise the ire of Baron Jack.

The glass showcase held two kinds of chocolate: Hershey’s plain and with almonds. It also held King Edward cigars, 6 cents each, and some brand of cigarettes. Anyone’s child entering the club was always offered a candy bar purchased by some generous patron.

The bachelors sat on Bentwood chairs at square marble-top tables. They held worry beads as they spoke in quiet tones. They chose to sit together, although they were welcome to socialize as fellow countrymen with the factory workers, as well as the well-off grocers, electricians, and sewer contractors. Here everyone was more or less equal.

The Barons could have been a great resource to interview on different levels about their villages, families, the genocide, and how they escaped to free America.

I have not forgotten them, and perhaps by dedicating this column to them, it will be a sort of payback for their suffering and for enriching my memory bank. My parents’ instruction to me was, “An vor Hye eh bidi parev das,” meaning, as long as they are Armenian, no matter what their politics, you must say hello. That certainly pertained to the Barons, to whom I would always say, “Parev tsez.”

The agoump was our country club with no manicured greens, tennis courts, or umbrella tables. It was bought with the quarters and dollars of the survivor generation to keep their families as a close-knit group, sharing a common history of wars won and lost, the Battle of Vartanants, the owners forever of Mt. Ararat and Noah’s Ark, and of the land Christianity took strong hold. Our pillaged cities and villages will never be forgotten.

The Armenian bachelors are an important part of the lore that remains after an important Armenian community has gone permanently to sleep.

The agoump has gone back to a church serving the needs of yet another group of Americans.

Our sweet memories live on because to us, those were our Happy Days. I can only say “tsedesoutiun,” dear community, till we hopefully meet again.

The post The Bachelors appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

I remember them all so fondly, those elderly Armenian bachelors back in the 1950’s when I was a teenager. They were survivors of the Armenian Genocide who had found a home and social acceptance at the Armenian Revolutionary Federation’s (ARF) “Raffi” Gomideh agoump on 223 Ferry Ave. in Pontiac, my hometown. The agoump is forever a place of fond memories, never to be equaled in my lifetime. It was our home away from home. Their surnames and burial places have been forgotten, but parental expectation has taught me to still respectfully refer to them as the “Barons.” They are Baron Donig, nearly blind Baron Agaghag, Baron Vanetsi, Uncle Pete, Baron Kholkhotsi, Baron Pilos, and Baron Jack, the agoump’s caretaker and manager. They were variously described by the local Armenian community as “meghk,” “peroushan,” “kheghjoug,” “der diragan chounin,” or just plain “bekarner-uh,” the bachelors. These were Armenian words closely describing them as unfortunate souls, bachelors who had no one. I saw them frequently as I made my way to the lower level of the agoump to attend Armenian Youth Federation (AYF) meetings or Armenian School classes with my teacher, Baron Hovagim Hovagimian. He was a high school teacher in Trabzon before [...]

The post The Bachelors appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

I remember them all so fondly, those elderly Armenian bachelors back in the 1950’s when I was a teenager. They were survivors of the Armenian Genocide who had found a home and social acceptance at the Armenian Revolutionary Federation’s (ARF) “Raffi” Gomideh agoump on 223 Ferry Ave. in Pontiac, my hometown. The agoump is forever a place of fond memories, never to be equaled in my lifetime. It was our home away from home. Their surnames and burial places have been forgotten, but parental expectation has taught me to still respectfully refer to them as the “Barons.” They are Baron Donig, nearly blind Baron Agaghag, Baron Vanetsi, Uncle Pete, Baron Kholkhotsi, Baron Pilos, and Baron Jack, the agoump’s caretaker and manager. They were variously described by the local Armenian community as “meghk,” “peroushan,” “kheghjoug,” “der diragan chounin,” or just plain “bekarner-uh,” the bachelors. These were Armenian words closely describing them as unfortunate souls, bachelors who had no one. I saw them frequently as I made my way to the lower level of the agoump to attend Armenian Youth Federation (AYF) meetings or Armenian School classes with my teacher, Baron Hovagim Hovagimian. He was a high school teacher in Trabzon before [...]

The post The Bachelors appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

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05 Feb 15, 16:04	#1 (permalink)
VIP Forums Group Top VIP VIP Ultra Club Join Date: Jan 1970 Posts: 12,055 Rep Power: 68	The Bachelors I remember them all so fondly, those elderly Armenian bachelors back in the 1950’s when I was a teenager. They were survivors of the Armenian Genocide who had found a home and social acceptance at the Armenian Revolutionary Federation’s (ARF) “Raffi” Gomideh agoump on 223 Ferry Ave. in Pontiac, my hometown. The agoump is forever a place of fond memories, never to be equaled in my lifetime. It was our home away from home. Their surnames and burial places have been forgotten, but parental expectation has taught me to still respectfully refer to them as the “Barons.” They are Baron Donig, nearly blind Baron Agaghag, Baron Vanetsi, Uncle Pete, Baron Kholkhotsi, Baron Pilos, and Baron Jack, the agoump’s caretaker and manager. They were variously described by the local Armenian community as “meghk,” “peroushan,” “kheghjoug,” “der diragan chounin,” or just plain “bekarner-uh,” the bachelors. These were Armenian words closely describing them as unfortunate souls, bachelors who had no one. I saw them frequently as I made my way to the lower level of the agoump to attend Armenian Youth Federation (AYF) meetings or Armenian School classes with my teacher, Baron Hovagim Hovagimian. He was a high school teacher in Trabzon before ending up in a German concentration camp and being freed through the combined efforts of George Mardikian and the ANCHA (Armenian National Committee to Aid Homeless Armenians). “Club gertam,” we called out as we headed to the agoump for meetings, lectures, khnjouyks, or just to sit and enjoy strong Armenian coffee or tea of a dubious nature. The Armenian Relief Society (ARS) held meetings there as well; consequently, it was open seven days a week and well frequented. Youth is not wasted on the young. I certainly noticed the bachelors, and knew of their unfortunate place in history as victims of exile and deportation, but in my youthful innocence I did not realize what a valuable interview resource I had at my fingertips. The Barons’ past had played out in the violent and vicious manner known as genocide. The Ottomans believed in a “Turkey for Turks,” and sealed the death of 1.5 million Armenians. The wives and children of these elderly Barons had also fallen victim to that hatred of Christians. The genocide had been an attempt to annihilate an ancient nation. The bachelors never remarried out of respect for the ones they lost. I am grateful that these gentlemen enriched my life beyond measure—and not only as a writer. They added color to my life to draw upon layer by layer. It is the 1950’s, and the Barons were already elderly men who arrived at the club on foot slowly shuffling with the assistance of a cane. They left behind their grimy boarding house domiciles to share camaraderie and to drink strong Armenian sourj (coffee) with their fellow Hyes, who like themselves were exiles but now had the benefit of family and home. The Barons had a friendly place to gather, the Tashnag agoump. A few belonged to the organization and there was no khdraganoutiun (discrimination). They were Armenian, and that is all that was necessary. Blind Agaghag was severely handicapped. One wonders what this very quiet man witnessed. I now believe both age and suffering at the hand of the Ottoman Turks left them with the weight of the world on their sagging shoulders. With no familial support system, the agoump and fellow ARF-ers became their sanctuary. Redemption was their fight for a free and independent Armenia. Baron Donig always wore a navy suit, white shirt, and tie. He was a chain smoker with evidence of dropped ashes on his suit vest. That was part of his charm. I remember him as quiet and gentle. Baron Pilos, also known as Mike Thompson, was a tall, strong construction worker who was the comic and an entertainer with his antics. He’d return from his muddy job, go upstairs to the grocery store boarding house, and return spiffed up with suit, shirt, tie, and hat. At weekend events, when a cake would be raffled, he would frantically compete for the prize. He knew he was being baited but his generous heart thought of only the charity that would benefit. And besides, he loved the attention and limelight. Baron Pilos always got the cake, which would have cost far less at a local bakery, but now his fun would begin. The ladies would giggle and laugh as Baron Pilos took center stage, bending and slapping his knees, dancing in celebration as the packed hall roared and clapped with approval. He would whirl and twirl with reckless abandon. Now I wonder just what his personal losses were in his native Keghi that caught so much of the Turkish bludgeoning. Let me set the scene at our club. You’d climb cement steps to get inside, where you’d fond hooks for your coat and a water-filled Coke cooler, which also had Nesbitt’s Orange soda in it. The main hall was always filled with cigar and cigarette smoke, for which the wall fan did little good. The formerly sagging wood floor was replaced by a solid one through the generosity of our family friends, Harry and Vasganoush Kalajian. They had been guests at a family engagement party and saw the floor was an accident waiting to happen. He was a Detroit industrialist/philanthropist who came to the rescue, and the ARF members pitched in the labor to replace the floor. We actually used to get a kick out of watching a substantial portion of the floor heave up and down as the community fearlessly danced to the music of either the Gerjekian or Dertad’s Armenian band. The agoump walls were lined with large photos of Armenian heroes such as writers, lawyers, and fedayees, like the handsome General Antranik and General Dro on his horse. They were the men the Tashnags revered. The men in the photos gazed approvingly from their vantage point as the people read the Hairenik Daily newspaper, played the card game “scambile,” or drank coffee or tea. You were amazed at how many cups of tea Baron Jack could get out of one tea bag, and you’d better not complain. Ladies ordering tea examined the glass for cleanliness, but dared not raise the ire of Baron Jack. The glass showcase held two kinds of chocolate: Hershey’s plain and with almonds. It also held King Edward cigars, 6 cents each, and some brand of cigarettes. Anyone’s child entering the club was always offered a candy bar purchased by some generous patron. The bachelors sat on Bentwood chairs at square marble-top tables. They held worry beads as they spoke in quiet tones. They chose to sit together, although they were welcome to socialize as fellow countrymen with the factory workers, as well as the well-off grocers, electricians, and sewer contractors. Here everyone was more or less equal. The Barons could have been a great resource to interview on different levels about their villages, families, the genocide, and how they escaped to free America. I have not forgotten them, and perhaps by dedicating this column to them, it will be a sort of payback for their suffering and for enriching my memory bank. My parents’ instruction to me was, “An vor Hye eh bidi parev das,” meaning, as long as they are Armenian, no matter what their politics, you must say hello. That certainly pertained to the Barons, to whom I would always say, “Parev tsez.” The agoump was our country club with no manicured greens, tennis courts, or umbrella tables. It was bought with the quarters and dollars of the survivor generation to keep their families as a close-knit group, sharing a common history of wars won and lost, the Battle of Vartanants, the owners forever of Mt. Ararat and Noah’s Ark, and of the land Christianity took strong hold. Our pillaged cities and villages will never be forgotten. The Armenian bachelors are an important part of the lore that remains after an important Armenian community has gone permanently to sleep. The agoump has gone back to a church serving the needs of yet another group of Americans. Our sweet memories live on because to us, those were our Happy Days. I can only say “tsedesoutiun,” dear community, till we hopefully meet again. The post The Bachelors appeared first on Armenian Weekly. I remember them all so fondly, those elderly Armenian bachelors back in the 1950’s when I was a teenager. They were survivors of the Armenian Genocide who had found a home and social acceptance at the Armenian Revolutionary Federation’s (ARF) “Raffi” Gomideh agoump on 223 Ferry Ave. in Pontiac, my hometown. The agoump is forever a place of fond memories, never to be equaled in my lifetime. It was our home away from home. Their surnames and burial places have been forgotten, but parental expectation has taught me to still respectfully refer to them as the “Barons.” They are Baron Donig, nearly blind Baron Agaghag, Baron Vanetsi, Uncle Pete, Baron Kholkhotsi, Baron Pilos, and Baron Jack, the agoump’s caretaker and manager. They were variously described by the local Armenian community as “meghk,” “peroushan,” “kheghjoug,” “der diragan chounin,” or just plain “bekarner-uh,” the bachelors. These were Armenian words closely describing them as unfortunate souls, bachelors who had no one. I saw them frequently as I made my way to the lower level of the agoump to attend Armenian Youth Federation (AYF) meetings or Armenian School classes with my teacher, Baron Hovagim Hovagimian. He was a high school teacher in Trabzon before [...] The post The Bachelors appeared first on Armenian Weekly. I remember them all so fondly, those elderly Armenian bachelors back in the 1950’s when I was a teenager. They were survivors of the Armenian Genocide who had found a home and social acceptance at the Armenian Revolutionary Federation’s (ARF) “Raffi” Gomideh agoump on 223 Ferry Ave. in Pontiac, my hometown. The agoump is forever a place of fond memories, never to be equaled in my lifetime. It was our home away from home. Their surnames and burial places have been forgotten, but parental expectation has taught me to still respectfully refer to them as the “Barons.” They are Baron Donig, nearly blind Baron Agaghag, Baron Vanetsi, Uncle Pete, Baron Kholkhotsi, Baron Pilos, and Baron Jack, the agoump’s caretaker and manager. They were variously described by the local Armenian community as “meghk,” “peroushan,” “kheghjoug,” “der diragan chounin,” or just plain “bekarner-uh,” the bachelors. These were Armenian words closely describing them as unfortunate souls, bachelors who had no one. I saw them frequently as I made my way to the lower level of the agoump to attend Armenian Youth Federation (AYF) meetings or Armenian School classes with my teacher, Baron Hovagim Hovagimian. He was a high school teacher in Trabzon before [...] The post The Bachelors appeared first on Armenian Weekly. [img][/img] More...