Category: Blog

STORIES OF LIFE – The Clever Turkey

STORIES OF LIFE – The Clever Turkey

Driving on my way to Riverhead, I was flabbergasted to notice a wild turkey scuttling across the pedestrian crosswalk on route 24.

To me, the bird appeared exactly like a human pedestrian, the way it nicely crossed the road. Then, suddenly noticing the fast moving cars, it became nervous. The turkey, soon began flapping its wings, and within no time it took off into the air.

“What a clever bird,” I cried out. I thought it must have witnessed cars crush birds and animals under their speeding and cruel wheels.

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International Women’s Day

STORIES OF LIFE – International Women’s Day

In 2014 on International Women’s Day, Oxford University in the UK invited me to talk about my book, “The Apple Tree Blossoms in the Fall.”

On that important women’s day, I briefly narrated stories about the adventurous life of the protagonist as a woman. I must stress that for me, it was a real honor to be invited by such a prestigious university on The International Women’s Day. You can read the press coverage in the Oxford Times newspaper as well as on the Oxford University website about my book talk and book signing there. The university staff also asked me to hold a workshop for the students about how to write a creative memoire. Please go to:

http://www.oxfordtimes.co.uk/news/10275342.Author_gives_some_advice_to_university_students/

Today, once again, it is the International Women’s Day. I am delighted to think that since the International Women’s Day in 2014, women have achieved in taking such a great leap forward in politics. I truly am enchanted to see so many impressive women candidates, who have chosen to run for The US President. Naturally, I do wish them luck. Who knows…! We might have a woman as President next year.

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STORIES OF LIFE – Sad Memories

STORIES OF LIFE – Sad Memories

The sad memories of losing pets since the days of my childhood, either by being forced to give them away, or having them put down by vets, have tortured my soul up to this day. One example is the story of my lovely pet Reno, a good-looking German shepherd dog.

I was not even nine years old when I lost my father and when Reno, his dog became mine. Yes, Reno loved me, and I adored him. Reno was intelligent, loyal, and obedient. In those days, we lived in a strict Islamic city called Arak in Iran. The people of Arak considered us spiritually unclean – simply because we were Armenian and Christian. Thus, when I took my dog out, and they began chanting, “Unclean, dog Armenians,” I would get extremely mad and order Reno to attack them. Reno, would immediately obey me and scatter them away.

Now, you might wonder why they called us ‘unclean’ or ‘dog Armenians!’

The fanatical Iranians, who considered dogs to be ‘najis’ (unclean), believed that we were at the same level as dogs simply because we were not Muslim. In Tehran, however, people were not the same.
They accepted us as Iranian citizens and respected us for who we were.

When I turned ten, we had to move to Tehran, because of my two older brothers finding each a job there. Unfortunately, we could not take Reno to Tehran with us. The owner of our rented apartment would not allow us to own a dog. Therefore, we had no choice, but to give my loyal and loving dog away to a village owner.

No words can express my misery when I saw Reno being taken away on a leash that day. Indeed, I can never forget that sad moment, even today as a grandmother.

Later in life, I was forced to go through similar heartbreaking experiences. So many times, I had to suffer the pain of seeing veterinary doctors putting an end to the lives of our cats, and another dog – a cairn terrier. Once, after such an incident, I was leaving the vet’s office with teary eyes, when a woman in the street ran forward and hugged me. She knew quite well, what I was going through.

Recently, our seventeen-year-old cat, Fate, who apparently is going through the last days of her life, has created the same sad situation for me. Despite the fact that we took her to the vet and he treated her with the appropriate drugs and injections, she still has not been eating, nor drinking any water. The other day, I put my hand on her head and prayed fervently, asking God not to let her suffer. I begged Him to help her die in her sleep. I am happy to say that today; she has started eating a tiny little bit of food. I do hope she will recover from her ailment and enjoy the last days of her life. Who knows, maybe God will answer my prayer.

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STORIES OF LIFE – A True Caring Mother

While Anna, the fifteen-year old patient sat on the edge of the operating table, a bulky and heavy eyed female nurse grabbed her head and pushed it down into her chest forcefully. Then, as Anna moaned, with distress, the nurse said, “Be quiet girl. What I’m doing is for your own good. You see, I’m trying to make your back stretch properly so that the doctor can inject the epidural into your spine with no difficulty.”

The nurse went on to explain that the cervical epidural anesthesia would numb her body from waist down without knocking her out. She then smiled and continued, “This means although you would stay awake during your appendix surgery, but you won’t feel any pain at all.”

Anna gasped for breath, as the rough mannered woman pushed her face further down, almost pressing against her belly. In the meantime, the surgeon injected the painful epidural into the patient’s spine. Then, while the medical assistant and the nurses were busy helping Anna to lie down on the operating table, gradually her lower body turned as numb as a block of rock, and she became quite drowsy.

“Anna,” the surgeon muttered from behind his surgical mouth mask. “We shall soon begin removing your appendix.
The teen-aged girl winced with fear and peered at the surgeon as he went on, “Don’t worry at all. Not only you won’t feel any pain, but the surgery will be over in no time.”
Presently, lying half-conscious on the operating table, Anna gazed at the doctor through a haze. “No,” she told herself. “I don’t think I like his looks.”

Indeed, she never fancied boys and men with tight curly black hair such as the surgeon’s hair- now hidden under his operating room cap. What’s more, Anna did not like olive skinned men.

The doctor’s voice suddenly threw Anna out of her hazy world, as he blurted out, “Hey Miss, guess what? We’re done!”
Anna smiled and waved her hand to him thankfully. She could not believe that the surgery was already over.
Gradually Anna’s lower body began tingling, which meant the sensation in her legs and lower body was coming back. Thus, she thought she could begin moving her toes.

However, no matter how hard she tried, her toes and the legs did not respond. This drove Anna crazy. “Am I paralyzed?” she asked herself.
Anna’s heart began banging in her chest with anger and frustration as loudly as a deafening drum.

Soon, she began gasping for breath and passed out. Meanwhile, the nurses and the doctor’s assistant began panicking and running around. Therefore, they immediately called the surgeon, who had already left the operating room.

At the same time, Anna’s mother somehow got word of her daughter’s condition and decided to storm into the forbidden room with a small bottle of Valerian tincture in hand – which she always carried in her handbag. Then, as the panic-stricken mother ran toward the surgeon, she stretched the bottle of the Valerian tincture towards him and said, “Here doctor, use this. It is really good for the heart.”

The surgeon, who was shocked to see his patient’s mother busting into the operating chamber, yelled at the top of his voice, “Out… go out lady! Please note that unauthorized people are not allowed to enter the operating room.”

When they told Anna later about her mother’s behavior, she laughed, shook her head, and said, “Oh! My Mom thinks she knows better than the doctor!”

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STORIES OF LIFE – Reminiscing Past Life in Iran

A few weeks earlier, on BBC News I heard about the dire fate of a Christian woman in Pakistan. Apparently, she had an argument with a group of Pakistani Muslim women, who reported her to the police. They claimed that the Christian woman had insulted Prophet Mohamed’s name. Whether this is true or not, it is not clear. However, the poor woman is in jail, awaiting execution.
This story reminded me of an event that happened to my deceased brother, when he was fourteen and I nine – when my father had recently passed away. In those days, we were living in a strict Islamic city called, Arak. Although, the people of most large Iranian cities were tolerant and nice, Arak was not among them.

At the time, in Arak, we, Armenians, being Christian, were considered to be spiritually unclean – “najis.” They also called us, “sag Armani,” which its word-by-word translation is, “dog Armenians.” This means they considered us being as unclean as dogs, simply because we were Christian.

One day, Mother sent my brother to the bazaar to do some shopping. Apparently, an Araki, boy, wearing baggy pants, and a filthy shirt, upon setting his eyes on my brother, began shouting, “Hey you, sag Armani.”

My brother must have stared at the tramp while lifting an eyebrow, and telling him to shut up. This comment had probably enraged the boy, who had lied, shouting, “Hey, Muslims, this unclean Armenian boy is insulting our religion.”

My brother said that within seconds, a furious group of young and middle-aged bazaaris stormed forward and encircled him. He said that he could tell from their shouts and angry looks that they were about to punish him severely. Normally, this would mean beating and kicking the guilty person to death.

Then, apparently, as this was happening, a young, dark bearded man from among the crowd recognizing him, yelled above the din of the furious mob, “Leave him alone. He is Tadevos Petrossian’s son. Do not harm him. These people are good Iranians.”

My brother said that upon hearing my father’s name, the mob immediately turned around and dispersed.

Arakis working at the bazaar all knew and respected my father. Imagine what might have happened if that nice man who recognized the innocent Armenian boy, had not been present among the crowd!

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Stories of Life – My Father’s Portrait

STORIES OF LIFE – The Portrait of My Father

Standing idly in a lush garden, overflowing with tall spruce and birch trees, colorful flower bushes, and climbing ivy, I suddenly noticed the portrait of a balding man hanging high up on the garden brick wall. As I gazed at the painting, from down below I found the cheerful face of the man in the canvas looking somewhat familiar to me. “Where have I met the real person?” I wondered. “Could he be a kin?”

As I pondered more about the beaming character staring at me from high above, suddenly, to my great astonishment, he smiled and nodded at me.
I was flabbergasted! How could this be? Yes, the face in the painting was indeed beaming at me!

After a long contemplation, it suddenly occurred to me to ask him, “Could you by any chance be the spirit of my father?”
I must add that having lost my father as a child, I did not remembered clearly how he looked. Thus, when I asked him if he was my father, he bobbed his head a couple of times and confirmed, “Yes, of course I am. You don’t know me anymore?”

I squealed with joy, “Hooray…! Then, controlling my emotions, I demanded, “Tell me, is Heaven nice?”

“Oh, yes. It is fabulous. I am exuberantly happy in my eternal home.”

I think he was going to continue talking, but I jumped awake with a thumping heart, and asked myself why my father should appear to me in a framed painting and not as a real person in my dream. Then I smiled shook my head and thought, only people with crazy imaginations would dream about such crazy stories.

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STORIES OF LIFE – The Portrait of My Father

Permalink: http://arminehhelenohanian.com/stories-life-portrait-father/

Standing idly in a lush garden, overflowing with tall spruce and birch trees, colorful flower bushes, and climbing ivy, I suddenly noticed the portrait of a balding man hanging high up on the
garden brick wall. As I gazed at the painting, from down below I found the cheerful face in the canvas looking somewhat familiar to me. “Where have I met the real person?” I wondered. “Could he be a kin?”

As I pondered more about the beaming character staring at me from high above, suddenly, to my great astonishment, he smiled and nodded at me.
I was flabbergasted! How could this be? Yes, the face in the painting was indeed beaming at me!

After a long contemplation, it suddenly occurred to me to ask him, “Could you by any chance be the spirit of my father?”
I must add that having lost my father as a child, I did not remembered clearly how he looked.

Thus, when I asked him if he was my father, he bobbed his head a couple of times and confirmed, “Yes, of course I am. You don’t know me anymore?”
I squealed with joy, “Hooray…! Then, controlling my emotions, I demanded, “Tell me, is Heaven nice?”
“Oh, yes. It is fabulous. I am exuberantly happy in my eternal home.”

I think he was going to continue talking, but I jumped awake with a ponding heart, and asked myself why my father should appear to me in a framed painting and not as a real person in my dream. Then I smiled shook my head and thought, only people with crazy imaginations would dream about such funny incidents.

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STORIE OF LIFE – Good News About My Book

The second edition of my book “The Apple Tree Blossoms in The Fall,” will shortly be available on Amazon again. Below, I am posting a small portion of one of the beginning chapters:

A SHORT SAMPLE FROM MY BOOK

Vacating our magnificent house was not a happy occasion for us, especially on a gorgeous sunny spring day, particularly on another Iranian New Year…on the first day of spring when Father had died just one year ago.

Our garden, or rather the new owner’s garden, had suddenly awakened after a long, bitter winter. God had once again used His magic wand to adorn the fruit trees with white and pink cherry and almond blossoms. With the tip of His heavenly brush, He had tinted the leaves of the chestnut, willow, birch, and pine trees with a bright green hue.
That morning, as the birds carried out their joyful spring concert among the newborn branches, their soloist, the nightingale, performed a melancholy song. Maybe she is sad to see us leave, I thought! Turning back during one of my trips to the new quarter, I looked enviously at the blessed garden where I had spent the happiest moments of my life with our gardener, Ahmad. As I got lost in my reverie, I envisaged Father’s smiling face and smartly dressed slim body. He waved at me and nodded reassuringly. I think he was urging me on, to proceed bravely into our new life. He beckoned me to step into the unknown vacuum of my future with a firm gait. I smiled back at him and nodded as well. Then, as I prepared to go my way, carrying my dolls and toys, he vanished into my past.

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STORIES OF LIFE – The First Dance

The first-time Helen danced at a formal party, was when she was sixteen. That day, Helen was wearing her white, tight mini skirt and short-sleeved yellow décolleté top. She had her brand- new pair of beige stiletto high-heeled shoes on and wore her long, brunet hair in a ponytail. As Helen sat in a white armchair looking at the crowd through her sleepy green eyes, she could tell that she looked pretty, because of the way, boys at the party eyed her.

Helen’s attended the party with her cousin, George. However, the moment they arrived, George left her sitting by herself and hurried away to socialize with his friends. Unfortunately, Helen knew none of the youth there. Thus, as she sipped her orange juice, observing the young crowd dancing happily to the rhythm of rock’n roll music, she noticed a dark haired, handsome young fellow walking toward her. Helen, immediately looked away; pretending she did not notice him. The young fellow, meanwhile, approached Helen and bowed to her politely, saying, “Hello, Miss. I’m Rueben. May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

Helen looked up at his dark eyes and hair approvingly and smiled, while taking her time in getting up to her feet. Reuben, smiled, grabbed hold of her hand, and pulled her into his arms. Then in no time they began twisting and turning their bodies to the fun tune of tango.

Right from the start, Helen enjoyed dancing with Reuben immensely. It felt like she had known him all her life. She thought to herself that not only was he an extremely good-looking fellow, but also an excellent dancer. Few in the crowd at the party knew how to dance Tango. For that reason, they seemed to be the stars on the dance floor. The next dance was also a Tango. So, they continued dancing.

Helen really liked Reuben’s personality, who conversed with her with full confidence. What she liked the most about him, was that he was not shy like other boys, who stared at her, but never dared to approach and talk with her. And, if they did overcome their lack of self-confidence, they did not know what to talk about. They stood by her side and simply smiled. Helen hated it. In fact, she sometimes felt like slapping them hard. The other thing, which she despised about shy boys, was that they would follow her like a shadow from her school all the way to her house, without mustering the courage to approach her, introduce themselves, and invite her for a date. Thankfully, Reuben was totally different. And, for that same reason Helen’s experience of her first dance at that formal party was going to be hacked into her memory for the rest of her life.

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STORIES OF LIFE – Jean-Michel-Basquiat on Planet Heaven

When I ponder about Jean-Michel Basquiat’s fate, I cannot help, but to think about Georges Bizet, a 19th-century French composer. They both died at young age, without being able to enjoy the real fruits of their fame.

Bizet, died from a heart related ailment. While, Basquiat, an American graffiti artist, who gradually turned into a neo-expressionist painter, passed away from drug overdose at the age of twenty-eight in the eighties. When Jean-Michele Basquiat died, he was beginning to gain fame, and today, his works sell for millions of dollars. Recently, one of his paintings went for $110.5 million. Georges Bizet’s story, on the other hand, is a bit different from that of Basquiat’s. When he died at the age of twenty-although an accomplished musician, he was not very famous.

When Bizet completed composing his Opera Carmen and performed it for the first time, the following morning, the Parisian critics slammed it mercilessly. They claimed the opera to be unprofessional and shockingly vulgar.

Then, when he died, some friendly musicians decided to honor him by performing his Opera Carmen. Ironically, the next morning, the same critics, that had condemned his work, praised it and called Bizet a genius. Unfortunately, it was too late. The unfortunate composer was not around to feel avenged.

Bizet’s sad life and destiny had always distressed me. So, one sunny day, after a miserable week of pouring rain and gloomy weather, as I stood by the window looking out at the lush, green fields beyond our deck, suddenly, an idea came to my mind. In other words, a story started rolling in front of my eyes like a movie. I immediately, sat down and jotted down some points about Georges Bizet’s life in Heaven – which I liked to call, ‘Planet Heaven.’ Thus, I immediately began writing my new book.

In this fantasy novel, called, “Looking For Georges Bizet on Planet Heaven,” I decided to have my protagonist, Martha, go around Planet Heaven after she dies, and look for Georges Bizet. She does so accompanied by her beloved uncle and favorite pet, a German shepherd, called, Reno. Meanwhile, as she begins searching for her favorite musician, Georges Bizet, Martha and her companions encounter some scary situations before they succeed. Then, when Martha finally finds Bizet, she makes him aware of the fact that after his death, he has become very famous on Earth, and so on…

Now, having read about Jean-Michel Basquiat’s great fame after his death, I am tempted to write a sequel to my book and name it “Looking for Jean-Michele Basquiat on Planet Heaven.” What’s more, I have another idea. I think when I, myself land on Planet Heaven; I could borrow some money from a heavenly bank to organize a club for the artists with the same faith as Jean-Michel Basquiat’s and Georges Bizet’s! Then, I could go around, advertising their names, artworks, and compositions all over Planet Heaven, and help them get the appropriate fame and appreciation they really deserve.

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