Now that summer's almost here, our minds and hearts revert to Wilbraham and the good old days. One image in particular stands out in Marash Boy's mind, and that is the image of his tiny grandmother (born in Marash, his grandmother Sanjian who gave birth to 12 children, 4 of whom lived, survived the genocide, who immigrated to Springfield, Massachusetts, summered in Wilbraham, Massachusetts) . . . his tiny maternal grandmother grabbing the ear of an errant cow, the lead cow leading its errant sisters right onto our mountain top, the land fronting our cottage, from the farmer's fields below, this tiny grandmother driving the herd with the lead cow in tow, to the breach in the barbed wire where she pushed the lead cow over into the breach, with the herd following into the meadow, back to the owners, the Netupskis, farmers who lived on the other side of the mountain. You may ask how she could have managed, tiny as she was . . It seems that Marash Boy's grandmother, when she married, was gifted two things: a teacher who taught her to read (so that she could read the Bible), and a milk cow. Though the cow was mountainous in comparison to Marash Boy's slim, 4 foot tall grandmother, the bovine was no match for Marash Boy's Medzmairig's determination.
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