Let There Be Light: Grandma Yepros and the Clothesline

Funny the things you remember.  I remember my grandmother Yepros walking about the house as if she had sight. I would often find her in the back room of our cellar, lit only by the dim light of the windows which opened onto the cellar holes, windows spattered with the soil that splashed up when the fig trees (which were planted in the cellar holes) were watered.  The washtub was located in the back room, the room next to the large room that housed the pool table (more on that later).  I remember watching Grandma taking the wet clothes, one by one, from the tub of the washing machine and feeding my father's shirts, or my socks, or my little brother's pajamas into the ringer of the new electric washing machine.  How she did this without sight and without ever getting her fingers caught was incomprehensible to me and is incomprehensible to this day. I would watch her patiently put each piece of clothing through the ringer, toss the rung out wet shirt or nightgown into her big rattan basket, the one with a handle on each side, and when all the clothes had been put through the ringer, carry that now heavy rattan basket of clean, wet clothes up the wooden back stairs to the back door at the top of the cellar stairway. Holding the large basket under her left arm, she would open that back door which had a glass window in it through which everyone else could see the back yard and the clothesline, except she couldn't because she couldn't see.  She would make her way to that clothesline slowly, hoping (I'm guessing) that we or the neighbor children would see her and run to her to guide her to that clothesline, which happened because, once she reached the clothesline and set down that heavy basket of wet clothes,  she would put her damp hand into the pockets of her faded cotton apron, and give each child a piece of candy -- Joyce and Ronnie and Wessie especially who always saw her heading to the clothesline because their house was on the second floor of the brown shingled two-family house next door and they could see her whether they were inside or out.

I would stand in our backyard, a very little girl, watching my grandmother hang clothes and praying that Jesus would come soon so that my grandmother would be able to see again.

Here are the words of the chorus I sang as I watched Grandma, always in Armenian as my Uncle Vartan (Rev. Vartan Bilezikian) had taught me:

Aleluiah, Aleluiah, Hisous noren bidi ka, bidi ka,
Aleluiah, Aleluiah, Hisous noren bidi ka.

Halleluiah, Halleluia, Jesus is coming, is coming again.
Halleluiah, Halleluia, Jesus is coming again.

LET THERE BE LIGHT!

Marash Girl grew up in an Armenian household. Whenever her father, an electrician, (among many other talents), found lights on in a room empty of people, he would ask in a voice loud enough to be heard all over the house: What is this? The Edison Centennial?  

Reprimanded by her father whenever Marash Girl neglected to shut the light in a room that she had just left, she chose to marry Marash Boy who was taught that all lights must be left on in all rooms until all members of the family had retired.  And here Marash Girl thought she had married someone with similar values: Armenian, intellectually curious, always questioning, Protestant, parents survivors of the Armenian genocide from Marash.

Thus the struggle to this day -- Marash Girl goes around the house (hers or anyone else's) closing lights in rooms that are not in use, and Marash Boy goes around opening them.  Or should I say, Marash Girl goes around turning lights off, while Marash Boy goes around turning them on! (See 5/9/11 post: Open the light!)

OPEN THE LIGHT! լույսը բաց!

In Marash Girl's Marashtsi extended family household, the folks used to say in Armenian, looysu patz լույսը բաց (open the light), or looysu kotseh, լույսը գոցէ (shut the light), an expression, one would assume, left from the days of yore when the light source came from the opening and closing of the shutters, the shutters that shuttered the light!  Marash Girl never spoke Armenian as a child, but in her household many folks did, and throughout her whole life, when speaking in English (her first language?), she could be heard to say, when the occasion called for it, of course, "Open the light!" and  "Close the light!"

Her friends always tease her and try to correct her:  No, Marash Girl! You must say, "Turn on the light" or "Turn off the light"! 

Now she double corrects herself and always ends up saying, "Open the light!" or "Close the light!"

I guess it's hardwired, so to speak!

ON GOOD FRIDAY: THINKING ABOUT THE GOOD & The Centrality of Goodness & Light

Mornings in Armenian, we greet each other with the goodness of light: Pari Looys Բարի լոյս (Good Light or Good morning) and respond Looys Pari - լոյս Բարի, (Light is Good), and Pari Gesor Բարի կէսօր (Good Mid-Day), and in the evenings, Kisher Pari գիշեր Բարի (Good Night) to which Marash Girl's family answers, Looys Pari լոյս Բարի (Good Light).

How central are Goodness and Light to our lives.

THIS LITTLE LIGHT OF YOURS

Thinking about yesterday's blog, sharing the recipe for Spanaklu Yumurta with my cousin, a dish she (and I) had eaten as a child, I was thinking about how the very freshest of ingredients make a difference. For example, in the recipe I shared, using frozen spinach rather than fresh would make the product soggy, using adult spinach rather than baby spinach would leave a furry taste on the palate, using dried bottled parmesan rather than freshly grated would create a slightly chemical taste, using pre-ground bottled nutmeg rather than freshly ground (yes, you must buy a nutmeg grater and grind that nut!) would make the eggs taste musty; using heavily refined salt out of a salt shaker rather than coarse or kosher or sea salt would make the dish taste, yes, salty but not tasty. What does all that have to do with us today?

Well, do we want to be soggy, or musty? I woke up thinking about a favorite Sunday School hymn -- It goes like this, and I think if we follow the suggestion of the chorus, we will never be accused of being soggy or musty or boring or dusty! Here goes with the Sunday School chorus (and the lesson) I learned before I was five years old:

This little light of mine. I'm gonna let it shine . . .
This little light of mine. I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Hide it under a bushel? NO! (and here we would vigorously stomp our right foot) I'm gonna let it shine.
Hide it under a bushel? NO! I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Don't let Satan (or your friends or neighbors or parents or life itself) blow it out! [and here we would hold up our pointing finger and blow as hard as we could),
I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!

Not to preach here, but are you letting your light shine?