Christmas Morning

Sneaking downstairs while everyone sleeps, just to see the tree alight, the packages wrapped and piled around its base, the "fireplace" we made from cardboard boxes and construction paper.

Last night I read Clement Moore's poem and the passage describing Christmas at Fezziwig's from Charles Dickens "A Christmas Carol" to the excited kids (and the cat) while the smiling face of their father encouraged me on.

As Peggotty, I say this every morning at Tableau, before we open the Dickens Fair proper. This morning, the words ring truer than before: "This will be the best Christmas ever!"

Yuletide blessings to all.

The Funeral

Arrived at the church, my mother sniping, complaining and criticizing me the entire three hour drive. I kept my father's voice in my head and refused to take the succulent bait she tantalized me with, responding to everything with, "Yes, mother" or just reaching over and taking her hand.

I escorted her into the church, still clad in jeans and t-shirt and fled as quickly as she would let me to the car to retrieve my clothes.

There are three Patriot Guard Riders here, as motorcycle escort (though not flying any flags), all on Harleys. I approached one of the men and thanked him for being here and for everything they do. He smiled kindly and said this was his second most rewarding job. (I will ask him what the first was on my way back inside.)

The man looked at me, removing his dark glasses. "Are you alright?" he asked gently.

"No," I admitted. And he opened his arms and enveloped me in a hug while I sobbed openly into a stranger's arms.

He is old enough to be my father.

Why is it that we often feel most alone in the company of family?

Memory

Day four of NaBloPoMo and it is literally the eleventh hour.

I am sitting here in front of the computer trying to update my materials and do a class outline for the new Advanced Cockney class I am teaching to participants of the Great Dickens Christmas Fair in San Francisco. I am failing miserably.

Instead I think about my cousin, Punky, who I just found out tonight lost her battle with cancer. I am think about family and memory and the stories we pass on. I wonder about memory and how it becomes compromised, specifically how my memory has become compromised. The memories change when they are transmuted into story. They change with the telling. And as years pass and the tales become ingrained they are almost more vivid then the actual memory. They also become clouded with others stories, especially as they overlap.

It's day four at the eleventh hour and I am lost in memory. My daughter sleeps quietly beside me and I think about the stories I will tell her of the people she never knew. Those who came before. I wonder what stories she will tell in time and how our memories shape the future.


The best memory is that which forgets nothing but injuries. Write kindness in marble and injuries in dust. ~ Persian proverb

Brian Dall'Armi

I wanted to get out a public post for any of our lost and scattered Tribe who may google Brian's name in search of information.

Photo by Peter Overstreet of Brian and Cat Taylor, February 2007

Brian Dall'Armi
5 August 1946 - 9 August 2008

Brian died last night a few minutes before midnight. Nell was at his side.

I spoke to Nell for almost an hour today and here is what she wanted me to tell all of you:

"Brian got away in time to make the 12 o'clock show. There won't be any arguing over who will drive (the band) because Ricker will take over as he always did, and Bob Thomas and Brian will be goofing off in the background. Most likely, they'll both be kicked off the stage at some point.

I can hear Ricker yelling at them now: 'No Middle Eastern hootchie-coo on my stage!'

Bob and Brian will sneak off to the coffee house in the sky and sit around the table telling stories and laughing. No one else will be able to get a word in edgewise!"


The Brian Dall'Armi Memorial Tour will include stops in Vallejo, the Northern California Renaissance Faire at Casa de Fruta and the Great Dickens Christmas Fair. Exact dates have not been set at this time, but expect the Vallejo memorial to be anywhere from two to four weeks away, perhaps the beginning of September. Once plans have been solidified, I will update everyone.

Nell thanks you all for the visits and the emails she has received. She read the emails aloud to Brian in batches and is awed and blessed by the love that is coming from our community, our family. Many stories made her cry, more made her laugh and a few she hadn't even heard before.

She also wants to thank everyone for their offers of help. She has more than enough food in the refrigerator and even more in the freezer, and asks that everyone save their food and beer offerings for the memorial. She did mention most emphatically: NO CASSEROLES!

Please feel free to contact Nell by email but to refrain from calling as she still has many details to iron out and needs to keep the phone relatively open. If anyone would like her email, please comment here with an address I can reach you at privately and I will send you that information.

I was able to spend the afternoon with Brian and Nell yesterday. Many of the Brunos and other friends have been coming by in the last five days to sit by Brian's side and play music for him.

Brian was loved and respected for his many talents and he will be sorely missed. Another fiddler has joined that amazing band in the afterworld.

Veterans of War

Yesterday would've been my grandmother's 90th birthday.

Yesterday my great-uncle Bob died at age 91. I just found out.

Can't write like I want to right now. Memories flood and drown me. The are a blessing though they overwhelm.

The Sky is Falling!

I bought a chicken today. Or more accurately, I purchased a carcass that once housed the soul of a chicken (if chickens can be said to possess souls {which is a philosophical discussion for another time}).

This is kind of a big deal for me. In no way am I the "Suzy Homemaker" type. No domestic diva, I. Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray (annoying woman who my mother adores) have nothing to fear from me. In short, I flunked Girl101.

I hate to cook. (Disclaimer: this does not apply to Armenian food. I am an awesome Armenian cook.) I love to bake and am quite good at that, but just the thought of cooking can still send shudders of horror and anxiety through me. I've gotten better over the years and especially in these last two and half years that have found me out of the workplace. Dare I say it, I've gotten almost adventuresome. I've cooked steaks. I've tried recipes from cookbooks. I've even deviated from them and branched out on my own. Now, I face the final frontier: the chicken.

I have a "thing" about chickens. It's not really a phobia. It's more of an extreme dislike and lack of respect. I even have trouble eating chicken. It stems from my childhood and spending time in Fresno during the summers. When I was younger, Fresno was the "New Old Country" for Armenians on the West Coast (I think that distinction has moved to Glendale now). And 35 to 40 years ago it was not the urban sprawl in the Central Valley that it is today. There were still orchards and farms quite close to town.

We would go visit my Auntie Zaroohi on her farm. Sometimes we kids would get sent into the fields to pick grape leaves and the old ladies would can them to use later for dolma and yalanchi. Afterwards, we would sit on her porch, drink lemonade and eat pomegranates. Auntie kept chickens. Chickens are disgusting animals. They are dirty and mean with cannibalistic tendencies. Occasionally we had to gather eggs or feed them. I never liked walking through the pen, being that close to them. They would peck at your feet and argue and harass you. The sensation of chicken shit squishing between my bare toes as I walked is one that instills a sense of stomach churning disgust in me to this day.

I have never baked a chicken. Or roasted. Or whatever you call it when you stuff it with dried bread and lay it nicely in a pan with potatoes and carrots and onions around it. But I am going to tonight. I am obviously possessed of a trickster djinn who is going to be greatly amused by the spectacle, but I'm going to give it my best shot. I've got a Joy of Cooking and Mojo has his Betty Crocker Cookbook around here somewhere, and damn it if I'm not going to feed this nasty bird to my loved ones! Just see if I don't!

I'll let you know tomorrow how it goes. Wish me luck!