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Part 1
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A Happy Armenian Home
Story of an Armenian Girl (Part two)
by Serpouhi Tavoukdjian
My father's name was Aaron Tavoukdjian. Years before his
birth, the family, following the custom of many of their
countrymen, left the old Armenian country, and made for
themselves a new home in Turkish territory. They settled in
Ovajik, a small town near the city of Ismid. There my father was
born, and has spent most of his life.
Grown to young manhood, he married. My parents had but little
of this world's good when they started out to make their new
home. But true to his native instinct for thrift, my father, in
due time, overcame this handicap. His method was unique and
interesting. As he bought for his own household, he put by
something each week which could be used in stocking a tiny
retail store some day. This week it would be a bag of beans,
next week a sack of flour, next a sack of sugar, and so the
supply grew. Finally the long-planned-for store became a
reality, and the young man an independent merchant. How proud he
and mother were of their business! Prosperity smiled upon their
diligent efforts. Other lines of merchandise were added, and in
a few years he discontinued the grocery department and dealt in
dry good only. He continued to have success, and as time passed,
acquired no mean fortune.
Seven children were born to Aaron and Margaret Tavoukdjian.
One sister died in infancy, but the six of us, in order of our
ages, were, Miriam, Lazarus, Ahavne, Rebecca, Serpouhi, and
Arasig. Armenians are, as a rule, a dark-complexioned people,
but my mother was quite fair. She had black hair and hazel eyes.
My brother Lazarus was the only one of the children who
resembled her. The rest of us were typical brunettes, like my
father.
We had a very happy Seventh-day Adventist home. Z. Baharian,
whom the Turks afterward killed for his faith, brought my
parents the good news of the third angel's message soon after
their marriage, and they heard and accepted it with great joy.
Father, with the courage of his conviction, at once closed his
store on the seventh day of the week, since he believed this to
be the true Sabbath. The result was a series of persecutions.
First his patrons refused to buy from him. Then they stoned his
store. But he went quietly on his way, and soon those who had
mocked at his religion came back to trade and brought with them
other customers, so that his business increased marvelously.
As his fortune grew, father did more and more to help and
bless the lives of others. Many a homeless child was clothed and
fed and sheltered and sent to school at his expense. Many a
destitute widow shared his bounties, and also he gave liberally
to the work of the church which he loved with all his heart.
Our home life was ideal. The discipline, though strict, was
not made irksome. We children were taught to be obedient and
helpful. Each had his own particular household tasks. The rough
work, however, was done by servant who came in each day. And how
devotedly we loved and respected our parents, even though they
believed in the now old-fashioned doctrine, "Spare the rod
and spoil the child," even though, when we did not give
heed to their commands, punishment descended swift and sure. But
usually it was a pleasure to obey, and we children seldom
quarreled among ourselves, because we knew that this brought to
our parents much grief.
Father and mother were strong believers in education, and so
we went regularly to school. This was a school for Armenians
children only, and some of our neighbors and friends could not
afford the tuition for their boys and girls, so father often
paid for them.
We lived in a large, three-story house. In the basement were
stored the goods that my father sold in the store, which
occupied the ground floor. Upstairs were our living rooms, and
they were filled with beautiful things, and very comfortably
furnished in harmony with the customs of the country. Heavy
Oriental rugs covered the hardwood floors, and many gay, downy,
handmade cushions were scattered in piles over the floor and on
padded benches built along the walls. These took the place of
chairs for us.
Before we entered the living quarters, we must always stop in
the entry and remove our shoes and put on our house slippers.
Shoes and slippers were kept in a neat row in this hall, so that
each member of the family could easily find his or her own. On
the walls were bright pictures, and hanging lamps swung from the
ceilings to give us light at night. We used charcoal burners for
heat in mildly cold weather, and wood stove in winter.
The third floor of our home was put to a very unusual use.
Its four large rooms were given over to the silkworm industry.
There my father kept his silkworms, and there a man, especially
hired for this work, fed them on mulberry leaves, while they
spun their fine cocoons. These were sold to silk good
manufacturers, and proved a source of considerable revenue.
Just outside the town of Ovajik, where we lived, my father
owned many acres of land, where were vineyards and orchards and
rich farms, which men worked on shares. I remember the abundance
of fresh vegetables and delicious fruits brought in from the
gardens to supply our family table. Nothing, however, went to
waste. What we could not use was given to the poor.
Among the most vivid of my memories of those peaceful, happy
days are the recollections of morning and evening family
worship, and also sunset worship on Friday evening. This last
was a special time. Usually friends and neighbors joined us, and
we gathered around my sister Rebecca as she played the
accordion, and sang the best-loved old Christian hymns, and
talked about the time when Jesus would come and take those who
are faithful, home to heaven.
We did not have a church building in Ovajik, but our little
company of about fifty Seventh-day Adventists met in a rented
hall for Sabbath services. In the afternoon, father would take
us children out into the orchards and vineyards, and as we
walked and picked the flowers and fruits, he talked to us of
many things. If he could have pushed back the veil that hid the
years and looked into the future, he could not have better
prepared us to "stand like the brave" through the hard
experiences which were in store.
As I have said, we were seven children in all. One sister had
died at the age of two years, so I never saw her. But another
came into our family circles, and because a part of it-a young
Armenian who was an officer in the Turkish army. He loved my
sister Miriam, and became engaged to marry her. Shortly after
their engagement, she was taken ill.
How we all loved this tall, beautiful, eldest sister! She was
a devoted Christian. All that untiring, loving care and medical
skill could do was done to restore her health, but she grew more
pale and weak from day to day, and finally fell asleep in Jesus.
Her last words were, "Do not cry, mother, father. I die,
but in the resurrection morning I shall live again."
With this blessed hope she left us heartbroken, yet
comforted. Could we have known then what suffering and terror
were just ahead for our people and ourselves, we would have
rejoiced at her escape from things which beggar description. But
we did not know.
After Miriam died, the young officer, who had waited for her
for several years, hoping against hope for her recovery, often
came to visit us. We loved him as one of our own, and he
returned the regard.
Time is a wonderful healer, and as the days and weeks and
months sped by on winged feet, our sorrow became hope, and life
settled back again into the old quiet, peaceful, happy routine
or worship and work and play and study.
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