Brick Home

To most, 3 Rock Ave. is nothing more than an old brick house in the middle of a small town, but to me, it’s the place I spent Sunday after Sunday with my grandmother, I call her Terez, and the rest of our family, eating mighty feasts and playing holiday games. In that yard, I’ve made memories of uprooting grass from a freshly mowed lawn while watching the dogs roughhouse and play tug of war with each other’s tails. Memories of hot summer days spent on the porch with my family as Terez would set out a plate of juicy, refreshing watermelon and feta, the smell of burning charcoal and kabob reaching our noses from the grill. Days spent climbing trees in the backyard, riding bikes around the block with the neighborhood kids, sitting around the living room table playing game after game of bingo with Terez as a young kid. And in the winter, nights spent huddling by the warm fire, its crackling and sputtering flames comforting us as our skin thawed from the bitter cold outside. In each of these memories, I have the warmth of my grandmother, smiling, providing the refreshments, lighting the fire, filling the room with her comforting laughter. It is for these memories that I have been coming back to this old house practically every weekend for as long as I can remember.  
 This house is the gathering place �" everyone makes their way out here to spend time with those they love. On a typical Sunday, my family and I make the 45 minute drive to Hudson around noon and arrive with flowers in hand to the welcoming smells of a freshly cooked meal and the smiles of our relatives. Over the course of the next few hours, the door opens and shuts with the entrance of Dav, Anahit, Teny, Tomic, Armen, Garineh and many other friendly faces, bringing more and more life to the party. On holidays, we can expect a full house �" around twenty rowdy Armenians gathered to make the best of their time together. Liquor is always served �" sometimes a little too generously. Uncle Tom likes to bring plenty of wine and hard liquor to supply the older guests; he tends to walk around filling each glass before its contents can sink below half-full. Small talk is made, music is played, kids chant and dance and Metzmom (my great-grandmother) cooks. One by one, each delicious dish is placed on the table until the aroma lures us into our seats. All at once, we begin passing pilaf and dinner rolls around the table and we start to scarf down our food. Uncle Tomic, with his abnormally large and bushy mustache, sits at the end of the table and continues to make his witty comments as everyone else, already drunk at his hand, laughs together in a thunderous chorus, shaking the room. By the time desert is served, we’ve descended into hearing my brother talking about Carrie Underwood’s third n****e while his wife, Liz, stares him down, and chanting obnoxious folk songs while horrendous dance moves are performed. And in the midst of it all is Terez, her eyes sparkling, her laughter kindling the spirit of the party; she is the woman who has brought all of these people together.
I have lived in this house with my family at one time, my brother and his wife at another, as well as several of my uncles; many relatives have moved in and out of this place. Benny, the golden retriever, came and passed to our great dismay, as well as many other pets. Loved ones that we all held very dear, including my father and Terez’s father have passed in the last decade, but we’ve all had each-other for support in this house. New ones have also been brought to us as baby showers are held and marriages are planned. Despite all of this excitement, as of recently, the house is mostly vacant during the week. I still remember nights spent with family down in the basement while the fire warmed us and the TV played old favorites of mine, like Matilda or Aladdin. That fireplace, which used to hold such a warm, consoling fire, hasn’t been lit in years. The basement has recently been redone and is now left alone more often than not. Those stairs are now solely used for the purpose of getting to the laundry room and back. Upstairs, though, the kitchen is still constantly filled with the delicious aroma of hot dolma and borscht, Metzmom’s specialties. The dining room is still filled with the people I love come dinner time on weekend nights and the roar of laughter as my uncles crack jokes in between bites. The living room is still alive with music and children, my little brother and younger cousins, dancing and playing on holidays. Despite the changes that may occur, good or bad, this house is still alive and is still making memories.  
 Lately, I have been going back to visit a lot more often. A more recent change has come over me and has made me view this familiar house in a new light. Terez has recently been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, unfortunately revealing that she may not have as much time left with us as we would have hoped for. She is still the same wonderful woman that I’ve always loved, but her health is not what it used to be. Her being the life of this house �" the center of this gathering place, I can’t imagine it being the magical place that it is today without her presence. Realizing that she won’t be around forever, I’ve taken extra care to spend as much time as possible with her, making the trip out to Hudson from Bedford, Massachusetts multiple times a week to sit with her and my Metz-mom.  
This past summer, I’d visited as often as possible, taking in every detail of the house and enjoying time spent with family. Noticing the little Knick knacks nestled in every corner, the sight of Persian rugs on every floor, the old family photos scattered across the walls and in the numerous photo albums my family keeps, the sound of my grandmother’s favorite songs, Frank Sinatra or some of her Armenian CD’s playing softly in the background, the smell of Metzmom’s nazook and baklava baking in the kitchen. I go over during the day and sit at the table with Terez as she teaches me an Armenian word here and there or asks about school. We relax side by side for hours, heartily soaking up our time together, reading, watching movies, talking. I spend the night on the living room sofa and when morning comes, we have breakfast together and she makes me a cup of Armenian coffee on the stove. Metz-mom takes my finished cup and reads me my fortune while Terez translates it, usually with good omens, kisses me on my cheeks and sends me on my way. As I make my way down the driveway and into my car, her smiling face peeks out of the living room window and I take a mental snapshot as I back out. I smile back as she waves goodbye, looking like a tiny beacon of light in that big, old brick home on 3 Rock Ave.