There is an old Armenian saying, "it’s only a dog, let it bark."  I suppose what it means is 
that if a person keeps saying the same things over and over again, it can begin to sound 
like a dog barking.


I’ve been writing about church unity for a long time, and since we’re all anxiously 
waiting to see how our Diocese and Prelacy Assemblies relate to this issue in May, I 
thought it would be a good time to take a breather.  Therefore, I would to offer a bit of 
nostalgia in its place and let the disunity issue rest for a while.  I’m sure there will be 
plenty to write about after the Assemblies meet.


The following is my recollection of an old-time Hantes.  For those of you who remember, 
I’m sure it will rekindle many warm memories.  For those of you who are too young to 
remember, it’s a sampling of old Armenian flavor.  Perhaps if we can put some of our 
present day failings behind us, we may be able to bring back some of those cherished 
moments of love and joy again.


The Old Time Hantes Remembered


I remember the old days, but I especially remember how families would dress up and go 
to a hantes.  


I remember how delicious the foods smelled as you walked into the hall -- chooreg, luleh 
kebab, pilaf, kufta, paklava, and yes, even onions and coffee.  Everything had more flavor 
then.



I remember how the old ones used to hug and kiss me, like I was the only kid in the 
world.  I’d always get a whiff of snuff, garlic or halitosis, but they loved me so I didn’t 
mind.


After a while, just when I’d be building up a head of steam running after some kid 
through the old church hall, someone would holler from the stage (there were no 
amplifiers back then) and we’d be told to sit down.  Then someone would come out onto 
the stage and say something and everyone would clap.  I didn’t know what was going on, 
but just so I wouldn’t look stupid, I clapped too.  Then the lights in the hall would go off, 
the stage curtains would open and there would be a play.  I didn’t know what the play was 
about, but I recognized all the people in it.  When the play ended, the lights would go on 
and everyone would clap again.  I would, too, because I was glad it was over.  While 
everyone waited for the next thing to happen, they would gossip while I tried to coax a 
soda or something.  Pop was easy, but Mom always gave me a little trouble.  I’d usually 
get my way in the end, but it wouldn’t be for long because pretty soon the lights would go 
out and they’d make me sit down again.  It’s a wonder how Mom 
knew, but while I’d be sitting there, if I squirmed a certain way, she’d realized I had to go 
the bathroom -- and it was usually hurry up or else.  Those "or else" were murder -- I hate 
to say it but I’ve lived through a couple of them.


Well, anyway, most times I’d sit and fuss while some kid played a violin (off-key) and 
another kid recited a poem but would wind up forgetting some of the words.  I didn’t clap 
those times because I thought it stunk the place out.  So I’d sit and kick my feet and turn 
around or whatever until it was over.


I remember how they used to pick up the chairs after it was over to open up the floor for 
dancing.  Armenian dancing was always fun because you didn’t have to be real good at it 
unless you danced a Tamzara or Haleyea.  Well, anyway, I’d always be out there doing 
something.


What I remember most about the dancing were the Tek Bahrs.  This was when people 
would get up and dance by themselves or across from someone.  I remember the old fat 
ladies and how they had to be coaxed on the floor to dance.  The trouble they had walking 
made you wonder if they were ever going to make it but wow -- when they did, something 
happened to them.  They immediately became transformed from a picture of overbearing 
agony to a picture of fluid grace.  You wouldn’t believe it if you didn’t see it with your 
own eyes.  I don’t want this to sound bad but if you ever saw a walrus lumbering around 
on the beach and then saw it swimming under water with the same delicate sylph-like 
movements of a ballerina prima donna, you’d know what I mean.  And the old people -- 
when they finally got up to dance, you’re not going to believe this, but their wrinkles 
disappeared!  As for the men, they always looked tired and worn because that was then 
they use to work 60 hours a week for very little pay; when they got up too 
dance they looked younger, stronger and very happy.  I don’t know, but there always 
seemed to be magic when Armenians danced.


As a child, I never knew what those old hanteses were all about; all I know is, I loved 
going to them.  As it was, no one had much money in those days and the old hantes was 
one of the few pleasant things people could afford.


Like everything else, times moves on and the old-time hantes is a memory.  You don’t see 
families going out together anymore.  Now it’s mixed drinks, catered food and 
baby-sitters.  Nothing to cook, nothing to clean up.  Everything is neat and orderly.  This 
is what we call, "affluence."  Things don’t have that old flavor anymore.  The old ones are 
dying, the young ones are going to college and marrying out of town.  Somehow, 
somewhere we’ve lost that magic.


You know, maybe we should bring the old-time hantes back.  We wouldn’t let anyone in 
unless the brought their whole family and we’d have all the Armenian foods, a genuine 
old-time hantes program with a play, a dumb kid playing a violin, another one reciting a 
poem, and after it was over, we’d start dancing.  We’d make sure everyone got up and 
danced.  We’d coax them all onto the floor -- young, old, fat, skinny, male, female, and 
anybody else we could think of.  I don’t know, but the more I think about it, maybe the 
next holiest thing we did besides going to church was going to a hantes.  Well, maybe 
going to an old-time picnic too, but that’s another story.  


Joseph Vosbikian