Those old time Armenian picnics were exciting experiences and, most especially, the first 
picnic of summer.  These picnics were held in private groves that were rented for this 
purpose.  The locations were carefully chosen for accessibility, privacy, and, of course, 
price.  It would have a lot of field area, picnic tables and benches, a pavilion for dancing 
and a comfort station which I will describe in more detail later.


Well, anyway, this is what the first picnic in the summer of 1930 looked like.  I was six 
years old.


It’s Memorial Day and dawn is just starting to break.  Mom is up and dressed; she is 
packing some oilcloth shopping bags with food and stuff.  Of course, there will be plenty 
of food for sale at the picnic but everyone takes a lot of their own.  This makes things 
more affordable, and besides, Armenians always like their tables full.  However, the way 
things usually turn out, there will always be more food than tables to put it on.


Finally, everything is packed, everyone is dressed and we are on our way.  Pop is carrying 
a water cooler filled with a rich mix of homemade fruit syrup and ice which Mom will 
later cut with water at the picnic.  My oldest brother is carrying a heavy shopping bag full 
of vegetables for the Armenian salad.  Mom has two shopping bags full of parag hatz and 
Choereg (Armenian breads), fruit, napkins, paper cups and dishes, knives, forks and 
spoons, milk, diapers, and a whole lot of other things.  Grandmom is carrying my baby 
sister and keeping the rest of us kids (five of us) in line.  Grandpop, who is always the 
best dressed, is wearing his summer-weight long underwear, a stiff collared shirt, a straw 
hat, and a heavy woolen vested suit with his gold watch and chain.  He is carrying what 
he considered the most important items - homemade raki (liquor), shot glasses, cheese, 
olives, basterma (dried spiced meat), tourshi (pickles), and a picnic blanket.


We walk to the corner and wait for the trolley car.  In those days the trolley fare was 7 and 
1/2 cents and this included a transfer if one was necessary.  On Sundays and holidays all 
children under thirteen and less than 48" in height got on for free.  The trolley is noisy, 
especially with the windows open.  It rocks and rumbles, stopping corner after corner 
leaving people off and taking people on until finally it reaches our destination.  After we 
arrive there we get off and walk about a mile to the picnic site.   It seems that some 
thoughtful person has gotten there before us and nailed some cardboard signs on the 
telegraph poles, pointing the way.


After we get there, Pop pays for our admissions and goes ahead with Grandpop to find 
some empty tables.  They find some tables under good shade, near drinking water (a hand 
pump), and fortunately, not too close to the comfort station (outhouse).


The workers at these picnics are usually the same people, regardless of what organization 
the benefit is for.  The men are always in charge of the shish-kebab and beer.  They never 
seem to be in any pain.  The women, usually their wives, cook the pilaf, make the tahn 
(yogurt drink), cut the vegetables, serve the food and sell the refreshment tickets.  


By early noon, more families have joined ours and everyone seems to be settled and 
enjoying themselves.   The old guys are sitting around Grandpop’s picnic blanket with 
their food and drink.  The women are sitting around the tables gossiping, taking care of 
the men and the babies, while I, along with my brothers and sisters, join our friends at 
play.  From time to time as we get hungry or thirsty, we stop back where our families are 
and get something to eat or drink.  One things still stands out in my mind -- food always 
tasted better at a picnic, especially the shish-kebab.  Till this day, I’ve never had nor have 
I ever made, no matter how hard I’ve tried, anything that’s tasted as good as the kebab 
they made at those picnics.  Was there a secret in how they made it?  Was the meat better 
in those days or was it the atmosphere?  I suppose I’ll never know.


Another thing that stands out in my mind about those first summer picnics was how you’d 
see all the new babies you heard about.  All the proud moms would have their newborns 
tightly wrapped in a blanket and prominently placed so all their friends could see and 
carry them.  Those old time moms used to believe in wrapping their babies up tight so 
they’d grow straight.  I can’t figure out till today how I got so bowlegged.  I asked my 
Mom and she can’t figure it out either.  You can imaging what it must have been like for 
those poor little souls, wrapped up real tight, a hot summer day and one person after 
another looking at them, jostling them and making crazy sounds.  You can appreciate 
why, when those poor little guys weren’t hanging onto a bottle, they were screaming their 
heads off.


Later on, when everyone has eaten and things start to slow down, the Armenian music 
starts.  As soon as the first sounds of the dumbeg (Armenian drum) come floating across 
the picnic grounds, people start moving toward the pavilion.  The basic band is three 
pieces; an oud (Armenian string instrument) player, violin, and a dumbeg.  Of course, 
there are the special talents that have voluntarily joined in and this brings the number of 
the band up to five.  One such talent is a man who plays a chair.  He gets a heavy oak 
folding chair and beats out a rhythm on it using his knuckles, the ball of his hands and his 
elbows.  You can’t believe the sounds he gets from those chairs.   It isn’t uncommon to 
see him break a chair in the spirit of the moment.  I actually saw him go through four 
chairs at one picnic.  Another interesting special talent is the old man who plays the 
beads.  He will tie a string of wooden beads to a button on his vest and while he holds the 
other end, he will rub the open end of a drinking glass across them and get the most 
exotic sounds.  


I’ll always remember the spirited way they danced at those old picnics.  It must have been 
the joy of being outside that had a lot to do with it.  The men would always wind up 
sweating and soaked to the skin and they loved it.  If a dancer was exceptional, people 
would press dollar bills on his forehead (this was a way of collecting money for the 
church or organization) and the more money they stuck on the dancer, the harder he 
would dance.  And sometimes if a dancer showed signs of fatigue, someone would run 
out and pour a shot of whiskey down his throat.  


As for group dancing, that was really something.  Everyone eventually got into the act.  
Certain people would always dance the Halayea or Tamzara (Armenian dances) together.  
As for line dances, they used to stretch out of the pavilion and weave around all the picnic 
tables.  You had to see it to believe it.


The combination of the aromas of the food, the hypnotic sounds of the music, the 
dancing, singing, clapping, shouting, the stamping of feet, and the electricity of everyone 
being happy, all at the same time, made the spirit of that picnic complete.  


As I sit back and remember those old picnics, there is only one thing that scars my 
memory a little -- the outhouse!  For all of the people at these picnics, they usually had a 
shoddy old one compartment outhouse.  For some reason, the people who planned these 
picnics never placed too much importance on restroom facilities.  I must confess, 
however, that though there was usually only one facility, there was never a waiting line.  
Of course, there was a plausible reason for this.  If it became necessary to use it, it was 
doubtful that you would survive.  If the smell didn’t destroy you, the flying insects would.  
I can’t understand to this day why the biggest horseflies in the world always hung out at 
outhouses.  They were usually so big that they needed retractable landing gears to land.  
And if by some misfortune you were forced to sit on the stoop, you needed psychotherapy 
when you got done.  There was a whole living world of huge insects and snakes flying 
and crawling around under that seat and you were so vulnerable.  A person had to really 
be desperate to use such a facility.


Soon it starts getting late and with the daylight that remains, the women start packing up.  
They send the older kids out to round up the younger ones and, as usual, some kid 
manages to get lost and this drives everyone nuts.  Finally, after they find him, we walk 
back to the trolley to go home.  


It is a tired and haggard bunch that gets off the trolley that night and slowly walks the 
short distance home.  They certainly don’t look like the group that left that morning.  I 
have fallen asleep on the trolley and am being carried.  Grandpop has lost his straw hat, 
he’s carrying his jacket, and his collar and tie are in one of the torn pockets.  Mom is 
ignoring Pop because he drank too much and Pop is trying to make it right and isn’t doing 
a good job of it.  If the neighbors didn’t know we had gone to a picnic, they would have 
thought we were coming home from a war.


When we finally get into the house, they make no ritual about washing up or anything like 
that.  I feel somebody taking off shoes, socks and things, and tucking me into bed.


As I look back today, I realize the amount of labor it took for a family to get a little day in 
the sun in those days.  There was never a question of who should do this or who should 
do that.  Everybody took a part of the load.  There were no sidelines.


I wonder if we could ever put on an old-fashioned picnic like that together again?  I 
wonder if we could ever get that old flavor back again?   Wow, it would be something, 
wouldn’t it?  No frills, nothing plush, nothing extravagant.  We’d try putting some of the 
old ingredients together and maybe nature would do the rest.  Of course, there are no 
more trolleys, so we’ll charter buses.  As for the outhouse?   No way!


Really, I can’t think of anything that was more fun than those old time picnics except 
maybe the old-fashioned Armenian ‘Hinneh’ (the party that took place the night before 
the wedding).


But that’s another story.


Joseph Vosbikian