Childhood Memories Revisited
It was two o’clock in the morning when I got up. It was chilly. I went to the bathroom and quickly returned to my warm bed. The dogs raised their heads as if to ask, “Is it time for fun and games?” I ignored them, curled up into my favorite position and went back to sleep.
I dreamt I was back home in Tehran. I was a little girl. It was summer. Our parents, Aunty Semha and Uncle Philippe, and some other aunts and uncles all met in Darband, the village nestled at the foot of the Alborz Mountains. The kebabis made their different kebabs. The aroma of their kebabs drifted through the mountain air, making noses twitch enticingly. These kebabis did not make regular meat kebabs, but rather the liver, heart, kidney, and testicle of mutton. They served them on round tin trays lined with sangak, a whole wheat flat bread baked in the tanour on a bed of pebbles. The kebabs were arranged on top of the bread with barbecued onions and tomatoes and fresh herbs. We favored sitting on the bed-like platforms called takhtes, covered with Persian carpets, perched on the shallow part of the roaring stream that rushed down from the higher peaks, so refreshing in those summer nights in Darband. Persian music accompanied the sound of the mountain stream, the loud hum of the crowds, and the vendors singing out their wares.
The man selling fresh walnuts had placed his shelled and peeled walnuts in a bucket of salted water. He replenished the ones arranged on the tray, piled in a pattern of six, as soon as he ran low. He melodiously sang out, “Gerdouyi, walnuts, fresh walnuts! Come, buy my fresh delicious walnuts!”
The man selling the fresh green almonds was not to be outdone; he would also sing out his wares. “Chakaleh badoom! Tender and delicate almonds like these, you have never tasted!”
The vendor who sold fresh ears of corn barbecued on beds of embers of coal and then dipped in salt water had a long line of people waiting for their corn. He was busily fanning the embers with his straw fan. That did not stop him from cheerfully singing on top of his voice, “Balali! Delicious sweet, milky corn!”
The mélange of the vendors singing out their wares added to the happy atmosphere of the carefree magical summer nights of Darband. Above us, the stars in the dark velvet skies above looked like diamonds, twinkling merrily, scattered across their vast expanse. Below, the powerful mountain streams rushed down towards the city, occasionally lapping at us as they passed. They all lent to the enchanted atmosphere of those summer evenings.
The foot of the mountains was alive with happy crowds walking about, enjoying the coolness of the mountain air. Some people sat on top of the hoods of their cars while others leaned against them as they ate their kebabs. Our group, sitting on the bed-like wooden takhtes over the rushing mountain streams, were having a jolly good time. We had a couple of wits cracking jokes back and forth constantly. Every once in a while, everyone burst into loud uncontrollable laughter. One jokester encouraged the other, and they went on and on with great merriment all evening.
Time passed. We, the children, were getting weary. We gradually rested our heads into a loving lap or breast and fell asleep. When quite a few children began to doze off, our parents reluctantly realized it was time to head back home. We were gently carried sleeping into the cars. Our heads swayed as our parents and other helpful adults gingerly inched down the steep inclines to the vehicles. We drove down towards the city.
The car windows were open, for in those days there was no air conditioning. The sound of the jubes carrying the streams of water on each side of the road hummed a soothing melody. The crickets in the trees gently sang their haunting night songs. The majestic plane trees up above rustled in the breeze and added another soothing note to the peaceful evening sounds. I must have been about five or six years old. I can still hear those sounds. They are as music in my head even to this day. I think of them in fond memory.
We finally arrived home. Mama and Papa carried my sisters to their beds. “Stella, Stella,” they whispered softly. “We’re home,” they said as one of them held my hand and led me upstairs.
It is chilly. I feel Papa shaking me awake. I open my eyes with a great smile. But no, it is not Papa but Ebony. I am not a little child but a gray-haired old woman. Picasso is at the foot of the bed. He is whining because he too wants me to get up. I sigh and slowly get out of bed. I open the bedroom door, and they rush off to Kelly’s room. They jump on him. “Get up! Get up! We need to go for our walk.” I hear him groan as he trudges down the stairs. He opens the front door to let them out for a while. It is dark outside on that Saturday morning. It is the weekend, and the only chance to sleep late. Up they come again. He gets back into bed. Everyone settled down for more sleep. The house echoes to the sound of gentle sleep.