If it wasn't for his black shalwar and his head scarf, Abdullah looked like your regular Santa Clause with a huge white moustache on his sun-scorched face. He was handsome and kind. We were always happy to see him. I don't know how far he came from with his donkey in tow but he was tired. So my Aunt Arshalouys would offer him some water.
I knew that once the bundles arrived, the girls would come to work. There were at least half a dozen 20-30 year old women who worked in the factory. The process of washing and drying the silk and returning it to Abdullah's donkey a couple of days later was exhilarating. I loved being there and at times tried my hand at helping unsuccessfully.
Sometimes, in the 1950s, we would find ourselves at my Uncle Arshahg's house for a week or so, in the summer months. This was the next best thing to do in summer besides going to a village in Lebanon. Here in Damascus everything was more exotic. Their ice cream, for example, was out of this world. So good, and prepared locally in parlors in the old souk.
Damascus still offered horse drawn carriages which served as taxis and us kids were always thrilled when we had the chance to be riding in one. The sound of the horses trotting on the cobblestones had an otherworldly feeling which we cherished. Kids sat opposite the adults on little benches that opened up. The awning over where the adults sat was black and could be let down depending on the weather or time of day. Sitting opposite the adults, we were going backwards of course. This added to the fun and the mystery of the ride.
Aunt Arshalouys and mom in Beirut, both newlyweds.
At the time Damascus was quite cosmopolitan and there was an International Expo happening where my dad had a booth presenting various European made carpets. My curiosity was spiked by the pretend Nestle milk ooozing from its can down from a height of maybe 100 feet and stopping in mid air. If I was hungry, I was starving after seeing that. We used to spread Nestle condensed milk on bread and have it as a sandwich back in Beirut. A luxury in the likes of tuna or chocolate sandwiches.
My Uncle Arshahg did not have children of his own so our being in Damascus was a blessing for everyone involved. We were spoiled by his wife, Arshalouys and his two maternal aunts, Manoush and Vartouhi who kept calling each other "kouro," sister in the dialect of Dikranagerd.
Once a week we would clean the pond which was in the middle of the courtyard. If there was a way to describe the joy we felt, I would. First, we had to catch the fish with a colander and put them in a bucket full of water. After that we would empty the pool and the water would fill the entire courtyard. Reveling barefoot in inch deep water over marble floors is priceless. What a great way to clean both the pool and the courtyard while having the time of our lives. This joy became ten-fold when on occasion, my cousins who also lived in Damascus joined us too. They later moved to Lebanon.
To shed the courtyard from the scorching sun of midday, they would cover it with a huge awning from the upper floor, with ropes attached to a beige canvas, thick enough for this task. They will pull from the ropes and the canvas would unfold over the courtyard. Only one side of the courtyard had a bare wall, the three other sides were the residential quarters. The kitchen, living and dining areas were on the ground floor, the bedrooms were on the second floor and there was a roof where we slept under a huge tent at night if we were not up watching the beautiful sky full of stars. It was hard to stay up with such a deafening peacefulness.
The girls would arrive the next day and I would run to the factory bright and early to watch the process of washing silk threads unfold. First, my uncle would wash them by hand wearing long sleeved gloves and he would put each bundle in my favorite machine. This machine did only one thing. It spun and let the water out The water that came out was the same color as the silk that went into the machine. For some reason this just made me feel like I was in heaven watching the colored water come out of a pipe, filled up a bucket which was then replaced with an empty one. This had to be done very fast in the beginning and slowly wind down until there were only droplets coming out of the pipe.
Time for the next color and batch. Thus, red, turquoise, yellow, orange, green, blue, brown, purple and white silk bundles let their extra color run, this time satisfying the hunger for color that my eyes lacked.
Ever since I was a child, my maternal Uncle Hrant would bring me a set of color pencils every Christmas. I would use them and tried not to mess the order in which they were sitting in the box. The joy I felt then was equal to the one I felt in Damascus. This was on a grand scale though, especially when the bundles were taken outside on the dirt courtyard and sled down long sugar cane shoots nestled on wooden horses for drying under the sun. This is when the girls came out to pull each bundle by hand so the silk dries straight and not wrinkled. They did this by inserting both hands into the batch and with a quick movement pulled their hands apart a few times. The reverse action of clapping. They went down the aile and restarted three times until the threads were dry enough to be taken out and the canes replaced by new wet bundles of silk thread.
As one entered the courtyard, they could not help but stop in awe at the site of rows and rows of silk, each row a different color, shimmering under the sun.
