My O'Papa

Words and Photograph by Ari Ekmekji (Grade 11)

“Step out of the window onto the air conditioning unit,” he told me.

My grandpa was unlike anyone else I had ever known or will ever know. That afternoon at his house was like most of the other numerous ones I spent there. One of the most common activities my brother and I undertook while visiting my grandparents was to play cards with my grandpa, whom I called by the nickname O’Papa. From a young age he had taught us how to play the card game pinochle, and we never failed to pull out a deck and play a few rounds while at his house.

But this time when we were playing in his bedroom, my O’Papa noticed that the loquat tree that grew right outside the bedroom window still had some precious loquats on the higher branches. Since they were too high for him to reach from the ground, he told me to “Step out of the window onto the air conditioning unit.” Being a fearless, adventurous nine-year old, I proceeded as instructed, and after establishing my balance I stretched to pick as many of the loquats as I possibly could without falling seven feet to the ground. But the entire time he maintained a firm grip around my small waist and refused to allow me to venture to the outer portion of the protruding air conditioning unit.

At my young age, my grandpa even let me drive his car—well, kind of. I clearly remember his white Cadillac, which I spent so many afternoons helping him wash, and every now and then he would take me for a ride. Now this was back when I was a mere lad of around six or seven years, so I was just the right size to sit on his lap in the car. He would then put my hands on the steering wheel and let me steer the car as he accelerated and braked. Being so young, I had no other reaction to this than pure amazement and joy, but little did I know at that point that his hands were always on the bottom of the steering wheel in order to take control whenever he deemed necessary.

This idea of making me think I was accomplishing something that in reality I had no control over repeats itself in some other stories I have with my grandfather. The next best example I can think of is pulling the garbage cans from in front of my grandparents’ house up to the garage. This may seem nothing special, but to a young kid, a row of garbage cans and a steep driveway up which to pull them equals oodles of fun. I would grab the garbage cans and begin hauling them up the rather long and inclined driveway with all my effort. Once again I thought that me, myself, and I was getting this task done, but all the meanwhile my grandpa was in the back pushing the garbage can so it would actually go up. However I was oblivious to this minor detail and joyously and strenuously pulled up the cans in complete satisfaction with my strength, perseverance, and accomplishment.

In the mornings when I went over to my grandparents, or when I woke up after spending the night, our traditional procedure was to have a special breakfast, which I called (and still do call) O’Papa’s breakfast. This standard arrangement of foodstuffs consisted of olives, cheese, bread, jam, and lebne (yogurt). Even now when I go to visit my grandmother, in the mornings we almost always have O’Papa’s breakfast—partially in remembrance and partially because it’s just so good!

When the later hours of the day rolled around, my O’Papa’s menu changed to a slightly less sophisticated, but equally delicious duo—Dr. Pepper and peanuts. Without even the slightest competition, Dr. Pepper ranked first among his favorite drinks, and he could gulp a can of it at almost any time of the day. I remember the refrigerator being full of it almost constantly, and whenever it did happen to run out, there was a sufficient stash in the garage to keep up his supplies. I cannot go a day anymore without thinking about him every time I, or someone around me, orders a Dr. Pepper at a restaurant or drinks one at my house.

And then come the peanuts—ah, the peanuts! How many sunny, rainy, and cloudy mornings, afternoons, and nights we spent crunching this delectable snack from huge bags filled to the brim. Cracking the hourglass shaped shells while sitting and talking with my grandpa was always more enticing to me than watching television or playing some kind of silly game.

And the fun only continued when we would go inside to listen to music and even dance. My O’Papa absolutely loved music and had an incredible ear for it. For decades he had played the accordion, and in my house resides a picture of a dashing, young man with an accordion in his hands looking out to greet those who walk by. He always loved how I played the piano, even though I was only at the beginning stage, and now that I have advanced so much, my parents and grandma frequently tell me, “Only if O’Papa were here to hear you playing so beautifully.”

One thing I will never forget is the Greek song “Kalimera,” which he would almost always play to sing along with and dance to with me. When my grandparents were vacationing in Greece one summer, he heard this song on the radio and immediately fell in love with it. The next morning he went up to the front desk of the hotel and sang the song to them, having already learned it, and they told him its name. After that he swiftly proceeded to go to a cassette store and buy the song, which I now hum in my head from time to time and smile remembering how much joy it brought him.

Now even though my O’Papa possessed all of these amazingly kind and sensitive sides, inside lurked a serious one as well. This rare side most especially came out when he would sit down with his regular bridge partners and play this card game that mystified me as a child. Even though he enjoyed playing simple games with my brother and me, when push came to shove, bridge was one of his passions. This game seemed to me nothing more than grown men throwing around pieces of paper with numbers on them at speeds imperceptible to my untrained eyes. My grandfather would pick up cards, discard them, gather chips, and hand them over faster than I could keep up.

Back when he lived in Aleppo, he would often go to the country club with his friends when he was off from work. There they would swim, converse, and engage in very important games of bridge. One major reason why bridge constituted such an important part of my O’Papa’s life is because one of his bridge partners in Aleppo was the American ambassador to Syria. Through this connection, he learned about a great opportunity to move to America, and consequently he, my grandma, dad, and uncle came to Los Angeles.

But his playful side was still quite evident in his personality. Whenever we would be driving somewhere and a red light came our way, he would stare it down and say, “Turn green!” And laughing the whole time, I would join this silly and humorous game until the light finally did turn green and we felt like we had somehow contributed to it.

Then there was the time when we went to a fast food restaurant, which my memory fails to recall the name of, and when the cashier asked what we wanted to order through the speakerphone, my grandfather purposely began acting confused as to where the noise was coming from. He stopped the car, got out, and started circling the machine from which the man’s voice was emanating, and I was hysterically laughing while the cashier was probably just in disbelief. After continuing these antics for a minute or so, he got back in the car and we proceeded along our way, snickering to ourselves as we paid the cashier.

Every birthday and Christmas I had another tradition from my grandpa. He would always make out a $100 check to both my brother and me, and we would go with him to the bank to cash it, usually in one-dollar bills. This sum of money was so mesmerizing to us at such a young age, and although these funds always ended up being deposited in our bank accounts, the few days that we had with a stack of 100 dollar bills on our desk made it all worthwhile. And with each year, we would receive the letter addressed to us, open it with anticipation, thank our grandparents, and be excited since we thought we were now “rich.” And to this day my grandmother never fails to provide us with checks every birthday and Christmas for $100, and on the line of the check designated to its purpose, she writes “O’Papa’s Wish List.”

The memory of my grandpa, my O’Papa, travels with me along life’s sinuous path. And even after Dr. Pepper stops making their delicious soda, after “Kalimera” is completely forgotten as a song, and after the checks stop coming, that memory will remain.