This story may not be interesting to children.
“Armenian Joe”
Honestly, I never believed that he was Armenian. All the Armenian guys I ever saw were much more robust, manly and taller than Joe was. I imagined him to be a Slavic gypsy roaming the hill sides. Nothing romantic about him as far as I could see. A short swarthy guy with broken teeth and unkempt in his appearance. It suited his profession though, as he was the neighborhood ragman. Our relatives referred to him as “Grandma’s friend.” Through my tragic adolescent eyes I personally thought he was an idiot. He lived alone in a little shack by himself and spent time at grandmothers house drinking coffee and eating pie. He usually came calling with a bag or two with fruit and vegetables. I once asked him how he came to America, and he told me that when he became of age the Russians were coming for him to put him in the army. His mother got him dressed and ready and with tears in her eyes she pushed him out and slammed the door. He said he started running as fast as he could through the forest and never stopped until he reached the ocean. ”I ran too fast for those Commies. They never caught up with me” At 3:00 in the afternoon my brother and I were told to go out in the back yard and water the trees and flowers ; but not too close to the house. Grandma would come out with us to get us started and Joe would call out to her in tones we never heard before… “Goosie, Hurry up and come in, I’m waiting for you”. At the time, we never realized what was going on. A steady dose of romp and rolling in the hay. Their relationship, as loose as it was, seemed to suit both of them. Towards the end of his life our relatives asked him if he had any wishes that they could help him with. He said; “Please,please don’t bury me next to any Commie Russians.”
I don’t think he really knew any “Commie Russians.”