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Buffalo News (New York)
June 17, 2005 Friday
FINAL EDITION
FATHER'S COMPASSION LEAVES LASTING IMPRESSION
By Bedros "Pete" Odian
Role models come in many forms: sports figures, political leaders,
war heroes, policemen and firefighters, to name just a few. My
father, Paul, was not any of these. He grew up helping his family in
rural Armenia. He came to America as a young man in 1906 for a better
life, and worked in a factory in Providence, R.I., where I was born
in 1921.
Dad never attended school. He was semi-literate both in his native
tongue and in English. There was nothing sophisticated about him. He
seldom gave me instructions. Guidance and discipline were my mother's
domain.
Our family moved in 1922 to Manhattan, where my father operated a
one-man grocery store in a working-class neighborhood. When the
Depression came along, it became necessary to extend credit to the
customers whose families he came to know intimately.
>From time to time, someone would come in and beg for money. Dad
usually refused, suspecting that the individual accumulated nickels
and dimes to purchase liquor. Prohibition was still in effect.
One day, a fellow came in and asked for money. When my father
refused, the man said he needed the money to buy something to eat.
When my father asked him if he was hungry, he replied, "Yes."
The man was taken to the rear room of the store and seated at the
table. Dad brought in food and beverage fit for a king.
I was 10 or 12 at the time. I will always remember the kindness shown
to that unfortunate soul. As my mind goes back seven decades, I
realize that here was a lesson by example. I saw compassion.
The store was located on the West Side, 35th Street, between 9th and
10th avenues. In the late '30s the New York & New Jersey Port
Authority began constructing the Lincoln Tunnel across the Hudson
River between New York and New Jersey. It was necessary to demolish
the tenements midway between 9th and 10th avenues from 34th Street to
42nd Street for an approach road to the tunnel.
It already was difficult to keep the store profitable. Many customers
failed to pay their bills for groceries. Indeed, my father fell
behind in his payables to his suppliers. To demolish buildings
housing the bulk of customers was the last straw. He surrendered the
store.
After a time, dad operated a small store on the East Side. He resumed
buying from an egg merchant from his days on the West Side, Max Blum.
Blum said to my father, "Paul, we have done business together for
many years. Some of the bills from the West Side were not paid. Let's
forget about it and continue our friendly relationship. Times were
bad for everybody." I witnessed the conversation. There is room for
heart in business.
My father retired in the 1950s because of failing health. He visited
grocer friends in various neighborhoods in Manhattan. During one
visit, one of my father's customers from the '20s and '30s spotted
him. They had lost touch for 25 years.
The man told my father to stay put while he went to his home to get
something. Upon return, he handed my father $100, saying, "You
trusted me when times were bad. I lost track of you. I am happy to
satisfy my debt."
I am reminded of Etienne de Grellet's poem: ". . . any kindness that
I can show . . . let me do it now. . . . For I shall not pass this
way again."
Bedros "Pete" Odian lives in Amherst
June 17, 2005 Friday
FINAL EDITION
FATHER'S COMPASSION LEAVES LASTING IMPRESSION
By Bedros "Pete" Odian
Role models come in many forms: sports figures, political leaders,
war heroes, policemen and firefighters, to name just a few. My
father, Paul, was not any of these. He grew up helping his family in
rural Armenia. He came to America as a young man in 1906 for a better
life, and worked in a factory in Providence, R.I., where I was born
in 1921.
Dad never attended school. He was semi-literate both in his native
tongue and in English. There was nothing sophisticated about him. He
seldom gave me instructions. Guidance and discipline were my mother's
domain.
Our family moved in 1922 to Manhattan, where my father operated a
one-man grocery store in a working-class neighborhood. When the
Depression came along, it became necessary to extend credit to the
customers whose families he came to know intimately.
>From time to time, someone would come in and beg for money. Dad
usually refused, suspecting that the individual accumulated nickels
and dimes to purchase liquor. Prohibition was still in effect.
One day, a fellow came in and asked for money. When my father
refused, the man said he needed the money to buy something to eat.
When my father asked him if he was hungry, he replied, "Yes."
The man was taken to the rear room of the store and seated at the
table. Dad brought in food and beverage fit for a king.
I was 10 or 12 at the time. I will always remember the kindness shown
to that unfortunate soul. As my mind goes back seven decades, I
realize that here was a lesson by example. I saw compassion.
The store was located on the West Side, 35th Street, between 9th and
10th avenues. In the late '30s the New York & New Jersey Port
Authority began constructing the Lincoln Tunnel across the Hudson
River between New York and New Jersey. It was necessary to demolish
the tenements midway between 9th and 10th avenues from 34th Street to
42nd Street for an approach road to the tunnel.
It already was difficult to keep the store profitable. Many customers
failed to pay their bills for groceries. Indeed, my father fell
behind in his payables to his suppliers. To demolish buildings
housing the bulk of customers was the last straw. He surrendered the
store.
After a time, dad operated a small store on the East Side. He resumed
buying from an egg merchant from his days on the West Side, Max Blum.
Blum said to my father, "Paul, we have done business together for
many years. Some of the bills from the West Side were not paid. Let's
forget about it and continue our friendly relationship. Times were
bad for everybody." I witnessed the conversation. There is room for
heart in business.
My father retired in the 1950s because of failing health. He visited
grocer friends in various neighborhoods in Manhattan. During one
visit, one of my father's customers from the '20s and '30s spotted
him. They had lost touch for 25 years.
The man told my father to stay put while he went to his home to get
something. Upon return, he handed my father $100, saying, "You
trusted me when times were bad. I lost track of you. I am happy to
satisfy my debt."
I am reminded of Etienne de Grellet's poem: ". . . any kindness that
I can show . . . let me do it now. . . . For I shall not pass this
way again."
Bedros "Pete" Odian lives in Amherst