When I was fifteen, something happened that changed the direction of my life. Walking back to Western Auto from lunch, I noticed an immense 1939 black LaSalle parked in front of the First Baptist Church. Stenciled on its side in what I thought might be Gothic letters was:
Oakland, Florida
I walked over and peered in the window, looking first at the strange gear shift, not knowing that it was the first automatic transmission I had ever laid eyes on. Then I looked up and saw the door to the church was open, and since I didn’t have to be back at work for twenty minutes, I decided to look inside and see what was happening. There I saw a portly man with a giant belly standing next to the organ, the front of which had been removed. The man looked at me without speaking a word, so I said, “I’m Mike Mahan, and I just wonder what y’all are doing.”
In a thick foreign sounding voice, he asked, “What’s it to you, son?”
“Just curious,” I said, a little taken aback by his gruffness.
“Well. For your information, my nephew and I—he’s over behind that partition—are here to rebuild the leatherworks in this goddamn organ.”
Hearing goddamn in a church further shocked me, though I was to learn that this man could hardly make a sentence without some form of the word.
“How often does the leather have to rebuilt and how do you do it?” I asked, and I thought he seemed a little surprised at my question.
“Hey, Sam,” he called out, “come out here. I want you to meet a boy named Michel. He has more goddamn questions than the police.”
While I was wondering why he called me what sounded like “Michelle,” a younger man—also somewhat portly and short, with a mustache and long hair—walked out.
“Sam, tell this boy how to rebuild leatherworks.”
“Uncle” H. H. Tchakarian, always eating, cussing, working, and searching for perfection. Tallahassee, Florida, 1953.
Sam looked me over, a little confused, and began telling me about the job they were working on. At some point he turned to the older man and said something in a foreign language, which I would later learn was Armenian. As he spoke, I unconsciously picked up a broom and started sweeping the floor. Later on the old man, Chick Tchakarian, told me that had impressed him about me. “Too many boys are lazy.” He was also impressed that I had a job at Western Auto.
After my initial visit, I stopped by regularly to watch them work and to ask questions and help straighten up. Finally, one day when I had picked up a broom and was sweeping the floor, Sam turned to me and said, “Well, if you are going to hang out down here, we may as well hire you,” and that began employment that lasted for over six years.
To begin with, I was sort of the handyman, and they paid me a dollar or two. I quickly learned that the two were tough taskmasters. They did things right, and they meant for me to do them right, too. Both had tempers that would rise on occasion, and it took me a bit to get used to that. I soon discovered, however, that there was no malice in it. Neither man approved of carrying tools in your back pocket, and if they caught me doing it they would administer a swift kick. Despite that, I came to respect and love both men. Chick, especially, liked me very much. He said to call him Uncle. When he and Sam got ready to leave town, they asked my parents if they could take me on their late summer tuning tour, and they agreed. That was really when my apprenticeship began.
We took off for Georgia in Sam’s LaSalle, tuning organs in Hawkinsville, Savannah, and other towns. When it was time for me to return to school in September, Sam put me on a bus and sent me home. From then on, I worked for Uncle and Sam during Christmas holidays and during the summers. And I was paid big money—$100 per month, plus food, lodging, and laundry. In those days that was quite a fine salary for a boy, plus I was learning the pipe organ business inside and out.
Sam Hovsepian and son, Johnny, at a church in Hawkinsville, Georgia, where we did the annual maintenance on the organ. My success as a dentist I owe to Sam for expecting from me the best of my ability.
I also became Uncle’s driver, and I was thrilled, not only for the chance to make money, but to have adventures. He always had the biggest, fanciest cars. I loved the idea of a Shelby Street boy tooling down the highway behind the wheel of a shiny two-tone Cadillac. When I returned home every fall I had a fine set of bragging rights. I was seeing the world and learning its ways. I took many a trip, both literally and figuratively, with this amazing man, Chick. He might have been five feet, six inches tall and weighed in at over 200 pounds, but he was one tough customer. He was as hard as a rock.
I learned just how hard he was one day when he and I had to go to Young and Van Hardware in Birmingham to pick up supplies. As we walked in, three black guys in their late teens started snickering and pointing at Uncle’s voluminous stomach. When Uncle walked over to them, I wondered what would happen. These were big strong young men who, I supposed, could be pretty dangerous if riled up. Uncle began talking to them in some language other than English, and they got sort of quiet. Then Uncle said, “I know. You are looking at my belly. You are right. It is big, but let me tell you it’s no laughing matter. I tell you what. You hit me in the stomach as hard as you can, and if you hurt me I give you a dollar. Then I hit you on the shoulder, and if I hurt you, you give me a dollar. Then we see who is grinning.” I looked at the well-built guys and thought that any one of them could destroy Uncle.
“Naw sir,” one of them said.
“Me neither,” the second boy said.
Uncle turned to the last boy and said, “Come on, or I think you a coward.”
With that the boy half-heartedly drew back his fist and delivered a glancing blow. Uncle did not flinch.
“Hit me again,” Uncle said. “Harder. Draw back more. Give me your best shot.”
I thought oh my God as the fellow drew his arm far back and punched with all his might. Again Uncle was unfazed.
“My time now,” Uncle said, drawing back his fist and landing a blow so powerful that the fellow staggered four feet at least across the floor before landing. As he got up, I felt anxious, but Uncle was laughing. “Just keep your dollar,” he said, “but be careful who you laugh at.” He then walked slowly over to the counter to put in his order. The clerk’s eyes were very wide, I thought.
The Hovsepian family, left to right, Lucille, Sam, Eva Jane, a nephew, and Johnny. Johnny is leaning on the Cadillac and the famous DeSoto 4-door Woodie is behind the group.
When Uncle wasn’t sleeping, which he did regularly on the road, he was talking, always sprinkling his heavily accented speech liberally with colorful profanity. Slowly I pieced together his remarkable story. When the Turks took over Armenia, Uncle escaped with his mother and three siblings. The family was transported across a border river by his father, who returned to Armenia to get a last child. He was never seen again, and the mother took the family to Athens. From there, Chick went back to Turkey to study electricity in Istanbul, where he distinguished himself as a scholar and an athlete. After graduation, he moved to Edinburgh, Scotland, to study further, and while there he represented Scotland in the Olympics in the shot put and javelin competitions. In Edinburgh, he was also hired by an organ company and began his career of building and repairing organs.
From Scotland, the family moved to Canada, where Uncle took a job with the Hope-Jones Organ Company. That company was bought by the Wurlitzer Company, but Uncle didn’t stay with them. He had a terrible temper and almost immediately couldn’t get along with the new people at Wurlitzer. That is when he became an original member of the E. M. Skinner Organ Manufacturing team. He was one of the designers of the Pittman Chest, which helped establish Skinner as the premiere builder of organs in the U.S.
Eventually Uncle moved to Miami, Florida, where his sister and her husband, Mr. Hovsepian, had moved to work in the citrus groves. He began installing organs throughout the South. Uncle married a woman we called Auntie, and they had a daughter and a son. When the son showed no interest in the organ business, Uncle took on his nephew as his number one man, and in time Sam became a full partner. In 1928 and 1929, Uncle built and installed the large Skinner organ at Alabama College in Montevallo, a sister organ to one they built at the University of Florida in Gainesville. During the late twenties they installed Skinner organs in major cities throughout the south. But shortly after that, Sam and Uncle had a falling out and separated for some time. Uncle tried to get his son interested in the organ business, but to no avail. Sam went on to wire the world’s largest organ at the Atlantic City Music Hall. Luckily, Uncle and Sam went back together and continued to service and install organs together in the Carolinas, Georgia, Florida, and Alabama for many years.
My employment with H. H. Tchakarian and Sons was a liberal education in itself. Not only did I learn about organs, I learned about life. I saw places I would not have otherwise seen, and I learned more than I ever thought I would about women. From my bed in one corner of the room, I would listen to Sam, lying in his own bed, spin out tales about various amorous adventures. He could be very literal about his sexual experience, and in his long tales, the romance of love loomed as large as the mechanics of sex. I had never experienced anything like this.
I developed a great affection for Uncle, who was almost a surrogate father to me. I was truly astounded at his encyclopedic knowledge. Especially impressive was his mastery of languages. He still spoke Armenian with Sam and other family members, but he also spoke English, French, German, Greek, Italian, and Turkish. Maybe more. He claimed to be the only person in the world who could speak Latin. When we went to a university town, as we often did, he would strike out for the student gathering place and look for foreign students to engage in conversation. As a young man, I was impressed by his amazing ability.
Sam and Lucille Hovsepian, Tallahassee, Florida, 1953. She lived a married life dominated by overpowering Armenian customs, quite a change for a simple Georgia girl. But she made a great mother, wife, and co-worker in the organ business.
The biggest leap I made with Uncle in the ways of the world, however, was my experiences with unfamiliar food. You could look at Uncle and Sam and tell that they enjoyed food. Uncle got up from the table thinking about the next meal. Like many people with European backgrounds, they were extremely fond of lamb, and I ate my first lamb when I traveled with them. I was not squeamish about food, and that was a good thing, as I had some strange things put before me.
Uncle and Sam also taught me a few things about drinking. Once, at the Shamrock Hotel in Fort Pierce, Florida, Chick and Sam ordered me a beer, and I felt a bit funny drinking it in front of all the adults in there. But I liked the feeling. After the meal, Sam decided that we should have an after-dinner drink, and he ordered us all a Drambuie. They brought it out in a tiny glass no bigger than a thumb, and I thought that the drinks looked awfully chintzy. Sam knew what I was thinking. “Don’t slug it down, Michel. Smell it first, then taste it with your tongue.” The peppery drink burned my tongue at first, but by the end of the drink I thought I had never tasted any drink that was better.
One time we were working at Florida State University in Tallahassee, and I was staying with Sam and his wife, Lucille, a cracker girl from Georgia, in the house they had rented for the summer. One day I was working with Uncle in a large auditorium when he called me over. He told me to come go with him somewhere, and we got into his huge DeSoto Suburban he used to haul organ parts. He drove to the stockyard, told me to stay in the Suburban, and disappeared. When he came back out he had a sheep’s head. “Michel,” he said, “We gonna have the best goddamn thing you ever ate. You just wait.” I stared over at the sheep’s head, covered with matted hair and one of its eyes all blood shot. I wondered how that could be made edible.
Back home, we put the head in a huge pot and boiled it, hair and all. Then Uncle took it to a table in the backyard, and instructed me on how to remove the hair with a stone. He turned the job over to me, and when I finished the sheep’s head was a smooth, milky white. Then Sam’s wife, Lucille, brought out a pan of stuffing, and Uncle popped the sheep’s mouth open and started poking the stuffing in. It was then cooked over slow heat for a very long time. When it was finally served, I could see why they thought it was a delicacy. I stopped short of eating an eye—Uncle got both of those—but I did eat some of what I was told was the brain, and it was quite tasty.
The sheep’s head was tame compared to the pickled maggots we had one time or some kind of insects that resembled limousine roaches. I would try anything, and to this day I will eat what is put before me and eaten by others, no questions asked.
I loved visiting Sam in Oakland, not far from Tampa, Florida, where he had his permanent home. Uncle was often there, even when his wife was still alive and staying in Miami to be near her children. After her death early in my tenure with Uncle and Sam, Uncle lived primarily at Sam’s home. In Oakland, I would often help with chores related to food preparation. They loved to make guava jelly, and I would help them cook it and put it up in pint jars. When I went there at Christmas, I was pressed into service harvesting oranges and grapefruit in their large backyard. We would put them in crates and ship them to family members, friends, and organ customers. Uncle would send me up the ladder to pick the fruit, and he would sit in a metal glider below the tree and have me toss the fruit down to him. He would throw up his hands and catch the fruit as deftly as a professional baseball player. One day I picked a rotten grapefruit from the tree, and I can’t say why but I was suddenly possessed by the devil. Rather than throw it away, I threw it with more force than necessary down to Uncle, and when he caught it, it exploded all over him. I immediately was sorry I had done it, knowing that Uncle could have a terrible temper. I held my breath for his reaction. He said, “Goddamnit, Michel, if I had been in the tree and you on the ground, I’d have done the same thing.” Now, there is one prince of a man, I thought.
Both Uncle and Sam loved great restaurants, and they spared no expense in getting the best food, especially in large cities like Savannah, Atlanta, and Gainesville. In the early fifties when I was driving for Uncle, we left Montevallo about mid-afternoon headed for Tallahassee, Florida. We hadn’t gone but a few miles past Montgomery when Uncle crossed his arms over his massive stomach and promptly went to sleep. After a bit he fell into his usual rhythm of sleep sounds, blowing air out of his mouth with a poof, puff, puh . . . poof, puff, puh. At sundown, just as we were going across the ridge into Troy, Alabama, Uncle woke up. As usual he rubbed his eyes and asked, “Goddamnit, Michel, where are we?”
“Troy,” I answered.
“Have you ever eaten at Antoine’s in New Orleans?” he asked abruptly.
“No, sir,” I answered, knowing what he had in mind. He was willing to drive way out of his way for a good meal, and I had heard him sing the praises of Antoine’s many times.
“Get out the map,” he said.
“But, Uncle Chick,” I said, “that’s a long way and we have to meet Sam in Tallahassee tomorrow.”
“Goddamnit, Michel, I don’t need to be reminded of that. But we’ve got time. We can make it. Turn this car toward New Orleans. We gonna eat at Antoine’s.”
And I obeyed, getting us into the Crescent City about 3:00 in the morning. We checked into the Monteleone, and I fell out exhausted. We pulled ourselves out of bed in time to go to lunch, and what a lunch: oysters Rockefeller, trout marguerie, bread pudding with whiskey sauce, the whole works. It was worth the effort. Then it was off again to Tallahassee. We arrived almost a day late, but Sam had taken care of whatever needed to be done there.
Sam and Uncle did not mind spending big bucks on food, but the rule of the road was order anything you want but you have to eat all of it. Once at the Floridian Hotel in Gainesville we ordered jumbo fried shrimp and all the extras, and try all I could, I could not eat the final shrimp on my plate. The next day I left with Sam for a job in Savannah, and when we checked into the DeSoto Hotel I had a package waiting for me. Uncle had packaged up that uneaten shrimp and sent it with the message, “Goddamnit, Michel, eat your shrimp.” I wrapped it right back up and mailed it back to him. That began the mailing back and forth of that shrimp for the entire summer. But it was never mentioned afterwards.
For over six years, I worked for Uncle and Sam, often living with Sam and his family. I became so proficient in the organ business that I thought I’d make it my profession, and I became Sam’s bound apprentice. When I started to Auburn, Uncle suggested that I major in engineering, which would be quite useful to me in the organ business. After struggling two quarters with the math courses, I shifted to music, and Uncle said he reckoned that would have to do. I enjoyed my time in the music department, holding a band/work fellowship that paid tuition in exchange for work for band director Dave Herbert, along with other duties. I also played with the Auburn marching band, the concert band, and the ROTC band. As I neared graduation, Sam came to me and offered me the entire territory north of Dothan, Alabama, but I had become so intrigued with the idea of being a concert bass player that I turned him down. It made him very angry, and for several years he did not speak to me.
After my ill-fated trip to Cincinnati and my conclusion that my career would not be in music, I had to face the same thing about the organ business. By then Uncle had died and Sam had retired, and large organs at theaters and other public places were a passing thing. The work was just not going to be there. But I must say that I have never regretted that time I spent with Uncle and Sam. My interest in the organ has certainly remained. In 1967, I was reading ads in the Birmingham News when I saw an ad for a used pipe organ in Selma at the Presbyterian church. I called about it and found it was an original E. M. Skinner installed in 1923, and when I saw this jewel I knew that it would be perfect for my church, the First Methodist Church of Montevallo. The church bought it. It needed a great deal of work, and with my growing dental practice I did not have time to restore it. Although Sam and I had been estranged since I turned down his job offer, I decided to call him to see if we could get him to restore the organ. Without hesitation, he said yes, and he came to Montevallo and did the job, staying with Linda and me on and off for over a year. After that, he returned to Montevallo for an annual visit. Sam died around 2000, but I still communicate with his son Johnny about once a year. Some tie to these vital people in my life has seemed necessary to me.
The demands of my profession of dentistry have not allowed me to use much the skills Chick and Sam taught me. But since I worked those years with them, very few days have passed that I have not thought of one or the other of them, and I am convinced that the skills and values they taught me can be seen in how I respect my tools, in how I attend to minute details in order to achieve quality work, and in the respect I have for those I serve. All of that came from Uncle and Sam.