In Memoriam
- karinegaribova
- May 6
- 5 min read
It is very hard for me to write this. I still can’t talk about Dad in past tense… It has been six months since my father decided it was time for him to go. Though my brother and I saw it coming, his passing came unexpectedly, and hit us both very hard. Does one believe in the mystery of numbers? Dad was born and deceased on the 5th, being with us exactly eighty-eight years and eight months to the day. So much for his passion for math! Everything had to be beautiful in his life, proportional, simmetrical, well organized, proper, like brithdays, celebrations, wives, kids, trips, surroundings, his desk, art on the walls. By the way, our Mom was born on and left us on the same day as well, on the 13th. Her passing coincided with the birthday of her father. Our parents were divorced and didn’t talk for decades, though I would like to think that somewhere there, in the place where numbers rule, they were meant to be together for that short time.
Dad was always the biggest fan of my musical journey. He would sneak into all sorts of performances I had, in school, in college, and beyond. He always brought flowers. I have old cassette recordings Dad made on a small boombox (!) of me playing back in the 70s and 80s. I just hated him doing that! I always felt I was never good enough to listen to, and even more so, to record. Yep, I am guilty of suffering from perfectionism, as do many of my colleagues. I am positive I got the perfection bug from Dad. He had an incredible work ethic.
Dad always worked. Always! He always came from work late, and went to his desk for more; correcting articles, student theses, catching up on the phone with his colleagues about the research. He was employed up till dementia got pretty bad about three years ago. And even in his later hallucinations he was on some business trip… He loved his work, he lived for it.
Dad had very high standards. “How dare you get a B on (whatever) subject in school?!!!” My brother got the most lecturing, though he was a very good student. It came very easily to him though. While I practiced and studied like I was possessed, my brother, while attending a very prestigious Aviation College in Moscow, went skiing, took daily naps during finals, and passed all exams with straight A’s.
In 1989, when my quartet was formed, we practiced daily in Dad’s flat, six days a week, for four hours every day. Dad made sure there was always food in the fridge for us, though he was often out of town on business trips. Those were tough, hungry, destructive years of dissolution of the Soviet Union. Food was in deficit, we cooked and ate whatever one thing was on store shelves that week; potatoes, or pasta, or flour, or eggs. Our professor, Valentin Berlinsky, late cellist of the legendary Borodin Quartet, often would come to coach us at Dad’s apartment, share a cup of tea (and sometimes adult beverages, we were well into our twenties), and talk about music. Those conversations had such tremendous influence in forming our musicianship! Sweet old days…
In 1991, we went to St. Petersburg to participate in the Shostakovich International String Quartet Competition. OMG, those hungry times! There was no food in town. I mean if you waited in lines for hours, you could get some. No, we, poor students, couldn’t afford restaurants. Fast food didn’t exist in the Soviet Union back then. We were practicing and performing 24/7, literally surviving off tea and toast. Dad came to hear us play in the third round of the competition. He went to stores, waited in lines and brought food, along with a huge celebration cake. He made sure we had a meal before the performance of the final competition stage.
A quick detour here: we first met the DaVinci Quartet and my esteemed colleague Jeri Jorgensen at that competition. It is truly a very small world!
In the fall of 1992, my Quartet set sail to go to the US. Dad organized a farewell party at his flat. He had me invite EVERYONE, I mean EACH and EVERYBODY I called a friend. It was quite a memorable celebration! The table was stretched literally from the entry door to the back window. Dad decided to make Armenian shish kebab on the balcony. He fired the wood, waited for coals, and roasted the meat according to the proper procedure. Should I mention that neighbors called the fire department? Yep. A firetruck came and firemen arrived to the door on the sixth floor. The issue was solved quickly but with smoke coming all over the backyard, it was quite a show.
Dad worked hard and lived hard, not believing in circumstances and obstacles. I think I inherited his “stubborn” bug. When asked, “How are you doing?” Dad would reply, “Don’t hold your breath!” He loved family gatherings, and he enjoyed life very much.
He was overcome with joy, jumping around at the Niagara Falls when visited the US in 1997. He was sixty that year. ☺
On his vacation trip to Turkey Dad took a taxi (ride of over 200 miles!) and went to visit mountain Ararat, sacred place for all Armenians.
Dad loved music so much! On Sundays the turntable was on from the morning till late. He (and we all) listened to Armenian and Azerbaijani folk music. Oh, those long, sad, tearing your heart apart tunes! Dad was born in Baku, and raised in Kirovabad (currently Ganja) in Azerbaijan, where Grandpa was serving in the military. That was the place where cultures intertwined so naturally. Our family roots lay in so pained lately, torn by wars and the troubled region of Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh), and before that in Iran. At the age of seventeen Dad was accepted at the Bauman Moscow State Technical University, and stayed in Moscow after graduation for his job at the prestigious engineering firm. As a child Dad completed seven years of music school on piano and could accompany any song, which he did regularly at family gatherings. During his early 20s, he picked up a string bass and joined a jazz group. The jazz channel was always on in his car. He did admire many things American, like jazz, Cadillacs, my “false American smile”; maybe that’s why he didn’t mind me moving?…
Rest in Peace, Papa, we miss you very much…
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