Vahram Kirecci

Vahram Kirecci, 68, born on May 17, 1946 in Aksaray, Turkey, passed away February 26, 2015. He resided in Sherman Oaks, California, at the time of his passing. He lived life with passion, and was grateful for every minute of it. He leaves behind his widow, Rita Kirecci, two sons, Cem, and Alen Kirecci, many friends and relatives who loved him, and no regrets. Arrangements are under the direction of Forest Lawn Hollywood Hills, Los Angeles, California.

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"Born in the White House"; that was my father's standard response in Turkish when asked where he was from. He was born in Aksaray, in Turkey, which, if you take some liberties when translating to English and then back to Turkish, means the White House. This gives you a glimpse into the man that my father was; Quick with a joke, proud of his origins and possessing a wonderful ability to build connections with people. Even in what would turn out to be his final visits to his oncologist's office, in a room full of patients strapped to IVs, the medical staff would stop by his chair for several minutes of friendly banter. Somehow, in six hours, once every three weeks for a few months, he was still able to make connections; All the while undergoing a treatment where the chance of a successful outcome was no better than a coin flip. His ability to connect with people, and his positive energy is what those who knew him best will remember most about my Dad. His friends sometimes intentionally mispronounced his name "Bayram", which is the Turkish word for holiday. It fit perfectly. He embodied all the good things about a holiday – the fun, the festivities, an exception to the routine.

But my Dad wasn't just about fun and games. He worked hard. He was a master of his craft, respected by his peers. Like many Armenians of his generation, my Dad quit school at a young age, just after 5th grade, and started learning the craft of jewelry. Armenian jewelry work involves using handheld torches to solder pieces of silver or gold together. Unfortunately, or fortunately as my Dad would put it, the heat from the torches gave him frequent nosebleeds, a trait he passed onto me. His condition prompted his master to train him as a "kalemkar", teaching him the technique of drawing intricate patterns on pieces of metal and then engraving the design with steel chisels. It's a dying art form, being replaced by computers and machines. When I was little, Dad used to take me to work every now and then in the summers, usually because he wanted to buy me a gift for doing well during the school year. I watched in wonder as he worked. He would take a solid gold bracelet, a bangle, place it on top of a wooden handle with some melted wax. When the wax eventually hardened, he would engrave an intricate pattern on the gold piece with chisels using nothing more than his bare hands. Or he would take a saw with a blade no thicker than a couple strands of human hair and saw out what he had just drawn. Thinking back on it now, after all these years, it's still impressive. Back then, to a little child, it was simply magic.

Those who know my Dad well will tell you that he was a friend like no other. I heard him say on more than one occasion that he would be more than willing to be a doormat for a true, genuine friend. I'm sure his friends can attest to this. Whether just being there to listen, to offer advice, or to lend a helping hand in times of trouble, my father was always there for his friends. I remember many years ago in Istanbul, in the middle of the night, a family friend called because her husband was having a medical emergency. Instead of calling for an ambulance, she had called us. Back in those days, in Istanbul, if you called an ambulance many things were uncertain; the competency of the paramedics, the hospital you would be taken to, and the kind of care you would receive. But if you called my Dad, he would make sure that you went to the right hospital. Once you were there, he would talk to the right people in the right way, starting with the janitor if need be. And, if a Benjamin handshake could help the situation, then that was done the right way too. Before you knew it, you were being treated like a king.

My Dad always wanted the best for his family. He sent my brother and me to private schools in Turkey. He always bought us the best of everything. I never heard my Dad say that something was too expensive. In fact, the closest he came was when he used a quote from his Dad, "I am not rich enough to buy something cheap." He taught us the virtues of love, respect, fairness, honesty, and friendship. He didn't even need to teach us explicitly. All we need to do is emulate Dad.

Second only to his passion for his family was his love of soccer. A fan of the Besiktas Black Eagles from a young age, he never missed a game. He instilled his love for Besiktas in me. Watching soccer games together was a favorite pastime of ours, one we enjoyed all the way until the very last weekend of his life. We placed a 100th anniversary Besiktas jersey in his casket to signify his love of soccer and Besiktas. Another love of his was music. He played the trumpet during his military service. He was a regular in the local record stores. The owners kept Dad's phone number on hand so they could call him as soon as a new album was released. To commemorate his love of music, we placed a treble clef symbol on one corner of his casket. On another corner of his casket is a rose, a symbol of his love for nature. He loved being outdoors, whether it was up in snowy mountains, hiking through green valleys, or walking along golden beaches. On the other corners of his casket are praying hands, symbols of his devotion, capturing the faithful, grateful man that he was. He wasn't a religious man, only going to church a couple of times a year, for Easter and Christmas. But he was a grateful man, always giving thanks when leaving the dinner table, and calling upon Jesus each night before he went to sleep.

I mentioned that my Dad thought his nose bleeds had a fortunate effect on his career path. He was always able to see the fortunate side of events. Whenever something didn't go our way, and we were faced with adversity, he would say, "hey seyde vardir bir hayir", which roughly means, there is something fortunate, or some benefit to be had from everything. What a positive mindset! "Is there something positive or beneficial about his passing?" I find myself asking, playing devil's advocate. Only time will tell; it's probably too soon. But already, I see the effects it has had on us as a family and me personally. It has made us stronger, and it has given me a wakeup call to enjoy the simple things in life that we take for granted. Even something as simple as drinking water should be enjoyed and not taken for granted. Dad couldn't drink water for the final month of his life. This experience has also made me realize just how strong love is. Anyone who knew my Dad well, knows that he was an opinionated and, at times, difficult man. There were times where I thought he was being too unreasonable and too set in his ways. But now, looking back, none of the feelings of frustration or anger are there. The only feeling that remains is love.

If you want to remember and honor my Dad, I would ask you not to mourn his death, wear black or cry. I would ask you to smile more than you normally would as you go about your day and interact with others. And when you get home tonight, sit longer than you usually would at the dinner table. Pour yourself your favorite drink, and take longer than usual to enjoy it. Put on your favorite song or album, and sing along with it. Because that's the way my Dad lived his life, and that's the way he would want everybody to live theirs.

And so, as my Dad would be, I am grateful. I'm grateful for my Dad's friends, who were with him all the way until the end, visiting him frequently, and doing everything they could to keep his spirits up. I'm grateful for our extended family and friends, who have been doing their all to provide us with their support during this tough time. And I'm grateful for all of you, who have taken the time to be here today to say your goodbyes to my Dad. Thank you all for coming. May God rest my Dad's soul, and may He watch over us all.

-Alen Kirecci