I’ve been waiting almost three years to write this story and now that the time has come, I’m not sure where to begin.

Generally I hesitate to start anything at the beginning, but in this case, I think I will.

The beginning was the day after the Valentine’s Day snowstorm of 2007. As I waited for my buddy Mike in the lobby of Kingston Indoor Tennis Center, Don Cassetori, one of the pros there and an old friend, pointed toward Court One and said, “Eddie, there’s a guy about to come off that court that you have to meet.”

Don had no idea how prophetic were those words.

He introduced me to John Markarian who had been playing doubles with three older gentlemen. John sat down on a couch and we chatted for a bit, but he soon jumped to his feet and said, “I’d love to continue this, but I have sidewalks at home to tend to” and off he went.

As he left, I turned to Don and remarked, “For a guy in his 70s, he’s pretty amazing. He just finished playing tennis and now he’s going home to shovel snow.”

To which Don answered, “70s? That guy’s 90.”

It turned out Don was wrong, but only slightly.

John Markarian was 89. He wouldn’t turn 90 for another few months.

I did not know it at the time but John Markarian was going to become many things in my life. Mentor, teacher, inspiration, spiritual guide, father figure, friend – take your pick, they’re all appropriate.

But back to the beginning. The second time I saw John was again at the tennis club and on this occasion he did have time to talk.

That’s when I learned I probably shouldn’t be calling him John. I should have been addressing him as “Doctor” or perhaps “Reverend.”

He casually mentioned that he had been the founding president of an Armenian college in Beirut, Lebanon, and lived there for about 25 years.

“Wow,” I said (which sounds a little lame as I think back, but I do remember saying “Wow”), “if anyone has a right to comment on our involvement in the Middle East it’s you.”

“I suppose,” he answered, “especially since my PhD is in theology.”

That’s when I learned he was also an ordained Presbyterian minister.

During our third meeting, also at the tennis club, John, after learning I was editor of the Dispatch, mentioned he was writing a book.

I cringed.

If anything could scuttle our budding friendship, it would be him asking me to edit his book.

“You wouldn’t be open to editing it, would you?” he asked, and what could I say but “yes”?

A lot of people when looking back on their lives say “I could write a book.” Ninety-nine percent of them are wrong. It’s not that their lives are not interesting, it’s that writing a book is, plain and simple, hard work.

For starters, a rule of thumb in publishing is that a biography (or autobiography) should run better than 70,000 words. That’s the equivalent of about two years worth of “Ed Ackerman, optimist” columns.

And even if someone had 70,000 words in them – as a learned man such as Dr. Markarian surely did – the vast majority of such manuscripts defy editing. And trying to can be a nightmare.

But there I was a week later in John’s study at his home in West Pittston, turning to the first page of what he had titled “The Thirsty Enemy”. It did not take much of a sample for me to put down the pages and say to him, “John, you don’t need an editor. You need a publisher.”

There were parts, I told him, that read like a Tom Clancy novel and others worthy of Mark Twain.

I did not know it then, but “The Thirsty Enemy” was a long, long way from being finished, and John had actually lost his verve for writing it. My words provided just the encouragement he needed to dive back into his manuscript with renewed enthusiasm and press on to finish.

I had known John for a mere two weeks but already I was captivated – by his book and by him – and with the book as a catalyst, the two of us began to develop a deep friendship. We made a pact to meet once a week on Wednesday afternoons, but our relationship was hardly that of author-editor. It may be hard to imagine two grown men being pals, but that’s the best word to describe us.

There was a third pal, too. John’s wife, Inge, a “citizen of the world,” as she likes to describe herself. Inge is a native of Germany. She was a little girl at the end of World War II, praying, as she was told to, that the Americans would come to her city before the Russians. Her prayers were answered.

Inge introduced me (and my wife, much to Mary Kay’s delight) to the German custom of “Kaffee und Kuchen.” It means “cake and coffee,” the German equivalent of the English’s high tea, and a much better proposition in my estimation.

Inge and John and I, along with Mary Kay when she could make it, would begin our editing sessions with cake and coffee and an hour or two of conversation.

Then John and I would get to work.

The conversation was usually led by John telling tales that eventually were written into the book.

It got to the point where John might ask if he had included such-and-such a story in the book and I would say I was quite familiar with the story but didn’t know for sure whether I had read it in the manuscript or heard it told during Kaffee und Kuchen. It was usually both.

I’ve read John’s book in various stages dozens of times and I have read the entire book from start to finish twice, once in the back seat of the car as Mary Kay drove her Mom to an appointment at The Cleveland Clinic. It was the fastest six-and-a-half hours of my life. It seemed I settled in the back seat with the manuscript and a pencil and when I looked up we were driving along Jacob’s Field where the Cleveland Indians play.

I sometimes think I have the book memorized, but I have every intention of treating myself to yet another read from start to finish.

That’s because “The Thirsty Enemy” is no longer in manuscript form.

It’s been published.

It’s a real book.

And I cannot wait to curl up with it under a reading lamp.

My pal John Markarian, who turned 92 last June, will talk about his book and autograph copies tonight at a Meet the Author event sponsored by the West Pittston Library at First Presbyterian Church on Exeter Avenue in West Pittston. It starts at 7 p.m.

I’m not sure how long his talk will last. I guess it depends on the weather. Should we get snow, John may have to cut it short.

He has these sidewalks to tend to, you know.

About the Author

Ed Ackerman is the editor of the Pittston Sunday Dispatch. He can be reached at 602-0175.

Archives

To me, it’s one big super blur

He taught me all the little things

He had a way about him

Two Bills for the Congressman

How it works

Happy New Now

My Atheist, my blessed atheist

When Herald Angels sing, I mouth the words

Those were the days

Milking a column, one more time