H N Arabian Blog - Random Tales

  “The Last Day in California” By Harry Arabian The boxes were taped, the suitcases zipped, and the walls bare—ghosts of a life well-lived in Southern California, soon to be memories folded into cardboard and bubble wrap. I stood by the kitchen window, coffee cooling in my hand, watching the morning sun splash golden light on our front yard one last time. Marie moved silently behind me, checking the packing list for the hundredth time, her eyes pausing now and then on familiar corners of the house we had called home for over twelve years. We were going home—back to Boston. I was officially retired. After decades in high-tech, the circuit boards and deadlines were behind me. What lay ahead were quieter joys: time with our son, our daughter-in-law, and our grandson, who had started calling me “Dada” on video calls. The doorbell rang. It was May, my old neighbor, and Arno—my high school classmate from way back, who somehow managed to show up at the perfect times in life, like a we...

"A Fistful of Memories" By Harry Arabian Forty years had passed since I last set foot in Lebanon. A week of celebration had gone by in a blur—endless embraces, spirited conversations, home-cooked meals thick with memory, and names once forgotten now spoken with ease. My heart brimmed with warmth. Yet, come Monday morning, I felt the urge for something quieter—a walk into the past. “Do you mind giving me a ride to St. Joseph Children’s Hospital?” I asked my older brother over morning coffee. “I want to see Jack… you remember, my old classmate. He’s the director there now.” He nodded with a smile. “Of course, although it’s up north. Our meeting’s the other way. You sure you don’t mind?” “Not at all,” I replied. “A walk might do me good. The hospital’s near our old school, right? I’d like to retrace those childhood steps.” He gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’ll find the path’s changed, brother. Tall buildings now stand where we once plucked oranges. Concrete chann...

  Morning Brew at Green River By Harry Arabian The morning began quietly at the breakfast bar of the Loon Mountain Resort. I took a cautious sip of the coffee served in a plain white mug and winced slightly. Marie, seated across from me with her gentle gaze, noticed right away. “I’m not tasting that coffee,” she said firmly. “We need to find a better brew if we’re doing that Nature Trail walk you’ve been talking about.” With a disappointed sigh, I leaned back and muttered, “I packed short pants and summer shirts. There’s no chance for a Nature Walk—not during this brutal black fly season. For some reason, they find me particularly edible.” Marie had already turned her attention to the Woodstock Community Newsletter she’d picked up from the front desk. Flipping a page, she suddenly brightened. “Says here the best coffee and pastries in Woodstock are served at Green River Café.” My ears perked up. “Green River? Named after my favorite Creedence tune? We’re definitely going.” W...

 " Twin Spotlights" By Harry Arabian On a quiet summer morning, the weight of the inbox felt no different than usual—until it wasn’t. Two envelopes, one marked with the sleek STMicroelectronics logo and the other emblazoned with Northeastern University’s seal, lay atop a cluttered desk of datasheets, circuit boards, and half-finished coffee. The first letter brought a wide, proud smile. STMicro, a company whose components he had woven into the very DNA of his engineering career, invited him to deliver a presentation at their Innovations Day , held during the prestigious Embedded Conference at Boston’s Hynes Auditorium. He had been on a long road with STMicro—an early adopter of their technologies, from Smart Power systems to STM32 microcontrollers and secure NFC-based solutions. These were not just parts; they were partners in design, companions in late-night technical marathons. He remembered the thrill of integrating environmental sensors—temperature, humidity, air qual...

  “One Hour with the World” by Harry Arabian     It was 6 p.m.—my hour. The ceramic mug warmed my hands as I settled into the deep comfort of the couch, the one spot in the house perfectly shaped to my body after years of quiet evenings. Outside, dusk tiptoed across the windowpanes. Inside, the room stilled—just me, the lamp’s soft glow, and the familiar music of PBS NewsHour filling the air. I was a dedicated watcher. Not just out of habit, but out of principle. I loved the way they presented the world—not with bombast or panic, but with care. It was the closest thing I had to a nightly conversation with reason. Thoughtful anchors. Well-researched reports. A news magazine format that stitched together policy, conflict, culture, and human resilience like a patient quilt-maker. It didn’t try to make the news—it just presented it, plain and urgent and real. Some nights the stories consoled me. Others left a quiet ache. But always, I felt I’d done my part—simply ...