tech savvy

I brought back an iPad2 for Tolga from America. My mother bought it for him/us. Tolga's computer was only two years old, but I've never been happy with it - it's a PC that you have to buy virus protection for, the battery holds no charge (and never really did), and the battery connection was broken and held together by tape and paper wedges. Tolga wanted me to get an iPad for myself, but I told him that all he does on his computer really is surfs the Internet and emails - so it suited his needs the best. I would use it for buying e-books. And, it has been the perfect, compact, electronic gadget for both of us.

Tolga's dad is quite impressed with it too. His chubby shaky fingers are already quite deft at scrolling through pages of football scores and zooming in for easier reading.

He keeps telling everybody: If Tolga didn't get this as a gift, he'd give it to me.

sugar holiday

In celebration of tradition, a drummer goes around the city hitting his bass drum methodically to wake people up before the morning prayer so they may fast before they eat. It's around 3am. However, today is Bayram. The end of the fast. We woke up late, got dressed in our best clothes, and wished each other iyi bayramlar. We kissed our elders' hands and my Tayze slipped me 50 lire. Neighbor kids came around asking for candy, and to each other and guests we served chocolate (thus the holiday is also called seker bayram).

 For the holiday you are obligated to visit your older relatives or call them if too far away. We called most who are living in Istanbul.  We don't visit our Aunt, Uncle, and cousin that are living here because of some feud that began before Hakan's wedding. But, we do visit Tolga's brother's in-laws. I find this a very weird and aggravating obligation. They are not my relatives. They are not Tolga's relatives. Yet, we are expected to visit. Tolga tells me its normal and a Turkish thing, but I am suspicious that it is unique to our family. They have taken an unusual liking to Tolga so we are required to come. The thing is, it's kind of torturous for me because it means sitting for several hours as a mute. I don't understand enough to participate and can hardly follow the conversation. We are served course after course of food so I just eat and drink. First Turkish coffee, then baclava and a cookie, then watermelon and plums and apples. The family speaks German as well, but studying Turkish has forced out my ability to answer in a different language. I used to understand German well enough, but now - even if I do, I can't hardly even remember how to reply yes, no or thank you as my first response that comes to my head is in Turkish. (I hope that's a sign my Turkish is getting better).

back to Kusadasi

We took a bus Saturday night from Ankara to Kusadasi. It was a busy day for travel because of the holiday, but bus travel in Turkey is very comfortable. The seats are spacious, each has a television, outlet for your electronics, and wireless Internet for your computers. We travel through the night, making one stop in the middle for the bathroom and tea. There's a bus attendant that serves drinks and snacks. It's a comfortable way to travel, but a long way.

In Kusadasi we were met by Anne, Baba, Teyza, and two cousins. Our house will be full for the holidays, as will this seaside town that has gone from 100,000 to maybe a million. Our first order of business was to shop for food, but I'm afraid we are going to eat all the chicken, meat, and fish we bought in one barbecue tonight. I told Tolga we could go on our on luxury vacation by ourselves and spend the same amount of money as we spend when we come to Kusadasi for no one seems to have money around here. I think I should be grateful that we do have jobs and paychecks, and really - we are only buying food for the family . . . and cousins . .. and gold for the new baby . . . and a bird.

all-ah-hal-ah.

It is the end of Ramazan here. Tomorrow is Bayram and we will spend it mostly sitting around the home, serving chocolate and sweets to guests. We kiss the hands of our elders and the elders give money to the children. It is the end of the 30-day fast, but only Tazyze and maybe 20% of Turks fast for Ramazan - I suppose its somewhat comparable to Catholics and Lent. It's part of history and culture, but not necessarily practiced religiously.

The canon has just fired to signal the end of the fast in Kusadasi - time to eat.

it's a ...

I'm enjoying being pregnant. I'm not sure I would have felt the same two years ago, it was definitely a process for me to come to this point. And now, Tolga and I have lived it very much together. Even before we were talking about marriage we were talking about kids. Tolga asked me if I had any names picked out - I guess because he already had one. Since then we have gone through a process that has made us ready to have a baby. We have gone to doctor's appointments together and share the same silly grins with every visit. We laughing because I am always hungry and at my growing tummy ... which is hard to tell if its from the food or the baby. We learned yesterday that we are going to have a boy. Tolga put his hand in the air in the triumph, and later said he would have done the exact same thing if it were a girl - he was just excited.

And for me, since learning, its been strange going from the sentence of "our baby" to "our son" - it's becoming more real I guess.

I started back my first week of work. I came home with a raging headache the first day. I think I always do, but my headaches seem more prevalent now because I'm trying not to take medicine - which isn't working out on days like Monday. I think it was just being overstimulated. I didn't do much that day, but seeing everybody again, talking, and sharing my news - these are all exhausting things for me. But the week got a little easier, and my colleagues are giving me great support.... feeding me, opening windows, carrying a bag, making the bus driver go slower .... it's a little ridiculous, but sweet.

And today begins another week's holiday so we will be off to Kusadasi by bus tonight for the end of Ramazan celebrations.

It's important to me to be able to express myself clearly. I love words, finding the perfect meaning and choosing just the right ones to fit a description.

Learning a new language I am loving words, but I'm afraid that I will never be able to express myself clearly. I hear Tolga struggle and find creative ways to say something in English. He expresses himself very clearly and only occasionally cannot find the words to describe what he means. Even so, I doubt we share the same attention to detail.

For example, I can understand enough to know when he leaves out a detail - a detail that may alter the ENTIRE MEANING AND DEPTH OF WHAT I WAS TRYING TO SAY.

Probably not, but there's our difference. We are very good at working a conversation through though - and I give Tolga the credit for that. When I'm frustrated I can easily give up. When he's frustrated, he tries harder. So, communication between us is very strong because we (mostly he) works very hard at it.

But in a another language? It has been my most frustrating experience of late, particularly with those closer to me . . . like Tolga's family. My responses are entirely shallow.

"What do you think of the solar system?"

"It's nice."

"Work is hard."

"Yes, it is, but a holiday is coming."

The sea is nice."

"Yes, it is."

"There are lots of waves."

"Some."

"Let's go after we drink tea."

"Okay."

But what I really want to say is left out. Let's take today for instance:

Gokhan: Do you want to get fish?

Me: Yes, sounds good, but you say that EVERY time you come home about ten times, and then we never get it.

Gokhan: Isn't the solar system nice?

Me: Yes, but I thought it was supposed to help with the $2000 annual electric bill, and this year it was even more.

Gokhan: When we get back, let's go the sea. (7 more times). After we drink tea, let's go to the sea. (5 more times).

Me: Okay. Stop repeating yourself.

Bayport Grandpa

Before Bayport Grandpa first met Tolga, he went to the library. He asked the librarian to help him find some Turkish words, and he learned how to say "hello" and "welcome" in Turkish. He wrote the words on an index card so when he first shook Tolga's hand, he pulled out the card and read the first word to Tolga, and had Tolga help him with the second word.

In Turkey, it is priority to always respect your elders - to serve them, ask after their health, and kiss their hand. My Turkish family always asks me first how my grandfather is, and then how my father is. I am humbled when I think how Grandpa honored Tolga by welcoming him in his own language - as if he were already connected to Tolga's culture and what would means the most to them. When I think of Grandpa, "respectful" was never a word that came to mind - but that was exactly what he showed Tolga in that first meeting.

Grandpa's gone now, but I've had on my mind to write down somethings that Grandpa said or did before I forget:

When I was young - maybe 7, or 10 - I don't know. I periodically set up a lemonade stand. This might seem normal to most people, but considering where we lived ... it wasn't normal. I loaded up a wagon, made a sign asking for 10 or 25 cents, and mixed a jug of lemonade - but I didn't test it because I didn't want to cut into the profits.

I hauled the contents down our long private driveway to the "main" road. A wide dirt road that maybe saw 5 cars in a day. I tried to time my trip to at least meet the mailman. Grandpa came out one of these times to visit us. I poured him a tall glass of lemonade. He guzzled down the entire glass, smacking his lips from the refreshment.

"How was it?" I asked, expectantly.

"Terrible." He answered, and gave me a dollar.

It was only then that I tried my lemonade . . . he was right, it was terrible.

* * *

Grandpa was having greater and greater difficulty swallowing over the past few years because of a problem with his epiglottis. He often choked on his food and it was a source of great embarrassment for him. One day at a restaurant he choked so violently on his food that people stopped eating, poised to assist as food sprayed over himself and the table during his coughing fit. Recovering, he announced loudly: "It sure is tough being middle-aged."

Grandpa worked in Bayport's state prison for many years as a guard. In the past year, his youngest daughter cared for him the most, more often fighting, nagging, and pestering him than not. Grandpa called her his "warden." He kept a half-container of beer next to his chair just to antagonize her when she visited.

* * *

God bless him.

big hearts

When I first moved to Jersey in 1996 I met people by plugging into my community. I found girls my age doing the same job as I. I found a church. And, I volunteered on the local ambulance corps. Those three moves brought me friendships and relationships with families that I still hold dear today.

It wasn't easy to enter all these new communities at once, but I was brave (but not bold) and forced myself to get involved. When I joined my town's ambulance corps I immediately became involved in weekly night shifts, monthly meetings, and eventually - a softball team.

There was a girl on the corps about my age. I hated the eighties, and I didn't expect I would ever befriend her. She had big curly hair, hot pink nails, and tight jeans. She was outspoken and often her words twisted in such away the everyone could peg her as not being very honest.

But she befriended me. She was the secretary of the corps at the time and it seemed she hardly noticed me, but at the end of the meeting she came over, introduced herself and accepted me without reservation. And so did her whole family. And her extended family. And her fake family. And her future family.

Within those first months I was invited to her wedding, and later on, many holidays and family events. We played softball together. I babysat her kids when I was unemployed. I became their Aunt "Chawlie" - a name dubbed to me by their first daughter when she was just learning to speak(and apparently with a bit of a Brooklyn accent). She somehow confused the sounds of my name - switching them around and the name stuck - through all four children.

When I had been gone for a couple of years and returned with my husband, the kids readily embraced him too. I had my Skype on the other day and my friend's computer was online, but it was her eldest daughter that was calling me. She said,

"Hi Charlie! Whats up?"

She's going into middle school this year. She proceeded to talk to me as if no time had passed and slowly her younger brothers joined the conversation even lifting the youngest 10-month old to the camera to say hello. All the kids have iPod Touches with video screens and FaceTime on them. (Their father told me later that that's how he finds his kids when no one answers the phone). I was added to their personal lists.

After speaking with all the kids, I just shook my head in amazement. I think normal kids would forget a person, or become shy as time went on.

These kids had fearlessly opened their hearts wide to me ... just like their mother. I only hope that my heart could be so big.

complex carbs

I brought back from the States 200 glucose test strips for Baba to keep tabs on his sugar level. They are cheaper in the states, and he loves his blood-tester.

He also loves poking other people with his toy.

We were having another discussion about his blood sugar. Tolga was on Skype and had joined in. Baba was telling Tolga how I wouldn't buy Ramazan pita for dinner unless it was wheat Ramazan pita (which, there is no such thing). He was laughing because they were out of wheat bread and I had come back with the Ramazan pita anyhow - a delicious bread made especially for the holiday.

Tolga, knowing his father, asked him what his sugar level was. Baba had eaten a lot for dinner. And a lot of it was complex carbohydrates: white bread, borek (a cheese pastry), french fries with ketchup. Baba grabbed his machine to check, initially feeling confident, but then - in case he was wrong, he confessed he had eaten pita.

The suggested time to check your blood sugar level is two hours after a meal. That is when the sugar can best be measured from the meal to your blood. It had been four hours since we had eaten and Baba's blood sugar, surely on its way down, was 206. I shook my head. Baba's sugar is consistently high and a common consequence is amputation of the extremities. And Baba's feet and legs worry me. Bug bites and scrapes don't heal easily and his toenails are looking pretty funky.

Baba was a little miffed that his blood sugar was so high so he grabbed my finger to test my sugar. While I shuddered at the biggest no-no in all medicine "don't share needles." I didn't fight as he stabbed my finger. The thing is, I'm pregnant and always hungry. My sugar was 77. Baba didn't seem to know what to do, hesitated, then called his wife over. (I think he was determined to find someone else with high blood sugar). Anne's blood sugar was 140.

Tolga scolded his father for not watching what he ate. Baba made excuses and even lies to defend himself. ("There's no sugar in ketchup!") We told him, in the end, we want him to live to see our children grow up and marry.

In reflecting on the conversation today, Baba said - [Tolga] loves me. I love him.

sharing when it's hard

Do most people seclude themselves when going through hard times? I know I do. What is it about life's trauma's that makes us withdraw?

You wouldn't understand. There's too many things to tell, at this point its going to just sound like BLEH! I don't want to complain. I don't want you to stop liking me because at this point I don't like me. I don't know you well enough. You don't know me well enough. No one wants to see how ugly I feel right now. There's nothing you, or I, can do about it. I want to be stronger than I am.

And so on.

The thing is, I really admire people that are open, honest, and vulnerable. It's like we forget how to be this way in relationships, and slowly forget how to live this way. It is a truer strength than a Swedish nod that everything and everyone is fine.

Some people you just know will make it. And some people, I worry about. Those that can't open up we worry about. But those that can give voice to their struggles encourage me. Two touched me and refreshed my soul in spite of the pain being shared. I guess I felt this way because I knew their sharing meant they were healing. They are the ones that are going to make it.

I can only hope to be so "strong."