Her Turkish Years

Air Force wife, my Mom, follows her husband half way around the planet to a country both brutal and beautifully exotic. She learns the language and leaves her innocence behind in this foreign land.

Her Turkish Years

     A dark haired bride, in 1963, gazed upon Byzantine ruins with wonder in her maiden heart.
     A gray bearded man sat at the entrance to the bazaar. The smoke from his cigarette smelled sweet to her in her morning innocence. He sold ancient coins collected by divers from a submerged Roman city off the coast. Her husband was fascinated by them but she needed to taste a tamarind and feel its juice drip down her chin. She strolled through the open air Turkish market taking in the scent of fresh oranges.
     Farmers rubbed sleep out of their eyes from their vigil slumber in the produce stalls. They kept close watch over their produce lest some thief in the night steal their treasure.
    She encountered the wooden casks where fish swam till the seller scooped one up in a net for a hungry buyer. She felt a breeze and wondered at how shopping here felt more natural than in a grocery store back home with their florescent lights. She felt the sun on her face and relished the sensation.
     Her husband, an air force lieutenant, designed radios to listen to secret Russian broadcasts. She sat at home and watched a man being dragged through streets for stealing an orchard pear. 
     Yet the wonder of this new land seeped into her. Every turn of an alley brought exotic scenes and scents. They traveled the back roads into ancient cities lost in the timeless aura of shepherds who followed the worn trails.
     Her love for him filled her lonely hours while she cooked at home on a kerosene stove. The two lovebirds, so far away from America, learned the language. They walked the same streets sharing a mission to love and be loved. Memories took root in their innocent lives. The taste of cardamom spiced coffee stirred deep in their hearts.
     One winter night she and her husband headed for the sugar festival. It was cold but with him by her side she felt warmth. Women in  dresses and scarves would dance as men beat drums. He chose to go home and change out of his air force uniform into civilian clothes so the Turks wouldn’t mind as much if he took pictures. He left her to wait for him.
     She got cold. She entered a tea place and ordered a cup of brew which was served steaming to her in the dark and smoky room. She held it to her lips and savored the scent. Her senses were enlivened by the foreign tea in the Turkish night.
     A man walked up and put money on the counter for her. He said, “There. I’ve paid. No women here ma’am.” She emerged into the icy air to await the man she’d followed half way across the planet to be there with. Yet she  ached for his words which were sparse as grass in the Sahara. At times, it seemed, he was more fascinated by Time magazine than her.
     A son began his slow path to emerge into the light. They flew on wings of love back to America. They were changed forever by two years in a country where muezzins call which they called home.