“Your father was just the same when he was a farmer, sweetie,” explained mom, equally proud and disapproving. “He’d go to the club and sit down with the teachers and the local prosecutor. It made your uncle furious. He’d say, ‘Sit with the other flat soles! What business do you have with those shiny shoes?’ But your dad never said a word, just did what he thought was right.”

By then I was in Istanbul and only made it out to Avanos for the holidays. Each time I noticed how dad was slowing down, and spending more and more time in bed. On my last visit, I brought him a fancy jacket, something I knew he would really appreciate. He put it on early in the morning and, trembling, he stood for some time in front of the mirror. Parkinson’s Disease had taken its toll; he was practically swimming in the jacket. Unembarrassed, I said, “Look at that, I got the measurements just right. A perfect fit.” In that jacket draped over his little body, he greeted all his guests and sat down to chat with them, and he kept it on until I left for Istanbul. When I went to say goodbye on that last day, he said:

“Son, this really is a beautiful jacket but it’s a little heavy. I can’t wear it anymore. Could you help me take it off?”

My dad could no longer carry 90 years of the world on his shoulders.

I helped him out of that jacket. And he never wore it again.

6

“We’ll Ask Someone for Our
Name, and She’ll Tell Us”¹

Summer. We are in our two-story stone house in the lower neighborhood. The ground floor is a stable. But this is a big house where we live with our aunt and uncle and our cousins. You go inside through a heavy old wooden door. Three steps later you are standing in a broad courtyard. At the far end of the courtyard is a cool dark cave called a tafana that I always imagine is much deeper than it really is. In the middle of the tafana is a pole. There is always something hanging from it that looks like a leather pouch. The plump, pink body of a lamb. Stuffed to the brim with fresh white cheese. Anyone passing by can casually plunge a hand into that miraculous pouch bursting with an endless supply to get some filling for a sandwich. In one of the dark corners of the tafana there is a little grotto with baby lambs. Hopelessly bleating they are always trying to get out. But that day the place is steeped in silence. Nobody is home. Dad and my brothers are at Kızılöz. It is harvest time and all our animals are on the high meadow.