#22 "Don't Skip to the bottom" (By Grandma)

I have a rare moment at dad’s laptop, so I want to talk to you.  I really miss my computer.  Of course, I miss all of you also, but having the luxury of using a normal-sized keyboard would be great.  Also, I miss having unlimited internet.  We have to turn it on and off when we want to use it, so it won’t cost us so much.  We cannot have unlimited internet in the apartment until we get our Temporary Resident  Permits  which are about six weeks away.  We’ve gone through all the processes and filled out all the paper work and paid all the money.   We had to be interviewed, submit receipts, forms, photos, passports, etc. 

I have a Christmas request…. Are you still reading???  Don’t skip to the bottom yet….  We cannot receive Christmas packages from you.  I know you’d love to send us some home-made cookies or rice krispy squares, but they’d never make it through customs, let alone to our door-step.  That, by the way, is where mail is left outside our apartment. 

About Christmas.  We don’t anticipate anything concerning it this year, except what we have in our own hearts.  The country just celebrated the biggest Muslin holiday of the year.  It was a 4-day holiday and is celebrated by sacrificing sheep and giving parts of it to the poor.  The big stores are closed for 4 days.  But the public transportation runs, and is ½ price.  So, a usual bus/metro ticket is about $.75 and is good for 90 minutes of travelling.  So you can switch on and off.  But for the holiday tickets were ½ price.  So for $.36 we could go anywhere.  We caught a ferry, caught another ferry, transferred to a bus for $.36  We crossed the Aegean to another town across the way.  When we returned home we paid another $.36 each.  That is a lot cheaper than owning a car, paying insurance, buying gas, etc.  And you rarely wait more than a very few minutes for a pick-up.  And if you are elderly, people stand for you.  I'm not saying I am elderly but......

We enjoyed visiting with the BYU Jerusalem group in Gumuldur.  It is a town that is about an hour away from Ephesus.  Since it was during the holiday season, they couldn’t book anything closer.  So, Dad and I took public transportation to meet them and stayed one night in their hotel.  The transportation cost us about $2.00.  We knew all of the faculty who were with the students.  We had a great dinner with them. One of the students said she was from Lehi and knew Tanner.  They come to Turkey because they can no longer travel to Egypt.  

Last night Dad asked me what he should talk about if the speaker didn’t show up in church.  The speaker didn't show up.  I said “The First Vision”.  Just after the opening prayer an investigator came in…. a man about 35, I’d guess.  So we had the sacrament (which we always bring) and dad gave a talk/lesson on the First Vision.  It was perfect.  We also had it translated as dad spoke.  

There are times when I wonder what we are doing here.  But I firmly believe that being here is important.  It is great for me to have a companion who can give a lesson/talk on almost any subject.  I do the music…. If you want to call it that.  I photocopy hymns in Turkish and English.  And I find them on my I-phone and play them when we sing.  We all sound awful.  I’m about the only female voice that can be heard, and that is just barely.  In the past,  a Sr Couple from Istanbul came and had church once a month.  But now that we are holding it weekly, it should allow for some permanency.  We don’t meet for much more than an hour though.  And we stay and visit for at least ½ hour after that.   I’ve also been providing refreshments.  Today I brought Turkish delight, something like corn curls, and sliced apples.  The hotel provides water.  Since I’m the only provider of food, it has to be basic, and I don’t have an oven to bake anything in anyway.

So far, the weather has stayed warm, but not too hot anymore.  I bought a bunch of warm clothes, but I still have a little sweat on my brow.  We’ve opened the windows more often, and been rewarded by some fresh mosquito bites. 

Tomorrow is the beginning of school in Turkey.  It has been a long summer.  I don’t know how long they go in the spring, perhaps through June.  Dad has registered for a formal Turkish class that is 4 hours a day.  I think it will be good for him.  I was also invited, but I know it would be a waste of time.  I know my liabilities and can’t memorize anymore.

BTW…. I’m looking for a hair place.  There are salons all over, but I don’t know whom to trust my head to.  I see some very unusual hair colors.  Most Turks have long beautiful hair.  Short hair is not common.  But I can see lots of grey now, and I need to find a way to renew it.  I brought some spray stuff for roots, but there is too much to cover.  Waxing is also very popular here but I think I'll forego the pleasure. 

As you know Dad’s birthday is coming up.  I may try to buy a shirt for him.  A long-sleeved T-shirt for warmth in case we ever need anything for warmth .

Well, I love you ALL and hope you are doing well in your busy lives…  Thank you for your emails!

Love,

Mother

#21 Sacrament and other items (By Grandpa)

Dear Grandchildren,

[Reading to the end will be worth it, I hope.]

Don’t you just hate brushing your teeth sometimes? (This may grate on my younger sister Rebecca Jayne) Brushing your teeth means that the eating has come to a complete, dead stop. No more piecing, no more tasting, no more seconds, no more grazing at the buffet. All has ended. Yet you still feel the urge to take one more bite. Maybe two. But the brushing finishes the whole relationship you have with your fork or your spoon. All of the utensils go into the sink, there to soak or be scrubbed or be tossed unfeelingly into the dishwasher. Your fork. Your spoon. Those instruments that brought delicious, toothsome food to your mouth. Now they are there, in the sink, and your mouth has been scoured with that little brush. Nasty little brussshes. Now you settle into some other activity that, truth be told, doesn’t really take your mind away from the food items that are constantly begging you to come and rescue them from the oblivion of becoming leftovers. But wait. You brushed your teeth, and some sense of honor requires that you not to nibble on something else, thus sending you back to the bathroom and your tooth brush. After all, brushing with a wet toothbrush is almost gagging. And a hurtful reminder that you just gave into one of your base appetites, consuming until you wanted to fall asleep.

Early this past week, we went to the top of the hill called Kadifekale which is inside the town. Its ancient name was Mount Pagos. The story is that Alexander the Great fell asleep under a tree at the base of this tall hill and dreamt that a goddess told him to build the city of Smyrna where he lay. Ancient coins struck here have a representation of the dream on them. Nowadays, you find the minimal remains of the medieval fortress that stood there, sitting on foundations from a much earlier period. When we got off the bus, we walked around the top of the mount and saw Gypsy women bringing clothing items to large, wood-burning ovens. I could only think that they were heating the water in the big pans for washing the clothing. In addition, we saw a woman slap dough on the side of one of the ovens to cook it into a thin bread. Lunch. Mmmm, good!

On a more serious note, for a lot of years I have wanted to participate again in blessing and passing the sacrament. I remember wanting that opportunity in Jerusalem. But before I could claim my sacrament-passing seat on a Sabbath, some of the fellows from the student group would swoop in and take care of those tasks. "I am the district president," I would say to myself. "I can assign myself to pass the sacrament if I want." Yet I would back off and let the elders quorum take care of the sacrament. The same thing happened before when I was in the BYU Thirteenth Stake. To myself I would say, "I am the stake president here and I can assign myself to administer the sacrament." Again, I would allow the elders quorum presidencies to take care of making assignments rather than butt in. Even at Christmas time, when virtually everyone in the stake was gone, and opportunity seemed to lie directly in front of me to help with the sacrament, enough priesthood holders would march to the front of the chapel and assign themselves to prepare, bless, and pass, leaving me to sit on the stand and look important. Or something like that. Where I am now, however, at least every other Sunday I both bless and pass the sacrament. These moments have become special for me to serve the few who attend. Naturally, these experiences call up my youth when I helped with the sacrament every week. Now my rekindled desire is fully filled. I am glad for the opportunity of slowing the prayers and trying to talk to Heavenly Father.

Singing in church meetings is a most interesting, almost comical experience. Here I am with my voice reduced almost to a whisper trying to sing on key, any key. And it isn't pretty. My new first counselor has a base voice that tries to find the right notes, sometimes with success. The others in the room have rarely sung anything, let alone a church hymn or two. So they are struggling. The only male with any kind of voice attends about 60 percent of the time. And his voice isn't enough to carry us by any means. Grandma's voice is the only one that can really be heard, and she has avoided choirs over the years as if they were bastions of disease. By good fortune, Grandma can play the hymns through her iPhone, a feature that keeps us generally on task, but not necessarily in tune. In a word, we struggle. And we fill the room with unusual noises. I have no idea what the investigator thought who attended this morning. If he comes back, he will show himself to be a person who rises above trials. Even so, our meetings have become conduits for the Spirit of the Lord to join us. Songs must count if sung from the heart instead of on pitch.

I love you and pray for you.

Grandpa Brown

#20 "Poking, poking" (by Grandpa)

Dear Grandchildren,

You know that my voice condition (spasmodic dysphonia) was the element that led to our initial assignment in Southern California. (I think that I am glad not to have been there because of BYU’s heartbreaking loss to sixteen-point favorite UCLA last evening.) You also know that I found on line a doctor in Istanbul who could give me the needed shot every three months or so. But for a lot of reasons, I decided to find someone closer. Last Wednesday, I went for my initial shot. (Grandma thought that I should wait at least another two or three weeks. But I accepted the appointment.) We had checked out the busses that take us to the suburb where the doctor’s medical school office is located. I was confident. Grandma stayed in the apartment that morning. When I arrived at the hospital/medical school, and tried to find my way to the "third floor," I was kicked off two elevators that were going to the wrong "third floor." (One elevator had a person lying on a gurney inside it.) After several false starts (I don’t read Turkish so well, actually very, very little), I found my way to the right place.

When I presented the doctor’s name, the receptionist ran out the door and found the doctor’s assistant who invited me into a very modest office where I was shown a stack of consent-giving papers to read and sign. I read and signed. Then we went to the treatment room. Except for the reclining chair that I sat in, nothing in the room was permanent. Everything else could be packed up in a valise or rolled out of the room on wheels. I had the sense of impermanence or, perhaps, trial and error. The doctor and two assistants proceeded to go to work. First, the chair was inclined backward. Then the headrest was inclined further backward. A real stretch for my neck. "Are you comfortable?" "Yes," I said. Next, one of the assistants put an endoscope through my nose so that the doctor could see into my throat that he had not pushed the needle in too far, that is, through the wall of my voice box next to my throat. (Aren’t you just enjoying this?) Mostly, the endoscope tickled, but occasionally gagged me. The doctor injected half of the botox dose on the right side of my adam’s apple, and then half on the left side. But it took a while. And a fair amount of poking.

The doctor asked me not to swallow. Immediately, of course, the most intense feeling came over me to swallow. I tried everything I could think of not to swallow. I sang in my head, I breathed shallow breaths, and so on. But I did swallow from time to time, much to the disappointment of the doctor. I could feel the liquids in my mouth pouring out of their glands and I fought the urge to get rid of them by swallowing. (Where is that cute dental assistant who leans in and vacuums those juices out of my throat?) After about ten minutes, from the beginning of the first injection, we were finished. I certainly felt finished. At that point, when I replied to a question from the doctor, my voice was gone. I was hoarse. And whispery. The voice I had was wiped clean. However, there is good news. Even though I have had pain in my throat and neck for the past few days, something I did not experience with the much quicker and more efficient procedure at the University of Utah Medical Center, I have not lost my voice entirely. I can still talk. Somewhat. Last April, after going to the UofU, I could not talk above a whisper for six weeks. So maybe this different approach, though it is much less "comfortable," will work fine for me. I have a follow-up appointment about the progress of my voice in eight days.

Close upon us is the Feast of Kurban Bayram . It begins next week. Government offices, schools, and the like will close, offering a vacation to a lot of people. At its center is a sheep (if you can afford it) or a goat (if you have to go cheap). Custom requires families to purchase one animal or the other, and to slaughter it for eating. In recent years, the government has shut down the open slaughtering of animals for health reasons, although people in the countryside still undertake this process, we have heard. Custom also demands that a person take one-third of the meat for herself/himself, one third for family members, and one third for poor people. Some have gotten around the last of these requirements by making donations to charities on-line. But others have generously made sure that eighty percent of the meat from an animal goes to poor persons. I would like to believe that I am one of this last group who gives most of it away, no matter the reason.

Some friends are coming with the Jerusalem student group which comes here rather than traveling to Egypt which is a bit dicey. At first, when it seemed that their hotel would be in a rather far city, we said that we weren’t going to meet them. Then they reported that the hotel arrangement had been changed to a city that we can reach by metro and bus. So we checked out the difficulty of us traveling there by taking the metro and bus, and learned where the hotel is located. It should be fun to see some students again. And our friends too, of course. But rain is predicted. And cooler temperatures. Maybe I won't go into the Aegean Sea after all.

I love you and pray for each of you.

Grandpa Brown

#19 "Four levels" (By Grandpa)

Dear Grandchildren,

This week's note is a little lighter than last week's. That is good. Right?

Our main bathroom has four levels. Nifty, I would say. Of course, the door to level one leads from the hallway to the sink and washing machine, complete with cabinets. Level two is a step up to the toilet and the entry into the shower. Then a person steps over a high barrier into the shower, and the shower floor is on yet another level, just above the first level. Which means that a person has to step way down into the shower. That is level three. Inside the shower one can stand on an elevated spot to get out of accumulated water (I suppose) or can sit on it while the water rains down one’s back. Level four. You see? We don’t need a multi-level apartment with a cool sunken living room and a classy stairway leading up to the bedrooms. All of that stuff resides in one room, the main bathroom. Sorry, the small bathroom is just that. Small. No extra levels. A person can use that one just to feel normal.

We saw two movies this week. We were in one of the small malls a few days ago and I spotted a movie that I wanted to see. So we took note of the starting times and the next day showed up at the theater. But the movie had left. It was not on the marquee. "What is going on?" I asked myself. We had to make a decision. Do we just go back to the apartment and call this a defeat? Or do we attend some sort of movie? We decided not to retreat to our apartment. We were more than an hour early for the second movie of choice. So we went next door to KFC, ordered some chicken burgers (mine had a strange sauce on it and tasted a bit gross), ate some dried fries, hung out for another twenty minutes, and then went to the movie that we had chosen. It wasn’t bad. We made it home in good time. The next morning I googled a set of movie theaters in a distant suburb and I found the movie I wanted to see. It was playing at 3 p.m. So we ate a hurried lunch, rushed out the door, stopped a hundred yards away while I ran back for my phone and bus pass, then rushed to the bus stop, went one stop, got off at the Metro and rode the train to the mall where the movie was playing. Grandma and I each stood in a long line for tickets (there were bunches of families there for some children’s movies). She reached a clerk first. We were ten minutes late. The young woman did not want to sell us tickets even though only fifteen seats out of sixty had been bought in the whole theater. But Grandma insisted. We reached the interior of the theater just as the movie started. We made it. Movie number two. Happy. It will probably be a good long while before we go to another.

Speaking of fries, the French fried kind of fries (we were just talking about that, weren’t we?), almost every dish that a person orders in a sidewalk café around here serves fries as part of the meal. Chicken, beef, salads, whatever. All come with fries. As a result, we have eaten a lot of fries since arriving here. Fries with shishkebabs, fries with wraps, fries with burgers, fries with ... You get the drift. And so it will go. I hope that the "thirty-pound mission" does not kick in with us. You know, the condition of bringing home an extra thirty pounds that everyone can gawk at.

Things are about to become interesting around here. For my voice, that is. I have been thinking that the only doctor in the country who could help me is in another city. I found her name and contact information on line before we came. But I decided to look around on the internet for someone local who could give me the needed shot for my voice. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote an email to a doctor who had co-published a paper in an Iranian medical journal on my condition. No response. Then, a few days ago, after more than an hour's hunt, I found a qualified MD who seemed to be prominent in a medical school. I called the hospital where he was supposed to be working. The answer was, "No Doctor _____! No!" Well, that was that. (I wondered if he had been fired for incompetence.) So I went back to the internet. Finally I found the name of an MD whose office is less than 500 yards from our apartment. I went to his office and knocked on the door. His non-English speaking receptionist answered. By hook and by crook, I made it known that I wanted an appointment with the doctor. She set me up for Friday afternoon. When I went, she greeted me as if she expected me. That was a good sign. I waited for a few minutes, giving her my telephone number by repeating the digits in Turkish. That was a good sign to me. She then called my mobile phone just to be sure that I had repeated the numbers correctly and she had understood them correctly. Amazingly, my phone rang. I next stepped into the doctor's office. He seemed competent enough, a big key for me. We conversed in English while I explained my situation and he read my medical files that I had brought from the UofU Medical Center. Now I am set up to receive a botox shot in my throat on Tuesday at a university hospital south of town. The doctor will be there as will one of his neurological colleagues. I don't know whether the shot will work. I hope that it does, of course. If it does, then I am in business for the rest of our stay. If it doesn't, you may hear me merely whispering the rest of my life. All of this just adds spice to our lives here. It doesn't get any better than this.

I love you and pray for you.

Grandpa Brown

#18 "Where are we?" (By Grandma)

We thought we were travel experts by now.  We've done buses, metros, and walking for many hours.  Today we took a metro to the end-of-the-line to see a small town.  It looked simple enough --- ride metro, catch local bus into the city center. 

The metro ride was very long.  When we arrived we saw a queue of about 50 people waiting for a bus.  We assumed they would, of course, be going into town.  The wait for the bus was about 30 minutes in no shade.  

We were happy to board. Someone offered me a seat but I declined because I knew the distance to town was very short.  

As the bus pulled away we noticed it was going AWAY from town.  But we thought it might be circling so we weren't too concerned.  Then as it went further we thought maybe we should get off the bus and take a taxi back.  But the bus didn't stop at all, it just kept going.  Then we knew it would be too far for a taxi. 

We saw signs that we were leaving some cities and then entering some.  We'd never heard of any of them.  

After driving north for about 45 minutes the bus pulled into a bus barn and dropped someone off. As it was leaving I told Kent we'd better get off.  (We'd been standing in the crowded bus all this time.  I was feeling faint).  We got off at the next chance and walked back to the bus barn.  There we saw minivans that were headed back where we came from.  We bought a ticket back to the metro station. We both had seats in the minivan.  

You wonder why we didn't ask someone where we were going?  Our Turkish is still pretty rugged and we only have vocabulary to ask for toilets and water.  We did get to pay for out potty break.

Sept. 11, We've wanted to have a local breakfast but we aren't usually out and about for breakfast but today we went for it.  It was okay but not as good as Egypt or Jerusalem.  It didn't include yogurt. It had scones but they were cold and tough.  Dad ate most stuff.  You can see a ton of bread.  We had peach juice.  It came with tea but we declined.  

Sept. 12.  We went to a mall tonight.  It is the biggest , nicest mall I have ever seen.  It includes this ice skating rink, movie theaters, a bowling alley, a game arcade, many restaurants, a huge grocery store, and all the name brand shops you can think of.  We rode the metro to get there.  It is 4 levels. And it was packed with people.... Some in traditional dress and some "normal " attire.  We are in an interesting area.  Lots of contrasts.

#17 "Visits" (By Grandpa)

Dear Grandchildren,

(The following may sound a little preachy. But that's ok.)

When I was in a stake presidency, one of my counselors would regularly say that the most effective way to strengthen the church in local wards and branches was to "visit, visit, visit." He made me a believer then. My experience over the last few days has made me a believer all over again. In those earlier days, this counselor was essentially the first out the door to go visiting with elders quorum presidencies in the apartments of quorum members. Later, for three years he was an outstanding mission president largely because he made a focused effort to visit members whenever he had the chance.

This past weekend has brought me reassurance that one of the most important parts of my current assignment is to visit. One of our branch members received an important award for creative work last week. Grandma and I had a conflict, but kept wondering whether we could make some adjustments so that we could attend the awards ceremony and news conference. Keep in mind that this man and I can hardly communicate because I don't speak any of the languages that he knows (Turkish and Russian among them) and he doesn't speak English. The appointments that Grandma and I had that morning ran much shorter than planned. As soon as we were able, we caught a ferry to this man's city and, with the help of a young sister who is an investigator, made it to the ceremony. It was clear on this man's face that he deeply appreciated our effort to support him. We were able to meet his pretty wife who has not been to a church service in a very long time even though she was baptized several years ago. It was clear that she also appreciated our effort to come. As a (partial) result, this man's wife came to our church services this past Sunday. I was quietly thrilled. And because of the way that one talk was aimed at this man's children, his wife was able to participate. And it had meaning for her as well as for their children. One visit. Good result. So far.

After our church service, we climbed in a rental car with one of our SVs and headed to a famous town south of here. (It happens to be the birthplace of the famous Greek historian Herodotus, if you have heard of him.) We drove for more than three hours and spent a lot of time trying to find our hotel. We went to see two sisters who grew up in Germany and now live in Turkey with their children and Turkish husbands. Those husbands have been supportive of their faith. And we met one of the husbands at the hotel because he is the manager. Our visit with him when we arrived was worth a boatload of goodwill. Then we went to his home (he was still working) and met with his wife and children and her sister and her children (the six children of these two women range from ten to two). We held a sacrament meeting with them, with very positive results. The visit with them was worth a ton. These sisters have been essentially holding Primary with their children without a sacrament meeting for a couple of years. For Grandma and me to go to visit them was priceless. We now know who they are and they know who we are. Our communication will no longer be to a faceless recipient of an email or phone call. We missed seeing another member who lives and works in that town. But we shall return every few weeks as opportunity allows. Those future visits will surely be important, especially for these women who carry on so wonderfully.

Yesterday we went to another city and visited a member who is from another country and, for a variety of reasons, has lost contact with his wife and daughter. He joined the church in a third country when he met some missionaries and has been carrying on faithfully in his small government-supplied room. He joins a distant branch via Skype for Sunday School and then, with permission, performs the sacrament prayers and partakes of the sacrament. He has applied to go to a western country but has not succeeded in getting permission. Even so, he is the quintessential man who has almost nothing but remains grateful for his blessings from his Heavenly Father, something that he expresses quickly and steadfastly.

Nelise's accident really caught us short. She wrecked close to where I wrecked years ago. The road rash and the bruises really make a rider think about the question, Do I want to ride again? In my case, a woman pulled out in front of me as I was coming down a short hill toward a parking lot. She didn't see me until I glanced off her front bumper. Since then, I have taken extra precautions in that area. Experience really is a good teacher. And so it is here. Our experiences have come to be our guides for the next steps as we feel our way along. One of our next experiences will be to enroll in a beginning Turkish class at a nearby school and try to learn something that will help us in coming months. But I am not going to take the exams. I finished with those way back in 1972 when I finished my last degree. No way. I don't need any more school credits.

I love you and pray for you.

Grandpa Brown

#16 Shopping (By Grandma)

We have made 3 trips to IKEA.  I know you are all interested in our shopping venture 

1st trip.  A friend drove us to IKEA in a rental car.  We bought stuff we thought we needed. We noticed that all the signs were in Swedish and Turkish.  We were grateful to have our own vehicle for our stuff.  But that friend returned to Istanbul and so did the car.

2nd trip.  We took a bus in the general direction but never spotted IKEA and when we reached the end of the line we had to get off the bus.  We asked someone where IKEA was and they looked mystified.  But finally someone recognized the name and pointed to the metro and said 3 stops.  So we got on the metro.  At the appropriate stop we got off and asked again.  Someone pointed in the general direction and we began walking, still not seeing IKEA.  After walking about 20 minutes a woman just happened along.  We hadn't seen another person the entire route. She pointed and we could almost see it.  It appeared  that we had walked quite away from it initially. BTW.  All of this was in 100 degree heat.  Well we shopped, ate meatballs, drank some water then took a taxi back to the metro, transferred to a bus line and made it home. 

3rd trip - today. We now think of ourselves as very saavy IKEA trippers. How hard can it be to get there?  Dad found a bus that would take us from the metro stop close to IKEA.  So we left our apartment, caught a bus, transferred to the metro, then went to wait for the bus to IKEA.  We waited and we waited.  We saw taxies hovering, but we knew our bus number would come soon.  We waited again.  Today it is only 95 degrees. I kept watching shuttle buses picking people up and letting them off. Finally I asked a driver if he went to IKEA and how much did it cost?  He replied that he didn't speak English but said I could get in.  So I motioned to dad to come get in. We tried to pay but he wouldn't let me.  And he drove off but in the opposite direction of where I knew IKEA was.  He kept driving and then mid-road he stopped another van and motioned that we should get on it.  We did. That van was going in the right direction.  It took us almost to IKEA.  

We don't even like IKEA that much. The maze is just as confusing here as other locations. But the food is good and cheap. And they have some items I haven't seen elsewhere.  

Again we took a taxi back to the metro, then a bus and then a walk.  Dad is tuckered out and napping while I write this.

BTW. We did check with taxi prices for trips to IKEA from our apartment but it would have cost us about 4 X's the amount.  Of course we would have saved a lot of time but currently our employer doesn't require billable hours.