The Blue Sweater

There is a blue sleeveless sweater in my dresser drawer.  I have had it for over half a century.  It has a beautiful design, but the color has faded, and the wool is frazzled.  I don’t use it anymore, but once in a while, I take it out, just to look at it, and remember the person who knitted it, my mother.

I grew up in a small seaside town called Puri on the Bay of Bengal, in India.  It never got too cold there, so all we needed in winter was either a thin shawl or a sleeveless sweater.  We were five siblings in the house, the sixth one already out of the house in Kolkata.  Although my father was the bread winner, it was my mother who was the glue that kept the family together.  She did all the cooking using a coal burning stove that had to be fired up each morning.  There was no refrigerator, so fresh food had to be cooked every day.  She worked hard all day, and yet she was always pleasant.   She was an avid reader, who inspired us to read.  She loved music, played the harmonium, and taught my two sisters how to sing.  She also spent a considerable amount of time sewing and knitting.  I was in the second year of college in 1958, when she knitted this particular blue sweater for me.  I loved it, and used to wear it all winter long.

I brought the sweater with me when I came to the U.S. in 1966 to attend graduate school in New York City.  I got my Ph.D, did a post-doctoral stint in Germany, and came back in 1975 to do a second post-doc assignment at the University of Missouri-Rolla. That is where I met my wife Semahat, a beautiful young woman from Turkey, who had arrived the previous year in Rolla to do her M.S. degree in Metallurgy. We got married in 1976 and moved to Pittsburgh in 1978, where both of us started working for Westinghouse, I as a research scientist, and she as a metallurgical engineer.  Like many other immigrant professionals, we became part of the American fabric with a house in the suburb, two kids (a daughter and a son), and two cars.  I kept using my blue sweater throughout that time.

Now I am a retired old man.  Kids live far away in Atlanta, although not as far away as I was from my parents.  My wife of 38 years passed away suddenly in her sleep in 2014.  As I kept thinking about her, I realized that she had some of the same qualities that made my mother so special. May be subconsciously, I was looking for a person with those qualities.  She was a great cook, an avid reader, and a knitter among many other things.  She knitted me a green, long sleeve turtleneck sweater suitable for Pittsburgh weather, which I treasure.  My blue sweater is too old to wear any more, but I am still saving it as reminder of time gone by, of a less complicated life that was carefree, happy, and peaceful.

A New Engineer in the Family

The new graduate.

The new graduate with proud parents.

Family members during the long wait at the stadium.

Graduating students on the stadium floor.

Celebration with balloons at the end of the ceremony.

Post graduation pizza dinner with friend Grey, his mother Barbara, and step-father Mike

December 1997.  Sinan with some of the model cars in his collection.

Sinan with his Acura Integra in 2004.

Sinan and Grey with their tandem bike in Atlanta.

Sinan with his scooter in Atlanta.

May 8^th, 2011 was mother’s day.  For Semahat, it was doubly special, because it also turned out to be Sinan’s graduation day from Georgia Institute of Technology.  What better mother’s day gift for an engineer mother than seeing her son graduate with a degree in mechanical engineering?  We flew to Atlanta the day before, and joined Sinan and his three graduating housemates Grey, Dan, and Clayton, along with their parents and siblings for a pre-graduation dinner at the roof-top restaurant of their favorite Five Seasons brewery.  The next morning, mother’s day, we arrived at the Georgia Dome, home of the Atlanta Falcons football team, an hour early to make sure we had good seats for the ceremony, which was to start at noon.  The stadium started filling up with family members of the graduating students.   The procession of the graduating class walked in at noon and took their seats on the main floor, with the band playing “pomp and circumstance”.  We realized that it will be a long commencement exercise, starting with the address by the featured speaker, followed by each of the 2600 graduating masters and bachelors candidates walking up to the podium to receive their degrees.  We checked the program.  Mechanical engineering was listed at the very end.

As we sat there listening, watching, and waiting for Sinan’s name to be called, I started reflecting on this entire experience of two working immigrant professionals bringing up two children with no immediate family within thousands of miles. It was very hard work, but fortunately for us, they have both grown up to be well adjusted individuals and solid citizens with social consciousness.  We are proud of both of them.  Meanwhile, the commencement program proceeded at its slow pace.  The featured speaker was the CEO of Wal-Mart Corporation, a Georgia Tech alumnus.  He talked about his humble beginnings, how he had to hold two jobs while working on his engineering degree at Georgia Tech, how important education is to a person’s overall development and career success, how important it is to follow one’s passion and dreams.  I started thinking about Sinan’s passions.

He was always passionate about cars.  In fact, the first word out of his mouth was “car-car”, not once but twice for emphasis.  Right after the dinosaur phase in his early childhood, he started learning the names and makes of cars he saw on the road, especially sports cars.  He started collecting model sports cars, and drawing their pictures.  By middle school, he had become a fan of racing cars.  He wrote a letter to McLaren Company in England, telling them how much he admired their cars, and how he was going to ask his father to buy one of their cars.  They in return sent him a brochure with performance details and picture postcards of their cars.  He was very happy.  His favorite computer game was “Need for Speed”, from which he learned the details of the tracks of all the major races in the world.  His room was filled with model cars and posters of sports cars.  Sinan got his first real car in 2004, when he turned sixteen, and was eligible to get a driver’s license.  It was a 1995 Acura Integra Special Edition, with 68,000 miles on it.  He had been working during the summer months since he was fourteen, so he had money to maintain the car, although our insurance rate doubled as soon as we added a teenage driver.  Acura was a sports car, but it was not sporty enough for Sinan.  So he started working on it immediately.  He lowered the chassis, changed the exhaust to give it a sportier growl, and changed the tires, headlights, and the sound system, all by himself, working in our garage.  Naturally, he decided that he wants to be a mechanical engineer, so he can design high performance cars.

When the time came to send out college applications, he did not want to apply to any Ivy League college, because according to him, they were too snobbish.  He applied to only four schools, with Georgia Institute of Technology in Atlanta at the top of his list.  When the acceptance letter came from Georgia Tech., he was happy.  We were happy too, because the school was ranked fourth in the country in mechanical engineering by US News and World Report, and was somewhat cheaper than Ivy League schools.  Only negative was the 700 mile distance from Pittsburgh.

And so began Sinan’s pursuit of a degree in mechanical engineering, which is culminating today with this commencement exercise.  Three hours had passed since we took our seats inside the Georgia Dome.  All the speech making is done.  Now, each of the 2600 students was being asked to step up to the podium to receive their certificates one by one as their names were being called.  There would be at least an hour more before Sinan’s name was called.

Sinan’s enthusiasm for cars and mechanical engineering hit a bump on the road during his time at Georgia Tech.  During his sophomore year, he joined the co-op program, where students spend alternate semesters working full time in one of the engineering companies chosen by the university.  He started working for a large engineering design firm based in Atlanta.  Through this exposure, he saw firsthand how mechanical engineers work, and apparently was not too thrilled by this experience.  He was also getting more and more interested in the environment, sustainability, energy conservation and green technology, which did not quite match with his love of fast cars.  He joined a campus organization called “Environmental Alliance”, which was working with the campus authorities to find ways to reduce the carbon footprint of the campus, and eventually became the president of the organization.  He sold his Acura and bought a bicycle and a scooter instead, much to the dismay of his mother, who was now constantly worrying about his safety on Atlanta streets.  He and his friend Grey used their engineering skills to build a tandem bike, using parts from two separate bicycles.  Sinan’s semester abroad in France exposed him to several European cities.  Compared to the suburban sprawl in America, those cities seemed much more environmentally sustainable to him, with their extensive and efficient intercity and intra-city public transportation systems.  He took a couple of courses on city planning.  In his final year of undergraduate studies, he announced to us that he was no longer interested in working as a mechanical engineer.  He wanted to get a Master’s degree in City Planning, and build a career in that field.  So, he took the GRE, started sending his applications, and was accepted in the master’s program in the department of City and Regional Planning at Georgia Tech.

We had been sitting in the stadium for almost five hours now.  Finally, Sinan’s name was called; I got my camera ready, and took a picture of him walking to the podium.  The ceremony was over.  The newly minted graduates walked out of the building in a procession.  Now it was the parents’ turn to find them in that large crowd and congratulate them.  I wondered, “How did people ever find each other before the age of cell phones?”  We gathered outside in the bright sunshine, took a few pictures, and then headed out to dinner.  Everyone was hungry after that long ceremony.  The next day, Semahat and I flew back to Pittsburgh.  Sinan stayed behind.  He had found a summer job at the “Enterprise and Innovation Institute” of Georgia Tech., the same institute where he will work as a graduate research assistant during his post-graduate studies in the department of City and Regional Planning, specializing in transportation planning and economic development.  He is following his passion, just like his sister did before him.  All we can do is wish them success and happiness.

A Nostalgic Trip

Our young guide on the road where our house used to be.  The house was at the back end of the vegetable vines behind the field on the right hand side of the road.

Our ancestral home was located where the vegetable vines are planted now, and part of the field on the right..

Jamai Hala, a large pond behind our house.  Our latrine was located at the edge of this pond, covered with green vegetation when we lived there.  Now it is a fishery.

The same road going south towards Sarail. Looks exactly the same as it did sixty three years ago.

Ullaskar Datta house in advanced state of decay.

New addition to the Ullaskar Datta house where the current owners live.

Inner courtyard of Ullaskar Datta house.  Typical of most houses in the village.

Son of the current owner of Ullaskar Datta house.  He works in Saudi Arabia, was home for vacation during Ramadan.

Movie house next to the army cantonment in Sarail-kalikaccha border.  My rented Toyota SUV is parked in front.

Road connecting Sarail to Brahmanbaria, with rice fields on both sides.

It has been over sixty two years since my family left what is now Bangladesh after the partition of India.  I was an eight year old boy then, and it was exciting to travel with the family to a new place.  Although I was told that this was a permanent move, the only thing that mattered to me at that age was having the immediate family with me.  The rest did not matter.  When we settled down in the seaside town of Puri in India, I liked our new house, new school, the sea, and everything associated with that bustling mid-size town, very different from the village we left behind.    As I grew older, I started remembering our ancestral village, the house, extended family, the trees, ponds, going places with my grandfather, my playmates, festivals, fairs, and many other things.  Surprisingly, the memories grew stronger as I grew older; the village became a nostalgic dream, a place I longed to see again.  Although I did not have any pictures, I realized that there was no need for them.  I could just close my eyes, and the village, with its entire green splendor would just appear in front of me.  I have lived in many places over the years, including Puri and Kolkata in India, New York City, small university towns of Clausthal, Germany and Rolla, Missouri, and finally Monroeville, Pennsylvania, my home for the last 33 years.  However, I have not been able to get my ancestral village Kalikaccha off of my mind.  So, when my son in law Chris accepted a teaching position in Dhaka in the fall of 2008, I realized that my dream of setting foot in my ancestral village might still come true.

In late August of 2010, during my second visit to Dhaka, Sheela, aware of my often expressed desire to visit my ancestral village, suggested that I make a day trip to the village located about 120 kilometers north east of the capital.  A rental car (a Toyota SUV) with a driver familiar with the territory was arranged.  Equipped with my camera, a lunch box prepared by Sheela, and a bottle of water, the driver and I took off in the mid-morning of August 29, in search of our ancestral home.  Sheela and Chris live away from the congested center of Dhaka, in a newer section in the north-eastern part of the city called “Baridhara”, a gated locality where many expatriates and embassies make their home.  Yet, it took us over an hour just to get through the northern edge of Dhaka using roads clogged with cycle rickshaws, buses, cars, trucks, push-carts, and pedestrians who are forced out on the street by temporary stores set up on the sidewalks.  Finally, we were on the open road, on highway AH1, connecting Dhaka with Brahmanbaria, administrative head quarter town of the district where our village was located.  Upon reaching Brahmanbaria, we took the road to Sarail, a small town adjacent to my ancestral village Kalikaccha.  Sarail seemed very different from what I remembered from my childhood days.  There was now a large army cantonment covering part of both Sarail and Kalikaccha.  The driver stopped at the gate and asked the guard if he knew where the Singharoy family house was in the village.  The soldier had no idea.  He suggested that we ask shopkeepers and customers in stalls along the side of the road.  The driver kept walking around and asking people, but no one had heard of the Singharoy family.

I was beginning to lose heart.  Finally, I remembered a famous revolutionary named Ullaskar Datta from our village, who was an expert bomb maker, and whose bomb was used in the attempted murder of a British officer during the struggle for independence.  I asked the driver to find out where Ullaskar Datta’s house was.  He walked into a tea stall where a group of men were sitting around, talking.  Soon, he walked back to the car with a bearded young man wearing a lungi and a shirt, who said his uncle now owned the house where Ullaskar’s family lived.  He said his uncle would definitely know where the Singharoys used to live.  I asked him if he had time to take us to his uncle in the village.  He said he was off from work because this was the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, so he would gladly show us around.  He got into the car and guided us onto the unpaved, dry mud road of the village, barely wide enough for the SUV.  Fortunately, it was a bright sunny day, so the road was passable.

Within a couple of minutes, we saw a rickshaw approaching from the opposite direction, with a bearded, middle-aged passenger in typical Muslim garb of pajamas, long kurta, and a white cap.  Our guide said, “There comes my uncle”.  Our car had to move slightly off the road to make room for the rickshaw which stopped next to us.  Our guide introduced me to his uncle and explained the purpose of my visit.  The Uncle told me how happy he was to see me come all the way from America to see my ancestral home.  “It must be the pull of the soil”, he said, “but unfortunately, your house is no longer there”.  He pointed to the rice field and vegetables vines next to the road, and said “that is where your house and gardens used to be.  One of your relatives by the name of Sitesh Singharoy took over the house after the departure of the rest of the family and continued to live there with his wife and children.  He sold the house to a Muslim family during Bangladesh’s struggle for freedom from Pakistan in 1971, and left.  The new owners decided to demolish the old house, so only the fields are there for you to see.  I wish I could spend more time with you and talk more, but I am late for a village council meeting.  My nephew will show you around”.

I was very disappointed to learn that the house I remembered so fondly was no longer there.  I also remembered Uncle Sitesh, the last resident in the house.  He was the son of my grandfather’s step brother, whose house was just across the courtyard from our house.  It is all green fields now.  I wanted to at least walk on the land where my grandfather’s house used to be.  Our young guide and I got off the car and walked next to the vegetable vines where the house used to be.  Walking around the corner behind the vines, we came across a large pond.  I remembered that it used to be called “Jamai hala”, and it used to be totally covered with green vegetation.  Our latrine used to be at one edge of it.  My guide was surprised that I remembered the name of the pond.  It was all cleaned up now, and he said it was used as a fishery.  Back on the road in front of the field where our house used to be, I looked around me to enjoy the lush greenery all around.  It was idyllic scenery, houses barely visible behind trees.  The road ran north-south, but it was still the same dry mud road that I had remembered all these years.  I did not see any electricity lines, so there was probably no electricity in the village, just as in the old days.  We walked about a block to the house of the revolutionary Ullaskar Datta,, now owned by my guide’s uncle.  My guide introduced me to his cousin, son of the owner, who said he works in Saudi Arabia, and was home for Ramadan.  He was typical of many Bangladeshi men who work in the middle east, and whose remittances are a large part of Bangladesh's foreign exchange reserves.  He welcomed me in to the house, which was in advanced stage of decay, not inhabitable.  The family lived in a new addition attached to the old building.  I realized that our house probably would be in a similar condition now if it was not demolished.  As we walked through the rooms of the old house on to the inner courtyard, there was a tube well, just like the one I remembered in our house.  The man said he would have liked to offer me tea and refreshments, but the family fasts all day during Ramadan.  After walking around the neighboring areas of the village for a few more minutes, the driver and I got back into the car and headed back to Dhaka.

What impressed me most about Kalikaccha was how green and peaceful it looked. Life appeared to be rather slow paced, and people were friendly.  I was disappointed by the slow pace of development.  There was some development in the neighboring town of Sarail, but not in the village.  Everything except our ancestral home was just as I remembered as a little boy many years ago.  It was nice to see the village again, but it was not a place where I could ever go back to live.  I have finally gotten over my nostalgia.

Summer of 2010

It is embarrassing. I just noticed that my last blog was posted on April 18, 2010, over a year ago. I cannot come up with any good excuse for my silence for such a prolonged period. It was definitely a very busy one year. Sinan went to France in January of 2010 to do his semester abroad at the Lorraine campus of Georgia Tech in Metz. Semahat and I traveled to Metz in May when his semester was over, and the three of us traveled together to the Provence region of southern France, spending mother’s day in Nice and sightseeing in nearby towns of Monte Carlo a week before the famous Monaco Grand Prix, Cannes one day before the start of the film festival, walking around in a spectacular medieval fortress-like village on a hill, St. Paul de Vence (supposedly the second most visited village in France), finally returning to Paris to spend the last three nights there, all using public transportation at the insistence of Sinan.

Georgia Tech. Metz, France.

View of Nice, France.

Typical street in St.Paul de Vence

Monte Carlo, one week prior to the Grand Prix. Viewing Stands are Ready.

In mid-July, Sheela, Chris, Kaya and Kiran came from Dhaka to spend part of their summer vacation with us. This was the first time we got to meet Kiran , who was born in Bangkok in December of 2009. When Sheela went to Bangkok to give birth, I was hoping that I might have the pleasure of sharing a birthday with him. However, Kiran had other ideas, so he came to this world on the 17th of December, one day too late to share his birthday with me. Although we see him on Skype on a regular basis, this was our first face to face meeting, and he won over his grandparents immediately with his charming good looks, ready smile and cheerful disposition. All the toys and children’s books came up to the family room from the basement. These were the same sturdy American made toys that Sheela and Sinan played with when they were little, and which were also used by Kaya till last year. Kaya was now outgrowing them, but he was helpful in teaching his brother how to play with them.

Family Portrait, July 2010.

Brothers Hesse, July, 2010.

Kaya was four and a half year old when they came here last July. He has turned out to be a real delight; playful, and at the same time hungry to learn everything about his surroundings and beyond. He could carry on an intelligent conversation with any one. I really enjoyed our one on one times when we went to visit the Science Center, the Aviary, and other interesting places in and around Pittsburgh. One thing I tried to do whenever we went out was to show him different makes and models of cars and teach him how to identify them. Once I showed him a Honda, and told him how the “H” identifies this make of car. Next we saw a Hyundai. I said,
“When you see a straight H, it is a Honda, a Japanese car, but when it is a slanted H-“,
“You mean a diagonal H”?
“Yes, when you see a diagonal H, it is a Hyundai, a Korean car”.
I had intentionally avoided using the word diagonal, but I now I know I didn’t have to, not with him. Once, Kaya and I were in the car driving to the Science Center in Pittsburgh. There was a construction crew on the highway, with all their heavy equipment. Kaya asked me what they were doing. I explained to him that the highway has to be fixed every few years, because of the damage caused by the large number of vehicles using it all the time. He said,
“In Bangladesh, when the roads get bad, they don’t fix them”.
“Why not”?
“I don’t know”.
“May be they don’t have the money”.
“They do, Dadu. They are building all those buildings everywhere”. I guess he was referring to all the luxury condominiums going up in the part of Dhaka where they live. I said,
“May be they should use some of that money to fix their roads”. Kaya agreed. ”Yes, they should”.
At the Science Center, Kaya’s favorite exhibit was the World War II era submarine USS Requiem, which is permanently moored on the Ohio River. He enjoyed walking inside the submarine and seeing the engine room, the crew cabins, the periscope, and mostly the torpedoes. He asked the world war veterans who volunteer as guides inside the submarine, how the torpedoes were fired. When we returned home, I went on the internet and showed him a few videos of torpedoes blowing up battle ships, and the battle ships firing depth charges, just to satisfy his curiosity. Kaya also loved the story “Angle of Attack” written by uncle Sinan when he was a third grader. In this story, also illustrated by Sinan, a little boy goes on a joy ride in an F-22 fighter plane with his uncle, who was an Air Force pilot. While flying around, they encounter two Russian MIG fighter planes. In the ensuing dogfight, the uncle shoots down both MIGs with his sidewinder missiles. While Kaya was still interested in dinosaurs, now he started drawing submarines, fighter planes, rockets, and missiles. No wonder his parents think I am a bad influence on him. They are trying their best to bring him up in an environment where he does not see or hear about any kind of violence, or even hear what they consider to be unsuitable words such as “stupid”, or “kill” uttered around him. Good luck to them. Anyway, summer vacation was about to be over, but Sheela agreed to stay behind for two extra weeks with the boys after Chris’s return to work, provided I accompanied them to Dhaka. I agreed, and we had two more weeks of fun in Pittsburgh.
I will end this post by recalling a conversation I had with Kaya in the plane from Pittsburgh to JFK, on our way to Dhaka. It was one of those commuter planes, a small regional jet with sitting for 67 people. The plane was about half full. Kaya and I were sitting on one side of the aisle, while Sheela and Kiran were across the aisle, one row behind. As soon as we were airborne, Kaya started asking all kinds of questions about passenger planes. I told him about different models of Boeing and Airbus planes. Our conversation continued non-stop during the entire hour long flight. The gentleman across the aisle must have been listening, along with all the other passengers around us. He handed me the Delta in-flight magazine, pointing to the page which had pictures and short descriptions of all the planes in the Delta fleet. Kaya was happy to see those. I pointed out to him that the biggest passenger plane, the Airbus A380, was missing from the list, because Delta did not own any of those. As we started our descent towards JFK, Kaya asked me,”Dadu, have I been to more places than you have?” I answered, “No, but that is because I am much older than you. I am sure you will see much more than what I have seen when you get older.” He said, “When I retire?” I answered, “No, long before that”. He was quiet. Then out of the blue, he said,
“Dadu, sometimes you anger me.” I was taken by surprise. I said,
“How do I anger you?”
“When you talk sternly with me if I do something bad.”
“May be you should try not to do anything bad, so I don’t have to talk sternly. Right?”
“Right.”
The plane landed, and we headed for the International terminal to catch our next plane, a Qatar Airways flight to Dhaka via Doha. Summer vacation was over.

Kiran, with his mother's old Xylophone.

Celebrating Mama's birthday.

Mother and sons at the Childrens Museum, Pittsburgh.

Kaya feeding parrots at the National Aviary in Pittsburgh.

Attentive Grandchildren.

I love this swing.

Kaya at the Science Center, with the submarine in the background.

Future Soccer Players?

Retired Life

Retirement is one of the most anticipated events in the lives of most mature adults in this country. Of course, there are always a few who do not want to retire, either because they never developed any other interest in life, or they don’t feel financially secure, but they are a small minority. Most people look forward to retirement for reasons that range anywhere from escaping the drudgery and boredom of repetitive work, work related stress, long hours, dislike for the work environment, desire to do things that one always wanted but never had time to do, and so on. Retirement is expected to be the start of the golden years, when a couple has completed their family obligations, children are grown and out of the house, and financial resources are secure enough to indulge in all those things that had to be put off while the children were the first priority.

Ever since my retirement, the question I get asked most often is: “How is retirement?” My answer is always the same, “It is great”. I had spent six years commuting to Cleveland every Monday morning, and returning home to Monroeville on Fridays in my last job. It was a financially necessary but otherwise difficult period for the whole family, and everyone was happy when it was over. During the first two years of retirement, I continued to work part time, mostly from home, for my last employer, and a university, gradually transitioning into full retirement. It was also nice to have Sinan around during that first year, although he did not appreciate my bugging him constantly about his college application essays, and the need for maintaining good grades in his senior year in high school instead of getting afflicted with “senioritis”, the disease of slacking off after college applications were submitted.

One of my great privileges since retirement has been the pleasure of reading the morning newspaper in the morning, instead of rushing off to work at 7:30 and waiting till late evening to read it. I was also free of all the stress that comes with work. There was no longer any pressure to write research proposals in search of funding, or to conduct research work on on-going projects, prepare progress reports, final reports and presentations for sponsors, write papers for conferences and publications, although I did enjoy traveling to new places for conferences, staying in nice hotels around the world and interacting with my peers.

Everyone asks, “How do you spend your time?” Surprisingly the problem I have is just the opposite. How to find the time to do all the things I need or want to do. I have developed a new appreciation for housewives, after being thrust into the role of a house husband following retirement. I don’t mind cooking dinner, in fact I enjoy it, provided I know what to cook, and have a recipe to follow. I have become a familiar face in the local specialty food store where I buy all my fresh meat, fish, and vegetables for the chosen recipes. I even attended a few of their cooking classes in the beginning, where I was usually the only man among a group of ladies. I consider myself to be a decent cook, albeit a very slow one compared to my wife. Not only am I slower, but unlike her I’m totally incapable of multi-tasking which seems to be a uniquely feminine quality. Besides cooking, there is a host of other household tasks that require a considerable amount of my time. Then there are my leisure time activities such as reading, writing, listening to music, watching sports, news, and politics on television, practicing my golf swing at the driving range, and my favorite activity, going to the gym.

The gym I belong to is the well-equipped local establishment of a national fitness center. It has a large clientele, a microcosm of the population in this area. There are whites, blacks, and Asians, old and young, men and women, a very diverse group from all walks of life. I see a handful of Indian women, but rarely an Indian man. I have come to know a few of the people working out at the same time as I do well enough to consider them my friends. Thus we can combine working out with socializing, making the whole experience a more pleasurable one. There are some who I draw inspiration from, such as 90 year old world war II fighter pilot Bill who works out every single day, 86 year old Vern another world war II veteran, 84 year old Bob, 72 year old former colleague Bob, and several younger men and women who are regulars there, working out at about the same time as I do. They all have interesting stories to tell.

During the weekend, Semahat and I enjoy going out to dinner either by ourselves or with friends, going to movies, theaters, operas, museums, and some shopping. One other activity we both enjoy is traveling, seeing new and interesting places and people. Up to this point in my retired life, our travels have been restricted somewhat by the limited number of vacation days available to Semahat. We expect the pace to pick up after her retirement in about two years. On the whole, retirement has been a wonderful experience, and I recommend it wholeheartedly to anyone who is approaching that final milestone in his or her career.

March 2009, with Sinan. On the boat to Tortuga Island, Costarica.

November 2009. Celebrating Turkish Republic Day in Pittsburgh.

Christmas Eve, 2009 in New York City.

New Year's Eve. Ushering in 2010 with friends Omer and Meral in downtown Pittsburgh.

Spring is Here

Spring is Here!

What a difference six weeks make. In mid February, we were buried in snow, feeling gloomy and depressed, wondering if there will ever be an end to the miserable weather. Six weeks later, here we are, in beautiful sunny weather and perfect temperature, with birds all around us, not just on the bird feeder. I don’t know if their songs are just happy songs of spring or mating calls, but the sound of these birds does bring a feeling of joy. Sometimes, I step outside to see if I can identify the bird that is singing a particular tune, but they rarely linger in one spot. I hung Kaya’s birdhouse on the cherry tree next to the kitchen window, but no bird has shown any interest in building a nest in it yet. Gray, leafless tree branches are beginning to show signs of life, and will surely be full of new green leaves before long. The weeping cherry tree in front of the porch is in full blossom, as is the magnolia in the front corner. Daffodils started emerging from the ground after the snow, and now are blooming in their full splendor. They remind me of the poem “Daffodils” by the English poet Wordsworth, which I studied in the ninth grade as part of my English literature class. “Golden daffodils fluttering and dancing in the breeze” do fill the heart with joy, as Wordsworth expressed so eloquently, although we have only a few instead of ten thousand that inspired him to write the poem on an April day. In our case, we have the cherry blossoms and the magnolias to enhance the beauty of the daffodils.

Semahat has already planted a few pansies in front, but rabbits and probably chipmunks are eating parts of them. She put rabbit repellants around them, but it could be a losing battle. Time will tell. She has also planted a few peony bulbs, which will hopefully sprout out soon. I prepared one patch of ground in her vegetable garden, so she could get an early start by planting her snow peas and spinach. Days are longer and warmer now, and she is happy to be able to spend some time outside working in her garden during the weekend. I have been going to the driving range regularly to hit a few golf balls to improve my swing, so I can play golf with Sinan and Chris this summer. Semahat and I are looking forward to our trip to France in May, when we will meet up with Sinan and travel in France for ten days before returning home together. Then comes the wonderful Pittsburgh summer, and we will have with us Sheela, Chris, Kaya, and the newest arrival, Kaya’s little brother Kiran, whom we have seen only on Skype. He seems to be a chubby little baby with a quick smile. Kiran will be six months old when they get here in early July, ready to enjoy his new surroundings, and getting to know AnneAnne and Dadu for the first time. Season of renewal and hope, that’s what spring is, and I am glad it is finally here.

Weeping cherry in full blossom, with daffodils blooming on the side.

Blooming Magnolias.

Birdhouse painted blue and yellow by Kaya is set on the cherry tree next to the kitchen window. The bird feeder is still hanging there, although it is no longer stocked with food for the birds.

Living with Environmentalists

In my family, I am surrounded by environmentalists. Semahat recycles everything that is officially recyclable, meaning newspapers, magazines, mail, glass and plastic bottles and jars, plastic bags, and cardboards. Instead of throwing away old clothes, furniture, and appliances, she gives them away if she can, so someone else might use them. She stores all vegetable and fruit peels, tea leaves, etc. in a composting jar (mother’s day gift from Sheela and Chris) in the kitchen, and transfers them to a large composting bin in her garden. She stops by at the local Starbucks to collect their spent ground coffee beans for use as fertilizer in the same garden.
Semahat is a strong believer in buying locally grown food, in order to avoid the environmental impact of transporting food from far away places. She always wanted to have her own vegetable garden, but rabbits, deer, and groundhogs made it impossible. Help came in the form of our son-in-law Chris, who has been a tree, animal, and nature loving, vegetable gardening, vegetarian eating environmentalist for several years now. In the summer of 2006, Chris, with some help from Sinan, fenced in one corner of our backyard and prepared the ground by mixing in bags of top soil and cow manure for his mother-in-law’s first real garden. He showed her how to grow organic vegetables without fertilizers and pesticides, with the help of cow manure and composts. With his guidance, Semahat went to work in the garden, planting spinach, tomatoes, peppers, beans, zucchini, cucumbers, eggplant, etc. in the following spring. She had her first harvest in 2007, some very fresh tasting, but very, very expensively produced organic vegetables. The following year, she felt that the garden was too small for all the vegetables she wanted to grow. So, in the summer of 2009, Chris, again with help from Sinan, doubled the size of her garden. I have no doubt that as soon as snow melts, I will be asked to haul in many bags of top soil and cow manure to get the ground ready for planting this spring.
Meanwhile, Sinan was getting concerned about all the valuable city water that was being used to water the garden. So, on mother’s day in 2009, he bought his mother a rain barrel, which when installed, could capture some of the rain water that flows from the roof into the storm sewer. Once the barrel is filled, a hose connected from its bottom could be used to water the garden. He and Chris installed the barrel in the summer of 2009, and Semahat was pleased to see that it really worked, saving valuable city water resource. Incidentally, Sinan also convinced us to replace all the incandescent bulbs in the house with compact fluorescent bulbs as an energy saving measure.
As for me, I help out whenever Semahat needs manual labor in her garden, but I haven’t made any other contributions to the environmental cause in which the rest of the family is involved. I am always reminded by Chris, Sinan, and Sheela that I waste too much water by keeping it running constantly while I am doing my dishwashing chores in the kitchen. I have not given up my bananas from Central America, mangoes from Mexico, orange juice from Florida, asparagus and broccoli from California, and wine from all over the world. I also enjoy sea food brought from the coastal areas. Of course, I am old, and as the saying goes, “you cannot teach new tricks to an old dog”.

Summer of 2006. Vegetable garden built by Chris with help from Sinan.

Summer of 2007. Semahat harvesting her vegetables with little helper Kaya.


Summer of 2009. Chris and Sinan extending Semahat's garden with moral support from Sheela.

Summer of 2009. Sinan and Chris with installed rain barrel behind them.