CHASING A TURK - II

In researching at the Protestant cemetery in Istanbul, I found everything way too interesting, so I had to set definite parameters for the future book: AMERICANS BURIED in the Protestant Cemetery. While their families who weren't buried with them were important because I wanted that information to help link them up to a place in America, in the Pratt case I barely knew that there was such a child as Albert Pratt. I was really researching the details of his father and mother, Dr. Andrew and Sarah Goodyear Pratt, and the names of their dead children on Dr. Pratt’s tombstone were my focus. So more than 10 years later coming upon the name of one of their children who lived in Redlands, California after leaving Istanbul was, well, just a shock and too good not to continue researching! If you are a genealogist, you know that the more you need to research, the happier you get!

So in 2002 I went over to the Redlands library - Redlands being a small town next door to San Bernardino - and looked in the old Citrograph newspapers of June, 1889. Sure enough, there was a BIG article on the wedding. This wedding was the social event of the year.

Madeleine was from a well-to-do family originally from Kewanee and Chicago, Illinois. A big chunk of the Sloan family had moved to Redlands. Madeleine had lots of aunts, uncles and cousins there. Madeline’s grandfather, Seymour Sloan, had not moved here but he visited often. The newspaper, which actually has been indexed, announced that on one of those visits he died and his body was shipped back to Illinois for burial.


One of Seymour’s sons was Dr. George Sloan of Chicago who financed the building of the Sloan House in Redlands, a three-story brick hotel, which opened in 1888 with Horace, Madeleine’s father as proprietor. Another of Seymour’s sons was Junius Sloan, a well-known Midwest “prairie painter,” who also lived for a while in Redlands. He was married to Sara Spencer, daughter of the man who developed the Spencer writing style. In August of 1900 Seymour was in Oak Glen, near Redlands and known locally as apple-growing country, and while he was climbing a tree searching for a scene to paint he fell out of the tree and was killed.



But lest you think Albert married “up” – that he was just a poor missionary’s kid from Turkey – as a wedding gift he gave his bride six lots in the city of Redlands. Albert’s father had a pretty impressive background too. His bio, taken from the book Genealogy of the Goodyear Family by Grace Goodyear Kirkman (Albert’s mother was a Goodyear) says:

Andrew Tully PRATT, eldest child of William T. and Eliza H. (Steele) Pratt, b. Feb. 22, 1826, at Black Rock, near Buffalo, N. Y.; graduated at Yale College, 1847. Dr. Pratt taught for a few months after graduation in Southport, Conn., and spent the next year in the Union Theological Seminary, New York City.

He then began the study of medicine in New Haven; was also connected with the Yale Theological Seminary for two years, and graduated as a M. D. at the College of Physicians and Surgeons, N. Y., in 1852.

In pursuance of the plan which had been in his mind from the time when he began to study, he was ordained as a missionary and physician of the American Board, at New Haven, Aug. 8, 1852; and, having been married on the same day to Miss Sarah Frances Goodyear, of New Haven, sailed with his wife Dec. 22d, for his mission field in Syria. His first station was at Aintab, but he removed to Aleppo in 1856, and to Marash in 1859. In 1868 he was transferred to the Western Turkey Mission and stationed at Constantinople, where he was engaged on the revision of the Armeno-Turkish Bible until his death in that city, Dec. 5, 1872.

After their honeymoon Albert and Madeleine returned to Redlands, where he became manager of the Windsor Hotel and Madeleine’s mother the proprietor. In 1892 he leased the Seven Oaks resort in the mountains north of Redlands and began a 6-year venture of managing and upgrading this resort. Ultimately the resort was sold and Albert and Madeleine, now the parents of a daughter, Rosamond, moved to San Francisco, where he became an insurance agent.

Unfortunately, Madeleine Pratt’s life was cut short by tuberculosis, dying on Monday, September 22, 1902. In June of 1903, a Citrograph article said her body was reinterred at Hillside Cemetery in Redlands.

I finally had to tell myself to stop researching. I did NOT need to know everything in the whole world about this family. But before I quit, I did learn, however, that his mother and at least his sister Fanny ultimately moved to California. Albert died in 1933 and his daughter Rosamond (I think) died in 1957.

The Goodyear Genealogy book, which I found on Google, has other details on the birth and death dates of the Pratt children for the researcher. I grew very fond of this family, and it’s hard to let go of friends. You can see that here in almost 2011 I’ve still got them on my mind.


I was never able to find a photo of either Albert or Madeleine, nor of Albert’s parents. But here for the record a picture of “Uncle Junius Sloan."

So ends the tale of my venture “Chasing a Turk.”

SEEING A REAL FLYOVER

Last week in the pre-dawn darkness, long before I got out of bed, Jerry saw the season’s first night heron on our lawn when he stepped out on the porch to get the morning newspaper. Opening the door usually startles them into flight, but this one apparently was engrossed in finding its breakfast and Jer got a pretty good look at it. They are big, long-legged birds and it’s always exciting to see them.

When Jerry told me about it, he added “Remember Istanbul?” I knew just what he was talking about. He wasn’t talking about night herons in Istanbul but about white storks.


Istanbul lies half in Europe and half in Asia, with the Bosphorus straits running though it, linking the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara. And this stretch of water acts as a migration route for hundreds of thousands of birds as they migrate yearly south toward Africa. We had been told that if we “paid attention” we would see two specific migrations, one of storks and the other of eagles.


Turkey itself has resident storks aside from migrating storks and once we got out of the city itself we often saw lots of the white storks. They build their nests on village houses, on mosques and electric poles. We learned that in many countries storks are hunted for food. But in Turkey by and large this doesn’t happen. They are known as “pilgrim birds” and thus are regarded as guests. However, I have read that their number are dwindling.

According to Professor Mehmet Serez the number of storks in Turkey is decreasing every year.

Speaking to the Anatolia news agency, Serez said while there were 900,000 stork couples in Turkey in the 1960s, the number has decreased to 200,000 couples recently. Noting that there are various causes for this decline, Serez said the leading reason is a decrease in houses with tile roofing and chimneys. “In the past, there used to be a stork nest on the roof of every house in Turkey. However, the number of these birds has decreased day by day. Houses used to be built with tiled roofs, and they used to have chimneys in the past. There were not electric wires either, and storks were able to make a safe landing. From the 1960s onwards, these houses started to decrease in number. More electric wires surrounded houses, which made it harder for storks to nest,” he said.

In Istanbul our apartment was on the Asian side and overlooked a park and the Sea of Marmara. We had a fantastic view, unlike many apartments which merely faced the backside of other apartments. So we were in a wonderful position to “pay attention” when the stork migration started. It would have been impossible to miss it. They came flying by, oh how they came! A few, then a few more, gradually building in size until there was an unbelievable amount of them flying high over our heads. Jer and I stood on our balcony, almost gasping as we watched the spectacular sight that was happening before our eyes.

I ran for the camera. It was new to me and I wasn’t sure what the proper settings should be to get a snapshot of this amazing event – it was late in the afternoon and lighting was difficult. While this picture is certainly not what I would have wished, at least it gives an idea of what we mean when we say “lots of birds.” We truly could not believe our eyes. Night fell, the birds disappeared and it was over. There were a few scragglers the next day but for the most part it was over.


We never did see the eagles, as we were told that they passed over a different section of the city than where we lived. Considering that in California the most migrating birds that we’d ever seen was an occasional “V” of geese heading south, we considered ourselves exceptionally lucky to be able to witness such an event.

And in case you were wondering, no, the storks were NOT carrying little bundles

KILIC ALI PASHA MOSQUE

In my time of researching both in Istanbul and the U.S. for information on the lives of people buried in the Protestant Cemetery in Ferikoy-Istanbul, I learned that many of those early people were missionaries connected to the American Board of Commissions for Foreign Missions. Many books were written by these missionaries and one that I found especially interesting was entitled CONSTANTINOPLE OLD AND NEW by H. B. Dwight, Chas. Scribner & Sons, N.Y., 1915. It is hard to find some of these books now and I was lucky to come across one in the Los Angeles Public Library. I took lots of notes from it and will share one with you, about the Mosque shown above.

Kilic Ali Pasha Mosque was built by an Italian who was born in Calabria. Captured by Algerian pirates, he turned Turk after 14 years in the galleys and changed his name of Ochiali to Oulouj Ali - Big Ali. He then became a commander of Galleys. At the battle of Lepanto he saved a shred of Turkish honor by capturing the flagship of the Knights of Malta, turning the squadron of Doria and bringing 40 galleys safely back to Constantinople. For this exploit he was made high admiral of the fleet, and his name was turned into Sword Ali - Kilij Ali.

An interesting sidelight is thrown on this picturesque character from so unexpected a source as the novel of "Don Quixote". In Chapter 32 of the first part of that book, in which the captive relates his life and adventures, Cervantes tells with very little deviation from the fact, how he himself lost his left hand at the battle of Lepanto, how 4 years later he was captured by pirates and then taken to Algiers, and how he lived there five years as the slave of a cruel Albanian master. Trying then to escape, he was caught and brought for trial before a personage whom he calls Uchali, but who was none other than our friend Kilij Ali. The upshot of the matter was that the builder of our beautiful mosque bought the author of our immortal novel, whom he treated with great kindness and presently accepted for him, in 1581, the very moderate ransom of 500 crowns. So might a half-forgotten building in Tophane be brought back to light as the mosque of Don Quixote.

Who knows whether or not this is true. But I suspect that Dwight did. Lots and lots of history in Istanbul, that's for sure.

FISH & FISHERMEN

Black Sea, Aegean Sea, Islands, Dardanelles, Mediterranean Sea, Bosphorus, Sea of Marmara, Feribot, deniz otobus, fish and fishermen. What wonderful memories I carry around from living in such close proximity to all that water.

Our apartment building in the Goztepe section of Istanbul was two blocks off the Sea of Marmara. At any time of the day we could look out the front windows of our apartment and see the Marmara, the islands right off the coast, and if the day was clear enough we could see over to the part of the old city on the “nose” of the coast as it rounds into the Golden Horn.


To get anywhere, it most often entailed a taxi ride to a dock and then a ride on either a Feribot or a deniz otobus (a smaller catamaran “feribot”). It all depended on where you were going and where you were coming from.


In the summer many people moved to one of the Princes Islands off the coast. The air was always “fresh” – a bit cooler than in the city and far less crowded. Any time you felt the need for a change, hopping on a ferryboat to Heybeliada or Buyukada was called for. One of the most delightful days of my life was spent at the island home of Walt and Vivian Leitner. They invited three couples to their house for a meal and a visit. We slightly knew the other couples, and it turned out to be one of those rare occasions where everything was perfect – the companionship, the locale, the hosts – and here almost 20 years later I still remember it as one of life’s serendipitous days. We might have talked all night but the feribot wouldn’t wait for us, so reluctantly we made our goodbyes and left.

Jerry loves fish, and one of his favorite fish restaurants was on the Bosphorus. We considered our driver, young Ahmet, as a good friend and asked him to have dinner with us whenever we went out. We did not want him sitting over in a corner eating by himself. I needed him for another reason: at this restaurant a big tank of fish sat just inside the restaurant door. Patrons were to pick out the fish they wanted to eat for dinner. I could not do that. I always asked Ahmet to do it for me. He did, and while I admit to enjoying the freshness of the fish, I couldn’t let myself think about how it got on my plate. I am still an old softie.


I found lots of things to photograph as we nosed around the various waterfronts. I can’t say as they were always “scenic” pictures to help me remember what a particular place looked like, but again, looking at these photos instantly brings back the images and the smells of those places where I took the photograph, a place and a time I'll never forget.

MARCHING TO A DIFFERENT DRUMMER

In Istanbul we lived on the Asian side of the city in an area called Goztepe. Directly across the street from our apartment was a very large park and at the far edge of the park an elementary school. Early each morning the children would gather in the park at the entrance to the school, all decked out in their school uniforms, and sing the Turkish National Anthem.

Our flat was on the 6th floor of the building overlooking the park, and each morning we heard the children sing. They were accompanied by a tape, so it was a very nice rendition of their National Anthem and we could hear it loud and clear. We lived in that apartment for almost two years, and we heard that tune enough that I could at least hum the melody along with them. Jerry, not being very musically inclined, was not particularly interested in the daily event, but I was quite taken with it. The little kids were so cute and so earnest.

Although I cannot now remember what the occasion was, one morning after the singing I could see the children all re-arranging themselves and suddenly the flag bearers stepped out in time to the music and they began marching along the paths in the park as if they were in a parade.


Next came a group of horn players. They didn't have instrumental horns but horns nevertheless that they quietly tooted in concert with the music and their marching. The boys got to play the horns.


Next came the lady drummers. There was not the noise one would expect to hear with that many drums but they certainly were doing quiet little rat-a-tat-tats.

It took several verses of the national anthem to get them around the route that had been selected for them. It was strange to be watching and not really understand what was going on, except that it was as much fun for me to watch them as it was for them to make a big parade! By the time the parade passed in front of our apartment and headed around the bend, all the residents of the apartments were out on their balconies watching the festivities - and you can be sure that we gave those children a standing ovation.

Things like this were one of the serendipities we had during our two years there in Istanbul. We didn't need to understand; it was enough to simply look, enjoy and applaud.

In 1993 we came home. Occasionally I would catch myself humming the Turkish National Anthem, which struck me funny because I don't believe ever in my whole life have I hummed The Star Spangled Banner. But the Turkish National Anthem is a march, and marches are made for humming along. I didn't have the Internet until 1997, so it took me that long to get accompaniment to my humming.

So I've provided you all with a lovely rendition found on YouTube. When I hear it I remember all those darling children in their special little parade. And when you hear it, you can listened for my humming!

EATING ON THE STREET

When Jerry and I returned from Istanbul in 1993 we moved into a wonderful rental house in a lovely old part of Santa Ana. The neighborhood, which was in the process of being gentrified, had mostly old Victorian houses and early 1900’s bungalows. Sometime in the past as other houses had fallen into disrepair they had been replaced with somewhat unsightly apartments. As Santa Ana began feeling the influx of immigrants from Mexico, these apartments became full to overflowing with people.

Overall, though, we felt the neighborhood with its jacaranda-lined streets was relatively safe and we loved the little house we rented on Lacey street. What we liked best was a result of the Mexican influence: the vendor carts being pushed through the neighborhood selling all manners of tasty goodies. This is where Jerry and I learned just how delicious corn-on-the-cob purchased off these carts tasted. Instead of slathering the cob with butter, salt and pepper, it was thoroughly brushed with mayonnaise, rolled in grated parmesan cheese (or a reasonably facsimile!) and then sprinkled with red pepper flakes. Having once tasted corn fixed that way, we never again went back to the old way of eating them.


Perhaps a year after we moved in, the residents of Santa Ana were getting really miffed about the influx of “illegals,” and to be honest with you, about the only way they could effect any change at all was for the health department to create an ordinance that kept all food vendors off the streets. I understood the rationale from a health standpoint, but in the two years we lived in Istanbul we learned to eat all kinds of things off vendor carts.

Providing food in this way is part of the whole system of getting working people fed in big cities. Istanbul was not a city where every family had a car, so much of the food shopping was done at little mom and pop places or perhaps at a little stall called a “bufe.” Also, every day at about 2 p.m. a stakebed truck full of watermelons stopped in front of our apartment, which was on a relatively busy but quite narrow street. The sides of the truck were taken down and wonderful ripe watermelons were sold for a pittance. Everything came to market ripe and was intended to be eaten immediately. In the hot summer months, with the humidity almost drowning a person with each intake of breath, those melons sold out fast day after day.


Often we’d see vendors walking around in the city selling food from a pushcart. The picture below is one I took in the town of Konya in Central Anatolia. This young fellow was selling tangerines grown locally and bananas which of course were imported.


Bananas were easily had everywhere, and my favorite dessert, called “Formul” used them. A banana was sliced onto a plate and drizzled heavily with honey This was topped by a big dollop of unsweetened whipped cream and then sprinkled with finely ground nuts. The sweet honey was balanced by the kaymak. The smoothness of the banana was balanced with the texture of the nuts. It was a wonderful, natural dessert and I couldn’t eat enough of it. Who would have thought that my favorite Turkish dish was made with bananas!

Because we ate so much “off the street” in Istanbul and then found such a delicious offering from a street vendor in our own California neighborhood, we were very sorry to see the Mexican corn-on-the-cob vendors get moved out of Southern California.

There is a bunch of chatter on the internet about the loss of these and other kinds of food vendors. But if you have ever been in LA and driven past “Pinks” on north La Brea you will see that although we don’t so much embrace the little one-man food carts, to some small degree we have some “bufe” type eateries here too. The line waiting for a Pink’s hot dog often is 25 to 30 people deep. Pinks is a true take-out place. You stand on the sidewalk, place your order and walk away eating your hot dog.

That’s not so different from how it is done in Turkey – and in Mexico!

GAZ IS GAZ

We hadn’t been in Istanbul for 4 months before Tigger came into our life. He was a tiny street cat, rescued by our Ahmet, our youngish driver, and we couldn’t turn him down. But within a couple of weeks he began having diarrhea and we figured we’d better get him to the Vet as soon as possible..

I asked Ahmet, who had somewhat of a working knowledge of English, to get me an appointment for Tigger with a veterinarian. Vets in the US always had me bring in a stool sample on the first visit so I prepared one to give to the Turkish vet, carefully putting the sample on a piece of aluminum foil and wrapping it up tightly. The vet did not speak English so Ahmet had to translate for me. I don’t know what he told the vet, but when the vet opened up the foil and saw and smelled the very odiferous and ugly stool sample, he made a terrible face, closed it up quickly and then threw it in the trash. So much for that! Without even a preliminary exam, the vet told Ahmet to get the cat some baby vitamins and to return in two weeks.

We did, but at the end of two weeks Tigger was no better, so I had Ahmet make a follow-up appointment. I felt I needed to make sure Ahmet understood what I wanted him to tell the vet about Tigger’s problem.



Tigger had a lot of intestinal gas and I searched my English-Turkish dictionary for any Turkish word I thought might be descriptive. I looked up flatulence, breaking wind, even down to “fart” and “poot” – all kinds of words but in Turkish there was nothing that seemed to describe what I needed Ahmet to tell the vet. Poor Ahmet. I said, “Ahmet Bey, I am going to tell you something very important that the vet needs to know about Tigger. But I am sorry that this might be embarrassing to you.” Ahmet was very “proper” around us and I just wasn’t sure how this was going to go over. I said to him, “Ahmet, please tell the doctor that Tigger makes very bad noises when he goes to the bathroom, and it sounds like this…” and at that point I made a big “raspberry” sound with my lips.

Ahmet’s eyes got like saucers. His face went totally red. He drew himself up and very solemnly and with much embarrassment said, “Mrs. Title, we call that gaz.”

I burst out laughing, because the only thing I knew about Turkish gaz was that each week we bought a bottle of TUPGAZ, which was propane and we hooked it up under the stove so we would have fire to cook with. It never occurred to me that “gaz” itself was a word; I only knew it at TUPGAZ.

Ahmet did not laugh.



But I managed to thank him for listening and I then I reassured him I was not laughing at him but it was really a joke on myself that I found funny. I just didn’t know the right Turkish word. At the doctor’s office Ahmet did not make that noise in front of the vet, and I did not hear him say the word “gaz” either. I figured that it was like most everything else in Turkish-English communication; he may have understood and he may not have. The vet ordered more baby vitamins.

Luckily, within two weeks it became necessary for me to put Tigger in a “cat hotel” for 10 days while my daughter and a friend who was allergic to cats came to visit us. The lady who ran the cat hotel fed him raw cows liver and cow lung. Tigger came home a healthy cat with normal BMs. We had sent some cans of Whiska’s to the cat hotel with Tigger, but the lady told Ahmet to tell us that it was too rich for Turkish cats and we needed to feed him liver and lung. I’ll be forever grateful to that Turkish lady.

However, I drew the line at buying raw liver and lung, but I did concoct a quiche of sorts. I used ground chicken, ground beef, vegetables, bread, milk, eggs and baby vitamins, all put through a food processor and poured into a baking dish. It smelled good as it baked, and Tigger ate it twice a day for the two years we were in Istanbul.

Tigger recovered, but I’m not sure Ahmet ever did. We certainly didn’t ever talk about it again. I imagine he has told the story many times and it is as funny from his perspective as it still is from ours.

Oh, Ahmet. What a dear you were!

SEEN ONE, YOU'VE SEEN THEM ALL!

Have you ever gone to a concert and been bored to death -- and then ashamed of yourself because you were? I think it happens more often than one supposes. I happen to be crazy about organ music. When we were living in Orange, the Crystal Cathedral had organ concerts on Wednesday nights during the summer and I asked Jerry to go with me. I suspect he thought organ music would be like what one hears at skating rinks - or maybe even ball games. Instead, the organist usually opened with something really wonderful like a Bach fugue - and it took Jerry about two-and one-half minutes to fall asleep. He went with me twice, and I excused him from going after that.

I have only been "trapped" once - and I still feel guilty for not appreciating what I saw and heard. This was when we went with friends to a performance of the Whirling Dervishes is Istanbul. I had seen pictures of them mid-dance, and thinking that here in the U.S. very busy, active people are sometimes called "whirling dervishes" I assumed it we would be seeing a fast-paced spectacle. Was I wrong!

First, the ritual dances are a form of worship that represents union with God. The music that accompanies the dancing is traditional old Turkish music, played on old Turkish instruments - drums, flute-like instruments and a gourd viol. It is very foreign to the western ear and frankly not easy to listen to. Second, from the beginning to the end of the concert - a matter of 90 minutes or so - the only thing that happens is that the dervishes whirl - very slowly, which was a big surprise. The basic "dance" is repeated three times. And those of us Americans who were trying to be respectful and appreciative would have been satisfied after the first dance, since -- I'm sorry to say this -- if you've seen one dervish whirl, you've seen them all. We found it a somewhat grueling ordeal to sit attentively through the entire program. Needless to say, almost all the men fell asleep immediately.

The good part? Visually it was beautiful. And amazing. These men would whirl with their eyes closed for 10 minutes and then come to a dead stop and not fall over. It was hard to believe that they could do this without their equilibrium being shot all to pieces. Surely they were in a self-induced trance. But how did they alter the physical part of their body that governs balance?

What we were missing, and we all realized this from the get-go, is that we had no understanding of the "mystic" part of the program. Tom Brosnahan, in his book "Turkey, A Travel Survivor's Kit," shares this: The worship ceremony is a ritual dance representing union with God. The Dervishes' long white robes, with full skirts, represent their shrouds, and the tall conical red hats represent their tombstones, as they relinquish the earthly life to be reborn in mystical union with God. They pass before their Seyh (leader - a spiritual descendant of Mevlana) with their arms folded and he whispers in their ears. Each Dervish then moves on, unfurling his arms and starting the dance. By holding their right arm up, palm upwards, they receive the blessings of Heaven and communicate them to Earth by holding their left arm down, palm downwards."

The founder of the Dervishes was Celaleddin Rumi, called Mevlana, meaning Our Guide" and was one of the world's great mystic philosophers. He lived during the 1200s. His teachings were ecumenical and he has a large following today, even outside the near and middle east.

I think if one is into "mysticism" in any form, this person would be far more in tune with the Dervishes than we and our friends were. For us -- and here's where the guilt is -- we were bored and anxious for the "concert" to end. From today's vantage point, however, Jerry and I both recall it as a wonderful experience. And to the extent that we saw it once, it was. We are glad we went, but we sure wouldn't rush to buy tickets if they scheduled a concert here in here Southern California.

WALKING A CEMETERY - II

When I came home from Istanbul 2 years later one of the first things I wanted to do was to see if any of the local newspapers carried a story about Gary Bouldin's death. I found the Los Angeles Times did:

Los Angeles Times - Sunday, December 29, 1968

ISTANBUL (AP) - A Californian killed three men, wounded four and finally was shot fatally in a wild gunfight with Turkish police Saturday, Istanbul police said.

Police said security men had taken Gary Ralph Bouldin, 35, and a woman identified as Patricia Ann Seeds, 20, both of Los Angeles, for questioning to a police building where a bureau of the Treasury Police, which usually deals with smuggling and narcotics, is located.

During questioning, Bouldin opened fire on police officials, fatally wounding two of them, police said. Then he fled to a restaurant downstairs and continued to shoot it out with policemen.

Police said Bouldin died while being taken to a hospital. His companion, who was not involved in the shooting, was taken to police headquarters for further investigation. Police did not disclose why Bouldin was being questioned.

(The girl’s father, Norton H. Seeds, said he had not heard from his daughter for a month since she took time off from her studies at San Jose State College to travel in Europe with a girlfriend, United Press International reported.)

But the search of the index also brought up an earlier article on Bouldin:

Los Angeles Times - May 27, 1960
SAN BERNARDINO KITCHEN BLAST INJURES MAN

SAN BERNARDINO (California) May 26 – Chemicals being mixed on a kitchen stove exploded tonight,seriously injuring a San Bernardino Valley College Student. Gary Bouldin, 25, a social sciences major,was seriously burned about the neck and face. His left hand was badly injured.

MIXING ON STOVE
Police said Bouldin was mixing chemicals he had taken home from his college chemistry course to unclog a kitchen sink. The explosion occurred as he heated the mixture on the stove, police reported. Bouldin was taken to San Bernardino County Hospital for emergency surgery. His wife, Beverly, and the couple’s eight-month-old son arrived home shortly after the explosion occurred.

My goal when I started work in the Ferikoy Protestant cemetery was to find out as much as I could about why those people were buried there and not sent back to the United States, what they were doing in Istanbul, where they came from in the States, and who their family might be. What I found on Gary was as much as I thought appropriate for inclusion in the data I was collecting.

As noted yesterday, I eventually put it into book form and a few years later I posted the names and basic vital statistics as I found them on the tombstones onto a website. I mentioned that I had further information on many of these people and gave my e-mail address to contact if the reader wished.

In the meantime, as I have heard from relatives I have added their information to my paper files, so that if further inquiries come I can provide people with everything I know.

So, you ask, why have I chosen to single out this fellow for a blog? Of course, his most interesting story is one reason. The Turkish newspaper called him a "Texas Gangster" and that is a second reason, for using him as an illustration of what kind of misinformation one can find in research. But the most important reason is that earlier this week, I got an e-mail from Paul Garrity, a friend who is posting information on www.findagrave.com. He knew I had lived in Istanbul and thought I might be interested to know that in Montecito Cemetery in Colton, California, there is a tombstone that says the deceased died in Istanbul. The name on the stone? Yep. Gary Ralph Bouldin.

All I can say is: research never ends.

WALKING A CEMETERY

When Jerry and I moved to Istanbul in 1991, I had to leave my own genealogy research behind. Little did I know, however, that I would find in Istanbul a project that would take close to five years to complete but then continue via the internet to this day. That it impacted my life and my research is an understatement.

We arrived in Istanbul in June, and in September I was at a meeting where the American Consul General gave a talk in which he mentioned what he called "the American Cemetery." My genealogical antennae stood straight up, and I later found out from him that it really was the "Protestant" cemetery that in 1857 had been given by the Sultan to the 7 existing protestant powers - Prussia, Great Britain, the US, Netherlands, Sweden, Norway, Denmark and the Hanseatic Cities. Each of these nations had a section of the cemetery. Upon going to see the American Section of this cemetery and finding absolutely amazing information written on many of the stones, I decided that while I couldn't do my own research, I surely could copy all the information from these tombstones and put it in some kind of form where it wouldn't be lost.

That form ended up being a book, shown above, which I donated to various major repositories that genealogical researchers might look in, as well as posting it on the Internet. In the years since that time, I've been contacted by many people who have discovered their ancestors in that cemetery. And still, I probably receive one request every two months for additional information.

When I made known to the American community in Istanbul what I would be doing, all the long-term residents asked me to keep my eye out for information on the American Hippy who was killed in a shoot-out with the Turkish police. I did not find a tombstone for this fellow, but eventually I found an entry in the Record book at the Union Church (Dutch Chapel) that told a story and started me off on a fascinating discovery. I think it will take me two days worth of blogs to tell this most interesting story.

First, from the Record book:

BOULDIN, GARY RALPH
“b 1935, California. Buried 3 Jan 1969. An alleged “gangster” and smuggler who was being questioned about a stolen car in which he and his girl companion were driving. Dope and LSD were found in their possession. Gary decided to break away and in doing so shot and killed two policemen and two civilians. He was then gunned down after a chase. Brief ceremony of committal was held Friday, 3 Jan 1969 at Protestant Cemetery, Feriköy, Istanbul. Dr. Perry Avery presided and four consular officials from the American Consulate were present.”

Next, gathered from the Turkish newspaper Hurriyet, December 29, 1968.

The article in Turkish newspaper reports that on the day previous (Dec. 28), Bouldin was arrested near Taksim driving a car with Milan, Italy license plates. With him was his girlfriend, Patricia Ann Seeds. He was taken to the police station in Karaköy next to the Liman Lokantasi (Restaurant) to be interrogated. Since it was a Saturday, a full complement of police officers was not on duty. Bouldin drew a gun and shot two policemen. He then ran into a lavatory, locked the door behind him and jumped through the window, landing on the terrace of the restaurant. He entered the kitchen, and after confronting an employee, shot him. In the meantime, the injured policeman were taken to the hospital. Other police were called in and they surrounded the restaurant. The newspaper reported that 1,000 policemen were on site. Upon learning that one of the injured policemen had died, they swore to capture Bouldin. The ensuing shoot-out in the restaurant ended with five dead, including Bouldin, policemen and restaurant patrons. Three were injured.

Immediately after the shoot-out ended, anger ran so high that the police determined to lynch the girlfriend. However, after acknowledging that she had no part in the shooting, they desisted. Officials from the American Consul were called in, along with some American detectives who had been on Bouldin’s trail. It was learned that Bouldin was from Los Angeles, California and had an ex-wife and two sons living there. The body was unclaimed and it was buried at the Protestant Cemetery.

TO BE CONTINUED

THE ART OF MISUNDERSTANDING

Our time in Turkey, while it was probably the best time in our lives, was also one of the most confusing. We, of course, mostly were the cause of the confusion because we were the guests and we couldn't speak the language. When we did meet up with a Turkish person who seemed to understand English, more often than not we made an assumption that we were understood, when in fact, the person we were talking too probably was too embarrassed to say they really didn't understand us at all.

When we arrived, we had the task of furnishing our flat, right down to the washcloths and bedclothes. One day in my hunt for something to dress up the living room a bit, I found a 12” high clear glass oval-shaped vase that I figured would look nice with a dried-flower arrangement it in. Near Jerry's office there was a small shop with home decorations in it, including such flower arrangments. When I took my vase to them, I asked if they could make an arrangement for it. The clerk I spoke to answered me in English and I told her what colors I would like to use. She said she could do it and I could pick it up in a week. One week later I was told it would take an additional week.

On that day, I asked Ahmet Bey, our driver, if he could pick up the arrangment for me, as I had to go over into the old part of Istanbul to a luncheon for new American arrivals in the city. He said he could do that, and later that day when he brought my husband home from work, he handed me the vase and arrangement. I waited until he left before I burst into laughter. Almost the entire arrangement was inside the vase. A few long dried leaves and stems peeked over the top, but for all intents and purposes it could almost have been a terrarium. I had been sure that since both the woman in the shop and I spoke English we understood each other, but obviously we didn’t. I saw no other "terrarium" type arrangements in her shop, so I'm inclined to believe that this is what she thought I wanted. Throughout the 22 months we were in Turkey, I kept it on display just as it came to me. It was a perfect example of how difficult not speaking the native's language can be.

In getting our house furnished we kept running into very difficult problems. As an example, with our bedspread came two 57cm square pillow cases. I hunted in every shop in town to find 57 cm pillows to go inside them, but to no avail. At the time, there just weren't pre-made, pre-sized pillows. So when it was time to have living room curtains made a man who owned a curtain shop arrived to take measurements so his wife could make them. The fellow and I spoke in English. I showed him my empty pillow cases and asked if his wife could make pillows for them. He said she could. I thought we understood each other. When the curtains were delivered, I got two more pillow cases, this time out of the same material as the drapes. So then I had to find four pillows. I never did find a Turkish pillow. I brought some back with me on the plane after a trip to England for our cousin's son's Bar Mitzvah.

One time we had a screen door put on the back balcony of our 6th floor flat. When the workmen finished it, the handle of the balcony door projected so far out that when you closed that door, it pushed the screen door open. That made the screen door flap and rattle whenever the wind blew (which at 6 stories high a block off the Marmara Sea is all the time.) We had a new water faucet put in the kitchen; the only problem is that the plumber crossed the pipes so that the hot water came out of the cold-water side. Considering it took us over two months to even find a plumber, we decided not to try to have it corrected. We just adapted. We had a new ball put in the toilet tank and then had to have a new tank cover made in order for the new "guts" to stop the water from running.

Another day we went out with Ahmet on errands and finally, after almost a year of looking, I found a plastic squeeze-bottle which I intended to fill with liquid soap and use when I had just a few dishes to wash. We found it in a shop about as far away from where we live as could be possible and still be in Istanbul. After getting home I filled it, only to find that it was not sealed properly on the bottom and leaked like a sieve.

Lest you think we were complaining, we were not. Well, sometimes we grumbled a bit, but if everything had worked just as efficiently as it does in the United States, we would not have had anywhere near so much fun! We laughed all the time, sometimes at Turkish ways, sometimes at circumstances but mostly at ourselves! Here, almost 18 years after being in Turkey, we still remember with fondness and glee our time there.

BEST LITTLE RESTAURANT IN TOWN

One of our favorite places in Istanbul to have lunch -- well, I should say our "very" favorite place -- was along the Bosphorus at the foot of a darling little town called Kuzguncuk. If you follow this road up the hill a bit you will come to a very old Sephardic Jewish temple, closed now for lack of a congregation, but preserved in pristine form for future re-opening or, for lucky people like us a quick walk-through to see all the treasures inside. This town originally had a very high percentage of resident Jews, and still has some but hardly enough for a minyan.

On the Bosphorus sits our favorite restaurant, Ismet Baba. It is a fish restaurant, and the tourists rarely know about it. There is nothing pretentious about the place, but the food is absolutely exquisite.


We saved our Saturdays for doing errands while Semra, the sweet young woman who was the "super's" wife and lived in the basement of our apartment, would clean our flat from top to bottom. Ahmet, our driver, would pick us up about 9 a.m. and we'd be off, mostly for errands but sometimes for a bit of sightseeing too. At 1 p.m. we would always find ourselves at Ismet Baba having a wonderful round of mezze before we tackled an exceptionally fresh fish or, on occasion, a succulent piece of lamb. With this we always had a glass of the Turkish raki (pronounced Rah-kuh), the equivalent of Greek Ouzo or middle-eastern Arak.

We always ended up with a dessert that was under a sign that said "Formul" so we called it that. We never learned that Formul meant anything other than "formula," which of course didn't make any sense to us, but then there was a lot we didn't understand! Formul was made by placing banana slices on a plate, loading a big dollop of kaymak (a non-sweet whipped cream, sometimes made of Water buffalo milk) on top the bananas, scattering some chopped nuts over the top and then drizzling the whole thing generously with "bal" - honey. As simple as it was, it was absolutely delicious and we always ended our meal with formul.

But there was another reason why we liked this particular restaurant.

The view was simply stupendous! We were on the Asian side of Istanbul and we could look out at the European side. The main part of the city was off to the left side of the picture, and what we were looking at were camiis (mosques), apartments and lovely expensive houses. And of course we could watch the huge oil tankers navigating carefully down the Bosphorus from the Black Sea. There were also ferry boats, fishing boats and boats loaded with tourists. Living in Istanbul put us on each of those boats from time to time, but from Ismet Baba we could kick back with our raki and enjoy the whole afternoon if we wished.

Since Ahmet was always with us, he did all the speaking and ordering, at least until I learned enough Turkish to make myself understood. These fellows were are regular waiters; as I recall, the man on the left was the manager (or maybe he was Ismet himself!). All I know is that they took very good care of us.

One day we went to Ismet Baba and midway through lunch our waiter (neither of the above but someone we hadn't seen before) disappeared. We were told by the waiter who replaced him that he didn’t like people who drank (Ahmet and I had ouzo and Jer a martini) so he went to the mosque to pray. While we thought that was pretty funny, at least he had the strength of his convictions, which I had to appreciate. But that wasn't the only thing that went wrong that day. As usual, I ordered Formul. I waited ever so long for them to bring it (Milking the water buffalo, maybe?) and when it came, there was no kaymak. “Finished,” they said. (Which is what all the semi-English speaking Turks say when they are out of something.)

To this day, when one of us asks if we have something in the house and it has been used up, the person being asked will reply "Finished!" And we get a good laugh -- and we remember how much fun we had at Ismet Baba, even when the waiter and the kaymak were "finished."

And now just a point of information. We lived in Istanbul in 1991 and 1992. Who knows if Ismet Baba is still there? Not me! Things have changed a lot, I hear.

THE CIRCUMCISION BOY

Shortly after we arrived in Turkey we noticed a little fellow in what we thought was a “band uniform” standing on the street corner with an older man, probably his dad. The little guy, who appeared to be 6 or 7, was wearing a satin uniform with a fancy cape and hat; to us, it looked like maybe what a drum major would be wearing. Within the next couple of months we saw several other boys wearing similar outfits. Needless to say, we were very puzzled.

Finally we learned that these young boys, who soon were to be circumcised, were participating in a tradition unlike anything we have in our country. In Turkey, boys are usually circumcised somewhere between the ages of 2 and 12, and the family plans a big ceremony and feast to honor this event. Family, friends and neighbors are all invited. All bring presents, which are placed on the boy’s bed in his room, which has been festively decorated. The boy wears a special costume that consist of a suit, a cape, a scepter, a sash and a special hat with the Turkish word “Mashallah” on it, which means “What wonders Allah has willed” or “God preserve him” or “Wonderful!”

When the boys appear in costume on the streets, the onlookers know what is going to be taking place – which actually is considered a step to manhood for the little fellow – and good wishes and coins are often given by passersby. On the morning of the event, the children of all the guests are taken for a tour in cars or, if they are in a rural area, on horseback or in carts. A group of musicians follow this “parade,” making happy music.

Eventually the boy is brought into his special room, circumcised usually by a surgeon, and to ease his pain there are music, jokes, and lots of presents to open. Words from the Koran are read, and the feast of wonderful Turkish food begins.

Why do I tell you all this? Because I have a darling little 5-year old great-grandson who is shortly to be circumcised. And in thinking of the pain he will be going through, it reminded me that Turkish boys can expect lots of gifts to help ease the pain, so I have decided to find a really good gift for my little guy. I can’t do much, but at least I can do something!

And who is this little fellow? It’s little Tyler, who actually doesn’t look like this anymore, but this picture of him in HIS costume was so cute I just had to use it!

***
A special thanks to Serif Yenen in Istanbul for the use of the circumcision photo. If you are ever lucky enough to plan a trip to Turkey, use this fellow’s travel service for help and good advice.

http://www.serifyenen.com/