Starts with K
About seven years after we got married, my husband took a job that took him away from home for about eight months out of the year.
I’m only sort of joking when I tell people it’s why we’ve been married for 22 years.
Russ was a pilot when we met; he flew airplanes with skydivers, mostly, but was instrument-rated to fly several types of aircraft.
It only makes sense, then, that he would want to fly hot air balloons, which have no steering wheel, no brakes and very few instruments, right?
He worked hard at the craft, and quickly racked up hundreds of hours of flight time.
In 2010, he spotted an ad in the back of a pilots magazine; a hot air balloon company in Turkey was looking for pilots.
In Turkey.
He flew over for an interview, was hired, and spent the next few months back home learning Turkish and explaining the intricacies of furnace filters and weed whackers to me.
Russ spent eight months in Turkey in 2011, 10 months in 2012 and another 10 months in 2013.
My last son went off to college after the first year, leaving me well and truly alone.
I didn’t hate it. Russ would call me from a pay phone at 4:30 a.m. on his way to work; it was about 8:30 p.m. of the previous day in Minnesota.
He lived in a very remote village in Cappadocia; using a cell phone or Skype was not possible, so we made do.
The length of our conversations varied, but I always said two things, no matter what:
“What’s tomorrow like?” and “No dying today, please.”
As I write this, it seems morbid, but we are nothing if not realists.
But the best part of his job in Turkey was my annual trip to see him. I would spend about three weeks there, because the jet lag was no joke.
In 2011, I arrived in Turkey on Aug. 1, dizzy with excitement and exhaustion.
On Aug. 2, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. to the sound of … yelling? Chanting? Singing?
I wasn’t sure, but there was no mistaking the drum beat that accompanied it.
Russ and I knelt on the bed and looked out the window, open to the warm night air.
And soon, there he was. A lone man, wearing a white shirt, a vest and baggy pants, running through the streets, singing and drumming as he ran.
We learned soon enough that it was Ramadan, the holiest month of the Islamic calendar, observed by Muslims around the world as a 30-day period of fasting, prayer and reflection.
The drummer’s job was to awaken the people of the city so they can have a meal before sunrise; observers abstain from food and drink from dawn to sunset. Children, pregnant women, the sick or elderly are exempt.
Russ and I became enmeshed in the holiday, waking up to our drummer, then listening as our neighbors cooked and feasted late into the night, once the sun had set.
When I tell you it was lovely, I mean it.
The neighbors would often bring us a heaping tray of the food they had prepared – though we had been eating as usual. It was full of kebabs, lamb stew, stuffed grape leaves, cheeses and baklava.
Turkey is almost exclusively Muslim, and Ramadan offered us a fascinating glimpse into the religion.
Russ’s coworkers included him in their traditions, from weddings to funerals; when our son-in-law died unexpectedly while Russ was in Turkey, his employer created huge banners with Matt’s face and name, and the pilots attached them to their baskets when they flew. It was their way of honoring him – and Russ.
It remains my favorite place I’ve ever visited, and I think of our time there often.
This year, Ramadan ended the day I wrote this column.
Eid Mubarak to all who celebrate.