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While I was still in Turkey, one of my students asked me in one breath what I do and why I was there. Even as a double, it’s a normal question, but I had been answering it all day, and rather boringly, I might add. So, to this genuinely interested younger person, I replied that I always tried to do interesting things. Sometimes I even succeed. I listed my most recent “jobs” which include a stint in Afghanistan as a cultural researcher and several years as an administrator/professor in a university leadership institute. There were nods and a collective vaaaay. That’s Turkish for wwwoww. I was confused. Up until that point, I have been relatively unimpressed with my interesting, but inconsistent and less than lucrative career history. It certainly doesn’t help me when I apply for other positions (No matter how many times the average person changes jobs. Who wants to be average?)

Before I could say anything (not that I had anything good to say here), another student said, “So, you’re sort of a freelance, yes?” Nods all around. Well, I said, feeling terra firma under me again, “Yes. That’s exactly what I am. A freelance. This gun for hire!” Only a few of them were fans of Westerns, so I had to explain the reference, and we moved on to discuss American movies.

Since that moment I have taken that student’s assessment to heart. Another friend here in the US put it more succinctly when she stated that she had great faith that I would find something “good” soon. “I mean you seem pretty motivated and dedicated to your career and such.” Later in that same conversation she also said that she thinks I am a genius. As is often the case, the truth in both of these instances is somewhere in the middle. I hate to be bored, and I’m no dummy.

There are just so many interesting possibilities (and realities) out there, but sadly, it just isn’t the thing to be seen  gadding about trying them all- even if you end up being good at some of them. I love the word dilettante and use it often when I can’t get the sarcasm font to work. Yet, contrary to standard definitions (look it up!), my dedication to the things that interest me is far from superficial. I even excel at a few things. So, I have decided to be a Freelance Renaissance Person! This talent for hire!

Being a freelance and living in genteel poverty may sound fun and even cool when you are in your late twenties or even early thirties. However, by the time you reach ____ (more than a few birthdays before my most recent one), I can assure you that there is no charm left to that life. My few readers will know that horses and other animals do not care if you are eating soup from a can for the third night in a row. Horses want food, and they want and need it at regular intervals. As for shoes… one of my horses used to require the equivalent of a high-end pair of Nikes every 5 weeks.

In order to really completely embrace the idea of being a freelance, I also had to do some thinking about more superficial things. Like wrinkles. So many of my friends use Botox that it is no longer novel to me when someone else’s frown lines miraculously disappear (I know, First World problems). Because you know what? Secretly, and now semi-publicly, I am jealous. If I had a few hundred spare dollars every six weeks or so, I would have already worn a path to my doctor’s office and erased the visible evidence that I am less young (on the outside anyway).

Instead, I decry the double standard that gives wrinkles to women and character marks to men. And I still would use Botox if I could afford it. I adore being a girl. No sarcasm font there. I just hate some of the expectations. I also hate that I have some pretty serious frown lines. It’s bad enough being unemployed, ahem, being between gigs, but being expected to have flawless skin at ___ (my age) is just too much. Botox seems such an easy fix to a major insecurity of mine. Or is it?

While I was abroad I  met many men and women who, I assumed, were close to my age. I was mistaken. Often I was off by eight to ten years. These people were younger than I am, but life had been much, much harder on them. I have noticed this in many countries, actually. In most places, the ideals of female beauty, and to a lesser extent, male handsomeness,  are artificially inflated (or deflated depending on body part), but fewer people seem able to gain access to the means of “improvement.”  Folks who “look good” and are over the age of about 35 are pretty rare.

No pictures here. I leave this standard to your own subjective standards.

So, what’s a girl to do? By the way, speaking of double standards, I do come close to violence when people of the male persuasion call me a girl. Anyway… where were we? Oh yes. A person who is less young and more experienced (and more expensive) than lots of folks in a variety of fields, and, ahem, between gigs. Again. The answer sounds easy: get a job. How many of you are job hunting right now? The IRS does not care how talented I am. The unemployment folks assume that in 26 weeks one can find a job, or at least that’s the conclusion that I draw from the time limit they put on your payments. I don’t think that they make Botox strong enough to fully erase the signs of worry induced by the combination of boredom and worry that I am experiencing right now.

Camel wrestling!

It usually takes me a while to process things that I put in my personal “adventure” category, and one of my recent outings is no exception. In brief, I went to see camel wrestling. As for writing about it now… it was either camels or a much more serious topic, and I am in no mood for serious right now. I have spent most of today (over)indulging in an activity that seems to be quite popular on a national scale- much more so than watching a bunch of camels push each other around. I am talking about brunch. There is one at every hotel and restaurant. Furthermore, friends invite friends over to their houses to, well… spend most of the day eating, drinking, and talking. I could get used to that, but then I would have to give up other adventures.

Like camel wrestling.

Pre- Game Festivities

Before the actual event, there was a parade of sorts. Some, but by no means all, of the competitors were led around town then up the hill to city land-fill/camel wrestling grounds.

Walking up- looking down the hill.

Notice all those snazzy orange scarves? They are quite the thing at such an event, and each town has these made in their official colors. Çan chose orange. On with the show!

The best spots go early!

When we got to the top, we found that we were nowhere near as early as we had previously thought. In fact, we were the end of the first wave! People had already staked out the prime hillside spots and were busy setting up their tables and grills. It was some time after 1:00 p.m.

We set out to explore the setting and see the camels who are tethered anywhere their owners see fit to tie them. Who’s going to tell them to move their camel?!

Camel Parking

Last-Minute Preparation

We were soon spotted by the mayor and some other important folks who insisted that we sit in the VIP tent. Who were we to argue? We took our seats just in time to see the final pre-game parade.

Introduction of the First Competitors

After watching the parade, we watched the first match. Two novice wrestlers came out and pushed each other a few times, then the whistle blew. Game over. I was considering asking,”Is that it?” when my friend explained that those two camels were basically clueless and that Turkish people use the phrase “young camel” to refer to such people also. Since the stars wouldn’t compete until later in the afternoon, we decided to walk around. We were also freezing and needed to move around!

Posing with a Celebrity

Breaking Up a Match Between Two Youngsters

Some words about what actually goes on in the ring: Camel wrestling may not be my favorite sporting event, but I am truly glad that I went and will go again if the opportunity presents itself. I must confess that I was a bit concerned about the prospect of watching camels shove each other around. Honestly, it seemed so strange, and maybe even unkind… not like chasing a poor, terrified calf, throwing a rope around its neck, and wrestling it to the ground! (Where is that sarcasm font when I need it?) Anyway, I decided that camel wrestling could have been a lot worse. Most folks were not really waiting as attentively as we were because they were too busy cooking, visiting, betting on the camels, or drinking rakı (and singing), the anise-flavored national drink that is 40-45% alcohol.

The two camels- always males- are led into the ring from opposite sides, preferably at a jog. The don’t really collide; rather, they just seem end up shoulder to shoulder. Like this:

Testing Each Other

This testing and tentative pushing can last for quite a while, but if you look away, you will probably miss something! The match in the photos here lasted for about five minutes, and at one point it seemed like it was over because one camel was “down.” We were all waiting for the whistle.

Watch this!

Then the camel on the left did something totally unexpected- to me anyway. Look at his neck. He put his neck and head down and shoved the other camel off-balance!

A Fast Move

There was some scuffling, and they ended up back in the original shoving posture.

Basic Wrestling Stance

After a few minutes, the whistle blew and the camel with the tricky moves was declared the winner! But wait… the camels didn’t stop pushing! I was told that this is quite common, so men with ropes entered the arena and began to pull. Separating the camels took another five or so minutes.

It ain’t over till it’s over!

By the time the match was over we were all cold as well as hungry. We had not planned a picnic, but no matter. There were plenty of options available for hungry fans who preferred to travel light. Most of the options in the meat category involved camel. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the only meat there was of the camel variety.

Camel BBQ

The sausage is served on delicious, warm, crusty bread with some greens and some spicy sauce. The meat itself is mildly spicy and pretty tasty! See those stacks of green and white plastic tubs that  look like yogurt? Well, it’s ayran- almost yogurt. It’s a drink made of yogurt, water and a bit of salt. Just the thing with many meat dishes over here and quite easy to make yourself.

But wait! The hospitality didn’t end there. In fact, I’m pretty sure that there is no end at all to Turkish hospitality, and that, my dear readers, will require at least another whole article!

A Final Gift

I have always been fascinated by the ways in which people experience and use guilt. Maybe it’s because I raised in a culture that specializes in both emotional self-flagellation as well as the transmission of life lessons through guilt. For example, abstinence from excess is rarely presented as something that is inherently good. Rather, it is something that should be avoided because “you were raised better.”

The guilt with which I am most familiar comes, I think, from a devout attachment to History and Family (not necessarily in that order), and whichever forms of ultra-conservative Protestantism one knows. My non-Protestant friends have also attested to a particular Southern form a guilt; however, my few Southern Jewish friends tell me that Jewish guilt trumps Southern guilt. So be it. Secular Southerners, who were raised better, struggle with the  sisyphean task of freeing themselves and their children from the ties that keep them bound to Family and History.

Some of my favorite Southern authors who have written about this topic are: William Faulkner, Walker Percy, William Alexander Percy, Willie Morris, Eudora Welty, Cormac McCarthy, Ellen Gilchrist, and Rebecca Wells. This list is not even close to complete. I just think of these men and women as some of the heavy hitters in Southern prose. Even here I am fighting the urge to go in and rank them. No! Just read some of them. You really should have done so already by now anyway. By the way, most well-read Southerners not only adore reading, they know instinctively, that willingly accept the responsibility of trying to “know.” I feel guilty when I am not reading!

Before I get wrapped up in a literary discussion, let’s get back to guilt… and cake. Just be patient. You’ll get your dessert after you eat your vegetables which no longer taste good because they aren’t cooked with bacon.

When I went off to college in Nashville, TN, self-proclaimed sophisticates- people from places like New York City, Philadelphia, La Jolla, CA, and even New Mexico (all pretty cool places in their own rights) actually asked me things like,”Do people really go barefooted?” and “Do you have indoor plumbing?” It never occurred to me to call these people idiots or attack the vices that existed in their backyards. I was so amazed that they didn’t know as much (or as little) about me as I did about them. I still felt guilty because, in more cases than anyone wants to admit, the answer to both of these questions was/is, “Yes.” I was raised better than to ask such questions of people whom I barely knew. One evening, Corretta Scott King came to speak at our college. A friend suggested that I go because of my Southern origins, not because it might be intellectually stimulating. I must point out here that guilt doesn’t always work with me. I didn’t go hear Ms. King for the sole reason that someone thought that I should (without really understanding why I should). And I still feel guilty.

Did you like the way I slipped in a few more points before getting down to the sweet stuff? Well, that’s how it goes. By now, if you haven’t just skipped down to the bottom of this post or moved on to Facebook, you may be too frustrated to wonder what I want you to be wondering now, to wit: why are you writing about Southern guilt and cake? Well, now that I’ve planted the question, here is one answer. The two are inextricably linked in my life and, I suspect, in the lives of many of my cultural compatriots also. So, without further ado, I give you Katy Boone’s Caramel Cake. Oh- Katy never used a written recipe. My grandmother wrote this down, and my mother shared it with me in a phone conversation.

CAKE
1 stick of butter                      1 T milk                           1 t vanilla

1 3/4 c flour                          1/2 c Crisco

2 c flour                                  6 eggs

pinch of salt                             1/2 t baking powder

Cream the butter, Crisco, and eggs. Add the sugar, then eggs and milk. Mix and add dry ingredients then vanilla. Bake in two greased, 8 inch cake pans at 350 for 30 minutes or until set.

Who is Katy Boone, you ask? Katy Boone was my grandmother’s cook. Katy Boone saved cookie dough for me and my sister so that we could have a taste. Katy Boone was one of the type of black women the women that insipid movies like The Help tried and failed to portray adequately (I did not read the book. For better and worse, I lived my own version of it which had a lot more shades of grey that I remember in the movie. I hope the book was better.) Katy spent much of her life with us, all of us, but we only knew her when she was with us, not with her own family. Katy Boone was the kind of woman who would go to the trouble to make cookies because a little girl asked for them, or make a cake with the following icing for special occasions like my uncle’s birthday.

ICING

2 1/2 c sugar, divided

1 egg

1 stick of butter

3/4 c milk or half and half

1 t vanilla

Mix 2 c. sugar, egg, butter, and milk in a deep, heavy (that means cast-iron!) skillet. Bring to a boil.

In another heavy skillet, brown the sugar (i.e. cook it slowly over a low fire. STIR, or it will burn.)

When milk mixture boils, add browned sugar. Cook on high until “a bit dropped in cold water makes a soft ball.” (I’m told that a such wonder called a candy thermometer will actually tell you when you have something that qualifies as a “soft ball”)

Add vanilla and let the mixture stand until cool.

Beat until it is of spreadable consistency. “Do not stop to soon or stir too long.” (If you stop too soon, you will get syrup. If you stir it for too long, it will turn to a lump of sugar.)

Guilt free? Not by a long shot. The eggs and butter alone is probably making some of you shudder. I would feel guilty if I shared the recipe without telling you about Katy Boone.

One of the things I remember about Afghanistan is the entourages that followed important people and “leaders” around. I even think I saw the nexus of the current Petraeus debacle; however, I can’t be sure. What I remember clearly- in the instance of more than one star (a general) as well as a small flock of birds (colonels)- was the presence of at least one attractive woman. Sometimes she was a civilian. Sometimes she was in uniform.

I also remember being told that when people downrange see a man and a woman together for more than five minutes, that couple is assumed to be enjoying more than conversation. Before we continue, if you don’t already know this, it’s time that you did: At least on the bigger bases, there is ample time and opportunity for people to enjoy more than conversation. I’m not saying that it’s one big fun house (especially after a 14 hour day), but humans will be humans.

Here’s one more memory that may be helpful to us all as we careen down this slippery slope. Male officers almost always managed- within minutes of making my acquaintance- to do two things. First, they made sure that I knew they were married, happily or otherwise. Then, they asked about my marital status. (I did not wear my rings because I had no wish to lose them. Apparently this was questionable in the eyes of some The decision of some females to wear “fake” rings was equally questionable to them). Anyway, asking my marital status was a just prelude to asking what my husband thought about my deployment.

Yes. They really asked me that. But wait! There’s more! Their reactions to my reply ranged from shock that I was married and that my husband would support such a thing (again, really!) to understanding, and even one apology. However, when I turned the tables and asked how their wives felt about them being deployed, to a man, they all were taken aback. After all, military wives, especially those of officers, are expected to cope with the absence of their spouse. Many of the male officers with whom I came into contact reeked of fear of being caught in a compromising position, so to speak.

This brings us to David Petraeus et al. People were so frustrated with his predecessor, that relief was the predominant feeling in my area when he took over. The fact that COIN’s hearts and minds strategy just wasn’t working was lost on more than one leader then, as now.

When a leader makes rules, the legitimate expectation is that no exceptions will be made when it comes to accountability. Those of us who are more cynical still dare to hope sometimes that if we must force people to be “good” then the consequences of being “bad” will be applied fairly, if not equally. I was just one of a few favored targets of a certain boss bird who really hated the fact that I was his peer and behaved as such, in spite of the fact that he treated me and anyone else who didn’t stroke his feathers, with sarcasm and disrespect. Then he would take me shopping to buy things for his wife.

Once again, our current leaders have failed us. Or have they?

If a person is willing to accept the role of leadership, does that person automatically become subject to a different morality too? Was Petraeus selected to lead in Afghanistan because he didn’t give embarrassing interviews or because he had an idea that worked once before? Or both? Put another way, what, if any, connection is there between an extra-marital affair and the ability to do one’s job? If Petraeus cheated on his wife, would he cheat on his country (as one of my friends put it)? Have I been hurt by his behavior? Have you? Has the world at large?

Quite frankly, I don’t really care about the details of this sordid, (inter?)national drama. I have seen some really “good” people do some really “awful” things and continue to torment themselves long after the public airing of the laundry was over. I also know that most of us have at least one soiled hanky tucked away somewhere that we just can’t get rid of. Our muddled morals and ethics have somehow let us think that it’s OK for us to throw rocks at the glass houses in which we ensconce our leaders.

We are missing the point in this, I think. The more we  learn about our most recently toppled leader, the more evidence I see proving that people with power do stupid things. Leaders are no exception because they have both power and influence. The surprise is that we continue to be shocked by their humanity. Do we really want/need leaders who are “better” than we are? In every way? I do not believe that we can or should have that expectation. I don’t care how far Petraeus or his PT partner could run, or how fast. I do care about his effectiveness as a leader. If, in that assessment, he is found to be lacking because of the incredibly stupid decisions he made in his personal life, then we all deserve to know. Otherwise, shred the evidence. Burn that hanky. Just don’t hit send!

This is the face of a horse who is ready to work with you.

Remember this guy? Gris Gris, the world’s greatest grey Trakehner! At least in my book, and I’m writing this story. In the picture above you see a horse who is at ease, paying attention, and in G2′s case, ready for his next trick (always!).  Before I continue, here’s another picture form our most recent cowboy session.

You say “lope,” I say “canter.”

The picture above shows something I never thought I would see again- G2 cantering under saddle. No bucking. No farting. No squealing. The B-F-S is a move that most horses can do. The elements can be performed in any order, or simultaneously. G2 excelled at it as a form of exuberance as well as a way to let me know that he was hurting.

Right after I took this picture, it was my turn to ride. G2 was most obliging and happy to walk, trot, and canter (walk, jog, lope) whenever and wherever I asked. Yes, I cried.

After weeks of carefully monitored workouts and days off, G2 accepted the fact that he can tote a person around and not be in pain while doing it. His ears were even flopping (a sign of extreme relaxation) like they used to do when we had a really good ride.

“No, you may not stop, drop, and roll. Please walk along.”

Here we are starting some ground work. Gris Gris loves to roll, but we usually do not get to do that until after we work. This next picture shown the early stages of a BFS just because it’s fun. Note my defensive stance!

Go on and get it out of your system!

Well, life and rehabilitation continued. Enter Crocket.

Crockett’s first ride in his new arena. He also packed my husband down the driveway (half a mile of gravel) and back.

Crockett is a mild-mannered, 21 year old Quarter Horse who, I suspect, has been ridden hell-for-leather on more than one occasion. I also suspect that he enjoyed it. He certainly loves to go! However, while I would not call him a packer, he is one of those good old equine souls who seems to know when a novice has been entrusted to him.

During our test ride at Crockett’s previous home, I was cantering around and asked him to go on a circle. I twitched my hand to the left, and we practically did a 180 on the spot! It would have been more fun if I had been expecting it. Husband got on, and Crockett was a different horse. Slow and careful. He came home with us that day.

We did the usual slow, careful introductions over the fence.

Oh yeah?

Everybody was happy with the new kid except Başka, aka El Bastardo these days. When, after a few days, we turned everybody out together, my aloof Spanish horse was having none of it. He chased that poor Quarter Horse from one end of our property to the other scoring some nasty bites along the way. At one point Gris Gris tried to go over and meet New Kid. Well, Başka wasn’t going to share his new victim and kicked poor Gris Gris in the shoulder. We are now back to square one regarding turnout.

I haven’t been able to ride Gris Gris since the day after he got kicked (last week). He was too sore to do anything more than walk, so that’s all we did. Then he got the rest of the week off. Today we worked on the lunge line. He showed only a bit of discomfort that actually lessened as he worked out the kinks.

So… I still don’t have an answer for anyone (including myself) about how far this rehab is going to take Gris Gris. I know he loves the attention, and he likes doing new things. He also enjoys getting to pick his own treat before we head back to the barn.

“This one looks good!”

All in all, I’d say it’s pretty good to be Gris Gris right now. Not sure I can say the same for poor Crockett.

I wrote this sketch while in Afghanistan. I don’t need a picture (not that I would have taken one) because I can still see the scene and faces of those involved as if they are in the same room with me. It seemed appropriate to post this today as we reflect on our lives and how the events of 11 September 2001 shaped who and what we are today.

A few hours before a huge group of us headed to Afghanistan, April 2010.

July 06, 2010, 22:09

Normally the words Marine and beauty are not used in the same breath, or even the same paragraph. One of my dear friends, himself a Marine who deployed in 2001 to Iraq, once told me that Marines use the F bomb like most people use punctuation. Perhaps that is why what I am about to describe makes my heart ache all the more. One day last week I wandered into the MWR/A (Morale, Welfare, Recreation/Activity) Tent to engage in some recreational activity on my computer. For several days KAIA had been overflowing with Marines. They were everywhere you went- the DFAC (dining facility), the gym-DUH, and the MWR/A. They were usually seen in clumps of at least five just talking quietly among themselves. They sunbathed, messed up the showers (at least the female showers- there were females among them), smoked, and drank lots of coffee, but mostly they just walked around looking detached from it all.

Many were quite young- maybe twenty- but I overheard discussions about husbands, wives, and children. Back to my own wanderings… As I entered the upstairs internet area I was stopped by a scene of simplicity, innocence, incongruence, and yes, beauty. Recalling it still brings tears to my eyes. Directly in front of me, about ten feet away were five Marines gathered around a low coffee table. Their average age couldn’t have been twenty-one. One of them looked all of sweet sixteen, emphasis on sweet. At first I thought they were playing a game, but in that split second in which realizations come, I saw that they were working a jigsaw puzzle. They were so peaceful and calm, passing pieces to each other and whispering. Two were perched on the arms of their buddies’ chairs. At a table nearby, a lone Marine was working on another puzzle by himself, but also talking in a near whisper with his buddies.

I stood looking for as long as I dared, then took a seat. It’s best not to stare at Marines for too long. Where were they headed, I wondered. That sort of question is just passing conversation around here, but it seemed wrong to disturb them to find out. I was pretty sure they were headed South- always a safe bet with the Marines in Afghanistan. A week later I learned that some Marines had drowned in a river down south. They were on a routine mission. I wondered if any of the young men I had seen on my base were among those who were lost or who were hurting. Given their location, I knew they probably had no puzzles or time to work them.  I wonder where they are now.