Happy Days

When children grow up, they remember not their toys, but how we made them feel.

I cannot recall many memories from my own childhood. Perhaps that is why, ever since becoming a mother, I have tried to leave small but meaningful memories that my daughter will recall with a smile years later. I believe the most precious inheritance we can give a child is not only what they own, but the good feelings we have shared.

This is one of those memories…

My daughter was only four, attending nursery school. One day, her teacher said they were planning a parent-participation activity. Each parent would prepare something with their child and share it in the classroom. A gentle excitement began to build. The list was taking shape: one child would bake biscuits with a grandmother, another would make yoghurt with a mother. Some would plant flowers in a pot; others would prepare a small craft. Perhaps someone would tell a story or lead an experiment. Everyone was planning something from their own world to share with their child.

We kept thinking, unable to decide what to do. Then, unexpectedly, an idea met us at a recital. It was not really waiting there ready-made; we found it as we listened. Sometimes you cannot force an idea into being. A tiny moment in life opens a door in your mind. By the time we left the recital, my daughter and I knew what we would do. Inspiration sometimes arrives where you least expect it.

At the time, my daughter attended an Orff course at TOBAV in İzmir, associated with the State Theatres, Opera and Ballet. She worked with instruments, played rhythm games, sang and explored music through movement. Seeing how naturally music entered children's worlds made me happy too.

One day after the course, we went to a recital together. We did not yet know that day would open a new window in our lives. The ney musician Tugay Başar was on stage.

We entered the hall a little noisily just before it began. The rustling chocolate wrapper in our hands broke the silence. While I tried to quieten it, childhood was reminding us not to be silent, but to be in the moment.

Tugay Başar turned towards us from the stage with a smile.

‘Welcome.’

That tiny sentence turned our embarrassment into a warm smile in an instant.

Then an entirely different silence filled the hall. This time, we were greeted not by words, but by music.

With the first breath, the ney rose into sound. It seemed to whisper again an old story told for centuries. There was sadness in it, but not the kind that weighs you down. It lightened the heart and gently invited you inwards…

Then another breath joined it. An instrument whose name I had never heard before: the oboe.

The oboe, I later learnt, is among the wind instruments closest to the human voice. I did not know this that day; I was simply listening. Looking back, I understand why it felt so familiar. It seemed to put the ney's story into words and complete its feeling. One carried the silence of the soul, the other the voice of the heart.

After the recital, we had a chance to meet Tugay Başar in the foyer. A lovely conversation about his album Yolun Kıyısında followed. Somewhere in that conversation, an idea came to me.

‘Would you consider coming to our classroom as a guest artist?’

Sometimes the loveliest ideas are born not at the end of long plans, but in the middle of sincere conversations.

He very kindly accepted our invitation.

It was genuinely difficult to describe my excitement.

Now we knew what our activity would be.

Tugay Başar would be our classroom guest. He would make music with the children and explore rhythm, and at the end everyone would design their own maraca.

But first we had a small surprise. Before the event, my daughter and I made exactly twenty-seven colourful tambourines: one for each child, our teacher, our guest artist and ourselves. We cut circles from thick card and divided each into seven equal sections. We coloured the notes Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La and Si in different colours, then added tiny bells around the edges. The children could keep a rhythm and remember the notes through colour. For days, our table was covered with coloured paper, pencils, scissors and bells. First we prepared our instruments. Then we chose the song we would sing together.

We chose ‘Do-Re-Mi’. My daughter and I loved singing it, and even playing it together on the piano.

Do… an ice-cream cone…
Re… a bright blue stream…
Mi… a ship at sea…
Fa… a sailor on the ship…
Sol… a path lined with daisies…
La… a drop of sunshine…
Si… Ayşe's cat…
And now once more: Sol, Mi, Do…

When the day came, our classroom became a little music festival. First we welcomed our guest. We arranged the chairs in a circle and handed out our colourful tambourines one by one. Seeing the curiosity in the children's eyes made everything worthwhile.

On one side, the ney, whose voice has touched the human soul for centuries…

On the other, the colourful tambourines my daughter and I had so carefully made…

They met in the same classroom, in the same song.

We sang the song from The Sound of Music together. The ney accompanied us. The children kept the rhythm. In that moment, even the classroom walls seemed to smile.

For the second part of the activity, we put coloured paper, pencils, glue, empty plastic water bottles, glitter, beads, coloured thread, rice, lentils and beans on the tables.

Now it was the children's turn.

Everyone designed a maraca. This cheerful rhythm instrument, rattling as its small contents shook, quickly became the classroom favourite.

We had used the same materials, but no two maracas looked alike.

Some were full of colour…

Some sparkled with glitter…

Some were decorated with beads…

Each carried the imagination of the child who had made it. Perhaps that was one of the loveliest things about children.

Even with the same materials, they could find their own voices.

By the end, my voice was hoarse with excitement, but I felt an indescribable happiness. The children had not only made music; they had experienced the joy of creating together, sharing and meeting in the same rhythm.

Having my daughter beside me that day, thinking through every detail and making things together, brought me a happiness I cannot describe. Watching her excitement, I admired her all over again.

At the end, we all applauded one another.

Looking back today, I think…

We were applauding more than a successful activity. We were applauding time spent together and shared effort.

A small but precious day, placed lovingly in a child's memory.

I do not know how my daughter will remember it years from now.

Perhaps the twenty-seven colourful tambourines we made together…

Perhaps the song we all sang…

Perhaps the sound of the ney reaching deep inside…

Perhaps none of the details…

Time gently erases details. But it leaves feelings.

My only wish is that, when she returns to her childhood years later, a warm feeling rises within her. Perhaps she will think, ‘The days I spent with Mum were lovely.’ Perhaps the feeling of creating, laughing, being surprised and finding happiness in small things together will remain…

Then I will understand that what we did that day was not merely a school activity. It was a small childhood memory, quietly placed in a child's heart, to be remembered with a smile even years later.

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