8.7.25
What games did you play as a child?
🌆 What Were the Streets Like in Kayseri Years Ago?
When I was a child, the world was a very different place—especially in my hometown, Kayseri, Turkey. We didn’t have smartphones, tablets, or the internet everywhere like you do now. Streets back then were noisy, full of life, and filled with the laughter and shouts of children. Today, those same streets are mostly empty and quiet. Kids now spend most of their time indoors, playing on phones and computers.
But back in my day, especially during the summer, once the midday heat faded and the cooler evening breeze rolled in, the streets would come alive. You’d hear children shouting to each other, mothers calling their kids home. If someone was missing, we’d just shout louder:
“Ahmettttttt!” — No answer.
“Ameeeeeet!” — Still no reply.
We’d call again and again until we found each other.
The sound of football bouncing off the pavement was everywhere. We played all kinds of games:
- Hide and seek
- Dodgeball
- “Met” – a local game with a stick and object
- Rolling tyres with a stick
Almost every boy had a tyre to roll. Girls usually didn’t play that one. They preferred skipping rope or joined us in hide and seek or dodgeball.
Of course, kids today still play team games. But the feeling of street culture has faded. You rarely hear the joyful noise of children in alleyways after sunset. Streets have become quiet. Sports have moved into gyms, stadiums, and official clubs. Maybe that’s how it had to be.
Still, I sometimes miss the old days. Because somehow... we were happier.
🗨️ What about you?
What games did you play as a child?
Were your streets ever filled with laughter and adventure too?
Genetics & Biology Practice Test
🧬 Genetics & Biology Practice Test
Instructions: Choose the correct answer for each multiple-choice question below.
- Which blood group contains only the A antigen in the blood?
- A) AB
- B) O
- C) A
- D) C
- E) B
- Which of the following genotypes is homozygous?
- A) Ab
- B) AB
- C) AA
- D) Ac
- E) Aa
- In peas, purple flower color (M) is dominant over white (m). What is the probability of white flowers when two heterozygous purple flowers are crossed?
- A) 1/8
- B) 1/4
- C) 1/2
- D) 1/16
- E) 1
- How many types of gametes can be formed by an individual with the genotype Aabbcc?
- A) 4
- B) 1
- C) 16
- D) 8
- E) 2
- For which of the following blood phenotypes is the genotype definitely known?
- A) O Rh(+)
- B) A Rh(+)
- C) B Rh(-)
- D) O Rh(-)
- E) A Rh(-)
- Which of the following is an example of reproduction via a runner (creeping stem)?
- A) Strawberry
- B) Onion
- C) Potato
- D) Grape
- E) Ginger
- Which definition is not correctly matched with an option?
- A) Genotype
- B) Dominant gene
- C) Allele
- D) Gene
- E) Recessive gene
- A person with anti-B antibodies cannot have which blood groups?
- A) I and IV
- B) II and IV
- C) II and III
- D) III and IV
- E) I and II
- How many types of gametes can an individual with the genotype AaBbcc form?
- A) 2
- B) 4
- C) 16
- D) 8
- E) 1
- What is the name of the process where a dominant phenotype is tested by crossing with a recessive?
- A) Random cross
- B) Dihybrid cross
- C) Test cross
- D) Trihybrid cross
- E) Monohybrid cross
📝 Answer Key
1) C 2) C 3) B 4) E 5) D 6) A 7) D 8) B 9) B 10) C
This test is prepared for educational purposes. You may share your answers or thoughts in the comments below.
A Childhood Tale from Simpler Times
🪰 The Fly Shepherd: A Childhood Tale from Simpler Times
📼 Back when phones had cords and flies had strings…
Once upon a time—long before smartphones, tablets, or even home computers—kids like me spent their days outside. We didn't have screens to keep us entertained, so we invented our own games in the streets. And somehow, someway… I ended up becoming a fly shepherd.
🐜 My Early Days in Ant Observation
It started innocently enough. I was fascinated by ants.
I’d sit near their nests and watch as they carried pebbles, searched for crumbs, and ran in busy little patterns. But just watching wasn’t enough—I ran experiments too. I’d place injured flies at the mouth of the ant hill just to see how the ants would react. Sometimes I clipped a wing. Sometimes all their legs. I’d try large flies, small flies. A miniature gladiator arena unfolded in the dust, and I was the spectator.
🧵 Taming the Flies
Eventually, I got bored with ants and turned my attention to the flies buzzing around the house. They were everywhere, annoying everyone. I figured—why not give them a purpose?
So I began capturing them carefully, without harming them. Then came my genius plan: I tied sewing thread around their legs so I could control them like kites. The only problem? Regular houseflies weren’t strong enough to lift the thread. They buzzed, wobbled, hovered—but never soared.
That’s when I discovered horseflies.
🪰 Enter the Horsefly
Larger, stronger, and far more aerodynamic—horseflies were the ultimate flying pet. I caught one, tied a string to its leg, and voilà! It flew. Not too fast (thanks to the string), but just enough for me to “walk” it like a tiny, winged dog.
I was delighted. I fed it grapes. I watched it hover at the end of its leash. And I realized—I was no longer just a kid. I was a fly shepherd.
👯♂️ Two Flies, One String
As any ambitious shepherd does, I expanded my flock. I caught another horsefly, tied it up, and then a mischievous idea struck me: What if I tied the two flies together?
I did exactly that. The result? A hilarious, chaotic scene. The two flies spun around one another like a homemade helicopter, orbiting each other while barely making forward progress. But they flew. And I laughed.
🏃♀️ The Great Fly Chase
One sunny afternoon, I sat on the curb with my twin-fly contraption. The neighborhood was quiet, the sky was clear, and I was enjoying the calm—until two girls walked by, licking ice cream and chatting away.
When they got closer, the flies suddenly took off—spinning, buzzing, and heading straight toward the girls.
From their perspective? A mysterious, whirring object flying at them. They froze. Squinted. Tried to make sense of it. Then: screams. They bolted in opposite directions, ice cream forgotten, fleeing from the tiny beast I had unleashed.
And me? I just sat there, watching the whole thing unfold. Didn’t even move. What was I supposed to say?
“Don’t worry! It’s okay! Those are just my horseflies. I tied them together with string!”
Yeah… I stayed quiet.
🧒 The End of an Era (But Not the Imagination)
Looking back, that summer was one of my favorites. No technology, no filters—just imagination, thread, and a couple of confused insects. We created our fun. We made memories. And in my case, I became a shepherd of creatures no one thought needed shepherding.
Have a weird childhood story too? Share it in the comments! Or maybe... you’ve secretly raised flying pets before? 🪰
Snails in the Cemetery
Snails in the Cemetery
As with every eve of a religious holiday, we were going to visit the cemetery. Back then, power outages were a regular part of life. Since the kerosene lamp on the wall had run out of fuel, we were planning to stop by the gas station to buy kerosene on the way back from the cemetery. On the eve of holidays in our area—Kayseri—city buses going to the main cemetery were free of charge. And those cemetery buses were always so crowded—completely packed.
At that time, I was just a little child. I was going with my mother and my sister, who was two years older than me. We took the kerosene can and a few water containers to fill the small basins on the graves. We placed everything in a thick plastic shopping bag. My friend and neighbor, Mustafa, who was my age, got permission from his mother and joined our little group.
Back then, our biggest pastime outside of school was playing street games with neighborhood friends. We lived in a relatively poor neighborhood, and opportunities were limited. That’s why the free buses made it possible for Mustafa to come with us. We used to get happy over such small things.
Our house was in one of Kayseri’s old neighborhoods. The bus stop, where the cemetery buses departed from, was in Kiçikapı, not far from our home. The old stone-paved streets—some narrow, some wide—were our playgrounds. We would trip and fall over the uneven stones while running, cry, get up again, and learn from the streets. After walking through these streets, we arrived at the bus stop. One of those old but friendly-looking buses pulled up. As soon as the door opened, we rushed in from the back door ahead of the crowd. In minutes, the bus was packed, and the doors shut. The driver started the engine, and the bus shook as it began to move. We were on our way to the cemetery, watching outside curiously, talking excitedly, full of childlike joy. Although it was a short ride, it felt like a long journey to our young minds.
We got off at the first gate of the city cemetery. That’s where my mother’s father—my grandfather—was buried. My grandfather, known as Barber Mehmet, loved me very much. After injuring his hand and no longer being able to hold scissors, he left barbering and did various jobs: running a coffeehouse, a grocery store. He was a well-liked man. He would call out to random strangers, “Hey, Reşit! Come have some tea!” even if he didn’t know their name. Before he passed away, he was working as a guard at a construction site in Erkilet. One of the unfinished apartments there was his home. He had a dog named Karabaş. He got sick in that house, was hospitalized, and passed away. He loved me dearly, and I would turn his love into toys. Now, we were going with my mom to visit his eternal home.
We entered the cemetery through the main gate and filled our water containers from the fountains. Then we started walking toward his grave. Being so young, we didn’t associate the cemetery with death. It felt more like an interesting place to explore. Massive marble tombs with inscriptions, family burial plots, individual graves, some without even a headstone. Graves decorated with roses, violets, carnations, or overgrown with weeds. Who were these people? Maybe some were well-known and respected figures; maybe others were just ordinary folk.
My grandfather’s grave was a bit far from the entrance—maybe 150–200 meters away. We turned from the main path into smaller ones, shaded by large pine trees, and walked through narrow cemetery lanes. Just as we were about to turn into one more path, I saw a large snail shell by the edge of a grave wall. It had beautiful brown patterns, spiral curves—truly eye-catching. I bent down and picked it up. It was so pretty. I showed it to Mustafa; he liked it too. My sister and mom also admired it. I thought anyone who saw it would find it beautiful. I put the shell into our plastic bag to take it home.
A few steps later—another snail shell! This one was lighter in color. Different patterns again. Mustafa found a bigger one on the left.
The patterns on their shells were also fascinating. Mustafa found another one on the left side of the path. This one was even bigger; we couldn’t leave it behind. My sister spotted another one with light brown spots resting on a gravestone. These things were just beautiful. Mustafa, my sister, and I kept collecting shells from all directions. One snail shell after another, we threw them into the shopping bag where the kerosene container was. Before we even reached my grandfather's grave, we had gathered twenty or thirty snail shells. I think we had found our little game. By the time we got there, nearly every snail shell along the way was inside our bag.
We finally reached my grandfather's grave. As we arrived, my mother greeted the grave with a prayer. After her recitation, she would start talking to the deceased, her father who had passed on to the next world. She would tell him she brought his grandchildren, assure him we were all well, and comfort the dead, saying that we would all one day join them. We would join our mother in prayer and then dedicate those prayers to the souls of all those who had passed away.
We watered the grave, filling the troughs beneath the marble headstone with water, hoping birds and animals would drink from them and that it would be a blessing for the departed. We didn’t forget to pick a few more shells around the grave. Then, after saying our farewells to the world beyond, we retraced our steps. As on every holiday eve, the cemetery was full of visitors. People were praying, reciting the Qur’an, standing in silence by loved ones’ graves. We walked the cemetery’s paths and alleyways. Exiting through the main gate, we reached the bus stops.
The stops were crowded with people waiting to return home after their visit. The buses coming from other cemetery gates were already full. Some didn’t even stop due to being packed to capacity. People rushed to board any bus that did stop, and doors barely managed to close. After letting three or four buses pass, two came one after the other. We finally managed to squeeze onto the second one. It was packed wall-to-wall, but eventually, we made it back to the city center and got off at the Düvenönü stop.
I vaguely remember now—back then, there used to be a gas station in front of the city walls at Düvenönü. We planned to get kerosene there and then walk home. It wasn’t far anyway.
After getting off the bus, we started walking toward the station. We crossed the street. At a suitable spot, we opened the bag to take out the kerosene container and—Oh my God! What was this? All the snails we had picked and thrown into the bag had come out of their shells during the bus ride. Carrying their spiral homes like backpacks, they had spread out all over the inside of the plastic bag. They were slowly crawling in every direction, their antennae gently scanning their surroundings. The four of us stood in amazement, staring at the snails in the bag. Once our shock passed, we burst out laughing. I guess we had never imagined that these shells might still be alive. That was probably what surprised us most.
My mother handed me the container and told Mustafa and me to go get the kerosene. She and my sister would wait at the corner. We would then walk home.
We reached the gas station. We told the attendant we needed kerosene and handed him the container. He took the container, opened the lid, and paused—he was staring into the opening. Then he looked up at us. Two small boys standing in front of him, completely unaware. He turned the lid toward us and asked, “What’s this?” We looked inside—and there it was! One of our snail friends had poked its head out, waving its eye-stalks like it was greeting us.
Mustafa and I locked eyes and immediately burst out laughing—we just couldn’t stop. The gas station guy also laughed. Maybe he was just enjoying our laughter. As our snail friend was gently sent flying toward the grass, we were still giggling. We finally got the kerosene, told the story to my mother and sister waiting at the corner, and continued laughing together all the way home.