Holly Yoder DeHerrera-Author

From: The Root Cellar Mystery (Middlebury Mysteries Series) Excerpt from book– This is an old recipe brought across the Atlantic, Maam used to say, by our Mennonite ancestors. It is really tasty and travels well, so I bring these in the buggy when we have a full day out at…

Many summers of my childhood in Turkey, we visited Kizkalesi–or as we called it, The Castle in the Sea, and I recall hearing the story of how a princess was hidden there by her father after receiving a warning that she would die by snake bite. In the story, a…

Red and blue patterned rugs, spiraled and ornamented with knots of black Rolled out and stacked high in the center of the room like a floor painting My parents tell Nergiz which patterns and colors they love And the young boy of maybe 9 or 10, gathers each new option,…

I’ve heard the sense of smell is the strongest, like a line that tugs you right back to another moment all jam packed will the feelings from that moment too. I experienced this years ago when I managed to locate a metal spray can of Aqua Net in preparation for…

In Turkey, when I lived there as a little girl, it seemed to my childish mind that everyone and everything smoked.  Men flicked ashes onto the sidewalk outside a spice stand with hues of orange spice like pyramids held in burlap sacks, women in headscarves, taking a break from the…

The palest morning blue sky greets me Gulls gliding over like white m’s, crying against the wind that moans through the shutters of the houses clinging for dear life to the cliff-side The clouds are crystal clear white but they try to Define their edges with silver light He hands…

Isleham road winds like a cobblestone ribbon, dropping off to ribbons of white, dipping on a ribbon of sea-glass blue ocean, My ancient castle tells ancient tales and laughs at my own age, so devoid of words like wisdom and experience, snaking a ribbon of fear against ribs extended with…

The kapici sags in his plastic chair, “guarding” the lives–stacked high in the shabby building–with boredom and indifference He is not a bad man, just old and beyond a time when he might have been heroic   He flicks his cigarette onto the ground, then takes a drag, his eyes squinting…

Ankara was a place of smells that I drank for two years I was quickly intoxicated, and now remember, especially, the scent of miniature roses The woman with the head cloth and dark skin and plastic sandals Would bring bunches of them In big, blue buckets, Carrying them down to…

Memories spring up from the strangest of places, of moments and hideaways I’d temporarily forgotten.  One is the view from our maid’s roof.  I could see the whole village from there.  Dirty rooftops, laundry lines pulling from roof to roof, as if the line was never-ending and connected, with little…