…hoping to be back to my Sunday reflections soon…

Balkon sefalıklarım

A view of my balcony from my old flat in Sinop, Turkey 


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…still gone fishin’


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August 17, 2014 · 7:00 am

my Sunday reflections…

Dear All,

In two years, yesterday was the first time I had to miss my weekly post for us. I have been sick for quite some time and have been spending all my days in the hospital since Sunday night, August the third – and an estimation of a particular date for matters to be clearing for me is impossible at this point. Today is the first day I am able to tolerate sitting up long enough to write to you about the uncertainty as to when I am going to be able to proceed with my weekly writings.

Wishing you all a great heath-filled time until we meet here again.

With love and in gratitude.


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Babamın kucağında.Alişin dudakları bükülü

[Summer 2014, my dad with my grandson in his arms. I must have worn out those arms or hands by insisting for years he'd carry me...Then, when, just once, he gets the chance to hold his great-grandson, the little darling happens to feel not so comfortable as I have for time and time again]

For my 8.3.2014 blog post

[My dad, with a three-year old me in his arms - the date on the photo is original]


She died
at 48
I was 25
at each of our phone calls since
your shaky voice sang to me:
“We are behind you always!”

I am 58 now
even became a grandmother
but you know, dad, what I still do?
I keep looking back to see those loving four hands
not touching me not to risk my freedom
just being there, for anytime I might need their tender safety net
and how many times did I let go those slippery ropes
with you lifting me up from the choppy waters I dove into

I see you more and more in my dreams of the late
the way I used to see mom before her death
as if to sense my growing fear
this Bayram you told me the story of your family-side’s luck
how they “make it” to a rather late age…

One pair of hands have been gone for long
though you kept them close to your side all along
What am I to do, dad,
if the other pair is no longer behind me always?

hülya n yılmaz (© August 1, 2014)


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40 cents…












I am on my way back from a trip to Richmond, VA where I had a book reading. All having gone well beyond my expectations…until I hit some more of the toll plazas: I am out of cash. I don’t mean only out of small change: There is no cash left on me! While in Richmond, turnpikes/toll area were offering “Full Service” or there would be a live person inside the booth. Not at all the case around here. (In my own defense for my ill-preparedness: I have been living happily ever after in the lovely small town where I settled about 12 years ago, and haven’t exactly experimented with many turnpike or toll plaza zones since…)

There are only two lanes this time. No multiple “Cash Only”s or “EZPASS Only”s. The image above – minus what appears to be a real person’s hand reaching outside the booth – is quite accurate to describe my reality (in my case, what seemed to be once a booth gave back a rather eerie look at me, from behind pitch-dark windows – there was no movement). My evil-eye small change purse had handed over its last emergency account of 40 cents where that last toll plaza had surprised me (jointly with my dysfunctional TomTom and equally dysfunctional iPhone App). As for all other cents and dollars, they were emptied prior…This one expects 70 cents. I have 30 cents left in another small change purse (who knows why I keep around in my car), though all in pennies but at least, it is close to half the amount needed. I’m off to hunt for my remaining 40 cents.

My car – however small it may be – is now comfortably squeezed somewhere adjacent to the missing booth vicinity, fully blocking the way for other drivers. A motorcyclist zooms by the EZPASS section. ‘Wow,’ I conclude in amazement, ‘how fast can these passes be scanned these days?’ (Have I stressed one detail yet? This area is rather deserted…)

At this point in time, only one car bumper makes a pass at that of mine but soon after another vehicle is heard, one that decides to become intimate friends with the car right behind me. Too close for comfort for everyone…I dare to peek from my rear-view mirror: there is only one person sitting in the car right behind mine, and that’s the driver. I conclude in hope: he will know what I am going through right now. A fellow traveler but also one who goes solo. I get out of my car, approach his driver-side door (at least he rolls down the window, although looking at me as if I were a giraffe or four elephants leaving that tiny car in front of him): not even a question, such as, maybe just maybe, do I need anything, am I hurt (since I look the part, thanks to my family-size eye infection). Not yet discouraged, I explain my situation to him as quickly as I can (if not, he may just drive over my little red and won’t care about leaving any tire prints, I fear…). Still no reaction whatsoever. His eyes on mine, he makes a head gesture which I am left to translate as “see, if I care!” Only one thing is there for me to do and I gather up the courage to follow it through: “Sir, in that case could you please back up your car so that I can get mine out of everyone’s way?” Nothing. No response (he spoke a very clear English with me before – well, it was a mumbling sound but in perfect English regardless…)

I then walk over toward the car behind him (I spot at least two heads – it’s evening hours and the sun is setting modestly, instead of shining directly into my already compromised eye sight…thanks to my infected eye…). The window slowly comes down. No question. No visible reaction. So, I have to speak first again: “I need 70 cents but have only 30 left and there is no full service here, as you can see. No one is in the booth. Would it be possible…” – The man on the passenger side is quick to respond to me but only by telling me how fast he has to … go to a bathroom (though he uses less imaginative words). I apologize for keeping them there and think about offering them a copy of my $22.95 worth book from the trunk of my car in place of their 40 cents. I don’t dare. What if they think I am a nutcase? The driver feels urged to add his few cents worth: “70 cents. It’s only 70 cents!” He is in disbelief that I don’t have that amount of money on me…

I can tell they are both getting upset at the fact that I am so clueless as to not keep a load of change with me – in case another toll plaza decides to appear with no full service no booth-person before the unsuspecting driver that I am that day. I am ready to turn around to go back to my car but have to ask them to please back up their car, so that the one behind me can back up his…etc. They keep waiting for me to finish one sentence after another. Perhaps, until the passenger is capable of announcing to my face with a growing smirk a piece of wisdom anyone should forever be thankful for: “We all gotta go somewhere.” Hmm. Really?

While I act the stupid that I am at the moment, still hoping to hear a word, any word of sympathy or question of concern (perhaps, my eye infection scared them so…it could, after all, turn into a fatal weapon), both drivers finally back up their cars. And I park mine on the far right side – away from any approaching cars, in case my luck changes. To my surprise, the second car’s driver makes a (far far far far far less than half-hearted) swerve toward me, his passenger takes out his hand and shouts at me with an owner-to-unwanted dog-attitude: “Do you want a quarter?”

Thankfully, I can manipulate my face from over-friendly to somewhat of a “don’t mess with me” expression whenever I have to…

And I wait. Making no record of how much time passes. Nor showing any interest whatsoever in keeping such a record. An SUV approaches the booth-person-less booth area. I don’t even need to signal to this driver, the car slows down on its own. Encouraged, I leave my car and approach it. Two people are in it, one man one woman about my age. The man is driving. Before I can even finish my sentence to explain my dilemma, they both reach into a box (or something) and take cash out to give it to me. I thank them – probably, way too many times, so the man gives me a smile with a kind reassurance: “It is 40 cents.”

Fresh in my mind how three other adults treated me in the same situation, I thank both of them several times again. Actually, what they don’t know is how much I want to hug this couple. I restrain myself from doing so for fear that such show of affection could be misunderstood at my age…But the truth is, they found me at a vulnerable mindset, after all,  just when I was feeling abandoned right there and then by humanity at large. As for my ‘please adopt me’ face, that must have seemed to them as something they would prefer not to use at this stage of their lives…

When I asked how I could ever return their favor, giving me embracing eye-smiles, they sent me off to have ‘safe travels’ because that outcome would be my thanks to them.



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Second year of blogging…



Good Sunday, dear friends of the reading and writing arts!

WordPress.com congratulates me for “flying” with them. I want to resound their note in a modified way, and thank you from the heart for having been here all this time and for still being here. Your visits and comments are what encouraged and inspired me to write on a regular basis, an interaction with you that I have enjoyed so much, and continue to take great pleasure in. Please feel free to let me know, as to what, in particular, you had liked in the past among my writings. I would appreciate your input with enthusiasm.

As always, I look very much forward to your next visit. May you have a wonderful Sunday and an equally remarkable new week!





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Supporting the Written Art and Schlow Centre Region Library in State College, PA

[CAUTION: An unedited text lies ahead of you...]


I find the back entrance, park my car where the gate opening gadget used to be, leave the flashers on and unload what I had packed from the night before. Confident that I have thought of everything. I raise my head from my carry-on luggage piece and … am tempted to go right back into my cute red: under the huge tent, every table looks decorated as if touched by a long-time stager, with eye-catching presentation materials everywhere. I pass by the line of tables in slow motion, looking right, looking left, not sure where I am supposed to be heading. Someone who hasn’t skipped a beat to notice who knows what my face looked like, asks me whether I am ____ ( a name other than mine), before I get a chance to answer, a friendly voice rises from the area that I now left behind me: “You are with me!” Her demeanor matches the friendliness of her vocal cords…I make a legal U-turn and am at my table section. She and I will be sharing a table. She has already set up her side, as have anyone whom I can spot from where I am standing. Every time I use the phrase “set up”, please replace it with “donning grandiose details and special effects.” Yes, we have all received the same timely and kind tip as to what to display on our tables. It is obvious: I am the only one who disregarded those well-meant suggestions….Shaking my initial surprised look, I put all that I brought with me on my side of the four-legged multi-purpose platform. “All that” doesn’t amount to much…I see…and can’t deny anymore: I’m ill-prepared. I have only copies of my book and business cards. If it hadn’t been for my dear publisher’s recommendation – my book’s cover as a blown-up poster, stoppers-by or intentional visitors would have easily dismissed me along with those beautiful print products I have my name on. I am petite as it is…

After my initial culture shock wears off (it is my first entry to this part of our world), my two neighboring authors and I start chatting before the crowd comes in: they are both delightful and comforting! It is taking me a while but I begin to stop worrying about what I don’t have with or on me for the potential visitors to my side (such as those attention-getting giveaways, colorful decorations, and prizes all around me). These two beautiful women take me away from my short-lived worries thanks to their calm and calming personalities and their voluntary talks on the genres they specialize in. I learn new things from them also about their experiences in the writing arena. We agree it is a long-time fasting lion-to-unarmed bare-footed-weeks-long-trekking-newborn-place out there. We commiserate – about the state of the various literary genres in our century and how we are subjected to a distinct level of degeneration in the overall interest of the readers (it just wouldn’t do, if we didn’t!) But then we laugh, hard; comment about our expectations for our books’ sales of today – a beautiful day (no storms, not even a mist of rain), critique and analyze ourselves, our passions for writing, and laugh again – best of all, we celebrate. The opportunities we have in our hands; our understanding of and support for one another. Other authors approach our tables and we all communicate, as if we had known one another for our entire lives. At least from my end, this experience is a true pleasure and gives itself in full submission to us as a most memorable time. What display items? What more do I need, I ask myself while no one is looking…

A short while later, my friends arrive and surround me with their “pride” talks directed at “my” event, taking pictures I could not have taken on my own to mark this special occasion in my life (nor would have asked someone else to do). Once again, I laugh – from the core of my being, we hug and (content with how I have been managing myself), they leave to see the rest of the Arts Festival tents and booths. In the early afternoon, another dear friend of mine comes over – despite the fact that she has so much on her tray these days. Finally, my One and Only – my daughter/only child, walks into the tent, pushing my grandson’s stroller, completing my understanding of perfection…

On my way back to my car, my steps feel on water, gliding me away – although I am exhausted from a day quite unusual in its length, intensity and activities. Why my dance-like one-foot-in front of-the other-attitude? For this BookFest hasn’t been about selling books at all! It was rather about exchanging positive energy between people who happen to be readers of this or that genre, making time to meet other people who happen to be writers of such or the other genre. All of whom were ready and willing to connect to one another over one area of their lives, asking and answering questions and laughing together. It was about authentic interaction between people. Period.

My first BookFest.Tek Başıma.July 12.2014

May your Sunday and your new week become a memorable delight for you.




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