I was born at 11 p.m. on Oct. 11, 1968, at Joel Pomerene
Memorial Hospital into the waiting hands of William A. Powell, M.D. My mom was
Mary Kathryn of Benton, and my dad was Clyde Elvin of Walnut Creek. I was
almost named Marla, and if I had been a boy, my name would’ve been Matthew
Mark.
Four siblings were waiting for me at home, Jen, Lauri,
Scott and Shelly. My younger sister Rhonda arrived 3 1/2 years later,
which completed the family.
My mom and dad brought me home to a small home just north of
Berlin on U.S. 62, about a half-mile from Bunker Hill as the crow flies. Ed and
Eva, Dick and Gertie, Dallas and Carol, Welly and Hazel, and Eli and Emma were
our surrounding neighbors. It was like a small universe from one backyard to
the next, and I can still smell the thick summer smells from the top of the
swing set: tomatoes on the vine, freshly mown grass, the way a lightning bug
smelled if you squished it.
Long before there was a Berlin Farmstead restaurant, hotel
and condos, there were fields. My sisters and many other teens used to
detassel corn for Yoder corn. They’d hop in the back of a big truck in the
July heat and away they’d go. They returned tired and sweaty in their long-sleeved flannels but with a little extra cash in their pockets.
The alley behind our house had grass growing in the middle
of it, and my pink Huffy bike used to zoom up and down. From U.S. 62 to
Pigtail Street, the alley was the place I’d ride, a little transistor radio in
my basket and a head full of dreams.
I went to Berlin Elementary from kindergarten through sixth grade,
then on to Hiland High & Middle School, where I played volleyball,
basketball and middle school track. I played my flute in marching band and
high-stepped the tiny local towns for Memorial Day events, marched the Swiss
and Antique Festivals myriad times, and rode the tilt-a-whirl at Pioneer
Days in Berlin until I was sick to my stomach. I was good at English and
writing, but math not so much. I had a wicked volleyball serve. I graduated in
1987.
For those who may have moved into the Holmes County area in
recent years, I’m a local girl through and through.
Berlin side streets were my home as I’d meander through them
with friends before we could drive and cruise through them after we got our
licenses, on our way to Wooster or Dover for more interesting sights.
I bought my first car from Stutzman Motors and remember
getting groceries at Kandel’s with my mom. We sat at the elevator with friends on
summer nights, watching the cars drive through our sleepy town. The Berlin House
had the best chicken and JoJos, and the B&W had the best cheeseburgers
and fries. They still do if you want to wait in a long line.
You can take the girl out of Berlin, but you can’t take
Berlin out of the girl. I have excised some of the notions I learned there
while keeping the ideas and memories I cherish. It’s good to understand what
lies past the crisply lined yards of Holmes County, then Ohio, then the vaster
world. It doesn’t revolve around us. We are not the center.
But my love for it and my readers was what kept me
writing. Laying this part of my writing craft down will feel strange, but with
strangeness comes light. This country girl is walking straight toward it and
expecting a newly focused world of writing to open up.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.
