Back to the U.S.A., Part 1

I know it's called Sabbatical in Spain but I can't skip the Sabbatical on the East Coast (technically our layover). I'm from a very small town, Camp Hill, PA. You may know it from the Book-of-the-Month Club return address--though the real warehouse is in Mechanicsburg which didn't cut it with the NYC literary types from the mid-20th century.

My dad puts up the flag most good days; he also waves at policemen he doesn't know. He spent most of our visit sharing the comics with Ben and Nate and hiding in his bedroom with the Kindle while we took over the house.

We got a chance to see our friends the Setzers and Spitzers, whose children all know the Williams Family "toy room" that my very nice mom keeps stocked with my old Hot Wheels loop-de-loop, Yahtzee, marble racers, etc. Usually we have a larger group of high school friends around but somehow in planning the sabbatical I failed to tell anyone we'd be in Camp Hill. Then again, we were jet-lagged so it's probably best as we were asleep by 9 p.m. most nights.

Every year we pull out the slip-and-slide and the boys hurl themselves down the plastic. The boys played some Magic game with Ed and Scott. And we played some soccer and took some walks. I showed the boys my childhood church but when we tried to go inside, I got chased off by the caretaker next door: "Ma'am, ma'am, is there something you need?" in that tone of voice that means this isn't the time to go to church lady so back away and go on home. I was sort of surprised after the churches in Spain which are open day and night but maybe it was clear we were nosy heathens.

So we jumped back and forth over our neighborhood creek and wandered home. I saw an older neighbor in his garden and when I reintroduced myself to me he said "Well, god bless you Sally Williams."

It was a great visit thanks to good friends and my indulgent, generous parents.