Neil and I spent five glorious days in California. We saw so many friends, visited favorite haunts, ate at familiar places, shopped at stores we knew and understood. It was nonstop action! Almost every minute was spent storing up as much California as we could squeeze in. It was great. Like taking deep lungfuls of clean, fresh, familiar air. Is the air dry? Isn’t that great?! Is it cold? Isn’t that amazing?! Sweaters, sweatshirts, jeans, scarves…

And then it came time to come home. And it was home. HOME. Stepping off that plane, cruising through customs with our recently acquired resident cards, and knowing Dean and Jack were waiting for us.

Yeah, the humidity was still here. Yes, it rained on the way home. No, we couldn’t understand the DJ speaking rapid-fire Spanish on the radio.

But it’s home. Maybe not our permanent home, but it is home.

One thought on “Coming home

  1. JoAnn, For me, Panamá was my home as I was born there. Going to school in the former Canal Zone with military brats was often a different story. So many came from the south with racial prejudice—so much so that too many would not venture into Panama City where they could embrace the rich heritage of the republic. Pancanal dependents were usually born there and had a better attitude. It is refreshing to see how you, your husband and sons are calling that place “home.”

    Aprendiendo el idioma y aplicándolo cada día con una maestra excelente es sumamente importante. A la familia Yarem, les felicito.


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