TITLE: The Gardens of Pendle Hill
I found out that in 1612, ten witches were executed. They were hung from the gallows thirty-five hundred miles away in England. In my hometown years later, people claimed to see the witches' deaths reenacted in the Gardens of Pendle Hill. By midnight, if you were one of the unlucky few that witnessed it, you died the same way.
"Dad, is it Lank-ass-terr? Or Lan-gaster?" I teased, staring at the real estate slip with our new address on it.
1612 Lancashire Road
Lancaster, Pennsylvania 17601
When my dad told us we were moving back to his hometown, I found out one thing immediately. Nobody said Lancaster the same way.
"It's Lank-ASS-Tuh," he said. Incorrectly according to Google.
My Dad grew up in Pennsylvania, but when he went to Stanford, he fell in love with Catherine and California, and never went back.
In January, he lost his job when Halifax Engineering went out of business. His mom-- my Nan--suggested we move back home to be near them. My parents refused.
Until, June when my mom decided that after twelve years of marriage, she needed to "find" herself. So she took off. Literally. In the middle of the night, with no goodbyes to me or Lily. Just a bogus note to my dad saying not to bother looking for her. She left my Dad with an almost teen, an almost toddler and an almost nervous breakdown.
Did I mention we were on vacation? In Lancaster.