My father was a strange man, who lived his life after rules that existed only in his own head. He never tried to accumulate wealth or prestige. He often commented that collecting such things was a total waste of time.

Most often when summer arrived, he would quit whatever Job he had, load my mother and us kids into the camper and off we went into the blue yonder, in what ever direction that took my father’s fancy. On one such trip we had been driving for a very long time and it was getting darker and darker.

Both sides of the road were tightly packed with trees, no open ground anywhere. Not a house or service station to be seen and we were all getting very tired. Even mother said that we must stop soon or father would fall asleep driving. Finally, we spotted an opening, a flat area of sand with sand dunes, but it was very dark and we were so tired. Father just parked in the middle of the flat area, and we went to sleep, fully clothes and all.

The next morning, we woke up in a busy small town with half the town people standing around the camper laughing; father had parked in the middle of a construction sight.

We had provided the town with the best laugh they had seen in a long time. Our sand dunes were from diggings to make room for the foundation of the building they were construction. We had arrived in Lillian. They were friendly folks and the construction engineer gave father a job.

Lillian was a lovely town, surrounded by farm fields and forests. The town’s houses were built on both sides of a sea inlet on rolling hills. It was also the most beautiful town I have ever seen. We kids spent the whole summer swimming, sailing and fishing and on land, horse-back riding.

The days were long and full; sometimes we would sneak out at dawn and walk through the fields till our sneakers became wet from the dew. We'd hang on the wooden fence and watch the cows trail from the barn to the south pasture, their body-heat steaming of their backs while the sun climbed higher and higher as it lifted the mist off the land. Then we would run tearing home to be in time for breakfast, but always by the way of the bakery. Nothing is as excruciating delicious as the odor from a bakery on an empty stomach. We could not wait to sink our teeth into the freshly baked buns; we knew mother would have gotten for breakfast.

My memory of Lillian is clear and vivid, full of thousands of impressions, with pictures, colors, sounds and odors.

Some evenings, we would go down to the harbor and watch the fishermen mend their nets; they would sit in a long row, like women at a quilting bee, swinging their arms almost in tune to some unheard music. We sat listening to their telling of old tales as the exotic odors from seaweed and boiling tar tickled our noses. Hoping no adult would notice us and send us home to bed. We would stay to long after the grown-ups had left, watching the sun go down and the fog roll in from the sea; seeing the land accepting the fog like a woman pulling a blanket over her shoulder and with a sigh, settling down to well-deserved rest.

My father never scolded us kids for being late, unlike so many adult, he had a long memory. It was the best summer we ever had and we regretted leaving. Of all the places we went with father, Lillian is the place I remember best.

Father is long gone now, and for some peculiar reason, we never went to the same place twice. I wanted to ask why, but, somehow I always forgot.

I have travelled all over this country and talked to many people, nobody ever heard of a town called Lillian, and I have never been able to find it on any map. But, then as I said; my father was a strange man.