I just reread my daughter’s latest post on her blog, My Pajama Days, and it reminded me of one I wrote when I first started blogging. I took another look at it and saw only a few people had read it because I was new at this blogging thing. I’ve decided to repost it because it seems appropriate as summer vacation has just begun for most kids in the States, plus I’m finding it hard to come up with blogging topics cooped up in the house with this worthless broken foot. If you’ve read this post before, my apologies.
When I grew up in Connecticut in the ’50’s and ’60’s, my father made a good salary, and when school was out for the summer, we could have traveled to California or Florida, seen the Grand Canyon, or Yellowstone. But our summer vacations were more fabulous than that. Every summer we drove to Ohio to visit my grandparents and cousins. My brother and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
Summer was sacred. It was not a time to pack in more “stuff” to do. It was a time to play with the neighborhood kids and build relationships that lasted into the classroom and beyond. It was a time to use our imagination and creativity because no one was going to entertain us. It was a time to sleep late and stay out until you were dragged inside in the dark. You had time to read, time to make…
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