Got That Friday Feeling

Friday nights have always been sacred to me. Always. Ever since I was a little girl.

Friday nights are supposed to be enjoyed. Revered. Appreciated for what they are – the time of the week to wind down, relax, and do nothing if you please.

My fondness for Fridays began long before my working days. As a little girl I learned how special Fridays were. Of course, this was the early ‘70s, so half the population probably can’t relate when I reminisce about spending Friday nights watching The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family (yes, original episodes when they were aired on prime time). No that there was that much else to watch. Who had heard of cable TV then? Besides, I had such a crush on David Cassidy that there was no way I was missing that show about the musical family with the multi-colored bus.

But it was more than just TV. Friday night was “popcorn and Coke” night.

Every Friday – long before the concept of air poppers or microwave popcorn – my Mom would make popcorn the old fashioned way. In the pot. Just pour a little cooking oil in the pot, pour in the kernels, wait for the oil to get hot, and, wah-lah, there’s popcorn. I recall how when the corn would start popping Mom would hold the lid on the pot, hold the handle and start shaking the pot. I’m guessing that was to keep the popcorn from burning.

And with the popcorn came the Coke. Not in two-liter bottles. The only way you could get Coca-Cola back then was in the smaller glass bottles, sans the screw-off lid. (Bottle openers were a must.) Coke with our popcorn was a big deal on Friday nights. It was the only time of the week that we were allowed to have soft drinks. To think that kids today take for granted such a treat as having a soft drink!

As a teenager Friday nights were a time for friends and fellowship. More than one slumber party took place in my basement on any given Friday night. The overnight parties started out as birthday surprise parties, then just regular birthday parties. Then just for fun. My basement was party central, in a clean-cut sort of way (pop and snacks only), and I remember staying up until all hours of the night, chatting and bonding with my friends about the “important” things in life (usually the talk centered around guys, and which ones we liked at the time).

Needless to say, my fetish for Fridays has continued into my adulthood. I really try not to do anything on Friday night, though I often have to cook dinner. On those occasions, at least I make sure it’s something I like – proper Friday night fare. In my childhood the Friday night meal was shrimp and French fries. Yes! Or Tacos, yes. Fish sandwiches, yes. Meatloaf, no. Meatloaf is a Sunday or Monday meal. As are pork chops. I have different foods labeled in my head as to what day of the week they should be served. (Fried chicken is always a Wednesday night meal; steak is always a Saturday night meal.)

It’s now Saturday, and as I sit here drinking my Diet Coke, I know I should start tackling some of the work I brought home with me this weekend. After all, Saturday isn’t Friday night. Chalk this blog up to procrastination, I guess, and a wish that it was still Friday. But alas, Friday night will come again (though I’m reasonably sure I’ll have to work late next Friday night, which is almost sacrilegious in my book.)

Last night, though, as the boys and I cleaned the kitchen from our Friday night fish sandwich dinner, my Friday Fever peaked to the point where I developed a hankering for popcorn. But there was no microwave popcorn to speak of in the house. Yet low and behold, I did have a package of popcorn kernels. Guess who made popcorn the old fashioned way? In the pot, finishing it off with lots of real butter for ultimate taste. The boys didn’t know popcorn could be made in such a way. Yet it turned out to be a hit with them. And my husband ate quite a bit of it too.

The experience sufficed for taking me down memory lane for just a few minutes at least. And it reminded me just how precious those Fridays have always been to me.

Not that every day isn’t a gift. But my fondness for Fridays will probably always remain steadfast. Friday is for family. Friday is for friends. No matter how bad the rest of the week, there’s always Friday night.

The Friday Feeling. It’s a good feeling. If only I could take it, bottle it up and sell it on the open market.  I expect that would make me a wealthy woman.

For the moment, though, I guess I’ll just stay poor. Poor, but rich in so many ways – with my health, my husband and my children.

And a healthy supply of weekly Fridays – for life.

Screw Diets

Did I ever mention that I hate diets? Normally I’m a proponent of portion control, because with restrictive diets all I ever think about is what I can’t have instead of what I can.

But right now I’m sort of in a state of desperation, as somehow over the last year and a half I’ve ballooned to the point to where I’m starting to grow out of my clothes. I need an emergency intervention – a quick change to get me going back in the right direction (that would be down).

So I caved to my own philosophy of just eating in moderation (which I, for the most part, think I do anyway – but because of my mostly sedentary lifestyle and lack of exercise I’m guessing my metabolism is in the toilet). I figured this called for extreme measures. Hence, I resorted to the “meal replacement” plan. Specifically, I chose the Atkins protein shakes – one in the morning for breakfast, one in the afternoon for lunch, a “sensible” dinner low on carbs, and an Atkins protein bar for a bedtime snack. The plan can be excruciating at times, but at least it’s simple.

Early results were promising. Four pounds in the first three days. Yay! So I set a goal for myself – that in the next six days I would lose only two more pounds to reach my initial goal. Did I follow the meal replacement plan to the tee? Well, no. Last weekend I pretty much bypassed it and consumed real food, but ate very little. And two days ago my hunger did give in. I succumbed to the temptation of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. But otherwise, I was good.

And today was the magic day. The day I was supposed to get on the scale and feel the satisfaction of reaching my goal – six pounds total lost. Except that didn’t happen. I not only didn’t lose those additional two pounds, I actually gained a pound back, making for a net total of three. That’s only half my goal. Bummer.

Thing is, I was so certain that I had lost those two additional pounds. Your mind plays tricks on you. Sort of a psychosomatic response to all of your hard-fought efforts. (“Are my clothes feeling a little looser? Why, yes, I think they are!”)

So today I rebel. I ate real food for breakfast – just a modest bowl of Special K, but one I would have deemed a cardinal sin of late. A leftover piece of fried chicken for lunch. And now I’m nursing a tasty glass of white wine – chock full of carbs. Tonight I eat pizza.

And what will tomorrow bring? Right now my attitude is “screw diets.” But I really am trying not to get discouraged. And I really can’t afford an entirely new wardrobe. So I guess I’ll try to gather my thoughts and try to figure out what I need to do to get this done.

As I said, my metabolism is probably shot because I know I don’t exercise enough (OK, hardly at all). So maybe I need to incorporate some additional activity into my plan. So what’s the answer here? Will a daily walk around the neighborhood do the job? Or maybe I need to join a gym? Hmmm. Personal trainer, maybe? Whoops, we’re getting into some big bucks there.

Guess I’ll take my measly three-pound loss and go from there. I do have goals – immediate, short-term and long-term. I’m so disappointed I didn’t hit my immediate goals. But don’t want to give up. That means I’ll just get fatter.

Yes, I think I’ll continue on this journey and see what another day brings. But tonight time stands still. Tonight I’ll enjoy just one more glass of wine and some pizza to boot. Just a small reward for trying so hard the past 10 days. (Just wondering how many of those three pounds I’ll put back on tonight!)

And then tomorrow I move forward. Another day, a new beginning.

 

Breaking Ties

Cutting ties with the past: all of my old clothes,
ready for the charity pile

I went down memory lane this afternoon. Most people might do this by flipping through a photo album or watching home videos. But for me it was just a matter of scrounging through my closet (or closets). Time to do some cleaning out, I decided. But, oh so hard, because of the emotional ties I have with my clothes.

Did I mention that one of my favorite shows is Hoarders? And the more extreme the hoarders are, the more intrigued I am. I always thought the reason I liked that show was that it maybe gave me some sick feeling of superiority. I figured that compared to those people on that show, my house is absolutely pristine. So what if there might be an occasional dust ball or two in the corners, or that my kids’ closets are disaster areas? At least my house is inhabitable. How people could let their dwellings get that way has been a source of fascination for me.

So what does that have to do with my clothes? I realized today that going through and pitching my old clothes was a more difficult task than I thought it would be, simply because of the sentimental ties I had with particular pieces. Isn’t that what hoarders do? They develop emotional connections with their “stuff,” even the trash, to the point where they can’t bear to throw it out. Today I had my own amount of “trash” to sift through. Guess I’m a clothes hoarder.

They say that if it’s been over a year since you’ve worn something, you should get rid of it. Some of the stuff I wafted through today dated back 25 years. Good thing my kids weren’t home as I was doing this. I can just hear them now. “Hey Mom, the 1980s called and wants its clothes back.” So what sorts of garments took me down memory lane today?

·        Probably the oldest garb in my closet (well, in my son’s closet) was the suit that my mother bought me when I was a senior in college. That would be 1986. She bought me the suit so that I would have something to wear on interviews. Let’s see…I probably haven’t worn that suit since 1990. But hey, it was my first suit. How could I possibly get rid of that?

·        Really neat dress pants that I bought at Casual Corner when I was just out of college. They were expensive. In fact, I put them on layaway (do they even have that now?). Those pants got plenty of wear until I had my first baby in 1995. Then, for some reason, they didn’t fit anymore. They’re classic trousers so they don’t go out of style, so I’ve just been trying to get back down to size (for the past 18 years) so I can wear them again. Okay, time for them to hit the charity box. The same goes for all the other dress pants I had that are now two sizes too small. I guess I figure if I ever do get back down to size, by that time it would be such a big occasion I should treat myself to a new wardrobe.

·        The blouse that I wore on my first date with my husband. And the shirt that I bought special to wear on the second date with my husband. I remember those nights as if they were yesterday. And, yes, I remember exactly what I wore. The temptation was strong for me to keep these pieces, but I resisted and they are now bagged up and ready to go to their next destination.

·        My “skinny” red dress that I always thought I looked hot in – the one that I wore on Christmas Eve 1989, right after I liberated myself from a go-nowhere relationship with an old boyfriend. I did really look good in that dress. Unfortunately, I probably couldn’t slip the thing above my knees today. Out it goes.

·        My little black mini skirt – the one I wore in the early 1990s any time I wanted to feel sexy. Back then I had some pretty damn nice looking legs and made a point to show off those attributes whenever I had the chance. I first wore that skirt when my then-boyfriend (now husband) went on a double date with another couple who were married (whom I’d just met that night). It was near Christmas and we wined and dined and made merry. Too much wine, as it turned out. I found myself in my own self-imposed drinking contest with the other woman (a good friend today, might I add) and lost. By the end of the night I was sitting on the floor in front of a toilet in a bowling alley bathroom (with a Peter Pan hat on, complete with a feather in it and everything) throwing my guts up. Somehow, Ed managed to get me home. Still, the event didn’t dissuade me from wearing the skirt again and again. Wasn’t so much fun to go through that night, but I can chuckle now after so many years have passed. Unfortunately, I reasoned that I’m probably too old to wear a mini skirt now (not to mention that the wool fabric has a couple of small holes in it), so I have officially parted with the mini skirt.

These are just a few things. There are others – print blazers that were popular in the 1990s but not so much now; sweater vests that my grandmother knitted for me; professional clothes that I wore when I had professional jobs trying to climb the corporate ladder as a young whippersnapper. And maternity clothes (okay, I was ready to part with those).

So I went through memory lane one more time today, reminiscing as I pulled out each piece of old clothing. Yet I did something that I haven’t been able to do in all these years. I broke those ties with the past. Perhaps holding on to too much of the past has the capacity to clutter one’s life – even to the point where it crowds out potential for the future.

And they’re just clothes, right? Tangible stuff that can be replaced with more tangible stuff down the road. Thinking more about it, I guess the clothes are merely a trigger for the memories I already have. And the memories are always with me, despite what I may or may not have in my closet. In the end, maybe it’s not about the clothes at all, but what’s within me. Looking at it that way makes it easier to depart with my so-called “treasures” of the past.

On to new things I suppose. And remembering that the true treasures are not the tangibles, but the memories (good and bad) of times past. It’s those cherished, priceless memories – things that cannot be bought for any price – that make life worth living.

Still, if I can ever find another figure-flattering “skinny” red dress that makes me look mighty fine, consider me there.

Of Ballots and Beer, and Going Straight

It’s Saturday and Tuesday is Election Day. Which means one thing.

Stock up on the beer. Because on Tuesday, there will be nary a beer to be bought, at least until the polls close at 6 p.m. It’s part of Kentucky’s archaic law that bans alcohol sales on Election Day. The only other state that clings to this practice is South Carolina. So the policy’s Election Day blue laws do make our great commonwealth somewhat unique.

Apparently, there was some legitimate logic behind the law when it was first enacted. Some polling places used to be in bars (talk about a way to get the voters out!) and politicians would attend to “buy” votes with free drinks to the patrons. Thus, it provided reason for such prohibition.

Obviously, though, these days the law is outdated. Alcohol establishments no longer serve as polling places, though plenty of schools do. Perhaps voters could be bribed with crayons or mechanical pencils? So of late (just this year, in fact) there have been efforts within the state legislature to eradicate the law. So far those efforts have not been fruitful. So as of now, the law stands.

Actually, it really doesn’t bother me that I can’t buy alcohol on Election Day until after the polls close. Is the law stupid? Yes. But I figure I can survive one day (and a partial day at that) just fine without purchasing alcohol. It’s another thing that Kentucky doesn’t disallow that has me irked.

Straight ticket voting. Kentucky is one of only 15 states that allow straight ticket voting. Other states used to have it, but ultimately eliminated the option. Basically, straight ticket voting allows voters to choose a party’s entire slate of candidates by pushing a single button or making a single ballot marking on the ballot. Thus, with that one vote (or punch, or whatever type of ballot a particular polling place uses), a voter can vote for every candidate in a single party for each office on the ballot.

Wow, sounds convenient, right? No having to sort through all those names. But that’s just the problem.

My take on it is that if Kentucky expects its constituents to stay sober when voting (as is evidenced by banning alcohol sales on Election Day), then at the very least voters should be required to actually read the names of the people they are voting for. They may just find out by reading the names that someone who they would have voted for under a straight ticket is someone that they don’t want in office at all!

My other concern about straight ticket voting is that if voters mark a straight ticket, they may think they are done. Yet there may be other things on the ballot that they do not give attention to and won’t vote on because they voted a straight ticket. Such as local nonpartisan races. Or local referendums. Maybe even a constitutional amendment or two.

Thus, straight ticket voting may present a slippery slope to casting a ballot. As for me, I think I’ll actually read the ballot and encourage others to do so. It’s always good to know exactly who you are voting for.

Of course, I will vote this Tuesday – always proud to be part of the democratic process and have my voice heard through my vote. And on Tuesday night, as the polls close and the counts start to come in, I’ll be the first to want it, the first to do it, the first to say it. It will be a simple request.

Get me a beer.

Strategy or Spaghetti?

My oldest son says he wants to be a doctor. He’s been saying that for a while now so I’m guessing as he starts out college next year his intentions will be to start out on that path. Good for him. So many kids his age have no idea what they want to do when they grow up.

But what if he gets into it and finds out the doctoring thing isn’t right for him? Will there be a Plan B? Depends on how he approaches life, I guess. Maybe it’s contingent on how good he is at putting his life’s plan into place.

It’s a lot to expect from someone so young – figuring out how to set about living what’s left of (hopefully) a very long life. But I think if it’s at all possible, it’s something young people should give some thought to. I know I didn’t.

My strategic approach toward life has been minimalist at best. Really, my life plan has been pretty general – go to college, get a job, get married, have kids, keep working, retire and live happily ever after.

I guess it was something, at least. But I think my one major regret in life is my failure to map out a more detailed life plan for myself. But then, who really thinks about that during the throes of youth? You have your whole life to figure out what you’re going to do, what you’re going to achieve, how you’re going to get there, right? But I’m not young anymore. And now I’m middle-aged and still wondering.

My general plan seemed to work for me up to a point. I just carried on with my life and took advantage of opportunities as they came. It worked, until a few years ago, when I really started to ponder what I was really meant to do.

And now a couple of years later – after having had time to think about it and earn a master’s degree to boot – I’m still as clueless as ever. A life in limbo. Unfortunately, when you’re stuck in limbo, there is a tendency at times to wonder whether you’ve wasted your life. Distorted thoughts creep in and begin to tell you that you wouldn’t be in this position had you not wasted your life. Whether or not my career has been a failure is something I can’t discern at this point. Fortunately, all I have to do is look at my three beautiful children to know that my life has had some purpose.

As for my career, though, right now I’m figuratively taking spaghetti and throwing it to the wall, hoping something will stick. Each piece of pasta represents something. One piece might represent a total career change. Other pieces might represent various positions I’ve applied for. Another piece might represent my current small (very small) business. Still, other pieces might represent specific specialized niches that perhaps I should more deeply explore.

Right now I’m on the small business track, seeing where that will take me. Will it work out? At this point, I don’t know. But if you liken it to pasta, I guess it has just as much of a chance of sticking as anything else.

In the meantime, I’m watching my three precious boys continue to grow up. The oldest is a young man now – so handsome and self-confident. We took him on his first college visit last week. I can’t wait for him to enter that new, exciting stage of his life – young adulthood.

And while I know that right now he is just a kid, I hope that he will come out of a college with a plan, a roadmap, some strategy for how he wants to take on life. At least I hope he and my other two sons will be a little more focused than I was. Regardless, I’ll love them with all my heart. But I do have that wish for them.

Because slinging spaghetti ain’t where it’s at.

Finding Passion

I long to create. Not the written word, mind you. I figure I’ve done enough of that. But rather I yearn to make something from nothing – something tangible, that you can see and feel and be proud to say, “I made this.”

I think the last time I truly made something from my own two hands, of my own initiative, I was in grade school. I learned a few macramé knots and went to town making macramé plant holders for my mother. They weren’t anything fancy. Some of them even had beads, some of them didn’t. But they were functional pieces that I had made. It was some semblance of a skill that I had. Of course, it’s long gone now. (Oh well. Wasn’t macramé kind of a ‘70s thing, anyway?)

Maybe I wouldn’t be so sensitive to it now if I didn’t have such a handy husband. He always has some project going on around our house. Last winter he remodeled our downstairs bathroom. Tore the walls out to the studs, he did, and started from scratch. I couldn’t really help him. I don’t know much about those sorts of things.



Ed's Masterpiece: Our New Patio

This summer he tore down our old, dilapidated deck and set about building a new patio. He started about Memorial Day and finished it up just after Labor Day. Almost every day he was out there doing something with that patio, paying attention to every meticulous detail, even laying the pavers in a way to where the rainwater would run off in a particular pattern. The rock wall surrounding the patio had to be just perfect. I would watch him examine stone after stone and arrange them as if they were puzzle pieces. And if one just didn’t work to his satisfaction, he’d pull it out and try another, or maybe arrange the stones another way.

And of course, what’s a patio without the landscaping? The finishing touch to a summer’s worth of work. Three luscious evergreens dot the one side; hostas adorn the other side. A holly bush is among the plants, along with some others, which I can’t name because Ed only refers to them by their Latin names. But whatever they are, they’re pretty.

So now we have the grand patio. And it not only represents my husband’s enormous skill, but also the passion that he puts into each project he undertakes.

That’s where I’m lacking. I really have no skills, no interests, really. No passion. And that bothers me. When I see someone like my husband create something so grand, so profound, so practical, it’s a bit intimidating. Don’t get me wrong – I’m lucky to have him. And I’m not sure what I’d do without him. But sometimes his many talents remind me of my own shortcomings. And it makes me wonder what gifts do I bring to this world?

I can sew a torn button back onto a pair of pants. Yippee. But I can’t sew to save my life. Funny how now’s the time I wish I would have taken home economics in high school. When I was in high school, I considered myself too “career-oriented” to fool with such things.

In particular, I always thought it would be nice to take up quilting. To me, quilts are a work of art. A handmade quilt represents love, and caring, and comfort, and security, to me. And I thought combining various colors and patterns of material would be fun.

But guess what. You have to know how to sew to take up quilting. A couple of years ago I received a sewing machine for Christmas (it was on my wish list). A few months ago I finally pulled it out. I learned to thread the bobbin fairly easily, and threading the machine was no big deal, but getting the little bobbin thing in and out was more complicated than I thought. Fortunately, I actually happened upon a YouTube video on how to put the bobbin into my model of machine. Once I accomplished this, I attempted to sew a few stitches on a scrap piece of cloth. Not bad for a first attempt, I thought. Then I put the machine away.

Now I have it out again because I desperately want to prove to myself that I can make something with my hands. Maybe not a full-blown quilt to begin with, though I do have about a half-dozen books on how to start quilting, but I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. And it might take more than looking at visuals in books. Maybe it will take somebody actually showing me how to do some of the stuff. So no quilts yet.

Baby steps instead. Also for Christmas a couple of years ago I received a small “getting started quilting” kit complete with the supplies for a small project – a small wall hanging. It’s not even that pretty of a wall hanging – pretty generic if you ask me. But that’s my project. I have the sewing machine out again, the materials that came with the kit and the roller cutter. Last night I completed the first step – cutting all the material pieces down to size with the roller cutter. Now the sewing starts (YIKES!).

Now I have no doubt that this project will probably be chock full of screw ups. That’s okay. The important thing is that I do it and learn along the way. And in the end I’ll have a generic (and likely imperfect) wall hanging that I don’t even like. But it will be mine, and I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that I made it. And maybe this project will be the springboard for better projects to come. Maybe I will be able to start that quilt someday.

Or maybe the experience will prove to me that I have no business being behind a sewing machine. (I have to admit, it is a strange sight.) Then what? Then I’ll be in search of another creative outlet. Some other hobby or activity that can bring passion to my life. Photography, maybe? I always thought I’d like to dabble in that.

Or maybe it’s not necessarily a hobby or a skill I seek, but the passion itself. I suppose you can find your passion in many different ways. For instance, I consider my children to be my passion. I’m not sure I’m always the greatest mom, but I do know that I love my boys more than words can describe. But unlike my husband, who has a passion for home projects and a passion for yard work, I can’t really say that I have any strong personal passion beyond love for my family.

That’s it. I yearn for passion. Passion for something. I’ll ponder this as I’m working my way through my mini sewing project. Maybe I just need that quiet time to explore my inner self, dig deep and discover within myself whether I even have passion, and if so, passion for what?

What a journey this should be. And I hope to find something within me – something in there. I guess the fact that I worry about it at all makes me more than an empty shell.

Yes, there has to be something within that shell. And if I’m lucky, as I explore within my shell I’ll discover there is a pearl or two wedged in there, ready and waiting to come out.

Time with the Boys



My three boys, basking in the sun on the beach of Cape Charles, Virginia.
From left: Sam, Clay and Luke.

For the record, I really, really love my boys. All three of them. Like any mother, I want to give them the world – all of their hearts’ desires. I want to spoil them silly. I desire that they want for nothing. Of course, I realize I’m doing them no favors by spoiling them. They need to learn that in this world you don’t get everything that you want.

But I have to admit that the past couple of summers I have felt especially guilty that I haven’t been able to treat them to some sort of grand vacation. For several years a lovely resort in Vermont was our destination, and many memories were made there. But financial constraints of late have limited what we can do as far as trips go.

Last year it was a three-day primitive camping trip on one of Kentucky’s pristine lakes. I think the spot cost us about $40 total. But I’ve decided after that escapade that I’ve had my fill of primitive camping for about the next five years or so. Sweltering in a tent in the heat of summer and walking 10 minutes to the nearest bathroom when you have to go in the middle of the night isn’t my idea of fun! And did I mention the downpour as we were trying to cook our burgers on the grill? Never mind the boys. I’ve decided camping’s not for me.

But I digress. What about this summer? I have to say when my brother invited me to come spend a few days at his place on the Eastern Shore of Virginia (just across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge from Virginia Beach), I jumped at the chance. It wasn’t so much for me, but for my desire to provide some sort of adventure for the boys this summer.

We embarked on our 12-hour journey at 6:30 on a Friday morning. And I have to say it didn’t start out so well. I’m chalking it up to the early morning hour, but somehow I managed to tear the siding off the garage door as I was pulling out. Damn, got too close. And now white scuffs all over the front of my car. No sweat though. It’s just paint. I’ll scrape it off later. I figured I’d try to explain the issue with the siding to my husband later. Nonetheless, I suspected it was a bad omen for the trip to start out this way.

As it turned out, there were no other mishaps. And after more than 12 laborious hours of driving through Kentucky, West Virginia, and clear across Virginia, we finally reached our destination. I have to say, though, I was getting somewhat bleary-eyed going over that big-ass Chesapeake Bay Tunnel Bridge – only about 21 or so miles long. After such an exhausting drive (of which I drove the whole way), I was concerned I might flip over the bridge or something. (Just in case you might ever find yourself going over that bridge, the toll is $12 – cash.)

My brother Brent was the perfect host, having even rented a golf cart for the boys to take about town and down to the beach if they want. (Though Clay was the only one who could drive it, since he is the only boy who is a licensed driver.) Apparently, Cape Charles is the only town in Virginia that allows golf carts on the city streets. I have to admit, carousing about in the golf cart was a blast.

But the best part of my trip was just the time with the boys. Unfortunately my husband couldn’t come because he had to work, but at least I got some of that quality time that I so long for so much of the time.  Perhaps the quiet times were the most poignant. Last week Virginia was not immune from the same heat wave that afflicted the rest of the country. But a dip into the Chesapeake Bay was enough to bring your body temperature down a good 15 degrees. It was there that we as a family splashed around, passed around a football, and frolicked carelessly. Life was good.

Brent, of course, introduced my boys to a host of unique culinary delights that are not normal fare at home. Grilled tuna steaks, which they surprisingly devoured. (Okay, Sam was a little timid, but the other two ate up.) Grilled beats. Steamed clams, which were a hit.

My brother took the boys fishing off the pier at Cape Charles. Did you know that you don’t use a bobber when fishing in the ocean? The boys caught crabs galore (it is, after all, the Chesapeake Bay). But Sam went the extra mile and caught two baby red drum fish. Good eatin’ for the next night.

We departed Cape Charles the next Tuesday. Only on the way back I decided to make a two-day trip out of it. We spent the night in Covington, Virginia. It was a simple night. We dined at a local pizza place, then back to the hotel for swimming, then back to the room for showers. We then proceeded to watch the All-Star game. A quiet evening it was. But precious to me.

We headed home the next day.  The boys proceeded to sleep through half the trip – all the way through West Virginia. But as I reflected on our days together, I knew that they had a blast and I had provided this summer’s grand adventure. A small adventure at that – but something to remember.

There are so many places where I would like to take my boys – so many destinations to explore. Disney World. Washington, D.C. The West Coast. Maybe take them on a cruise someday. Perhaps Hilton Head, which seems to be a popular vacation destination. Hawaii? Well, maybe I’ll reserve that just for my husband and me.

But this year, it was Cape Charles, Virginia. Budget vacation extraordinaire. (For me, that is. My brother went above and beyond to be an exceptional host.) I even took the Saturn instead of the minivan to save on gas – something I’m sure my tall boys’ legs didn’t appreciate.

Budget vacation aside, though, I hope my boys appreciated it for what it was – my attempt to give them what I could as far as summer adventures go. And for them to know how much I really, really love them. I can’t give them everything. But for a few days, I gave them the sun and the surf. The sandy beach. The soothing saltwater.

And hopefully – at least for a short time –  a sense of peace that all is good in the world.