Final night time, our thirty-year-old station wagon limped into my mother and father’ driveway on a slowly deflating tire. By morning, the tire was totally pancaked, pitching the rusty wagon ahead like an previous, loyal canine nursing a sore leg, settled in for a well-deserved relaxation. The backseat is suffering from the smashed stays of granola bars, Starburst wrappers, and puzzle books. Dreams really do come true.
I’m recent off every week spent in Maine with my mother and pop, my three sisters, our attending companions and various progeny. Regardless of the obligatory consternation about packing, ultimately I might not have been flawed to fill a duffel with solely bathing fits and towels—perhaps a number of sweatshirts for the chillier mornings and evenings. A provide of Band-Aids and a bottle of sunscreen nursed the worst of what ailed us. What was actually indispensable, I didn’t pack and wouldn’t have slot in even the most important L.L.Bean tote.
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