What Makes a Summer Vacation

by Donna Hruska

What makes a summer vacation? A lake glittering a dozen shades of blue–pine trees confiding secrets to the breeze–chipmunks scittering under the porch, squirrels on the roof–the harsh hum of motors as boats skim across the lake. A vacation is endless games of tag, “one–two–three–” older children scattering, little ones tagging along, thinking they are part of the game.

It is squiggly worms wiggling on the end of the hook–squealing girls who’ve spotted a spider–Father rigging a live box of chicken wire and wood with great expectations–and, proud excitement on the face of a little boy who just caught his first fish–the wet howl of the first to fall off the dock–the big one that didn’t get away–the unbelievably infinite patience of a six-year-old fisherman.

Vacations are “Look at me swim, Mom! Look at me!”–bumped heads, sandy shoes, scratched knees, sandy hair, sunburns, sand.

They are birch trees leaning confidentially over the lake, their leaves making lace of the late afternoon sunshine–little girls bundled in hooded sweat shirts against the evening chill and bulky life jackets against a sudden spill, sitting in a boat tied to the dock, paddling off for adventures in exotic lands–the smell of charcoal on the fresh lake air–fresh fish bubbling in the frying pan–voracious appetites.

A vacation is a bathtub gritty with sand–a last half-hearted protest that “I’m not tired”–peace–a quiet moment shared before the fire–sleep.