Time Off

It used to be that vacation meant a week away from work, a week to escape and relax, to read and regroup, an opportunity to clear my head of the madness of the daily office. Things have changed. There are two books packed, and a stack of unread magazines, although I have no aspirations whatsoever of actually reading anything; I'm a foolishly optimistic realist. There is no office to flee, and in every sense, the work just comes along with me. I wouldn't have it any other way.

We take a week every summer to escape to our favorite small town and pretend, just for a few days, that we live this slowly addictive life. The girls play in the
backyard, the screen door banging as they run from house to yard and back again, dragging in sand with every step. They chase butterflies, run from bees and marvel at spiders building webs on the back deck. We spend our days at the beach and our evenings in the backyard, making s'mores and catching fireflies. Mary and Kate eat ice cream every day and believe, for just a week, that this is the most magical place on earth.

Vacations used to mean far away places, and someday they surely will again, but for now I can imagine nothing I like better than spending a week in our little town in Michigan. Perhaps if you don't want to escape you don't have to go as far.