"Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la...." Oops, right sentiment - wrong month. Maybe I'll look instead to Alice Cooper for inspiration and belt out, "School's out for Summer, school's out forever!" - though maybe you'll agree that the correct celebratory tune is probably "99 bottles of beer."
Yes indeed Summer is here and school bells atop scores of fine institutions of higher learning will soon rest quiet while our roads, parks, and waters buzz with the excited sound of freedom. A freedom defined by that ever-so brief time when we enjoy an unbridled, innocent sense that the world is our oyster...the last days of school.
After taking the scenic route through my twenties - an adventuresome journey withlots of turns, twists, and Twinkies - I went from the surreal life to real life in my thirties, and now sit on the threshold of the big 4-0. Perhaps it's because Darling Hubby and I stretched that youthful glow out to ridiculous lengths, like a dwindling string of Silly Putty, that we now take such joy in reliving all the pleasures of childhood with our brood: especially the school countdown.
Not that those hardworking teachers weren't feeding that frenzy each day by X'ing off days on the calendar. Every afternoon, my tots would scurry off the bus announcing that magic number....eleven days left, ten days left!
Like an eminent shuttle launch, I could see the white cloud of smoke curling up around their ankles. By the final day, the fevered pitch of excitement was a volcanic spew.
For my money, being an adult just can't compare. Sure I look forward to vacations - but that enthusiasm is equally tempered with the knowledge that the week will inevitably end in an avalanche of dirty laundry, spent energy, depleted funds, and great piles of unopened mail. In fact on a day-to-day basis, it seems the only tangible benefit to adulthood is eating potato chips for lunch, at least when no one is watching.
All those other adult perks come with baggage. You get to set your own bedtime, but work and bosses determine when the blasted, ‘stop-that-ringing-noise' alarm goes off. You get to pick your spouse, hopefully, but your mother - his mother - the travel agent - and the caterer all seem to get the final word on wedding plans. You get to pick what vehicle to drive, sort of.
Let's see, I need a car that seats at least half a baseball team, is easy to load, and can tow a camper a few weekends out of the year.
"I know what you are looking for, ma'am. You want the minivan, right?"
Wrong! No, dear car dealer, I want the zippy little two-seater, in red, with the convertible top and...hhmph,
"Okay the van. Does it come in red?"
Alas, at least my Mother Earth-size cruiser came with a moon roof and a reasonably hip sound system so I can blast my past: "Sometimes I wonder what I'm a gonna do, but there ain't no cure for the summertime blues."
Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times where this article originally appeared.






This past weekend my family and I went to New Hope Valley Railway 





