What I Did on my Summer Vacation

Inside: “What I Did on my Summer Vacation”– it’s the age-old back-to-school writing assignment with a grownup perspective.

summer scene with maple tree and grass — Summer in my neck of the woods.

What I Did on my Summer Vacation

Remember that perennial favorite writing assignment taken up by returning school children everywhere? This year, I’ve decided to pen my own, partly to take inventory, partly to have a better answer than “nothing much,” when asked the question. So here goes.

I have no fancy travels to speak off—no exotic destinations with sandy beaches or mountain lake vistas. I never left Missouri. In fact, I can’t recall the last time I dipped my toe in a neighboring state. But I kept busy enough.

I tended my garden of crops (for the plate) and flowers (for the soul). I planted zinnias, begonias, marigolds, vinca, impatiens, and other stemmed beauties. I plunked tomatoes, peppers, and herbs into the ground for fresh eating. I tried nurturing seeds, but not much came of this. Not this year. I picked peaches from the tree before bugs or varmints got them. I put up a large jar of curry pickles, refrigerator style.

I did some weeding, too. Lots and lots of weeding, both literally and figuratively.

I tried new recipes.

I convinced Mike to barbecue a handful of times.

I ate watermelon, plenty of it.

I buttered some cobs of corn—and thoroughly enjoyed them.

I read books.

I napped when I felt like it.

I petted my cat when either he or I needed it.

I puttered around the house.

I watched a lot of television. Probably too much.

I rested–really rested–and mostly didn’t feel guilty about it.

I had some good conversations—and avoided some unpleasant ones.

I prayed. Often.

I got my Fitbit steps in, and some extra, too.

I had long talks with Mom out in her van, parked outside my home, as ice cream melted in the grocery sacks on our way back from shopping.

I listened to the birds’ morning choir practice and took in the symphony of crickets and katydids as twilight approached.

I witnessed a few sunrises on my way to let out the cat.

I smelled the most glorious scents: freshly turned earth from the fields, the air after a gentle rain, elder flowers and peach blossoms. Newly mown hay. Corn tasseling.

I walked barefoot outside. A lot. Especially after the rubber sole pulled away from my sandal, making an incessant slap, slap, slap with every other step I took. (I need to fix that.)

I entertained thoughts, both good and bad, if I’m being honest.

I slacked off.

I ironed my husband’s shirts. Three times. I hate ironing!

I watched fireflies at night from the window.

I heard a few stories, told a few of my own.

I sprinkled kind words—and bit my tongue a time or two to keep from speaking.

I laughed—though not nearly enough.

I shed tears—a goodly amount, but not to the point of feeling blue.

In short, I lived.