I didn't have vacations during those years...I had my first child at 19.

Before that, summer vacation meant spending a few weeks at my grandparents' house in southern Vermont. Sitting on the big rock in the back yard, writing poetry. Daydreaming, with my feet in the brook.

Listening to my grandmother talk on the phone with her friend Ruth about General Hospital. Listening to the Red Sox on the radio with Gramp. Getting the eggs. Picking fat blueberries from under the bird nets.

Walking over to the store for an ice cream cone. Poking around in the attic. Swimming at the Salmon Hole while my grandparents sat on a blanket watching me. Having slices of homemade bread and butter, and a big bowl of popcorn for supper while watching the King Family on black and white TV.

Watching deer under the apple tree from the bedroom that used to be my Aunt Mary's, and listening to rain on the metal roof of the old farmhouse. Sitting out on the porch (my grandmother called it the "piazza") watching the thunderstorms. Playing old-timey music on the piano and wheedling until my grandfather got out his clarinet and played along. Then coaxing my grandmother into sitting down at the piano, and spending an hour leaning my elbows on the dining room table, listening to them play.

I miss my Grandma and Grandpa.