It was at least 200 degrees under the shade trees of Central Pennsylvania, where I had just arrived to spend four glorious days at Writer Camp. Despite sitting on the Allegheny Plateau a thousand feet up, the temperature was high and the air felt soupy. Like it would be faster to swim than walk from one end of camp to the other. Either way, I'd end up soaking wet.  In the shared bunkhouse where I would sleep, it was a hundred degrees hotter. Cool air blowing from the window unit in the sitting area rarely made its way up to my top bunk beneath the slanted ceiling. I knew this going in, but I was still offended at the heat that blew back at me when I tossed my pillow, portable mini fan, and phone charger onto the bed. I hung a white towel, furnished by the camp, on the wooden post of the bunk, knowing it would never fully dry between showers. The problem Becky, camp coordinator extraordinaire, had kindly left two Andes chocolate mint candies on the bunk of each camper as a welcome g...

Do you remember when forever was a summer? When only the sprinkler held us accountable. When our souls were fed on popsicles and bologna sandwiches.  Now we're the ones feeding to others dreams and gluten-free nuggets. But you and me and our banana-seat bicycles, we used to fly down the gravel road so dusty we left waves baking in our wake.  We caught tadpoles in the creek and watched as they grew legs, then we laid on the red plaid blanket under a rain of fireworks. Colors so vibrant against the vast black, they didn't seem real.  We sailed on station wagon road-trips, vinyl back seat hot on our thighs, no air conditioning, just our hand dipping in the headwind. Sunshine so bright in our eyes, we were blind to adulthood. So how did we get here?  We fell through all those weeks with sunburned cheeks and ice cream melting down our small wrists. We played gin rummy all day with nothing else to do but sing along to the radio, and time got lost. When fireflies made ...

Last month my family spent six beautiful days on vacation near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.  Someday I'd like to take the kids to Charleston for its history, both important and terrible. Prior to the Civil War, Charleston (a 90-minute drive from Myrtle) was the capital of the slave-trade industry, with as many as 40 percent of all enslaved Africans arriving at the New World through its port. It's essential to me that my children learn the unvarnished truth about this darkness in our national history, so they can better understand America as a whole.  But not yet. At 7 and 10, they're still too young to understand and appreciate seeing the historical artifacts of slavery in person. Rather than being educational, I think Charleston's stories would be deeply upsetting to them. So we stuck to the greater Myrtle Beach area on this trip.    It's a two-day, 700-mile drive to get there, so by the time we arrived at the resort my children were eager to run, make lots of noi...

Into every family vacation, a little misfortune must fall. Here's how to tell when it's time to end your beach vacation: 10. A wave steals husband's sunglasses  9. Backs of your hands get sunburned 8. Found a tick in the 6-year-old's hair 7. Somebody mentions the alligators at the state park, "but they don't bother you none" 6. Husband loses his hat 5. 9-year-old throws tantrum that we never let him do anything (while holding a boogie board, standing in the ocean, on vacation) 4. Sprained your ankle 10 minutes into a trip to the beach 3. 6-year-old gets stung by a jellyfish, has complete freak-out melt-down screaming on the beach 2. You run out of Blue Bell ice cream 1. Electricity goes out at the resort when it's 93 degrees outside These, my friends, are sure signs that it's time to pack it up, at least until next year. 6-year-old: "Are we going to take any ice cream home?"  

In the summer of my seventh year, my family landed in Southeast Texas. We had driven there in a distressingly orange Volvo station wagon with sticky vinyl seats and a "way-back." Inexplicably, my mom called her Betsy For a few years thereafter, each month during summer vacation my brother, my mom, and I would climb into the family car and head to town to go grocery shopping. (At the time, "town" consisted of three stop lights, three fast-food joints (the McDonald's didn't come until 8th grade), and one set of railroad tracks that separated us from the grocery store). It was 98 degrees in the shade and the car's air conditioning hadn't worked since the turn of the decade. Three miles with the windows down can seem like three lifetimes when you're not even 10 years old.

It's June. Look out -- summer is coming. Ah, yes, summer in Ohio...those approximately 12 days in late July, when the temperatures creep up to a balmy 84 degrees and Lake Erie averages about 72 degrees. If you go, don't forget to bring a wet suit for wading -- the water's about 6-10 degrees colder than Livestrong.com recommends for vigorous exercise . Even triathlon competitors wear wetsuits in water colder than 78 degrees. There is no way this Gulf of Mexico girl is taking a relaxing dip in that. Instead I will chill on our newly outfitted back deck, which now features a large cantilever umbrella to shield my fish-belly white skin from the sun and a 36-inch ottoman on which to prop my feet. My happy place All that I'm missing is a fruity adult beverage. Unfortunately, my knowledge of alcohol ends at how much rum to put in a Captain and Coke. So when I need an easy fruity drink recipe, I yell one of my favorite battle cries: To Pinterest! I type in the wor...