I have to say I’m impressed with those Club U kids I see out on Presidents Circle every morning. You know the ones – the chubby faced kids who look way too happy decked in their colorful t-shirts and backpacks, sitting in neatly formed circles or walking in lines. I’m impressed because the past few days have been, well, wet. I see teachers, staff, even students scurrying short-stepped as fast as they can like rats off a sinking ship.

But not these kids (and their post-pubescent leaders, who I respectfully dub kids with bigger bodies). They are out there living large, whooping it up, having fun. And I’m not talking about the kind of knee-jerk joy we sometimes (but not nearly often enough) get when the weather gives us a playful kick in the pants. No, they’re not screaming just because they can. That would be my son. It’s ‘cuz they’re on VACATION.

The more I watch them, the more I envy those kids for nothing more than I’m not one of them. And because they dig driving rainstorms and big puddles and cars that drive by with a splashy swoosh. Seriously. There was one incredibly carefree boy who would purposefully stand on the curb at just the right spot just to get soaked by passersby. That’s vacation.

My camp experience was in upstate Michigan, a place made of lakes and trees (as opposed to Detroit, which is made of concrete and guns). Lakes and trees mean carnivorous insects and equally vicious plants, of which I fell victim more times than I can remember. Did any of you do summer camp in the 70s? It wasn’t pretty. It would start on a yellow bus that smelled of wet feet and rotting teeth and ended at a dilapidated hooverville called Camp Wherethehellarewe, where the feasting of our flesh and wills to live would begin. The movie Meatballs with Bill Murray comes close to telling the story, but makes it funny simply because you aren’t there. 

I never felt like I was on vacation in those days, not like these kids I see in the circle, and they really haven’t even gone anywhere, as most are likely a stone’s throw from their homes. Goes to show that vacation is a “what” more than a “where.”  If it rains next week, I’m going to live it up, jump around, get crazy wet. If it stops raining, I’m going to build a fire in the circle and roast weenies. And probably get arrested in the process.

Reply if you are willing to join me and/or bail me out.