Sunday, June 24, 2012

Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah

We bought a pop-up camper on Thursday, my last day of work was Friday, my DH left Saturday for his annual golf trip (not even close to as elitist as it sounds - I believe the goal is to find the cheapest round of 18 in the tri-state area), and I am about to drive My Dear Son to summer camp. It is pretty much the start of moving our home to the road.  For the next 4 days, all we will be doing is:

  • Eating everything we can in our stationary house (we are already down to the last in the fridge) 
  • Cleaning up so that when we come back to Suburbia it feels like paradise (as if a real shower won't be enough)
  • Packing so we don't end up buying stuff on the road that we already own (crushes my frugal heart)
  • Planning the last details of the month long camping trip

Sunday, June 17, 2012

All Summer Long

Our inviting new storm door
So last spring I was DYING to replace our storm doors.  We had the UGLIEST storm doors in Suburbia.  They were metal with lots and lots of glass slats, circa 1965 (see YIKES picture below).  They were heavy and sharp and a pain to clean.  They slammed shut clipping ankles in their wake.  They offered very little in the way of extra insulation and worst of all, they didn't help people know that we were open and ready to play.

Growing up we had a rule; it wasn't written or said, but when the front door was open, neighborhood kids would stop by because they knew we could play.  Sometimes kids would stop by when it was shut too, but were mostly told that we were still doing chores or busy, but when the front door was open, we knew freedom was imminent.

This was in a different time, a time when we only had window A/C units and they were only turned on in certain rooms and only on the hottest of days.  An era when video games were so new that barely anyone had them and nobody I knew had cable.  As kids we played "Scatter" or "Kick-ball" outside from the moment the door opened until well after the sun had gone down with "Ghost in the Graveyard" through every yard on the block because no one had fences and almost everyone had children or remembered what having children was like (and there was no such thing as a professionally landscaped yard).  And honestly, I remember those kids names but they were only friends by proximity; I kept in touch with very few after high school and almost none after college.  It wasn't necessarily the people themselves but the atmosphere of Summer in Suburbia.  We played through swarms of mosquitoes without my mom spraying us with bug repellent or sun screen or handing us bottles of water—we just moved to the shade and drank out of the hose when we needed it and ran around until we heard my dad's whistle; at which point we sprinted home, knowing that if we didn't, our "curfew" would be moved up an hour the next night.  When we got in, we would wash our feet in the tub, be covered in calamine lotion, and sent to bed.