For Memorial Day weekend, we traveled to B's family's stompin' grounds. Our trip always reminds me of this book.
B drove for most of the long trip. I knit. I'd like to think of it as division of labor.
The each little boy had a big helper sitting next to him, which kept the crying to a minimum.
Why didn't I think of this before?
A tradition upon first arriving at our destination:
throwing fistfuls of rocks off of the bridge.
Or throwing them daddy's way: one at a time.
M and one of the cousins caught a salamander in the creek.
G practiced his grabbing techniques, and was passed from person to doting person.
M scoped out the "purple martin" nest in the birdhouse.
(I think it was a tree swallow nest, but none of us wanted to contradict M, an avid birder.)
I have very few pictures of Z because she spent most of the first morning we were away making this doll, named Violeta (sic) Cordelia, with Papa. The rest of the time, she was holed up with her only female first cousin, doing girly things.
We had a weenie roast, and G loved rolling around while the rest of the kids played and the adults traded jokes and funny stories.
The cousins slept in the tent, above,...
...right by the babbling creek...
...and far away from the grown ups.
The big boy cousins taught M and Z how to fire a BB gun(Oh, my!).
There was lots of early morning rasslin'.
Even T had to join in.
And lots of good, homey, southern food.
We're always reluctant to pack that last bag, to start the car and head for home, but home we did trot, refreshed and rested from our time.