Neither worried nor in a hurry

Publisher's Memo

Today is August 8, and I'm writing to you this month from a cabin on the northern end of New Hampshire's Lake Winnipesaukee, where my family and I are vacationing for a week.

Vacations, as I'm sure you've discovered, are often filled with surprises and today we had our own delightful surprise as a duck and her seven little ducklings - each one so tiny it could fit in the palm of your hand - paddled into view and, single file with the mother in the lead, effortlessly glided along the edge of the water, from our left to what was probably their home/nest somewhere to our right.

Several little kids frolicking in the water tried to pet the tiny ducklings but the children's parents, clearly displaying high levels of stress, quickly intervened.

I get great joy from these vacations, perhaps because, when I was growing up, my family didn't take a traditional vacation. By "traditional" I mean a vacation in another country or at some well-known resort.

The most important reason was time: In those days it took a long time to get anywhere. Thus, a week's vacation was not long enough to get very far.

But there was another reason. Each summer we'd pack our clothes into a large steamer trunk and head from Buffalo, NY, to our summer cottage located on the shores of Long Island Sound in Westport, CT.

My dad worked for The New York Central Railroad, which meant he - and we, his family - could travel free on any railroad in the country. So, when we were going to Westport for the summer we'd climb on the sleeping car in Buffalo and wake up the next morning in New York City, where we'd change trains and take a one-hour ride to Westport on The New York, New Haven & Hartford Railroad.

Our cottage, built by my parents before I was born, was where our family spent its summers. and, as far as I was concerned, the entire summer was one long vacation. My dad, who tried to spend his summer weekends with us, spent the rest of the week in Buffalo. I've often wondered whether the stress of that "commute" put an undue strain on his heart. In 1960, at the age of 62, he died from a heart attack while vacationing at our cottage.

Week after week during the summer, my dad would arrive in Westport every Saturday around 10:00 a.m - and. my mother would be ready with a picnic lunch.

Within minutes they'd climb into our canoe and head for several islands about two miles away. My mother, who didn't paddle, would sit in the bottom of the canoe, facing my dad in the rear who, using a beautifully crafted double-paddle would propel the canoe from the rear seat.

My mother and father became fixtures on Long Island Sound, canoeing every weekend from island to island. And, like the ducks, my parents always conveyed the impression they were neither worried nor in too much of a hurry to go anywhere. Those Saturdays and Sundays, spent together in the canoe, were their vacations.

I hope your own vacations, whenever they occur, are also be filled with little surprises. And it is also my hope that during your vacations you, like my mother and dad - and the ducks -will be neither worried nor in too much of a hurry. +

Editor/Publisher Allen Raymond

Copyright Early Years, Inc. Oct 2002
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved