John and I have a pathetic record for family vacations. In California we did better, living forty minutes from the beach, the mountains, and Disneyland. It was easy to throw the cooler in the back of the van, grab some towels and head west. One year we even sprang for annual passes to the Magic Kingdom, and could indulge in half day adventures without the need to get our money's worth.  In Florida too, we made it to Disneyworld back when they had colored tickets. D got you on the Matterhorn.  A was for the carousel. 

 

The twins probably don't like to hear it, but outings slowed down after they were born. We gave away the two room tent, and have never even taken them to a water park. The older kids have of course stepped in with their own initiative, traveling to New Zealand, Europe, Iceland, Africa, Japan, Columbia, Hawaii, and Alaska. But the five of us who still live on Alden Road keep a more modest routine. 

 

Now that we are in our sixties, John and I have come to a kind of impasse around it. He wishes we would go someplace. I like to stay at home. It is hard to find middle ground. 

 

But 2020 will be different. It is time to celebrate. The girls will graduate from high school, and a year from today will be our fortieth anniversary. The fact that we are still side by side after four decades of  what life has managed to hurl at us is remarkable.

 

All of which is enough of a reason to find a big house on the shore and invite the gang to join us for a week. Our granddaughter will be the perfect age for a bucket and shovel. Some of us can get up with the sun. Others will laugh late into the night. Our daughters who are immersed in theater will lead us in improv skits. I will bring my guitar. 

 

 I've dabbled on Airbnb, but sixteen people don't fit just anywhere. Maybe it will take two houses close together, but I will keep looking.