Sunshine streaming through the skylight wakened me this morning. Oh happy day! It seems like it has been raining for months. It is a good day to start this blog.

It is the Fourth of July, the summer holiday that marks the beginning of the New England vacation season. The kids are out of school and the weather (usually) is hot making our lakes and coast a destination.

As a kid my family didn’t take vacations. My father got one week off from work and spent it at home resting but the Fourth of July was a big occasion. Mama would pack a big basket with potato salad, homemade bread, cole slaw, a berry pie, chocolate chip cookies and, best of all, fried chicken. Our fried chicken wasn’t coated with anything, this was long before KFC.

The day before the Fourth Mama would go to a local farm for a fresh chicken. The farmer picked one from many scratching in the chicken yard, a hefty hen that wasn’t laying eggs any more. Early the morning of the holiday, the chicken was simmered in a big pot of water until it was tender, then fried in butter until it was brown and gooey and chewy. I loved it.

The picnic stowed, we drove to a small lake not too far from home where we met aunts and uncles and cousins. They always arrived early enough to claim the choice picnic tables. We children swam and played on the tiny sandy beach. The men played horseshoes and catch while the women talked and relaxed. After eating we had to stay out of the water for an interminable hour.

At last dusk settled, we donned sweaters and snuggled on blankets ready for the highlight of the day, the fireworks. They were much too short and finally we packed the car and headed home, sandy, sleepy, but happy.