On July 1, we picked up my husband's youngest brother on the corner of Flatbush and Myrtle at 8:05 a.m.. Nearly eight hours later, we arrived at Camp, my husband's family's cottage on a lake in Maine.
My husband and his three brothers spent their summers at Camp as boys (yes - he is one of four boys - this might be a good time to raise your glass to his parents and their tireless efforts at parenting). During those summers, they spent most of their days catching frogs and snakes and getting into all sorts of secret mischief with the other kids around the lake. Every Fifth of July, they would scour the lake for the remains of the fireworks from the night before. They would compete to see who could find not only the most but also the best dead fireworks (apparently, multi-shot cakes were the "best" and Roman Candles were a close second). The winner's prize was a simple but very real pleasure - pride.
It is probably fair to write that both my husband and I expected that Baby would love Camp and the beach and the lake and the general relief of being out of the city (at least temporarily). Baby corrected us - yet again.