Going to the beach was a big treat for us as kids. Living in Michigan, Land of the Great Lakes, you would think we would get used to it. We never did. We loved every trip. Each time we fought over the beach towels, the umbrella's the floaties. Of course we always gave in when our youngest brother got that quivering lip going, we'd give him any towel or floatation device he wanted. He was just too cute to say no to.

Mom would fill a cooler with jugs of Kool-aide and lunch meats. Someone always smushed the bread. But those sandwiches were the best we ever had. Green tongues and ketchup smeared, we'd go roaring into the water like kamakazi's on a mission. We knew how to swim, but that wouldn't have been any fun at all. It was battling the waves and holding on to each other that was the best part. Water up our noses, sand in every crevice.

The best time, the one we all remember was a hot August, during the week. We all disagree on the day, but it was summer vacation. Who keeps track of days on summer vacation?

Our littlest brother, so frail when he was young, lying on all the beach towels. Sound asleep. Blonde hair being gently tousled by the slight breeze. We were freezing, with goosebumps, having battled the waves and each other for a long time. The three of us looked at him and suddenly we reached for each other. Holding hands we watched him sleep.

I don't know how long we stood there, or what any of us were thinking. We all seem to have been thinking something different apparently. But he opened his eyes, that sleepy way little kids do, kind of rubbing them. And says, oh so excitedly, "Look a plane! It's so close I can touch it!" and proceded to try. The three of us looked up. No plane. Looked back down. He had a mosquito in his hand and laughed and laughed. We screamed "Monkey Pile" and jumped on him and tickled each other until it was time to go cool of in the water again.

I miss summer vacation.