The Summer They’ll Never Forget (And Neither Will I)

I've been a bit quiet this week. Rather, I should say I wasn't necessarily "quiet" as much as otherwise invested this past week. There was very little "quiet" in our home! It was a grandkid-focused week; a whirlwind of buttered bread, swimming pool splashes, sticky ginger-cookie fingers, and jigsaw puzzle pieces that never quite stayed on the table. We worked in the kitchen, at the table, and even in the yard—passing down family recipes, sorting beans the old-fashioned way, and sneaking learning into laughter.

We played cards, lifted heavy things, took in the sparkle of Seaworld and the chrome of a classic car show. And somewhere in between the puzzles and the pinto beans, I looked around and realized: this is what legacy looks like. Not just stories passed down, but skills, rhythms, and moments that stitch generations together.

I know some folks hesitate to take the grandkids for more than an afternoon—worried about their energy, their screen time, or maybe just the sheer volume of laundry. But here’s the truth: investing in your family doesn’t require perfection. It just takes presence. Sometimes, giving your adult kids a few days to catch their breath while you make a memory with the next generation is the most loving thing you can do. And you will likely find that it fills your own cup, too.

Maybe I lean into it so hard because I remember my own summers so clearly. Fishing for crawdads on a creek bank, trekking barefoot through the woods, picking wild berries by the bucket, and riding the sideboards of my grandparents’ old truck in West Virginia—those memories didn’t just entertain us, they rooted us. They built something solid beneath our feet, a connection to place, people, and heritage that still lives in my bones, something I'll never forget.

My daughters remember the same—their own childhood summers filled with cousins, and the sights and smells of their grandparents’ kitchens, gardens, homemade ice cream, and stories. And now, they want that for their children. Not just connection, but continuity—the kind that spans generations, grounding us in something bigger than ourselves.

We wrapped up the week the best way we knew how—together. Parents arrived to pick them up, and auntie and cousins came over for an evening in the backyard. We lit a small fire like we were out in the woods, roasted hot dogs over the flames, and turned the yard into a makeshift campsite picnic. Afterward, we pulled out marshmallows to roast, and a tub of old-fashioned vanilla ice cream for root beer floats. The kids’ faces glowed with firelight and sugar, and for a moment, the world felt wonderfully simple.

That’s the kind of week that doesn’t just pass—you carry it with you. And so will they.