Someone near and dear to me recently confided how disappointed he sometimes is, that he can’t give his kids the same kind of small town, close-knit, free-wheeling, and outdoorsy kind of childhood he had.
I get it. I totally do. He is sentimental about afternoons in Packerland watching M*A*S*H (cause homework, what homework?), summers without schedules, fishing streams mere minutes away, low parental supervision, and the joys of grape Bubble Yum and Country Time lemonade. I get it. I was there.
I think that place also existed in a particular time, but I’ll set that thought aside for now, and instead write to suggest that he maybe not feel so bad about not providing the perfect childhood place. Because here’s the deal: while that was a youth he loved and longs to share, he’s got to remember that not everyone who lived there, loved it.
I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t…
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