(old postcards of Anna Maria Island. My mother’s family has vacationed at this Island since the 1930’s)
I believe that sometimes vacation should feel like a big adventure, and sometimes it should feel like returning to another home. The latter is true for this week. Every time I return to Anna Maria I feel like I’m revisiting my childhood. The days are perfectly lazy and long and worries and work are left somewhere along the interstate–once we realize where we’re headed. I thumb through old books and pictures. My grandfather’s little notes are scattered throughout. His mark on this place is so real (the long-term residents in the area remember him — loved him and respected him) that it almost feels like I’ll turn a corner and see him making me peanut butter and toast for breakfast. We walk and bike everywhere–even a three mile drive off the Island seems like a chore. Flip flops and cover ups are the daily wear; there’s no room in the suitcase for anything remotely uncomfortable.