Maybe it was the periwinkles villages my cousins and I would build on the sandbars every summer in Connecticut that made my childhood so special. We’d dig away the warm, brown top layer of sand, revealing the blue-grey, cool layers beneath. And we’d dig it away, piling and shaping and dripping into walls, homes, fortresses and passageways. Though my cousins would only visit our beach a few times each summer and our creations would wash away with the tide, those memories of castle building and moat digging are among my most vivid.
Or maybe it was the sheer freedom of my summers. I’d roam and explore our neighborhood and beach freely, on bike or foot. I made friends of our mail person, neighbors and the renters who’d move in and out all summer long. And with or without friends, I would adventure through the world my own tales and stories weaving through my mind, begging to be written down. But it wasn’t without any learning — it just wasn’t the workbook kind. On those summers, I learned to swim in the Long Island Sound with my grandmother as a teacher, and fell in love with reading thanks to Sweet Valley Twins books consumed on my family porch. I learned about money returning bottles and cans for deposits and budgeting for candy and writing supplies. Click here to continue reading.
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