I grew up in Virginia.  I lived in a nice house with a huge yard, enhanced by a trampoline and a two-story tree house.  On evenings in June, we would race through newly-dewed grass, startling the fireflies into their nightly ascent from the blades to the tree tops.  My sister and I slept in the tree house and swam in the neighbor’s pool.  I was surrounded and protected by the love of a happy family.  In August each year, we took our family vacation to a place called Ocean City, Md., where we made memories to last a lifetime.

My parents took a quick and unexpected trip there last week….a kind of cute, romantic getaway.  They began texting my sister and I pictures. No, they were not selfies, but snaps of places and things that screamed, “Remember this happiness together?”.  The photos wouldn’t have meant a thing to another person.  First came a pic of a large, open, red white and blue boat, that gave rides in the ocean.  It was named “The Patriot”.  But with young reading skills, I called it the Pat Riot – which became it’s name for life and was never uttered without a few giggles.  A beach scene came, showing the vast expanse of sand with the hundreds of multi-colored umbrellas, chairs and towels.  I could feel the heat of the sand on my feet, the pounding of the waves and that sticky, salty scum that clings to skin and hair.  Next was a shot of the Alaska Stand, a food booth on 9th street, our go-to beach location because the Alaska Stand was there. One look at the pic brought the smell of burgers sizzling on a flat top, the taste of a cheese dog with relish, and the sweet tart flavor of the lemonade.  I returned a text commanding that they eat one for me and get the Thrashers fries from down the boardwalk to go with it.   Another ding delivered a photo of the public restroom at 9th street, where for two of our many years, held a hired attendant who barked orders at children in an attempt to keep a clean restroom.  We called her “the bathroom Nazi” and one look at that pic brought fear flooding back across my being.  As night fell, my parents moved down the boardwalk to the amusement park – always a highlight of the stay for us.

My phone buzzed and there he was…. Ali Baba, the huge brightly painted statue over the fun house that moved continually, bringing his open hands from his lap to his face.  I knew that pic would come.  And when it did, I could hear the screams of the riders on the roller coaster, feel the goo of cotton candy, see the ride tickets in my hand and sense the adrenaline rush that came with all those sights and sounds.

It got late and the texts stopped, but my mind did not.  It continued through the pages of the vacation playbook, with or without the photos.  I felt the cool relief of the beach shower water on my sun and sand covered skin. I heard the seagulls squawk while hovering over tossed food.  I saw the sunset-lit sky over the bay from our rented condo on the Sound.  I smelled the dead fish that occasionally floated around the dock. I tasted the hard-shelled crabs we ate every year at PGN Crab House.  Eventually, my memory lane ended, where I came to the full realization that travel, vacations, trips affect our whole beings.  We take in new places through all of our senses.  We remember them through all of our senses.  We re-live them through all of our senses.

This past June, I traveled to Branson, Missouri as a tour guide with Green Light Group Tours.  I watched as 76 young people from Brenham, Texas absorbed Branson, built memories of Branson, shared Branson – through all of their senses.  I stood in a field there and saw fireflies rise from the grass.  I live in Florida now and haven’t seen them in years.  In fact, I forgot they were called lightning bugs (that Pat Riot tendency still kicking in).  I was somewhat overwhelmed with emotion and sent my parents this text, “There are night light bugs here.  I had a magical childhood. Love you two. You are amazing parents.  Happy Fathers Day.”

Take a trip.  Open your senses.  Soak it all in.  Text your parents.