Swings

It is bizarre to me that I can be in a tent in some random place and connect. I remember Scott telling me about the internet twenty years ago, trying to convince me it was a worthy cause . . . fifteen dollars a month, for what?

Now technology has changed everything. I expect to be connected. 

I had to show my parents the 'Find your Friends' App for their iPads so they could track me across the country. Dad feels much better being able to see us. He loves the hybrid view where the satellite pairs with a map and he can see the terrain  I think he likes to check up on us

I love that. 

But here I am, listening to a squeaky swing set across the campground and remembering that playground at the foot of the movie screen at the North Star drive in. And I hear the wind rustle leaves and listen harder for the sound of thunder in the distance. 

I hear fires crackle and laughs become giggles until they hush in sleep. 

The glow of my iPhone seems out of place and I want to sink into the memories of smoky nights, and rainstorms in tents. I want the only sounds to be my mother's songs and watch my dad make the moon disappear. 

But now I want this night, the squeaky swings to make that impression on Violet.
So these memories will mean all that to her.
Then we connect.
It transcends batteries and bandwidth.

More like generations.