We've left the mountains and turned to the midwest,
where my daughters are swimming in the same lake I swam in -- and my dad did -- when we were 8.
Squint your eyes and not a day's gone by.
In honor of all the fun, this poem:
The Barefoot Boy, by John Greenleaf Whittier
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy!
Read the rest of the poem here...