Last night, our thirty-year-old station wagon limped into my parents’ driveway on a slowly deflating tire. By morning, the tire was fully pancaked, pitching the rusty wagon forward like an old, loyal dog nursing a sore leg, settled in for a well-deserved rest. The backseat is littered with the smashed remains of granola bars, Starburst wrappers, and puzzle books. Dreams really do come true.

I am fresh off a week spent in Maine with my mom and dad, my three sisters, our attending partners and assorted progeny. Despite the compulsory consternation about packing, in the end I would not have been wrong to fill a duffel with only bathing suits and towels—maybe a few sweatshirts for the chillier mornings and evenings. A supply of Band-Aids and a bottle of sunscreen nursed the worst of what ailed us. What was truly indispensable, I didn’t pack and wouldn’t have fit in even the largest L.L.Bean tote.

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