(I know, I sound like an old fart.)
See, the other day at the Piccolo finale at Hottown, I mean Hampton Park, while I was panting in the shade, slurping down the snow cone that Jason so kindly bought for me, I had an opportunity to watch families arrive for the festivities.
This one group, two sets of grown ups and perhaps three kids, had me staring in slack-jawed disbelief.
One grown up was pushing one of those giganti-strollers that had all the kids strapped inside. Another was pushing some contraption that had at least eight folding chairs, a cooler and a shade umbrella attached. Another had what appeared to be two giant diaper bags slung off each shoulder. I honestly don't remember what the fourth adult had, probably a complete computer system with DVD player and four hours worth of Veggie Tale discs.
I mean, come on people!
When we went to the beach or a park, this is what we had: one mom, up to six kids depending on who was or wasn't on restriction that day, two blankets (one for mom, one for ALL THE KIDS), one gallon jug of ice tea (frozen) plus a Dixie cup for each person and a bag of peanut butter sandwiches.
Note the period at the end of that list.
And you know what? We had fun. We ran up and down Folly Beach for hours and those peanut butter sandwiches were the best tasting food we'd ever eaten. We crawled through clover patches in the grass, searching for four leaf clovers and usually only found a honeybee stinger. And survived. Without any great emotional trauma.
I am beginning to seriously worry for our nation's artistic future. A little boredom is the catalyst for so much imagination. If you have all the conveniences of your living room at the park and even in the car, when do you have time to think, to dream, to imagine?