I'll let you in on a little secret, Detweiller. Every adult you've ever known was a kid at sometime in his life. You think we don't remember summer vacation? Riding our bikes down the creek. Catching polliwogs in a jar. Camping out under the stars. Well you're wrong! Sometimes I sit there in my office, looking out at you kids in the playground and I think, "They don't know how good they got it. In a few years, they'll be grownups like me and all those good times will be memories for them, too". So go ahead. Put a whoopie-cushion in my chair. Put fake vomit on my carpet. Make fun of my "big, saggy butt". But don't ever say I don't care about summer vacation, 'cause those memories are the last part of childhood I got left.
Hey, remember that summer after the second grade when we went down to the pond every day to catch minnows?
Or how about that summer we all carved our initials in that big tree in the Wilson's backyard?
And Spinelli spelled her's wrong.
Hey, I was seven. And "S's" are tricky.
What's your problem? This is the first summer you've lived here.
I know, and I'll never have any of those memories.