Every time we go to my parents house I end up with about a hundred pictures, and when I sit down to write I say the same thing.  "We walked and played and dug in the dirt and fed chickens and chased the dogs and fished and visited and read books and wrestled around and tried to keep my dad from playing tricks on the kids."  Each visit is much the same - it's always wonderful and my children love it there, so comfortable they think it's their second home.

Dad (who has apparently become a cowboy in his retirement) showed Martin how to kick a football.  The lesson consisted mainly of Martin rolling down the hill and fetching the football.


The lake has gone down quite a bit with this summer's dry weather.  Martin walked out into the mucky water under the guise of doing some weeding for Grandpa Pack:


Sophie, a little better at following my directions not to get her pants wet, waded out just far enough to stay mostly dry:


It was at this point that dad declared it happy hour and brought me a martini.  While I was happily distracted, he talked Martin into sitting in the mud.  And laying in it.  And then rolling in it.  He's pretty hard to convince.


So, like always, we had a great time.  We're awfully lucky.