Summer Break.

Who on earth, I can hear you asking, in his or her right mind would ever want to leave Palmerwood? Isn't living in this sprawling, rambling, super-luxurious, deeply historic country estate located in the gently rolling hills of suburban St. Louis like being on vacation all the time?

Well, yeah, sure it is. But even Palmerwood, the garden-spot of the Midwest and the epicenter of everything interesting that goes on in our benighted region, is none the worse for a change of scenery. And so, every so often, the Palmers of Palmerwood decamp for more tropical climes--places where palm trees and heliconias replace pin oaks and pine trees on the horizon, where sand replaces loam between our toes, and where soft Island accents replace the broad, flat tones of our native Heartland region.

The children were so excited! They simply couldn't WAIT to get the hell out of Dodge, and had their Lil' Louie (the junior line of Louis Vuitton) luggage packed before you could say Rock Jabinson. However, inasmuch as I am attempting to raise responsible young'uns who will, someday, shoulder their hereditary responsibilities with the noblesse oblige of those of our exalted station, I informed the lil' poppets that, prior to dashing off to the land of sun, sand, and surf, some chores needed to be done.

First, a bit of housekeeping. A few pesky zombies had managed to worm their way inside the estate's perimeter--no doubt helped by the fact that they are themselves somewhat wormy--and once you get one, then the whole bunch follows. Can't come home to a luxurious, historic country estate overrun by the Undead.



And then a quick check on some of the livestock before we go. Now, I'm the last fella on earth to get his incredibly expensive, super-luxurious, 400-thread-count Egyptian cotton boxers in a bunch over GMOs and organic yadda yadda, but I will cop to being a little dubious about the long-term effects of Monsanto's new "Yum Yum Chicken Chow."

However, we left with full confidence in the ability of our doughty and redoubtable gamekeeper, Oliver DeBaliviere, to handle any exigency that might arise in our absence.

And then we were off!



The children have always been appreciative of the wonders of the natural world, both above and below the waves. Here are the little Palmerlets doing a bit of spear-fishing and scuba-diving.

The scuba tanks and spears were a gift from Grandmere. How the old dear dotes on those imps. "Now, you little pishers get to the ocean floor and don't come back without a species previously unknown to science, and preferably quite dangerous!" she exhorted them. "Grandmere will have the help procure a lovely selection of petit-fours for when you get back."

The Palmerkins are independent little beasties, and on their own precious lil' initiative, tackled a wide range of Salt Life activities, like catamaraning...



...and Intrepid Stella A. even mastered a somewhat arcane maritime pursuit known as "shark-surfing." That child sure loves her animals. And what a way she has with them!



But all good things, like vacations, must come to an end, tragically. As we watched the sun set over the crystal-clear, azure-blue waters of our magnificent private Caribbean cay, our thoughts turned to home. Tomorrow, we'd board our private hovercraft, which our captain, Cap'n Stabbin (if he could be bothered to leave his cabin--what he's always doing in there I simply don't know and don't care to guess) would pilot north--around the Keys, through the Gulf of Mexico, and then up the Mississippi until reaching Palm's Landing on Palmer Creek.

Good-bye, ocean. We'll think of you often as the Palmerlets return to school, the leaves begin to turn, the days begin to shorten, and autumn, Satan's own season, descends upon the Midwest.