It seems at the end of each summer, I hear many of my friends lament over the summer accomodations: the parents were in the way, there's so much work to be done on the summer house, they had to share the time with annoying siblings and their families. And I am trying to feel their pain. They so take for granted that they pack up on the weekend and head out to the summer property, whether it's by the lake or ocean. Dear God, some of the kids had to share bedrooms.

This is so foreign to Barry and me. Yes, Barry grew up on the coast. His parents packed up each summer in Atlantic City and moved to less than desirable quarters to they could rent their place to tourists. Not fun when you're thirteen years old.

For me, I can remember early summer mornings - like 5 am - when my parents would wake my sister and me to head out with them to pick cucumbers. To this day, nothing tastes better than a fresh picked stolen cuke, run under the spiket on the farm.

And yet, I remember dancing with my children on Saturday nights to Oldies on the radio (Two Less Lonely People in the World), Katie in Barry's arms, David in mine, and I think, does any of all that really matter? What could be more geniune than this"

So I am happy for my friends. They will pass on the legacy. But when all is said and done, kids will love their parents, no matter what.