My brother played with Legos. The scowl on his face said, Do Not Disturb (I only tried once). His creations were not cute and were not meant for display. There was no absent-minded pawing through the bin - locating the correct piece was serious business and filled with stern determination. 

I tried to play like that but I just couldn't.

I'd happily organize my little water color trays, wiping excess paint off the tray -- rinsing cups, organizing markers in a rainbow spectrum. Finished paintings would be rushed to my parents - and nothing was finished without seeking reaction.

I still seek the reaction but I'm not sure where that tidy part of me went:

I blame the interns. Their willingness to follow orders handicapped me. And without an intern (Summer is over - do you hear me?? OVER.) I'm left to make my own lattes and paw through piles of type.

Summers on Cape Cod before the invention of electronic mail (or personal computers) meant low-tide foraging, wiffle ball and handwritten letters. Letters were elaborate and could include drawings, mix-tapes, whipper-snappers, and live specimens.

I learned that the more letters written, the more received, so rainy days were spent diligently embellishing the news: Picnics with the Kennedy's, shark hunts, ghost encounters - all sort of true.

There was (and is) no mailbox at 29 Freezer Road and so the day includes a walk to town for the newspaper and a visit to the post office. The post officers knew us by (last) name and quickly slid the day's mail across the counter.

The Intern has been pulling orders with a smile on her face. How does she do it it?