A trip last week to St. George Island, Fla., with 20 of our kin and extended-kin and a few extra teenagers gave me a much-needed dose of the beach. We were long overdue.

For many pre-retirement years, we made annual visits to Panama City Beach where we fished off the pier and walked the white beaches, resting from our labors. The MOTH (Man of the House) and I enjoyed those hours at the pier, even when the fish didn't bite.

Eventually it became less appealing to make the trip. Our favorite "home away from home" changed ownership. The fish seemed to be always on their own vacation. A storm or two had left tracks. After skipping a couple of years, we didn't miss the sand and surf.

This year, as one of our "families" was making plans for their annual vacation week at St. George, they insisted we go with them. They didn't have to twist my arm as the more I thought about it, the more I could envision a few days of hanging out with some of my favorite people (including the MOTH), breathing that refreshing salt air, and walking barefoot in that bleached white sand. We had been assured (accurately, as it turned out) that there were no signs of oil on the beaches.

The drive down was long, but that first glimpse of Gulf water was worth the effort. The sun sparkling off the ripples and waves is a sight to behold, like a multi-faceted oversize diamond ring under a chandelier.

Driving alongside the beach through those quaint little fishing villages brought to mind our favorite columnist, Celestine Sibley. Oftentimes she talked of experiences along the coast from Mobile eastward. She seemed to love life at the coast, but would later fall in love with the mountains and her cabin at Sweet Apple. I made the mistake of finding her books on my shelves when I got home and discovered I couldn't just read a page or two, skimming for memories. It is truly impossible to find a stopping place once you begin to read Celestine. Dirty laundry and grocery trips can wait.

I can't imagine what she might think of the Gulf Coast today. In some ways, progress appears not to have paid a visit. Scattered cell phone towers dot the landscape, though. A new bridge, high above the water, takes visitors from Apalachicola across the bay to St. George Island. I recall our last visit there as we drove across on the old bridge. I had to crouch low to avoid the sight of miles of water surrounding us, much too close for comfort for a non-swimmer like me who only feels safe if wearing a life jacket in such an environment.

We didn't stay the entire week. A hurricane was brewing. We had walked the beaches and bike paths, and had unsuccessfully tried to build sand castles. We had played RummiKub with the teenagers, and caught up with family talk with the adults. We had seen the babies (six little girls, all under age 4) play in the sand and salt water, float in the pool, and serve and be served at endless tea parties... you know, the ones with imaginary tea and cookies. This set has a pink-and-lavender teapot with cream and sugar servers, salt-and-pepper shakers (they salted every imaginary morsel), and lots of other pieces. It is a part of our living room decor when it's not on vacation.

But like homing pigeons, we answered the instinctive magnetic pull of home and came back for Independence Day. July Fourth in Woodstock is too good to miss. The Friday Night Live events were better than ever, especially the Bike Parade. It drew lots of riders of all ages, and the kids in their helmets were very impressive. Some parents pulled their toddlers in little sidecars, making memories and having fun at the same time. The Freedom Run on Saturday was a hit, as usual, especially with the cooler temperatures. The parade was also cooler than in years past. J. Christopher's had free coffee as they practiced for their opening on July 5, and vendors in the park after the parade were busy. We had not been attending the fireworks, but managed to get there this year. It was quite a spectacle.

Cousin Mickie sent me this quote from Erma Bombeck. It puts the proper perspective on our unique holiday. "You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism." Methinks I did overeat as well.

We'll be making new family memories in a few days as Julianna, granddaughter No. 4, celebrates the Big 18. She was not with us at the beach, so we'll be making up for lost time on July 11. Later in the month her brother, Robbie, will turn 16. These are very special birthdays as we saw in June as granddaughter No. 3 turned 18, and grandson No. 1 turned 16. It's like two sets of twins! The frightening aspect of the girls is that they can now vote. Just yesterday, it seems, they couldn't even read a ballot!

For kids who can't decide which boyfriend to drop, what outfit to wear, what time to get up, or what to order from a menu, it seems strange that they should be allowed to look at a computer screen and choose which candidate would make the best governor. Such is life in these United States. It all makes for an interesting July.

Juanita Hughes is the retired manager of the Woodstock Public Library.