Summer days used to feel like they were 36 hours long. And that was a good thing. You woke up early—because the days were completely your own. A half-hearted attempt at brushing your hair was ditched in favor of a baseball cap or ponytail. Then you bolted for your bike or ran to a friend’s house to plan the rest of your day.  Reading comic books, swimming, swinging on the play gym, playing home run derby, or climbing anything, anywhere...

Lunch was for refueling and planning how you’d spend 50 cents at the corner store or where you’d listen to records (remember them?). The sun would bleach your hair and redden your nose and the day would allow you to talk, dream, question, and answer. Then you’d wolf down dinner and run out to play Ghosts in the Graveyard, Kick the Can, or Spin the Bottle.

Jimmy Buffett once wrote, “It seems that blind ambition/ Erased their intuition.” So the next time you find yourself shuttling seven-year-olds to soccer/Latin/dance/chemistry/SAT primer/computer camp—pick one, or all, that apply—don’t forget that we spent summers goofing off. Look at us now, lamenting that we need 36-hour days just to do tasks we have to do. So go kill an afternoon in the hammock, if you remember how.