Little Grass Shack

When I was growing up, I remember my Dad going on business trips. Typically cable conventions or cable systems in exotic places like Sarasota or Oswego. Dad’s business trips meant two things: at least one TV dinner if it happened during the week (I still have a strong sensory memory of Hungry Man cherry compote) and, when we were smaller, a grab bag of goodies upon his return. Granted, the goodies consisted almost exclusively of free convention swag festooned with cable channel logos (although sometimes it was a sports arena program and ticket stubs). I’m sure my Mom cringed at the influx of stress balls, tote bags, cup holders, ash trays, coasters, lanyards and other tchotchkes, but we loved it, fought over it and hoarded it like it was shiny Spanish doubloons.

Well, Cece had her first introduction to the return trip goodie basket when a bursting USPS box showed up on our doorstep smelling like tropical sunshine and double rainbows. Its arrival just happened to coincide with her grandparents return from Hawaii. Ce’s reaction didn’t disappoint:

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