When I was a kid, summers and family meant one thing–swimming.  Aunts and uncles and cousins left town and drove the forty miles to my grandmother’s, the last leg, five miles of gravel and dust road.  When everyone was there, we’d shoehorn into two or three cars and drive back down the five miles of gravel to the cleanest, coldest creek in Tennessee.  We would splash with the minnows until we began to turn blue around the edges, then crawl out onto the limestone shelf bank and bake in the sun until we were ready to start over again.
When we were exhausted, cranky, and starving, we’d pile back into the cars and head back up the hill.  And on those days when God was smiling on us, when we got back to my grandmother’s, there would be banana pudding.  An enormous bowl of warm, wonderful banana pudding made from scratch and vanilla wafers.

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