When I was a kid, my grandparents lived a six-hour drive across the state.

We made that drive across the turnpike at least four times a year, probably more.

We’d leave Friday evening after school and work, arrive very late, and go right to bed. We’d spend Saturday and Sunday morning there, then head home after lunch.

They lived in the country, where the junior and senior high schools were one building serving grades 7–12.

There was one mini-market in town, where you could get whatever you had forgotten during your once-a-week trek into “town.”

There was the small church whose pastor had married, baptized, and eulogized generations of families.

We spent our time visiting my mom’s extended family and going to the ice cream stand.

Their front porch overlooked a cornfield.

It was so quiet you could hear the wind. You could hear a car coming up over the next hill before you ever saw it.

It was the kind of place where time stood still.

Where I forgot about my real life, even if just for a moment.

I remember feeling so recharged when I left there.

After my grandmother sold her house, I wondered if I would ever again find that little slice of heaven.

This weekend, we visited my parents.

They live at the shore.

I keep telling my kids how lucky they are that they get to spend so much time down there—not just during the summer, but all year.

This weekend was rainy, as it seems every fall weekend has been so far.

We sat and talked.

We played card games.

We trekked up to the boardwalk for some arcade fun and ice cream, because apparently we visit the boardwalk more in the off-season than during the actual season.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I realized something.

My parents’ house has become that same respite for me.

Time stops.

I forget about life.

The emails. The schedules. The laundry. The things I need to remember. The things I forgot to remember.

For a little while, none of it matters.

Sometimes my kids get bored there.

My son, especially, spends more time on his phone now that he has outgrown most of the toys that used to entertain him.

But this weekend, I noticed something.

He was just sitting there.

Talking.

Listening.

Enjoying the moment.

He wasn’t asking what we were doing next.

He wasn’t looking for something to entertain him.

He was just there.

And maybe that’s the gift of these places.

Not that they are exciting.

Not that they are packed with activities or carefully planned experiences.

But that they give us somewhere to stop.

Somewhere to breathe.

Somewhere to remember that we don’t have to be doing something all the time.

When I was a kid, I had no idea that my grandparents’ little house in the country was giving me something I would carry with me for the rest of my life.

Now I get to watch my kids find their own version of it.

I hope they do.

I hope someday, when they’re grown, they remember a place where time stood still.

A place where they could forget about real life for a little while.

A place where they could just be.

And I hope they realize how lucky they were to have it.

Because I think I finally realize how lucky I was, too.