smell of leaves wet

I miss going on family vacations. A place we always used to go was Pokagon State Park near Angola, IN. They have a beach there, and picnic tables, charcoal grills, hiking trails. I remember building sandcastles with my cousin and going swimming in the water. We camped there a lot. We had one of those pop-up trailers. I always hated helping set it up, or maybe it was tearing it down that I didn't like. I got my first 2nd-degree burn at that park. We were roasting marshmallows (actually, I was more or less just toasting mine. I like marshmallows best just plain). Anyway, somehow or another, the roasting fork or whatever they're called hit the inside of my finger, and it hurt. It eventually blistered up, then eventually went away.

My cousin and I would always bring our bikes there. We loved riding around the campground on our tiny Huffys with the training wheels. We eventually graduated to bigger bikes... the ones with that pad wrapped around the top of the frame, and that other one around the top of the handlebars. We wore our helmets. We might've had knee pads and stuff, too. I remember riding around fresh after a rain. The smell of the leaves wet with moisture, the humid but cool air with the slight breeze tagging along, battling to see who could get the longest skid mark on the pavement - you know how it goes: get going really fast, then just slam the pedals backward and, Kssssssshhhhhhhh!!!!! Good times. Those times were so much fun, so carefree. All you had to worry about was being back to the campsite in time for burgers and brats; burgers for us, and brats for the adults (oh, this was before we actually knew what a brat was. As far as we knew, it was some kind of morphed, messed-up hot dog that we wouldn't dare try). Getting yelled at for playing with the fire too much; running from daddy-longlegs; hearing mom's whistle from a half mile away, telling us to come back to camp.