I grew up in a family that really didn't believe in relaxation. My parents allowed my brothers and I to play fairly often. but we also had to do work. Yard work, house work, and later, house building and house finishing work. Stripping woodwork and wallpaper, sanding and painting, all that sort of thing.

When we went to my mothers' parents' house, the scene may have shifted, but we still worked a good chunk of the time. During the growing season, we weeded the extensive garden in the back 40 (well, an acre or so) and during harvest we harvested. My grandpa was a popcorn breeder and grower, and we helped with the shelling and cleaning of the corn.

I'm not saying this to complain. I'm one of the few people my age who has a clue how to really work a garden, and I'm also fairly handy when stuff around the house needs fixing. Useful skills, to be sure.

My parents often laugh when I come up with these memories, saying I did about everything I could to get out of working. Sure I did. Like any good kid. And I learned that the protestant work ethic is full of crap. In other words, work for work's sake is stupid.

No, I did not lead a childhood of drudgery, but my vacations weren't ever relaxing. Even when we traveled, we were constantly on the move. No time for contemplation or just hanging out. Very little, anyway. In 1977, my family left from Lawrence, Kan., drove all the way to upstate New York, down to Florida and returned in not quite three weeks. We were, to be sure, constantly on the go.

I thought that once I reached adulthood, I would escape this tyranny of activity and finally get to sit on my ass when I could. Unfortunately, my wife has the same notions as my parents. She was sick throughout our honeymoon in San Francisco, but she insisted on hiking miles and miles every day, only to collapse at five or six every night, coughing and puking. All my notions of experiencing the fine Bay Area nightlife went mostly out the window.

Again, I'm not criticizing. I have a large amount of energy myself. It's just that I don't feel I'm wasting vacation time by lying down and reading (or even sleeping) for long stretches of time. I live a full life, and I don't have a sense that I'm missing anything by goofing off now and again.

I was musing about this all last week, when I was on vacation at my parents' house in Kansas City. They've mellowed a bit, which is nice. So all I did during the whole week was mow the backyard (a 15-minute task, max), go through a few boxes of junk that I had accumulated though the years and finish up a wooden plank ceiling. That last thing was rather rough, and while I wasn't particularly sore the next day, spiderwebs of broken blood vessels lay on my shoulders. The same sort of thing I get after increasing my weights at the gym.

Well, I also helped do some clean-up at my grandma's house in Kansas, but again, that wasn't really much. What I did, for the most part, was read a whole bunch of books I had read growing up. Authors like E.L. Konigsberg, Paula Danziger, Gordon Korman, Richard Peck and Daniel Pinkwater. I came to the conclusion that those books have influenced my writing at least as much as many of the books I've been reading for the past 15 years. But that's a whole different column.

So, finally, I had the sort of vacation I've always wanted. Goofing off at my own pace, with just enough activity to put me to sleep at night. Alright, so Barbara wasn't along for the ride (and I'm guessing she would have had me up and about a bit more during the week). Doesn't matter. Now that 30 is right up in front of my face (a number I embrace rather than fear), I finally am getting to the vacation speed I've always desired.

If I could only work out my cash appropriation systems in the same way, then life might be somewhat close to perfect. Well, I've got three weeks out of the year figured out. Only 49 to go.

Jon Worley lives in Durham, N.C., earns some dough in Raleigh and vacations wherever he damn well pleases.