On the last day before I left the beach, the setting sun eased back over the big lake, stretched out its bare feet in the sand and shot a couple of spare rays of brilliant gold over the water, paving an El Dorado highway of sparkling pirate's treasure all the way to the far knife-edge horizon.

At times like that, an entire summer vacation can be compressed into one memory snapshot of almost mythical beauty.

At times like that, I can understand why men through the ages have climbed into frail little boats to paddle out on the deep and see where that mysterious path of gold and silver ends.

At times like that, a feeling creeps over you like July sunshine slowly pushing back a morning shadow: This is what a vacation is all about.

For 50 or so weeks of the year, we kid ourselves into believing that our work is the most important thing in our lives. We let the job follow us home in the evening like a stray dog. We let it beg at the dinner table for attention and keep us awake all night, yapping in our ears.

But then it only takes a brief moment of serenity, as fathomless as deep blue water, to remind us that the alarm-clock world of meetings, deadlines, phone calls, e-mails and lemming-crowded highways is only an interruption between vacations.

Some people never get it. They fill their vacations like a desk calendar, running in place, packing their precious days like overstuffed luggage, staying just ahead of the gnawing dread of doing nothing.

But you can miss a lot when the scenery goes by in a blur. To really see the beauty and wonders that surround us all the time, you have to slow down to walking speed.

Then you can see the dark purple jewel in the middle of a white doily called Queen Anne's Lace.

Then you can admire the bold bristle of punk-hair pink at the top of a thistle, and the delicate, dusty blue flowers that hang their heads modestly on the stem of an anonymous weed.

Then you can catch the lesson: Even weeds have flowers. And beauty. Even the outlaw dandelion has its day of fresh, bright yellow, like accidental paint drippings on a jade lawn.

This is how God talks to us about the weeds in the gardens of our lives.

Sometimes you have to just sit still and listen to the turquoise waves and you can hear Matthew Arnold's sea of faith, and "Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

"Retreating, to the breath

"Of the night-wind."

And then you get another lesson that speaks in a still, small voice: To really find time, you have to lose track of it.

It turns out, the things that really matter in life are often found growing beside the busy workday highway.

How many weeks at work would I trade for a moment of relaxed joy with my son or daughter, or even a few minutes watching a sunset with my wife at that place where words are no longer needed?

The answer: 50. At least.

The flash of golden water was gone in a few seconds like a dream that flees as fast as a bird's shadow - a brief splash of colors, mixed just right with the hush of waves restlessly nudging the shore like the sound of cars speeding by on a rainy highway.

And that's a vacation: a golden moment.

E-mail pbronson@enquirer.com or call 768-8301.