Myrtle Beach, 1970s
I grew up in Ohio, and the ocean we went to for vacations was the Atlantic Ocean, and the shore was in South Carolina. We would drive ten hours in the car to get there and we would stay in a house known to us from 3 or 4 lines of print--maybe less, because what was there to say--in a thick rental brochure which would arrive in the cold, bleak spring of Ohio. Houses to rent were just listed, entry after entry in super small print--with no photos--just the information (three bedrooms, full bath, outdoor shower) and the quality for which you paid more: how many blocks back from the beach. My father would pick a house and we would take this long 16 hour drive to get there, crowded in the back seat, the three of us kids, looking for license plates, playing word games, trying to keep our fussiness quiet back there. We would pick up the key from a rental agency and drive to the house, and there it was. Usually musty, with metal bunk beds and thin mattresses. I didn't care--I loved the