Photo: Myrtle Beach Marriott Resort at Grande Dunes
We collapsed into the tasteful British Colonial plantation chairs after too many hours on the road. Myrtle was the tail end of a whirlwind roadtrip through the Carolinas that included Asheville, Raleigh, Durham, 5 kids, 4 adults.
It was Christmas in July when Dad brought home the silver Plymouth Fury station wagon. It meant that my brother, sister and I no longer had to fight over who had to sit in the middle of the back seat with their feet on the hump (where the drive shaft used to be). Someone got to ride in the rear-facing third seat, stretched out on the luxurious naugahyde, like Cleopatra on her chaise, napping or making faces at the passengers in the car behind us. This was a huge deal because summer meant vacation and vacation meant road trip. I was the oldest. I was the loudest. I got that back seat. Continue reading →