Litha. It’s good for what ails you.

Cape Cod, Massachusetts.  Virginia Beach, Virginia.  Nags Head, North Carolina.  Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.  New Smyrna Beach, Florida.  Every summer of my baby boomer childhood, my family took a two-week vacation to Some Atlantic Beach City, USA.  Most often, I grumbled as I took my place in the backseat of my dad’s Chevy, for I knew it would mean spending hours and hours sticking to hot, vinyl car seats, fighting carsickness and vying for bits of space not already occupied by my older brother’s ever-growing long legs.

My mother would disregard the grumbling, offer salty snacks to quiet our angry stomachs, suggest word games to play or license plates to look for — anything to keep us from distracting my father from his driving tasks.  I admit that my grumbles more than once grew into full-blown sobbing fits.  I was certainly missing everything happening at home while I was gone. My summer would be ruined!

“Nonsense,” my mother assured me.  “It will be good for what ails you.”

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