Like any good Ohioans, my family trekked off to the beach every summer. As experts of I-75, my parents had a special knack for finding pit stops that would not only entertain their children, but also enrich their minds. They had a good rate going too - about two thirds of their children enjoyed the excursions (which were exclusively Civil War battlefields). The other third, me, could not have cared less. Easily car sick and easily bored, I would walk around the mosquito-infested fields with a frown on my face, sipping on a warm box of apple juice as the sun beat down on my sour little body in khaki shorts.
By the time we arrived at the beach, I would practically fling myself out of the minivan, kissing the ground and yelling out my praises.
“Thank you, thank you for not being an endless field of grass,” I murmured into the gravel driveway.
“Elaine, get up, you’re going to get bitten by a crab.”