Every summer in the mid-seventies, my family – like many – would be mysteriously drawn to a quaint, slightly cramped coastal cottage in Maine. August was our preferred time to migrate, maybe because it was stuffed full of all that was required for lazy summer days, picnic baskets, beach chairs and old paper-back novels.

We fancied ourselves temporary locals and staked our claim to the little seaside haven — staying longer than a visitor but still having to return to school and “real” life at summer’s end. We came from Connecticut, laden with our urban habits, agendas, and to-do lists. Yet, everything wilted faster than lettuce in the sun, under the influence of the sea salt air and the hypnotic laziness the coastal living seemed to prescribe – doctor’s orders, you might say.

The Atlantic

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