THE SUMMER BEFORE I ENTERED SEVENTH GRADE, my family rented a large Victorian house on Block Island for two weeks at the end of August. This was a departure for us, as far as summer vacations went. In previous years, we had rented a cabin at Mrs. Hickey’s, a down-on-its-luck Poconos- style resort outside Milford, Pa. that catered to mostly Irish American city dwellers looking for a bit of fresh air. The charms of Mrs. Hickey’s were simple: lots of space, lots of other kids, a pool, campfires at night, plenty of woods to explore. It was run-down and a little sad but we loved it. But Mrs. Hickey, the eponymous owner, was old and no longer capable of doing the upkeep necessary to maintain its pitiable state. She closed it down, and we became summer vagabonds.

Block Island was very different. A lot more expensive, for one thing. We rented the house with another family, the Devlins, and the father, Archie, could only join us for the second week of the vacation. He arrived with a suitcase full of everyday kitchen items — ketchup, mustard, cold cuts and so forth — because our mothers had gone shopping and found the supermarket prices on the island to be extortionate. Archie had to wear the same outfit for most of the week; he had no room to pack his own clothes.

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