I was fortunate to grow up in Atlanta and in a family with a beach house right on Amelia Island’s Fernandina Beach. This was back, I’m chagrined to admit, in the 1960s and ’70s. We’d make the long journey down multiple times a year in one or the other of the big Buicks of the day my dad favored. The trunk would be packed to the max, as would be the car itself with my parents, me and a neighborhood friend I’d invite to go with us, my older sister, and Duke, our German Shepherd. Often, we’d also be pulling a trailer packed with various household goods and tools and such. Most of these idyllic beach visits would last for several weeks at a time.
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