In 1956, some event occurred or did not occur that altered our summer schedule such that Mom had to make last-minute arrangements for a vacation rental cottage in Ocean City, MD. This would be the first time we were unable to get a beachside cottage. Instead we had to rent something on the “wrong” side of the road, on the bay side, blocks and blocks from the ocean and in territory beloved only by fisherman and crabbers. The neighborhood was desolate looking, bounded by wasteland: several lots’ worth of undeveloped property across the side road from our cottage, at the time considered good for nothing by my brother and me, two children seeking out play and diversion during the periods we weren’t being escorted to the ocean beach. Covering several blocks in width, it extended from the main road back to the bay, a wide expanse of flat uninteresting, heat reflecting sand where once glistening pastel-colored shells were bleached completely white and dull, no doubt now supporting many millions of dollars worth of condominium towers packed with wealthy retirees.

     In those days, air conditioning was rare, found in only some restaurants, stores, and rental offices: big, noisy boxes in windows that cooled almost as much by blocking the sunlight as by producing cold air. Air conditioners were certainly not in beach cottages. Any hoped-for cooling was expected to come from catching shore breezes through open windows. The quality of a rental cottage could be assessed, in part, by the state of its screens and the quantity of its utensils.

     After arriving at the cottage, the first order of business was to check out the kitchen. “Oh, Frank,* we’ll have to go to the rental office to see if we can get more pots; there are only two small saucepans and one frying pan in here,” Mom said. My brother, Chris, and I looked for the other necessities. Of first importance to us was an opener for the cans of sodas that predated pop-tops. “And look, two fly swatters,” I said, impressed by the more-than-minimal supply.

     The next day we were ready to explore the area. We all piled into the old Pontiac, and Dad, after donning that year’s favorite fishing cap, stopped at all the general stores and bait shops to shoot the breeze with the locals, buy maps and tide tables, and collect information on which areas were best for fishing, crabbing, boat watching, and wading, of interest only for us kids, as I never actually saw Dad go in the water during my life. We spent most of the morning and early afternoon scouting out the recommended locations to see which ones held the most promise of producing either fish or crabs, keeping Chris and me entertained, and requiring a minimum of inconvenience for the adults: Mom would grumble if we had to carry our equipment over too far a distance from the parked car.

     After a productive reconnaissance, home we went to our cottage by the bay only to realize that during the hours we were gone, the wind had changed direction. Something you wouldn’t ordinarily pay much attention to except that the change was from an ocean breeze to a land breeze, and as the old fisherman said, “Them land breezes blow in all the bugs.” In the morning before leaving, Mom had ensured that all the west-facing blinds were drawn and that we were getting “good cross-ventilation” through the cottage so that it would be comfortable when we returned, but we were not yet acclimated to all the peculiarities of our cottage and hadn’t noticed that the screen over the open kitchen window had a rather large hole in it. We returned to a cottage filled with flies. I had never seen so many flies. It could have been a scene out of a modern horror movie. Somehow they had all been driven to come in through that hole and were then unable to find a way out.

     “You kids better get swatting,” Dad said nonchalantly. Mom bustled around murmuring, “I don’t understand it Frank; how did they get in? I checked the cottage carefully before we left.” “Don’t worry about it, Marion. The kids will take care of it.” That did not pacify Mother. She fretted and murmured and investigated until the flies’ entry portal was found. We all agreed that the hole in the screen, at the extreme upper left corner of the frame, would never have been noticed if it weren’t for the extraordinary invasion of the flies.

     “Don’t just stand there, start swatting,” Dad repeated. “Aw, Dad, can’t we just open all the doors and windows and wait for them to fly out?”

     “No. The window screens would have to be removed, and I’m not going to do that. Start swatting.” Dad insisted. “Da-aad, there are too many. It will take forever,” I whined. His face had the expression that surfaced whenever he thought he was being clever. “I’ll pay you,” he tempted.

     That was a landmark proposition. Although I received a small allowance, enough to purchase a candy bar or two and a soda a week, never before had I been offered an extra paying job. My allowance was considered reward enough for any task I was asked to perform—carry out the garbage, load the washing machine, walk to the drugstore to buy Dad a newspaper. With visions of a boardwalk shopping spree and a new string of beads flashing across my mind, I asked, “How much?” “I’ll give you a nickel for every ten flies you kill,” Dad responded. That seemed like a lot. “Me, too?” Chris asked excitedly. “I’ll pay both of you,” Dad said. “I’m going to be rich, I’m going to be rich,” Chris sang as he clomped toward the flyswatters in his perennial cowboy boots. Dad picked up his newspaper, propped open the front screen door, and parked himself in a cushioned porch chair. Mom trotted after him with two bottles of cold beer in hand.

     The first ten kills were quick. The second ten took a little longer. The third ten, longer still. The late afternoon wore on, and I longed to be outside playing. My tally was at 90. Chris, completely lacking in patience and stealth, claimed barely a third of that.