Published August 3, 2016

“What was that?” I said as something swooped low over my head.

“It’s a Palmetto bug, a flying cockroach!” Steve answered, as surprised as I. “We have to do something. You stay here and I’ll go to the store and get some bug spray.”

We had just begun unloading the car for a long weekend stay at the Willie Andrew, a cute cottage on the ocean at the juncture of the double roads on Pawleys.

“No way!” I said. “YOU stay here with those godforsaken bugs and I’LL go to the store for the spray.” I wasn’t about to be alone with flying mouse-sized roaches dive bombing anything that moved.

And so the weekend began, sometime in the late sixties, with friends due to stream in and enjoy the time with us, and us hoping that we could rid the cottage of the contagion that threatened to undo me and dampen the whole vacation. As always, we were able to survive and chalked up one more memory of Pawleys.