The other day I found an old photo of me as a kid, red-cheeked with sun bleached hair, arms wrapped around a Dressy Bessy doll. It had been taken in front of the Town Crier Motel on Route 6 in Eastham, where my family spent many a summer week. We’d tried other motels for our annual trek to the Cape but my parents loved this one for its indoor pool and game room that gave us a Plan B in the event of rain. It was here that our father delighted us with his ping pong prowess, which he’d evidently mastered in the Army, and where we played our first video game, if Atari Pong counts as such a thing. With powdered sugar from boxed donuts on our lips and poison ivy festering on the backs of our knees, we made our way down to little basement with no natural light, just a moth-filled fluorescent lamp that hummed above the pinball machines. We could have been Anywhere, USA. But we weren’t just anywhere. We were on Cape Cod. And tomorrow the sun would be out and we would go to the beach.