The All-White Party
Head to toe in white. Live band. Sun setting over the stage. Everyone shows up; nobody wants to leave.
Not actually a resort. Just a beach house, a good crew, and a stubborn refusal to do the 4th of July any other way.
Somewhere along the way, a family cookout on Ocean Avenue grew into the summer tradition, the one with the all-white dress code, the stage on the sand, the Blue Angels overhead, and a bonfire that closes out the night.
The address is 88. The people are family. The whole thing is lovingly called a "resort" by everyone who's ever spent a July afternoon on that deck with a cold drink in their hand.
Head to toe in white. Live band. Sun setting over the stage. Everyone shows up; nobody wants to leave.
Right over the house. The lawn goes quiet for three minutes. Then everyone cheers like it's the first time.
Necks crane, phones come up, and for a few seconds everyone forgets what they were saying.
No one remembers the score. Someone always rolls an ankle. The rematch is next summer.
Because nothing says "casual backyard hang" like a custom ice luge melting into the patio.
When the music finally stops, the fire gets going. Sand everywhere. No one is tired yet.
For a quarter of a millennium, America has been throwing its own birthday party. Resort 88 has been quietly doing the same, and this year, the country and the house both have something extra to celebrate.
Until the first sparkler is lit on the lawn.