It’s about mine, largely. Life, death, the universe, you know the drill. It was a phone call to Mouse that started me in on this not terribly productive train of thought. I was at work and she was five hours north up at the moominbeach. We had been texting back and forth about typical stuff (KW: please bring me the necklace I forgot up there, etc.) until I finally got to a point where typing 140 characters on an iPhone just wouldn’t cut it. So I called. We were going along talking about toasters and things when, suddenly, she hit me with a barrage of what sounded like complaints. Now, I am Mouse’s moom and part of my job description is (arguably) to listen to her when she’s feeling down or complaining or whatever. The thing is, my kids rarely complain to me. At least not about their lives. They may complain about political stuff or some sort of *ssholery they’ve encountered. But I think they are made of steel. They are more likely to try to comfort *me* when they think *I’m* having a bit of a rough patch. So this took me a bit by surprise. One of the main complaints? “No one will go down on the beach…” Yeah, I know how you feel, not-so-little one.

Over the last few years, I have begun to finally get accustomed to the fact that our beach is practically deserted on most days. Even in the summer, when it is not covered with thigh-deep snow. As you can see in the photoooos (click them to enlarge), our beach used to be loaded with people! Little kids splashing in the shallows and digging in the sand. Big kids swimming out to the raft or water-skiing. Grown-ups yabbity yabbiting off on all kinds of crazy topics of conversation. Like, how to cook a bat, should you find one flapping around in your toilet at that batscope hour of the morning. Or. A rather strong-willed old-school doc declaring in no uncertain terms, “I am NOT a Taurus!”, despite his Taurean birthday. All the while wearing a women’s straw sun hat. Meeeee, reading “The Indian in the Cupboard” to anyone who wanted to listen. Radical Betty affecting an old friend’s Dutch (?) accent, “Beer is goooood fooorrr you.” Wet dogs walking into the middle of the crowd to shake. Clamorous discussions about the time. “What time is it?” “Well, where is the sun?” “Yes, where is the sun?” [yada yada yada] The young KW replying, “Over the yardarm”, then decisively picking up her beach chair and striding home, suntanned beach urchins with golden hair trailing in her wake.

Those were the days. A couple of generations of them. The last few years? The G2 generation began to have trouble handling the beach. The heat, the wind, walking down the bank through the deep sand. And they have started dying. I’ve written about that before and I’m not gonna go there tonight. I’m not really in that kind of mood. I still spend as much time on the beach as I can. Walking, swimming, slugging around soaking up the sun. I am often alone. I am trying to get used to it.

This entry was posted on Saturday, August 14th, 2010 at 9:32 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.