Fish for Dinner?

The kids all left today, which now leaves me as the youngest still here on the beach, at least on our little cul-de-sac, ole Curmudgeon Court. I’ll only retain this title for a little while, until tomorrow, when the next wave of sand people arrives. Then I’ll be back in the middle of the pack, neither oldest nor youngest. Curmudgeon Court first got its name, when the county decided to name the private road, then informally known as the Green Tunnel Road, so named because this one-lane dirt road was perpetually shrouded from the sun by the green leaves of summer. With the road now officially named, we youngsters decided that we also had to name our little turnoff. More commonly referred to as the Parking Lot, we chose Curmudgeon Court as a dig towards the then older residents. I think now that what we had then wrought has come home to roost. We now are the OBs of the beach. OB being another derisive acronym for our elders, standing for Old Bat, Old Bitty or Old [substitute the appropriate B-beginning swear word]. Now, we former youngsters are all eligible for AARP, Social Security and in only a few years, Medicare. If we can’t admit to ourselves that now we are the OBs of the beach, then we are only fooling ourselves. Take heart though my compadres, even though we are no longer young, we are still cooler than our elders were at our present age, because we still have rock-and-roll and they didn’t. I know that this argument is thin, but you just have to keep on believing…