Summer's End

[Martin Hash]

As everyone knows, Summer ends on Labor Day; the kids go back to school, the freeway is backed up going home, and Halloween decorations are back in the stores. Here it was the end of summer and my wife, Gwynne, and I had neither had a BBQ nor went to the beach. Missing one maybe would be a tragedy, but doing neither means you are officially old; we weren’t ready for that, so we decided to do something. First, because we needed to get our engines running, so-to-speak, and because we also hadn't done it yet for the summer, was go to a car show. My 1958 Corvette was a hit; it's like a Ferrari for old men. In fact, because I was doing all the dashboard instrumentation myself, and I had the fuel gauge out to repair, we ran out of gas. Something happened that never would have happened back in the days when I was in my prime and actually drove Ferraris, a guy on a Harley, black leathered, long gray hair and all, stopped to see if he could help. He said “I'm not leaving here until you get somebody on the phone,” and he didn't.

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The next day, Saturday, we quickly arranged a BBQ on our back patio and it went great. Everybody brought a food dish without being asked, and we had our inaugural whiskey tasting. It was like some 1950s TV show of camaraderie, with guys talking about cars, and wives gossiping about the houses for sale in the neighborhood. The kids who came played with their phones in the Living room instead of running across the soft, green carpet-like lawn, jumping on the trampoline, or trying to find their way through the maze; I don't think any of them will be having BBQs when they grow up.

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On Labor Day, we went to the beach with our good friend, John, who had bought a 1985 convertible Mustang, and he wanted to do a shake-out drive. Thank goodness, it shook out, not starting, in our driveway because any other alternative would have been along the side of the road somewhere; we took Gwynne's car instead. On the way, our side of the freeway was open but the other side was completely blocked for hours: that was two potential beach-ending catastrophes narrowly avoided. Plus, when we left home the weather was not encouraging but it was perfect at the beach. Best-of-all, because we left it to the last minute, not a soul was on the beach but us. John made a driftwood fire and roasted hot-dogs to go with the beer he'd brought for us. We walked the beach end-to-end, and got an ultra-cheap motel room because it had emptied out from people going home. Afterwards, there was the empty sushi place that served Martinis, and the packed dive bar where beer was only slightly more than buying it at a grocery store. Once again, couldn't be better. Final score: summer activities: 3; being old: 0.

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