Pardon Me, I Have to Go Vacuum the Grass
Things have changed.
When lots of us got here between ten and twenty years ago, our wave of DC/Philly/Baltimore/Jersey transplants were in our mid 40s to early 50s. And there were a lot of us, all about the same age group. Okay, I guess the baby boom descended on Rehoboth Beach.
Of course, there were adventurous people our age here before us, and a generation of gay people here before them, too—and many more pioneers before that. But in earlier years our community was less out, less visible. And sadly, in that earlier decade, mid-1980s to mid-1990s, the AIDS epidemic seriously struck the Rehoboth community of guys, while many of the gals were here or still in the big cities doing what they could to help their brothers.
But by 1993-95 the baby kaboom arrived, weekending and commuting at first, but then, mostly two by two, moving here permanently. The guys and some gals gathered at The Renegade, the girls had our beloved Friday nights at Cloud 9, we all ate the best chicken salad on earth from Lori’s, and hung out at the CAMP Courtyard—even when it was only half the size it is now. But it did have that gorgeous rainbow picket fence.
And, let’s face it. We were youngish, eager for do-it-ourselves yard work or home improvement projects, rabid to volunteer for events until 11 p.m., then go for a nightcap or breakfast at midnight. Of course, we could dance to Donna Summer or Cher for days. And still get up the next day bright and early for work or play.
Those were the days my friends.
Now I am not claiming complete decrepitude. But today, as Bonnie and I drove home from Lowes with five 60 pound bags of sand and 30 concrete patio tiles, we agreed that things were different.
It now takes us the same time to fix up our postage stamp yard at the House of Windsor as it used to take us to landscape, mulch and mow the three-quarter acre manse at Schnauzerhaven.
When we got home, we had to team up to hoist the 60-pound sand bags from the car and in unison do an ungainly crabwalk to transfer the bags to the back yard. It reminded me of a three legged race combined with a potato sack game at a company picnic.
As for the concrete pavers, carrying one was manageable but two were potential emergency room visits. So I made thirty trips between driveway and yard, leaning the concrete on my handy protruding belly as I traveled. The job took 45 minutes and registered 1.3 miles on the pedometer. It’s not my best time, but I had to stop for huffing, puffing, and kvetching.
So yeah, as retirees we’ve got plenty of time, but then everything takes plenty of time. My favorite part of the yard clean-up was tending to the grass. While Bonnie mowed the tiny patch of real grass with our small electric mower (anybody want to do a lottery on what date this summer we run over the cord?), I took the Shop-Vac to the rest of the “lawn.” Yes, in an effort to encourage Windsor to try something new, we installed artificial turf in two tiny areas. It works great. Liquid drains to the stones and earth below and solids get poop patrolled like the rest of the yard. It cuts down on mowing, but it is weird going out to vacuum the grass.
Is it me, or are bags of mulch heavier than they used to be? And do these heavier bags seem to contain less Premium Black Shredded Hardwood? So far, in two trips, we’ve schlepped 22 dead weight bags from Lowes to the house and it’s not enough. People, I don’t live at Downton Abbey. Although, in the morning, I suspect I’ll feel as if I mulched the north forty. Next time I’m just going to spread shredded dollar bills in the flower beds. It should work just as well, save a trip to the chiropractor, and consequently cost less.
But don’t get me wrong. Bonnie and I still love our little manufactured home (with its tiny backyard manufactured lawn) and life is good, good, good.
And here’s the most encouraging news. The younger generation is here!
We’ve seen ample evidence at The Pond, Murph’s, dog walking, out to dinner, in the Parrot’s Biergarten, Aqua, and all over town. Awesome 40 and 50-somethings, representing all the letters in LGBT, are doing the weekending/ commuting, dancing, volunteering, home improvement projects, and keeping those late-night venues in business. We love you!
But that certainly doesn’t mean I’m anywhere near ready to cede my barstool, volunteer badge, or tix to events big and small. I’m still here, still queer, and pretty damn used to it. In fact, despite spending winters away and traveling all over, or maybe because of that, I love my Rehoboth Beach more than ever.
And in fact, we can still do a lot of the things we used to. My landscaping time may be longer, but I’m up to speed having chicken salad at Lori’s Oy Vey Café in the CAMP Courtyard. It’s celebrating 20 years in business! And our old haunt, Cloud 9 is now Lula Brazil and still hosting Friday night Women’s Happy Hour. In fact, bartender extraordinaire Stephanie Dalee, former owner of The Seafood Shack, is now back behind the bar on the site. Just where I met her years ago. I think Lula’s owner Meg should name the bar area the Cloud 9 Room at Lula Brazil.
So the more things change, the more they stay the same. Excuse me, time to submit this column and schlepp some mulch. Next, it’s off to happy hour to mingle with Generation Whatever They’re Called.
Cheers!
Fay Jacobs is the author of As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth Beach Memoir; Fried & True—Tales from Rehoboth Beach, For Frying Out Loud—Rehoboth Beach Diaries, and her newest book Time Fries—Aging Gracelessly in Rehoboth Beach.