when I was a kid and my grandfather wanted me to shut up, he would insist that unless we were very quiet, we would not hear the sizzle when the sun slipped into the sea at sunset.

Sometimes I forget the heat and stop bitching about the tourists and traffic and overdevelopment long enough to feel privileged to live here at the edge of the coast, where the sun slides into the sea every evening.

Here at the beach, folks customarily gather just before sunset. Sometimes it's a smattering of people up and down the beach, pausing for a moment. I like that best. Sometimes it's larger groups, arriving purposefully, beach chairs and cameras in hand. I like watching the older folks who casually stroll the sand hand in hand and I wonder if my beloved and I will do that when we are old. They slow and look over their shoulders at the sky as it flows from purple to orange to pink and they smile. Sometimes I tell myself they are smiling sadly or wistfully. But I'm probably reading more into it than there is.

A pod of dolphins is almost always heading southward past the beach at the end of the day and if we're very lucky, they will drift close to the shore for a spell as they feed and play. It's always such a gift, that glimpse of glistening fin silently slipping in and out of the water.

And the sunsets...always so gorgeous, no matter the weather. Once colors recede and darkness has fluttered down over the beach, blanketing it in darkness, the people gathered on the beach always applaud, be they locals or tourists. Schmoopie asked me once why we were clapping. We're thanking, I told her. Who? Who are we thanking? She asked. All of it, I said. All of it.

retirees

retirees should be required to have locks on the outside of their dwellings that prevent them from leaving their homes (except in the event of fire, of course) during rush hour. Once the clock hits 9:00 a.m., their condos would spring open just like at the penitentiary. But they must go back inside between the hours of 4:00 and 6:00 p.m. Bingo and water aerobics should only begin after 9:00 a.m. and early bird specials should start at 6:00 p.m., the main culprit in the end-of-the-workday traffic jams, I am certain of it. Gotta get the two-for-one brisket before 4:30 p.m.

Here is my idea: when you retire, you should sign a paper that legally binds you to stay off major roadways during the height of rush hour. Oh, and out of the grocery stores too. But that is another rant. In return, you get your Social Security check and Medicare. Not before. I mean, what is the deal? If I were retired, or, rather, when I retire, you will NOT find my happy ass on the busiest throughway at the height of rush hour. Going 25 mph in the fast lane. Oblivious.

And don't get me started on the tourists. One of my neighbors recently erected a sign in his yard that reads: "Welcome to the beach. Now go home." A bit harsh, yes, but I do not get why folks think nothing of using our driveways or blocking access to our homes or peeing in our yards so that they can go to the beach. When they are old tourists, it's worse. The farther north the license plate, the worse the driving skills, I am sorry to say, and yes that means the Canadians.

But anyway, old people, please, I am begging you. Do you really need to be on the interstate at 7:45 a.m.? Make your tee-time after 9:00. Could you? Please? Yes, Papaw, you too.

sand

I live near the beach so I have the obligatory bowls of seashells all over my house. And sand. I have sand in my house, in my car, in the corners of the bathtubs, in the bottom of the washing machine, under the couch cushions and in my bed.

I hear seagulls all day and the occasional deep echoing sound of freighter horns way out in the gulf of mexico and the dinging bell of the causeway drawbridge that warns it is opening or closing.

My favorite time to go to the beach is at sunset, preferably during the week--fewer people. In the summertime when I arrive to witness sunset, most of the fat tourists have dragged their little fat sunburned children and neon rafts and inner tubes off to be stuffed into rental cars and driven back to the Holiday Inn where they will shower and dress in tacky tropical wear they fancy makes them look Island-like. And they will then go stuff their faces at the Outback.

I have the beach mostly to myself at twilight, the gloaming, my favorite time of day when everything vibrates and glows and it's quiet but for the mesmerizing sound of the waves and the shrill squeaking of the seabirds. I wiggle my butt into the sand and make myself a bucket seat and scrunch my toes deep into the sand, past the light, white dry powder down into the dark, cold, wetness beneath. I watch the sun melt into the water and rhythmically sift with my toes. Usually I hum. Then I go home and fold laundry.