Early in the day, M. was folding laundry to Deep Purple. I was edging and weeding the lawn to early Elvis Costello, the Stones and Patti Smith. Our respective teenage years come full circle.

The 1970s in our very California, very beach-y, very suburban coastal community, rocking out in our 1950s ranch. It was the television repeats and American exports we each were raised on with customized soundtracks. Without the pot and the key parties. Darn the luck.

We continued the vibe, and vibe it was being near a California beach and all, by taking a late afternoon stroll along the Pacific Ocean. Toes in the sand while surfers waited and a gaggle of teenage girls peer-pressured each other into what apparently was “motherfucking cold” water up to their waists. From there it was an easy stroll to a local place for fried chicken and lemonade (M.) and a burger and a beer (me). (That description might have folks on the East Coast imagining some kind of nice, sandy dive like Kelly’s Roast Beef or the Clam Shack. Here in Northern California, where there are more foodies per capita than oxygen molecules, there are no such places. It’s a blessing and a curse.)

We capped the day with a fresh pitcher of lemonade from our backyard harvest and a screening of John Carpenter’s “The Fog.” The original, 1979, the last year in our ’70s tribute, and the tribute, if murderous haunting is a tribute, to Northern California coastal living and incomparable fog.

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