Tonight I spent the evening with my parents at the Oconee Fish Fry, chatting with old friends and making a few new ones along the way. We've spent the third Saturday evening at the Fish Fry almost every month for the last 23 years -- that's over 270 fish fries -- but next month is likely the last one. It's the end of an era in our family.
When we started going, I was just a kid. We'd meet my grandparents there and talk with everyone else who walked by...in a town of 200 or so, everyone knows everyone else. And my family knows no stranger, so even if we didn't know someone when we arrived, we knew them by the time we left.
Usually we walked through the door during the last half hour or so. The American Legion members and their wives working the meal -- all in my grandparents' generation -- would throw their hands in the air, exclaiming the end of the night was clearly near since the Arnold family had finally arrived. They'd all talk to my parents, but they made a point to include me and my sister in the conversation, too.
The man who Mom paid, making four more tally marks on his legal pad as we passed through the line. The bachelor brothers who served us from behind the window, flashing us big smiles as they filled our plates with french fries and fish. The woman who filled cups of tea and lemonade, asking us how school was and what we were learning. The woman who sold 50/50 tickets, chatting with my sister when she'd offer to pay for them and fill out each little slip of paper.
About five years in, my driver's licence was burning a hole in my pocket, and I made plans for a Saturday evening out with my friends. Mom reminded me that I'd be missing a night with my grandparents, and her tone told me the choice she expected me to make. True to my nature, I found a way around having to choose between time with family and time with friends -- I talked my friends into joining us at the Fish Fry. Looking back, I have no idea how I sold the idea to them, considering it wasn't exactly the cool new hangout for high school kids. Somehow, though, it quickly became "our thing." We'd waltz in with my family, sit and eat with them, and then head out to catch the late movie three towns over. My friends' families started eating with us, too, and we'd take over most of the long center table, talking and laughing and carrying on and generally making a scene.
Over the years, I've invited new friends and their families to the Fish Fry, too. The people working the event have changed...they're now my parents' peers, and our old friends aren't with us any more. I don't make it to as many as I used to, but that doesn't seem to matter once I'm through the door. So many of the faces have changed, but the sense of community and belonging hasn't. Tonight they still asked how we are, what we're up to, how the farm is, what's happening in my classes.
We still sat talking as they picked up the salt and pepper shakers and wiped down the tables. We still stood talking, coats already on and inching toward the door, as they drew the name of the 50/50 winner. For the first time, Mom won.
What a way to end on a high note.
