Skip to main content

He sells sea shells, I wish



   So now rather than being obsessed with fake fingernails I can’t afford, I’m becoming obsessed with checking this blog. I’m pretty sure all 52 views were made by either me or my husband.
  That leads me right into the current situation at hand. We need friends. We’re desperate for them. I’ve started handing out my telephone number to people I meet while doing my meager freelance work. They think it’s for the story I’m writing but really it’s in hope that someday they’ll find a reason to call and then I can hit them with, “By the way, do you play cards? Bingo? Gin Rummy?” If I wasn’t so arthritic I’d throw Twister in there.
   It’s not so much for me, it’s my husband who likes to have people around. I have become hermit-like since moving here while he has become convinced we could die here and not be found for months. He had friends back in Syracuse but he chose to stay home at night with his loving wife. Now all of a sudden I get the impression he’d hightail it out of here at the first opportunity. It’s the knowledge that we’re always a $200 ferry ride away from Wal-Mart and a Big Mac. That can get to you after a while. 
   We spend a lot of time driving around the Island and checking out the crazy-looking stuff that washes up on the beaches. I finally had to put the kibosh on my husband’s shell collection. It was getting way out of hand. He’d pick up what looked to me to be the same shell over and over, “See this one Babe, isn’t it awesome!” I’d nod agreeing with him and smiling at his childlike wonder until every compartment of the car was stuffed with seashells and rocks. Alas, he reluctantly gathered them all up and put them in a box and no, I don’t know where it is nor am I going to look for it. He wasn’t happy about it either. He kept mumbling and I heard him say, “Hmmm something’s missing…”
   I feel strongly that if he had some friends to go shellfishing with or even to drink a beer with on a Friday night he’d be a little less neurotic about the sea shells. I offered to slap a name tag on him and shove him through the door for next Saturday’s community supper at the Methodist parish hall. It’s an option. I went to one for a writing assignment and I had to drag myself from the place the people were so friendly. And they were passing out free meatloaf and minestrone soup.
   I’ve got to come up with something soon. He’s getting those puppy eyes. Meanwhile, we’ll keep scavenging (I may have made that word up) the beaches and I’ll keep my eye out for friends. We’ve only been here since the fall. Surely we’ll find someone to play with by spring. 



   And ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.


- Khalil Gibran


 

Comments

Anonymous said…
I suggest buying Chris a little bit drill so he can start making things out of those shells. I love this shell wreath
http://allthequietthings.blogspot.com/2012/02/she-sells-sea-shells.html
Connie Berry said…
Thanks for the note...checked out your wreath and it's lovely! Chris lays awake at night trying to figure out how to make a night light, scrimshaw, Christmas tree ornament out of them!
Tori Kaase said…
I truly love reading your writing! You have fantastic style and wit.
Connie Berry said…
and you have good taste!
Deb said…
Hang in there - maybe sometime soon some random weirdo will show up on your doorstep out of the blue saying, "Mary Bridget sent me!" And next thing you know you'll be taking daily walks together to the train tracks...or the Martha Vineyard's version of the Gristmill.

Connie Berry said…
o how i miss that. walking for exercise and ending up at the ice cream stand:)

Popular posts from this blog

I might need a price check

So my husband Chris works three days a week in America, and I’m trying not to take this personally.
He’s commuting Monday mornings on the 6:30 ferry over to Cape Cod, where he works at an upholstery shop in Hyannis, the Mattydale of Cape Cod, for all you Syracuse readers. I stay here and hold down the fort, cooking up a cocktail of frozen pizzas and mac n’ cheese weeknights for my poor Danny. Chris comes back late Thursday night, all giddy over toilet paper prices and quotes on cheaper rent.
No, no, no, and more no I say. I can’t possibly leave all this off-season quiet and high-priced laundry detergent. There’s no convincing me to leave no matter how many times Chris points out that there’s a Trader Joe’s “over there.”
I want to stay here until I miraculously win on one of those $5 scratchers and can buy my own house here. The difference being that I feel confident that I will someday scratch my way to freedom while Chris thinks we’d be smarter to look into a nice rental “over there.…

Library lady

So today a co-worker who is — let’s just be honest here — 70 years old, gave me a serious run for my money at the library. Some guy was looking for a specific movie, which just happened to be located on the very bottom shelf, and I did one of those pretend searches for it on the middle shelf. She walks over and squats down like she’s going to give birth in some Third World country and finds it in two seconds. Again, here we are. Now I’m at home tearing open the cardboard box of a frozen pizza and she’s obviously at home on a rubber mat touching her big toe to her nose.      I regularly call the doctor to renew my prescription for muscle relaxers, while it seems like the rest of the women on this ridiculously fit island drink hot tea and take a warm bath for their yoga-stressed muscles. Thank God my teeth are relatively good.
     It’s not easy to work with women your age and older who think nothing of drinking spinach shakes and lugging all kinds of crap around. If I tried half the…

Getting well takes baby steps

So I’ve had what you could call a case of the pneumonia. It was not pleasant. And to top it off it happened in San Antonio, Texas. Like I wasn’t sweating before the fever.
I was there to see my niece Michelle, who by the way kept asking me, “Are you going to write about this?” which is funny because she’s a writer too. I naturally said, “Oh no, of course not.” And here we are.
Thinking back, the best part of that trip teeters between meeting my two great-nephews, Oliver and Isaac, and having a couple of beers with their Yaya, my sister, who I haven’t had beers with in decades. Like I said, it’s a toss-up. There’s also the fact that I got to spend time with my niece’s husband Alex. He’s a hardcore military guy. He teaches other military guys how to be military policemen. I’m not going to gamble on writing anything about him. He’s from Wisconsin though, which I like. And he likes to cook, which I also like.
I thought to myself before I ever left my nice cocoon of Martha’s Vineyard to tra…