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