On our own: Honey, I’m not home

My husband and I will have been married five years this August, and he needs me now more than ever. Well, it’s mutual, as we both found out during our recent separation.

A lot happened at home after I left him to bum around on the beach for two weeks, but I barely noticed on account of all those distracting bay breezes.

The Eastern Shore beckoned me back and I vowed to take in its rural, rugged beauty to the fullest, meaning going totally unplugged. That’s right: no phone calls or e-mail to monitor and not a single minute of CNN.

Michael Jackson could have died and I never would have known it. I frequently forgot to wash my hair or what day it was.

And I wouldn’t have missed my husband too much if there weren’t so many romantic natural settings around like that secluded beach and dune preserve in Eastville that I discovered with my mother.

Less than a few days into my extended getaway with sisters, mom and others, I heard from him and he sounded panicked: car trouble. He had barely made it home from our Fourth of July family reunion in northeast Pennsylvania, which we spent together before separating.

His 12-year-old Toyota — the newer of our two cars — started overheating, true, as we neared the Endless Mountains on the way up. But excited to get where we were going, we didn’t notice that the temperature needle was nearly in the red until it was almost too late. We did notice eventually, however, stopping at a gas station to let it cool down.

We added some water, exchanged a few shrugs and thought little more of the mechanical malfunction as we neared our destination. We arrived without any more incidents at the “resort” and parked the car for the weekend.

Following a full schedule of Whiffle ball games, wild food gatherings, late night gambling, loud laughing and catching up, my husband and I parted: he in the Toyota back to the Piedmont and me in my mom’s car bound for the Chesapeake.

That’s how we roll.

He had things to do back home, primarily, continuing work at his mom’s house. He inherited it when she died nearly three years ago and making it livable has certainly been a labor of love.

Me, I had had enough of painting and cleaning. Me, I had to go.

So we parted in Pennsylvania and though I had told him repeatedly over the past several months that I’d be gone for two weeks, he didn’t believe it.

I would manage.

He had a harder time.

After moseying back home from Tunkhannock, stopping in Gettysburg and continuing along the way down U.S. 15, his car started smoking. It was going to cost $1,000 to fix and good thing my 16-year-old Nissan was parked in the driveway for him to get around in during my absence.

He was going to have to buy a new vehicle and he was going to have to do it alone. “I wish you were here.” Take a breath.

We both agreed a (working) pickup truck was what we most needed — don’t even get me started on the ’67 Ford F-150 sitting inoperable in my driveway for the better part of a year.

Take a breath.

I gave my consent to ditch the well-traveled Toyota and we concurred on a budget for a used replacement on which we could cart our garbage to the dump.

Via my mom’s cell phone, I insisted that he, by no means, settle on the sticker price. I told him now was a great time to get a deal, and if we stayed within our budget the car payment shouldn’t put too much of a dent in our ever-shrinking income.

Then I went back to “Bleak House” by Dickens and forgot all about the obnoxious modern dilemma of needing a working motor to get anywhere. I poured some wine in my juice and took off for the bay.

When I got back to the beach house a few hours later, there were six messages waiting. I didn’t wait too long before calling back and he was all worked up with all kinds of details about potential trucks on lots in Charlottesville — including a Suzuki? I thought they made dirt bikes and so I was less than excited.

Under pressure to buy a “new” vehicle so he could get back to working on mom’s house, my husband did not take kindly to my “criticism” of his efforts.

“When are you coming home?”

“Next Friday.”

“What!?”

I told him to check out the dealerships in Culpeper; maybe he could find another Ford to match the one that doesn’t work. Culpeper is serious about its trucks. Telling me that Culpeper was not the whole world, he acceded nonetheless and the next thing I know he’s left another six messages on my mom’s cellie.

I was shopping. Then I had a margarita and a taco. Then I called him back.

And guess what? He found a really good deal in Culpeper on a 2003 Ford truck. Supposedly, it was the “manager’s special” and lots of other guys were interested in it so they wouldn’t budge on the sticker price. Whatever.

But I didn’t make a fuss because the price was way under budget and he seemed confident with the purchase. Plus, I wanted some shrimp and a nap.

My mom said he wanted reassurance that I wouldn’t flip out on him for buying the wrong car when I got back home. That’s why he called so much. I could see her point.

The deal done, my husband went back to spending his week of vacation working on mom’s house though we still talked most every day by phone, which is really rare. Meanwhile, my brothers arrived with their girlfriends and then my sisters’ boyfriends came and it was one big Cape Charles love shack.

And then there was me, single again with no one but my mom to explore the back roads of the Eastern Shore with or to protect me when we came upon a sign, as we sought access to the ocean side, saying, “Property owner heavily armed” and “trespassers killed.” Yikes — not going down that road.

I made it home to my honey finally to find him about five pounds lighter because he won’t stop to eat when he’s working if I’m not there to feed him. The food I had left him in the refrigerator was moldy and there were no groceries in the house. He ate a lot of hamburgers while I was away. He didn’t even know where I kept the toilet paper.

But yeah, I need him too: to rub my back and change the oil and such. Life’s experiences just aren’t as fun either. Plus, he bought me a new truck.