Maria and I work alone and spend most of our lives on the farm.

That this does not get tedious, tiresome, or irritating for both of us is something of a miracle.

I’ve worked alone for nearly half a century, and it is natural to me; I don’t get lonely, I work hard throughout the day and much of the night and usually have more to do than I can in a day, books I want to finish, things I want to write.

I’ve never made friends quickly or often. I’ve moved a lot in my life (15 times) and never had those childhood or family friendships many men have. I am in touch with no one from my former life.

I am older than Maria and am happy to go to the gym, go shopping, sit and read,  write, take photos or meditate and think. I’ve never seen social. We love movies, eating out, and theater.

These days, I am content with my life and don’t want much of anything I don’t have.

I love my life with Maria, but to be honest, there is a sadness to turning 75. I used to feel I was enough, but I worry (especially since Covid hit me) that I am not quite enough any longer and that this is the reality of life and the truth of it.

I sometimes see her laughing with her friends in those chairs – which only happens once or twice a month – and I wonder if I can always make her that happy or if she will one day need more than I can offer.

The 17-year difference in our ages sometimes gives us different perspectives. But there is no place where we want to be more than where we are.

There is a change in me and my body, and I need and wish to accept it.

I should say that Maria passionately disagrees with the idea that I am no longer enough in some way. She points out that she has always wanted friendships and sought them out, and no outside relationship signifies any change in how she feels about us.

Friendship comes easier to her than to me.

People don’t often realize that those privileged white men we often hear about can be just as cruel and abusive to other men as women. I’m wary of men and don’t trust most of them.

It s seems to other people that working at home is cozy and perfect, but the truth is that writing is hard work, and so is fiber art. It does get lonely; creatives need an external stimulus to get new ideas. And we are often exhausted at the end of a day, even before Covid.

There is a lot of stimulation and challenge in my life, especially on the farm. It never really comes from friends.

Maria has created her own second family in this situation.

She has some excellent and close friends, and she usually talks to each of them once a week or close to it. She values these talks very much.

She will speak either on Zoom or the phone or in person, at their houses or here on the farm. They get along well, trust and talk honestly and openly.

I can hear the laughter in the farmhouse. I sometimes say hello, but I stay away.

They are not looking to talk to me, I would feel uncomfortable joining in.

The talk seems to flow easily and warmly, and Maria looks forward to these times. It is a nourishing thing to see. I doubt that I will ever see it.

Beyond her lunches and Zoom dates, she has the belly dancers, all of whom watch out for one another. There are a lot of people other than me in her life. This is a good thing for both of us.

When Maria’s friends come here in the warm weather, they usually sit under the apple tree and have lunch. One came today.   I took the photo above of them talking.

This kind of friendship is beautiful for me to see; Maria is younger than I am, and her friends are precious to her. For the first years of our marriage, post-divorces,  it was a kind of trauma zone; we stuck very close,  got one another through our panic attacks, and clung to each other.

Most of our friends ran for the hills. Maria went to work finding new ones.

I lost all of mine, and there weren’t many.

Maria needs to talk to people outside of the farmhouse. I support and respect that. I will never be one of those men who get jealous of or threatened by other friends in their wives’ lives. The happier she is, the happier we are.

I was born a loner and have always remained one.

It isn’t just that I make some people uncomfortable; the bigger problem is that so many people make me uncomfortable.

I love to see her and a friend in the friendship chairs; it sometimes makes me sad about one of my significant failures in life – an inability to find men I could talk to regularly and openly. I hardly have any male friends.

My friends tend to be women; they seem more open and willing to talk honestly with me.

The celebrity thing changed my life.

Life changes when your books become best sellers and a movie is made based on a book you wrote. Being a minor celebrity is transformative, but it also avoids the perks of being famous – you aren’t rich.

People see you differently and speak to you differently. That was the point where I first realized that I often made other men and women uncomfortable. Even now, people whisper and point to me when we go out or to the supermarket.

I began to be aware that I made people nervous (probably for other reasons too).

They assume I must not need or want friends. They fear I might look down on them. I fear they might look down on me.

I made two close friends in the past decade, one of them committed suicide, and one died in a car crash. Another friend and I drifted apart.

A fourth was swept up in the MeToo revelations and vanished in shame. The others are women.

Perhaps this friendship idea was a mistake.

A fourth friend and I argued, and he was afraid to talk to me.

He said I might say something critical of him or say something he didn’t like. He was probably right. I would have. He could never get comfortable around me or me around him. I made him nervous.

I thought I was friends with an actor who lived in Vermont. I think she got sick. She hasn’t returned my phone calls in two years.

My closest friend was Paul, who hung himself one morning on his farm.

Paul and I did what men rarely want to do: we confessed our fears and vulnerabilities, we worried about each other, we supported each other, we texted one another like teenagers, we were available to one another, and we cared about each other.

Or so I thought.

Paul’s breath broke something inside me. I guess we weren’t close at all;  he couldn’t confess his suffering and extreme vulnerabilities. It turned out I didn’t know him at all.

I think that broke a piece of my heart. I decided not to try to get close to a man again in that way.

Paul died just a week after he spent the weekend up here with me, the only friend who has ever visited me on the farm for a weekend. Days later, he was dead.

I know it wasn’t my fault, but I don’t believe that.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over not noticing something was wrong.

Men are different from women, as most of us know.

They tend to see talking openly as sissy-ish, a waste of time, or something that takes away from their many vital obligations and responsibilities. They need some structure – a football game on TV or families around – to justify it and feel safe, protected by beer and buffalo wings.

Men do not grow up seeing other men speak intimately to one another, and showing weakness is almost a crime, something only writers and actors do but that brothers, uncles, and fathers rarely do. Suck it up, son.

Something inside me would like to have lunch with male friends as Maria does with her female friends,  perhaps even in those same chairs, the animals grazing, the wind caressing us.

Sitting on those chairs, the donkeys grazing nearby would be lovely, and there would be opening up about what we felt and feared,

I know now that this will never happen to me unless it is me talking to Maria or another woman. She and I sit in those chairs all the time, and there is nothing we can’t say to each other.

So maybe I don’t need a male friend at all.

That’s not so bad. These days, men are not looking so good. They seem to be bent on killing our world for money. How much do billionaires really need to live well?

I’ve invited several men out to lunch over the years. It never worked, even when I thought we were having a good time.

One, an artist, was offended when I suggested he start a blog to show his art, one was stuffing his face with a pastrami sandwich because I was two or three minutes later (it was pretty gross), and another said he had a great time, but he just didn’t like to have lunch with people.

All of them seemed uneasy as if I were going to reach over and hold their hands. None of them wanted to do it again, and none of them ever called me to invite me to lunch.

I think I’m a pretty good conversationalist; I’m not dull; it struck me over time that this was something most men don’t do. Perhaps I’m just another asshole; there seem to be so many.

I made a lovely new friend recently in John, the owner of a vast farm supply store; he remains a good friend, but he could only handle going to lunch once; he could hardly believe he was doing it. We have a lot in common; he instantly became an old friend.

We stay in touch and talk often, and he calls me into his office when I come to the store; he says he would love to go out to lunch one day again. When I first invited him to lunch, he said he’d never gone out to lunch except when it was necessary for his business.

I knew he wouldn’t do it again, and he hasn’t.

Yet the friendship is genuine.

And it is true; he is always busy. Wouldn’t a true friend accept that”?. Active men don’t have time for social lunches. They have important work to do.

But how does one get close to another man if they can’t take the time to meet and talk, as Maria does with her friends?

In his book about male friendship, author Billy Baker explained the loneliness of men this way:

“In a wonderful essay for – (the website) Salon-, the sociologist Lisa Wade wrote that ‘to be close friends, men need to be willing to confess their insecurities, to be kind to others, have empathy and sometimes sacrifice their self-interest. “Real Men” are not supposed to do these things. They are supposed to be self-interested, competitive, non-emotional, strong (with no insecurities), and able to deal with their emotional problems without help. Being a good friend, then, and needing a good friend, is the equivalent of being girly.”

There is something to this. I’ve needed so much help I have been in therapy for more than half of my life. You learn to talk about your insecurities that way; that does set me apart.

I am happy in my life; I have everything I need. I have a lot of books I’m dying to read, pictures I want to take, things I want to write, and when Maria and I are together, that is as good as any other kind of company could ever be for me.

I am profoundly fortunate.

We have a couple of new friends, including a couple,  and we enjoy seeing them once in a while.

I like calling them up and talking on the phone. We talk about books, politics, doctors, and the news.

It works. It’s new. It’s nice; it’s enough.

I think something in men puts real friendship far beneath obligation, ambition, and work. The responsibilities of life. They need to care for their families.

If you’re busy, you are successful, influential, and needed. If you are not active, you are strange, retired, or a failure.

Men are just wired differently. And as we all know, I have never been wired right, especially compared to other men.

I was very happy for Maria while I was taking that photo.

And I think I finally understand that I will never be sitting in those chairs alone with men.