Friends.

Since Covid covered New York six-and-a-half years ago, and my wife and I packed a bag each (and two or three bags for our eight-year-old golden retriever, Whiskey) we have turned our ramshackle pile of seaside boards scattered willy-nilly along the rocky Gingham Coast into our primary residence. If you can call this living. My 1966 Simca 1500. Purrs like a kitten. A dead one. Much of the…