Well, I have dog-eared, underlined and exclamation-pointed my way through the collected essays of E.B. White. And I have to say that I am sad to be done. Actually, what I am is bereft. I never knew E.B. White, but I miss him terribly.
His ability to see, to marvel–his rueful, joyful ruminations–have kept me such good company that I cannot bear to shelve the book.
When I went to the cabin last week, I took the essays with me even though I had read them all. The book is on my desk now and it will probably stay there for a good long while. I need it to comfort and inspire me.

“There is one big boulder down in the pasture woods where I sometimes go to sit when I am lonely or sick or melancholy or disenchanted or frightened, and in combination with sweet fern, juniper, and bayberry this old rock has a remarkably restorative effect on me.”

These essays are that sun-warmed boulder; these words of Mr. White have had a remarkably restorative effect on me.

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