Happy Birthday
Cousin Christopher, did you know you share a birthday with the great E.B. White?
I know and love him best for The Trumpet of the Swan and of course, Charlotte's Web. (See a great review on a great book about White here (p.s. it would make a great Christmas present for one KLCockroft :).)
I awakened this morning to tidings of the beloved writer's birthday booming from the clock radio at my right, past Elspeth, still sleeping (with her dozen elbows that poked us all night), and Martin, who was just stirring. White's voice, even and warm, described the fairgrounds just after Charlotte the spider died:
"Good-bye!” she whispered. Then she summoned all her strength and waved one of her front legs at him. She never moved again. Next day, as the Ferris wheel was being taken apart and the race horses were being loaded into vans and the entertainers were packing up their belongings and driving away in their trailers, Charlotte died. The Fair Grounds were soon forlorn. The infield was littered with bottles and trash. Nobody, of the hundreds of people what had visited the Fair, knew that a grey spider had played the most important part of all. No one was with her when she died.
Apparently (according to NPR), E.B. White had to record that part seventeen times before he could get through it without crying.
I treasure it. A writer so deeply in love with his characters, so respectful of their lives. We've all been changed by Charlotte and her wise, wonderful ability to find an unlikely friend: "You're my friend, Wilbur. That in itself is a tremendous thing."
In memory, I weave White's name now in my mind: Sir, you were radiant. In short, you were some writer.
I know and love him best for The Trumpet of the Swan and of course, Charlotte's Web. (See a great review on a great book about White here (p.s. it would make a great Christmas present for one KLCockroft :).)
I awakened this morning to tidings of the beloved writer's birthday booming from the clock radio at my right, past Elspeth, still sleeping (with her dozen elbows that poked us all night), and Martin, who was just stirring. White's voice, even and warm, described the fairgrounds just after Charlotte the spider died:
"Good-bye!” she whispered. Then she summoned all her strength and waved one of her front legs at him. She never moved again. Next day, as the Ferris wheel was being taken apart and the race horses were being loaded into vans and the entertainers were packing up their belongings and driving away in their trailers, Charlotte died. The Fair Grounds were soon forlorn. The infield was littered with bottles and trash. Nobody, of the hundreds of people what had visited the Fair, knew that a grey spider had played the most important part of all. No one was with her when she died.
Apparently (according to NPR), E.B. White had to record that part seventeen times before he could get through it without crying.
I treasure it. A writer so deeply in love with his characters, so respectful of their lives. We've all been changed by Charlotte and her wise, wonderful ability to find an unlikely friend: "You're my friend, Wilbur. That in itself is a tremendous thing."
In memory, I weave White's name now in my mind: Sir, you were radiant. In short, you were some writer.
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