The Essayist

One of my favorite essays has for many years been one written by E.B. White in 1941 titled, “Once More to the Lake.” The writer’s name is familiar to many as the author of Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little, the children’s stories that have captivated young readers for years. Others may recall a slim volume they read in college called, The Elements of Style by William Strunk and E.B. White. But for many years White’s name was associated with The New Yorker magazine, where his essays were a regular feature, and where his wife was a senior editor.

One of the books I brought home from the final sale at Mandala Books in Daytona, is a 1976 first edition of Letters of E.B. White, collected and edited by Dorothy Lobrano Guth. I didn’t realize until later how rewarding this purchase would become. Pages I have so far read are generous in unveiling a man, a personality I was only vaguely familiar with. Because of my fondness for his essay, “Once More to the Lake,” I was quick to look up those letters written around the time of the essay’s first publication in 1941. What I discovered was a wealth of facts surrounding the essay’s background, and even an insight into White’s thesis, or intent with the piece. It shouldn’t really surprise me, since I’ve made similar discoveries about other writers through their letters, most prominent among them probably the poet Charles Bukowski. But it’s alway an eye opening process.

According to notes in the Letters of E.B. White, the writer was on many occasions desirous of revisiting places he had known at an earlier time. Thus it was, in 1941 he returned to the Belgrade Lakes in Maine, site of August vacations during his childhood. This return to a childhood ‘cathedral’ is the basis for “Once More to the Lake,” written for his column in Harper’s, the October 1941 issue.

I had often wondered about the final lines of the essay, which always read like a presentiment of death. I discovered the excerpt below in a letter White wrote ten years after the essay’s initial publication:

‘The essay [“Once More to the Lake”] is about a man who feels a sense of identity with his son—a fairly common feeling. But the sense of identity is all mixed up with a feeling of being separated by the years. A child by his very existence, makes a parent feel older, nearer death. So when the little boy in the essay puts on a cold, wet bathing suit, the man feels the chill, as though he were experiencing it. Only for him it is a truly chilling experience, because it suddenly seems to foreshadow death.’

Letters of E.B. White is a weighty book, and “Once More to the Lake” a somewhat lengthy essay, both of which require longer discussion, at least more than is allowed here. For those interested in the essay, this link will take you to an online version. At Amazon look for Essays of E.B. White and a revised edition of the letters. If you haven’t already, I urge you to become acquainted with the writing of Elwyn Brooks White.

I Remember Mama

Looking at the most recent post on Everyday Correspondence this morning, I read an article written by Jackie Flaherty called, “Correspondence as…Memories.” The article is about the lasting value of letters and what their content does to bring back vividly the thoughts and days, the memories of earlier years. I will admit that I have not been very good about holding on to letters received, and most of them must be relegated to the lost and unfound. That loss is something I regret, though at this point cannot change.

But reading Jackie’s article, I remembered seeing in a bottom drawer of my desk recently an old letter from my mother, who passed away in 1983, a year after my move to Japan. So, I went back and pulled that faded envelope from its hiding place and sat for an hour reading, re-living not one, but three letters folded inside. They were the last three letters I got from my mother.

So many things unwritten in those flimsy pages came spilling from between the lines as I turned them over again and again. Little written there about her health, but the handwriting told some of the story. The last letter of the three reflected a hand that fought with the pen, not easily keeping lines neat, or letters fluid. Handwriting always neat and well-formed, perfectly legible to anyone had little by little become less so.

She wrote of hoping she would be able to play golf with her friends, and I remembered a hundred things about her and Daddy and their passion for golf. I remembered cabinets piled with silver salvers or bowls from the many golf tournaments. In one part of the letters was a mild complaint that her car was not running well. That brought back to me the times she had poked around under the hood trying to make some minor repair without the help of a mechanic. She wrote about the roses I had wired on Mother’s Day dying the very next day, and the florist coming right over with a fresh armful.

On the last page of the final letter Mama wrote that she hoped I was enjoying my work and life in this far away country, but that she was a little sad it had to be at such a great distance.

I sat with these pages for a while, looking too at some old photos, turning the worn out Kodak moments over in memory, smoothing the old letters and remembering Mama.

As James at Everyday Correspondence so aptly expressed to Jackie about her article… “Thanks Jackie, for your wonderful reflection on the lasting power of letters.”