Today I had lunch with my friend Eric Gustafson, the author, who I magically transported from Peapack to Princeton to meet up with his friends Peter and Barbara Westergaard (I put in their last names because they're all to one degree or another sort of famous, or at the very least notorious, and I love reflected glory, it's the only kind I'll ever get!) for lunch. Eric is on his way to India for 10 months and has been on an extended au revoir tour. Peter mentioned E.B.White's poem, The Fox of Peapack, because it is a village adjacent, more or less, to Oldwick. I cannot find it on the internet so I'm frustrated, I may have to purchase a copy. It does not reflect well on the human residents, apparently.
But Charlotte's Web is one of my absolute all-time favorite books for children so I must find the poem, especially as I did discover in the googling that EB was great friends with Dorothy Parker. "What fresh hell is this?" is engraved on my cell phone.
And also of course there is another picture of a tree, which I took in Princeton, because it reflects exactly the general condition. The trees are struggling to leaf out. If they could vocalize, we would all be overwhelmed by an unbearably tragic, mortal shrieking. Why do so few hear it?
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