6/8/2023 0 Comments Here Is New York by E.B. White![]() I see his plaid button-down shirt and tweed jacket, and his good evening moccasins. In my mind, this is at his place in North Brooklin, Maine, and he’s almost still around. White died in 1985-twenty years ago, come October-and by “missing” I don’t mean yearning for him so much as not being able to keep hold of him for a bit of conversation or even a tone of voice. I can hear the sound of that gray door-the steps there lead down into the fragrant connecting woodshed-as the lift-latch clicks shut. Lately I have been missing my stepfather, Andy White, who keeps excusing himself while he steps out of the room to get something from his study or heads out the back kitchen door, on his way to the barn again. ![]()
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