Serendipity

Since the impressionable age of four, I have always loved books. First it was Dick and Jane and Spot, and then came the December Dog, on to Where the Red Fern Grows, to Travels with Charlie. Oh, and I guess hundreds and hundreds of books without dogs in between. I’ll even admit that I do judge a book by its cover, a person by their books, and a town by their bookstores.

So it is that while in NYC my friend and I went to visit The Strand bookstore where they boast of 18 miles of new and used books. My mission was to replace a lost copy of Letters of E.B. White. On the fourth rung of a utility latter, I found him on the very top shelf along with a few other collections. I bought three, leaving the rest. (These are no thin children books, but thick heavy volumes containing years of essays.)

A block or two away from the bookstore, we were waiting for the light to change, talking about White. I say “Strunk & White; Elements of Style is one of my favorite books.” My friend say’s “I’ve never heard of it”. The light turned green and we started to cross the road. An old grey pony-tailed man with thick glasses and a bow tie steps out with us and said “Honey, to some of us it’s still the Bible. When I die, the Chicago Manual Style will be no where to be found except maybe the trash.”

He followed us along the sidewalk chatting away with us, telling us more about White and said “his step-son is still something of a big deal here in NY.”

“Oh, I don’t think I know who he is.”

“He writes baseball commentary, but he’s a bitter unpleasant man”

“Well, no wonder. If he’s writing baseball commentary in NYC, then he’s not writing about the Red Sox. I’m from Boston and that’s the only team worth writing about.” Now, I don’t know why I say this other than to be a brat. I don’t follow baseball, and while its fun to root for the Red Sox, I’m not a die hard fan, and I know full well that I am just throwing gas on a Yankee/Red Sox fire. Luckily for us he said “Ah, I’m from RI. The Pawtucket Sox is real baseball.” And he continued chatting along. We ditched him at the roasted nut stand.

The next day my friend and I go to the Coop in Boston. (Pre fire-in-the-garbage-can episode.) As I’m trolling along the center aisle on the way to the checkout stand I pick up a book titled Let Me Finish. It has an enchanting cover with four boys dashing through a snow covered park somewhere in a city. I turn it over to read the back cover. “In this acclaimed autobiography (okay, usually love autobiographies) Roger Angell (name doesn’t ring a bell) take an unsentimental look at his early days as a boy growing up in New York (cool. I’m in the mood to delve into NY stories) with a remarkable father; a mother, Katherine White (wait a minute. I know that name...) who was a founding editor of The New Yorker; and a famous stepfather, the writer E.B.White. (aaaaaaa...) What on earth are the odds of that happening? Less the 24 hours ago a strange man in a strange city was telling me about another stranger and shortly thereafter, without searching, his autobiography winds up in my hands?

Of course I bought the book! I’ll let you know how it turns out. By-the-way, even though The Elements of Style is one of my top favorite books, I am no grammarian.