The World Was My Garden, Too
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He roams New England, Arkansas, the Caribbean, Nova Scotia and the familiar and odd plots of mind and thought. He explores shorelines and climbs "hillish" mountains. He sits on porches and talks to passersby and their dogs. He meets strange and delightful people, most of whom are real. "Reading Pickering," a reviewer wrote in The Smithsonian decades ago, "is like taking a walk with your oldest, wittiest friend." "Now," Pickering says, "I am old, and the friends who thought me witty have fallen off the perch. But that’s okay. What I write makes me smile and mutter, ‘What a guy.’" And what...
He roams New England, Arkansas, the Caribbean, Nova Scotia and the familiar and odd plots of mind and thought. He explores shorelines and climbs "hillish" mountains. He sits on porches and talks to passersby and their dogs. He meets strange and delightful people, most of whom are real. "Reading Pickering," a reviewer wrote in The Smithsonian decades ago, "is like taking a walk with your oldest, wittiest friend." "Now," Pickering says, "I am old, and the friends who thought me witty have fallen off the perch. But that’s okay. What I write makes me smile and mutter, ‘What a guy.’" And what wonderful essays these are—pages that awaken the affections and make readers smile and embrace the beauty of this bruised world.
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