So, I’m waiting for a sandwich, and I have my always-handy copy of Essays Of E.B. White from the passenger door in my Element, and I’m perusing it a bit while the cheese is melting, and I happen upon a nice passage. Since I’m working on a show titled “Right Beside The River,” I am grabbed by White’s words about a river as he’s driving into Maine:
And when, five hours later, I dip down across the Narramissic and look back at the tiny town of Orland, the white spires of its church against the pale-red sky stirs me in a way that Chartres could never do. It was the Narramissic that once received as fine a lyrical tribute as was ever paid to a river — a line in a poem by a schoolboy, who wrote of it, “It flows through Orland every day.” I never cross that mild stream without thinking of his testimonial to the constancy, the dependability of small familiar rivers.