"Chickens, Gin and a Maine Friendship," E.B. White & Edmund Ware Smith

                                                                     Sydney M. Williams

Burrowing into Books

“Chickens, Gin and a Maine Friendship,” E.B. White & Edmund Ware Smith

April 3, 2021

 

“And there you have it: spreaders of good news and cheer, early risers,

carpenters, keen observers, and friends who enjoyed a well-written

letter in the mail and a late afternoon drink, especially along the coast of Maine.”

                                                                                                                                Martha White, Editor

                                                                                                                                Introduction

                                                                                                                                Chickens, Gin and a Maine Friendship

 

While E.B. White needs no introduction, Edmund Ware Smith might. White wrote according to rules laid down by William Strunk in the little book he later updated, The Elements of Style. Smith wrote in the vernacular of the Maine sportsmen he came to appreciate. He wrote half a dozen books, including The One-eyed Poacher. He worked for the Ford Motor Company, where in the early ‘50s he edited “Ford Times.” He split his time between Detroit and Damariscotta, Maine, the “oyster capital” of New England, a village just north of Brunswick and about ninety miles west and south of Brooklin, home to E.B. White.

 

The letters begin in November 1956, with salutations to Mr. White and Mr. Smith. However, a year into the correspondence, White began a letter: “Why don’t you, at this juncture, call me Whitey and I will call you Smitty? Then we can gradually adjust these tags as the years roll and the rockets mount.” Smith responded a few days later: “Okay, Whitey, if that’s the way you want it, but with the new tag my vocabulary will change to Diversity Avenue and Delancey Street.” Their lively banter continued to the end. In his last letter to White on August 29, 1967, Smith wrote: “Had ahold of death’s door a couple of times but was not admitted. Spirits fine; getting best of care at home with Mary.” In response, two weeks later, White acknowledges Smith’s illness: “I was distressed to hear your news, and would have sent off a letter sooner but haven’t been too sharp myself of late – my head seems increasingly to be stuffed with old tomato paste and wired for sound.” Martha White, E.B. White’s granddaughter, tells us that Smith died a few days after receiving her grandfather’s letter. His wife survived him by thirteen years. After her death, E.B. White gave the letters to the Skidompha Library in Damariscotta.

 

For me, the treat in this collection was to read fresh material from E.B. White, while being introduced to Edmund Ware Smith. As the title suggests, much of the content revolves around gin and chickens. In a letter dated December 11, 1960, Smith writes of his plan to build a henhouse: “…so I went into Perley Waltz’s drugstore where the following dialog took place:

            Smitty: ‘Gimme enough Bandaids to build a henhouse.’

            Perley: ‘How big is the henhouse?’

            Smitty: ‘Twelve by twelve.’

            Perley: ‘Better take three boxes.’”

 

A month later, White thanks Smith for photographs. “Your henhouse is less beautiful than Chartres but almost as intricate…I can discover hardly an inch of available wall space, and I don’t know where your hens are going to hang their pictures.”

 

The book was published in 2020 and concludes with four essays, two by White and two by Smith. Any fan of E.B. White, Edmund Ware Smith, chickens, gin and/or Maine will want to get a copy.