Writer's Seat

 A friend sent me news that E. B. White’s saltwater farm on the coast of Maine is up for sale, and my mind leapt back nearly 20 years—an impressive leap for a mind in my condition—to a visit I’d made there to mark the 100th anniversary of White’s birth in 1899. I was on assignment for a magazine, a staggeringly profitable magazine that offered its writers expense accounts that can only be described as bottomless. (Yes, kids, there really was such a magazine. Lots of them, in fact.) White had died 14 years before, in 1985. My job was to call on the current owners of the house and nose around and come back with some kind of...
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