The Way Life Should Be: The House of E. B. White
A writer goes searching for the Maine home of E.B. White:
“I knocked on the front door. No one answered so I knocked again, harder. There was a barn just off the side of the house, so as Andrew and the dogs watched wide-eyed from the car, I tiptoed around towards it. That’s when a dog that wasn’t mine barked loudly and rapidly and I became painfully aware of the fact of what I was doing and how quickly I’d been discovered: I was trespassing, and not just trespassing, but trespassing in Maine.
“‘I’m coming out,’ someone called. My heart skipped. He said something else, words I couldn’t make out over the dog. I felt like a jerk, and I stood there feeling that way for what felt like twenty minutes before a tall, owl-faced man pushed open the screen door. I mumbled some kind of jumbled explanation and speedy apology. The man frowned. I kept rambling and after I mentioned I was a writer, he turned and motioned Andrew to get out of the car.”