August 1: Once More to the Lake

I am not E. B. White, and this post is not about taking my young son to a cabin on a lake.  No, as much as I love White's essay about feeling the cold fingers of death in the nether regions, this post is about something a little less literary, a little more pedestrian.  This post is about an interview I have to do this evening.

I was contacted a couple of days ago by the filmmaker doing the PBS documentary on U. P. writers.  She wants to interview me again.  That's kind of flattering.  So, I'm headed down to Lake Superior tonight to get on camera.  I'll probably end up on the cutting room floor.  (Actually, everything is digital now, so I'll probably end up in the trash box of some computer, waiting for someone to delete me.)  Maybe I'll be able to come up with something eloquent and witty to say.  Maybe I'll just point at the waves of Lake Superior and say, "Pretty."  We'll see.

Saint Marty has to remember to check his fly before the filming begins.

E. B. White with his fly zipped