Once More To The Lake By E. B White Analysis

Once More to the Beach When I was younger, my family would often go on vacation to Navarre, Florida. If it was asked of me, I would not be able to pinpoint the city on a map, but I remember the exact layout of the area where we visited. We frequented the beach so often I can recall with certainty the salty smell in the air. Often when thinking of that town, I reminisce on the feeling of sand under my feet. In the essay “Once More to the Lake,” E.B. White speaks nostalgically about previous experiences on a retreat when he, too, returns to the same area decades later. I, too, have undergone a melancholy similar to White’s. In the past, I enjoyed visiting the beach annually with my family. We stopped this tradition some years ago due to budget problems as well as illness. So, for the majority of my recollections, I view Navarre through a faded, childlike lens. Despite how my memories have distorted over time, I
The stink of our catch was heavy in the summer air. While we brought in catch after catch, a heron landed a meter or so away from us on the pier. Obviously, my brother and I were ecstatic at the sight. What child would not be excited at such an odd occurrence? In an effort to keep the heron nearby, our parents suggested we feed it. Yet, all we had was the slim bounty from our fishing. The only fish to be had on hand was dangling from my fishing pole. Its rancid odor unpleasantly made itself known to me as I stared at it, knowing what I must do. My father carefully removed my catch from the hook, holding it out towards me. I wrinkled my nose as my hand extended towards the wriggling creature. A shiver ran through me as I made contact with the slimy, scaled flesh. It was discomforting to say the least, however, I stomached the sensation long enough to lob the fish towards the heron. To my complete dismay, it landed near the edge of the pier and squirmed its way back into the