Early 30 years ago I was a neighbor of the reclusive writer, J. D.
Salinger in Cornish, New Hampshire, where the author still lives.
I had moved to Cornish to live alone for a year. I was going
through a divorce, and after attending to the responsibilities as
publisher of the Claremont Daily Eagle, my remote cottage in
Cornish was a place to retire alone to read, write, take long
walks on remote country roads, and to generally lick my wounds and
reasses life.
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On such a Sunday, J.D. Salinger sauntered by. We waved
our usual silent exchange; then on the spur of the
moment I said, "Come up and have a martini."
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I soon learned that the mysterious and celebrated author lived not
far away, and it was not long before we silently passed on our
solitary walks about the countryside. I knew who he was and I'm
sure Salinger knew who I was, but since the Eagle had been the
only newspaper in the country to have published an interview with
the reclusive author, he was not about to cozy up to its
publisher.
Several years before, a Cornish girl attending Windsor, Vermont
High School was able to charm Salinger into giving this interview.
Salinger no doubt thought the interview would not go beyond the
high school paper, but like others in the area, the school paper
was in fact a high school page that appeared periodically in the
Claremont Daily Eagle, and was an integral part of the afternoon
daily newspaper. It was not long before the interview was picked
up by other newspapers and the wire services. For many years after
its first publication, the Eagle received requests for copies of
Salinger's interview, many world-wide.
As the harsh winter of 1968 gave way to long days of March
sunshine, I would often make up a small pitcher of martinis on
Sundays and sit outside in the sunshine, hand-feeding chickadees
and watching flocks of pine siskins and evening grossbeaks sweep
in and out of the branches of the large sugar maple in front of
the cottage.
On such a Sunday, J. D. Salinger sauntered by. We waved our usual
silent exchange; then on the spur of the moment I said, "Come up
and have a martini."
Salinger paused, I'm sure to consider the dangers of any such
rupture in our mute relationship. Then he made his move, striding
up to me with a hand extended. We made no introductions, nor were
names exchanged. Instead we chatted about the hard winter, the
birds, and whether or not we'd be planting peas this May in that
upland country.
I did not mention Salinger's books, all of which I had tried to
read, but later set aside as incomprehensible. To excuse myself
and my ignorance, I reasoned that Salinger was a genius, whereas
I, a pedestrian plodder in the world, was an unworthy beggar at
the shrine of enlightenment.
Salinger thanked me for the libation, but before he left I said,
"I see by Friday's Eagle that we do have something in common
besides being silent neighbors." Salinger was puzzled. I pointed
out to him a clipping which listed divorces granted at the January
term of court. The name Salinger appeared next to Bennett. Our
divorce decrees had been granted, quite coincidentally, at the
same time. A trace of what might be called a smile creased
Salinger's somber countenance.
"You have a point there," he said, "and perhaps we share other
similarities, too. Thanks for the drink." If there were any other
likenesses between Salinger and me I never found them out, for so
long as I lived in Cornish we resumed our previous relationship -
passing by one another, like ships in the night.
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Story by Edward Jackson Bennett, who formerly owned weekly and
daily newspapers in N.H. and Vermont, and is a former N.H. State
Senator and Representative. A resident of Bridgewater, he is now
on assignment in Honduras with the Peace Corps. Illustration by
Jim Reidy .