I’ve just finished reading The Bucolic Plague by Josh-Kilmer Purcell. I was sorry to turn the last page. I enjoyed it too much. I found myself laughing out loud on multiple occasions. I may need a moment to mourn the loss of a great read. I find myself lonely without the company of Josh’s acerbic wit.
What will I do now? There are no more anecdotes about how hard it can be to live with another human being 24 hours a day. No more funny Martha moments. There are no more stories that I can so closely relate to involving the insanity of living in a house that was built before your great-great-grandfather was born.
I have no intention of ruining any of the fun for you should you choose to read it yourself. That would be rude. Instead, I’ll encourage you to pick up a copy, have a laugh, and think of me when you read about how cold they kept the Beekman mansion during their first winter there.
In my opinion, this book delivered exactly what I hoped it would: a witty read that kept me wanting more, laughing out loud while I read along. No, it didn’t help me to determine the meaning of life. I was truly sorry to reach the last page. Having read it probably won’t make me a better wife or mother. Or will it? Maybe it will in the sense that I enjoyed it so much that I will be in a better mood. Now if I could just figure out a way to clear the two feet of snow off of my garden. Oh well, Josh lives in New York. At least I have company.