The Bucolic Plague

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.