A memoir of Rosalind Purcell, a Boston based artist, about her decades of sourcing art material -- read other people's decay and junk -- from the junkyard of William Buckminster in Owls Head, Maine. Although the writing is a little awkward it is heartfelt, and detailed description, gathered over the decades of scavenging trips to Buckminster's mountains and mountains of things, leaves you with a wonderful story.
Details, details are what make this book interesting. And though I cringed at times, feeling that Buckminster himself was being shown off as some sort of eccentric 'find' to Purcells' city-folk friends, I think its not my place to comment. He could hold his own, and could comment well enough himself, and he'd probably say of Purcell something like, "Well, she kept coming back, and it always worked out in the end' . This is a story that John McPhee could have written up in the New Yorker had he gotten to it first. But he didn't -- and Rosalind Williams did. Kudos to the author. Well done.