The infamous Pickle Letter arrive during the first trip I made to Connecticut to visit Mike Obre for a single late summer weekend, accompanied by my friend E.M.Strohl, a future Baseball Hall Of Fame curator.
All during the weird, adventure-packed visit Mike would make humorously oblique references to a mysterious mailing he had sent just prior to our arrival, refusing to describe what was waiting for me back home but brimming with twisted, manic delight over his central role as its architect.
All during the weird, adventure-packed visit Mike would make humorously oblique references to a mysterious mailing he had sent just prior to our arrival, refusing to describe what was waiting for me back home but brimming with twisted, manic delight over his central role as its architect.
When I finally returned home a sealed, official-looking plastic bag was there with warnings and assurances printed on its side by the Untied States Postal Service
Inside what I took for an FBI evidence bag
was a damp and tattered greenish envelope
that smelled of old, turned pickle juice.
The note inside the envelope had fallen out
and rested on top of the three layer pile inside the bag.
Mobre had sent a sliced pickle to me through the US Mail.
was a damp and tattered greenish envelope
that smelled of old, turned pickle juice.
The note inside the envelope had fallen out
and rested on top of the three layer pile inside the bag.
Mobre had sent a sliced pickle to me through the US Mail.
There was no sign of the raisins or vitamins.
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