Tony Abbott's Blog, page 8

Old Ohi . . .

O, the beckoning road! Day Two of our journey dawned and ended in sunlight, as we packed up, set our sights south, and drove out of Cleveland. Eventually.

There was a bit of trouble finding the exact route out of the city, as the Triptik didn't start exactly from the old house in South Euclid. We zigged and zagged for a bit before finding Warrensville Center Road, then crawled along until we were out, passing lots of "City of . . . " signs along the way before reaching what you'd call the...

Cleveland, My Cleveland . . .

Day One of the trip started with an early rising to get to LaGuardia for an 8:40 flight. Without a hitch, even driving in the remaining drizzle from our latest rainstorm. Arrived a bit early in Cleveland, that mecca by the lake, picked up rental car. First stop: my old house, which I haven't seen since 1961.

It turns out to have been superficially from my long-ago time in it, some owners having closed in the carport and changed the window arrangement on the front. More on emotional upheavals a...

And the research trip . . .

. . . starts on Wednesday. At the desk, we are in the middle of final revisions on a novel coming out next year, a story based in part on a journey taken with our brother, mother, and grandmother in 1959. The replication of that long-ago trip, from Cleveland to Atlanta, will fix in place a handful of geographic and scenic details we feel impelled to get right, though the story itself is quite done. We have not been back to Cleveland since 1961, and are anxious about visiting the old...

Cooperating Teachers . . .

. . . was an unfamiliar term until Thursday evening when I was honored to speak to a group of them. For over thirty years, the School of Education at the University of Connecticut (known as the Neag School) has paired its student teachers with cooperating teachers — seasoned professionals in elementary, middle, and high schools in the towns around UConn, to create a continuum of learning and support that, as was plain on Thursday, benefits both the veterans and recruits in equal measure...

The evidence of the letters . . .

When I was younger, though not so very much younger that I shouldn't have known better, I found myself puzzling over the question: when are you exactly half your father's age? Working it out longhand, through some trial and error, I discovered of course that it's when you are the same age he was when you were born. It's a fact of mathematical beauty that had escaped me until then, but here I rely on the Great Detective's ignorance of our planetary system; or as my daughter once said in a...

Wearing out the words . . .

A week or so ago at a breakfast of writers, I found myself saying something that, on the face of it, sounded fairly harsh: "I never read a book suggested to me." A startled (and maybe hurt) look from one my tablemates: "Really?" And I had to say: "Yes." Now, setting aside the fact that "never" is probably too strong a word, we could go into this and such other personal oddities as, for instance, never quite finding time to open up any of the library books I've checked out before they are due ...

The Time I Ran Away from Home . . .

The time I ran away from home involved neither running nor actually being away from home. It wasn't for very long, either.

I was mad at something big. Most likely a perceived slight or a less than perfect manifestation of motherly love. Whatever it was, I ran into my room, packed my suitcase, and stormed through the kitchen, past her bewilderment and the smirking of my brother, and right out of the house.

The door I chose had the benefit of being made of metal. Slamming it made a final sound...

No Flying Tomatoes Here . . .

A literacy conference last year included a panel of authors of children's books. The panel was attended by teachers — classroom and reading — and a smattering of school librarians. When the authors spoke, they one by one showed their books to the audience, which included quite a few heads nodding seriously, as if they were actually being told some truths about literacy and not being shown goods to buy. Well, that was shocking. One expects more from an audience than to be so easily hawked to. ...

His mother . . .

. . . didn't want to be buried all the way down in Virginia where his father rested. A wounded and decorated veteran of the Normandy campaign, his father had died at seventy-eight years old after a stroke sent him tumbling down the stairs toward the front door. His son later wiped the blood from the carpet down there where his father's head had struck the floor, but kept this fact from his mother.

Burial at Arlington for a veteran apparently includes a place for the spouse, though a visit...

Take heart, take heart, little ones . . .

Even a creature that is weak, ugly, cowardly, smelly and in no way justifiable still wants to stay alive and be happy after its own fashion. I could not invert the existing scale of values, or turn myself into a success, but I could accept my failure and make the best of it. I could resign myself to being what I was, and then endeavour to survive on those terms.

— George Orwell, Such, Such Were the Joys . . .