Buckeye Snapshots (Issue #17)

James Grover Thurber (1894-1961)

From the 20th century, one of Ohio’s true cosmopolitan individuals is James Thurber.  Well-traveled with a diversity of talents, he leaves behind treasures for future generations to enjoy.

How does one describe James Thurber?  His career covers so many avenues:  humorist, cartoonist, author, playwright, and journalist.  His talents remain visible even today in his short stories, illustrations, fables, commentary, and children’s fantasy.

Born in Columbus on December 8, 1894, Thurber grows up on the east side with the inner hub of the city located at his doorstep.  His parents, Charles and Mary, raise four boys.  Thurber attends Sullivant Elementary School and Douglas Junior High before graduating from East High School in 1913.

Thurber’s mother, Mame being her nickname, becomes quite an influence on young James.  With her personality and humor, many of her jokes and theatrics offer him material to harvest from for his future stories and characters.

Ready to begin his next adventure, Thurber attends The Ohio State University from 1913 to 1918.  He writes for the university newspaper, The Lantern.  He serves as editor-in-chief of The Sun Dial, a humor and literary magazine.  These further prepare him for his future years as a writer.

Thurber’s younger years.

 

In 1918, Thurber serves as a code clerk with the U.S. State Department in Washington, DC.  Later he moves to Europe to work at the American embassy in Paris.

By 1920, Thurber returns to Columbus where he is employed as a newspaper reporter for The Columbus Dispatch.  In 1922, he returns to Paris as a journalist for the Chicago Tribune.

By 1926, Thurber is now working as a free-lance writer for the New York Evening Post.  He experiences the good fortune of a friendship with writer E. B. White (author of Stuart Little and Charlotte’s Web).

White introduces Thurber to Harold Ross, editor of The New Yorker.  He is hired by Ross where he continues with his drawings and writings.  Thurber’s relationship with the magazine will continue for many years to come.

Thurber remarries in 1935.  Helen Wismer becomes his wife and caretaker for the rest of his life.

Many of Thurber’s drawings recall his love of dogs as well as his family life while growing up in Columbus.  The New Yorker continues to use many of his drawings for its cover as well as publishing some of his short stories.

Thurber’s later years.

 

As a result of a childhood accident, Thurber loses his left eye.  Over several years, his healthy right eye’s vision continues to deteriorate.    Even with approaching blindness, he manages to produce a steady flow of drawings and writings until late in his life.

One of Thurber’s most famous short stories, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”, is successfully adapted for film screenplay.  Its theme revolves around how a man escapes from his dull life via daydreams filled with adventure and heroism.  The film stars Danny Kaye and is produced in 1947.  Later the story is adapted for the Broadway theater in 1960 with Tom Ewell in the lead role.

Thurber remains active with his career’s journey until his final years.  Declining vision and poor health eventually overtake him.  On November 2, 1961, he passes away in New York City.  He is buried in the Thurber family plot at Green Lawn Cemetery in Columbus.

Between 1914-1917, the Thurber family lives on Jefferson Avenue, a short distance from downtown Columbus.  In 1984, preservation groups unite to purchase the home, which is built in 1873.  With its Victorian era design, the former home continues to thrive as a museum for Thurber’s memorabilia, and it contains photographs and other items from this time period.  The home also serves as a literary center for writers while sharing endless treasures of Thurber’s drawings and writings.

The Thurber House in Columbus.  

 

All images courtesy of Pinterest.

Julian Barnes Quotes

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When you read a great book, you don’t escape from life, you plunge deeper into it.

But life never lets you go, does it?  You can’t put down life the way you put down a book.

Julian Barnes (born 1946) is an English writer.  He has also written fictional crime dramas under the pseudonym of Dan Kavanagh.

Writer’s Magic

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Galaxy of words

Waiting to be tapped

Crafting from stardust

Pleasantly gift-wrapped

 

Visionary words

Stirring with brilliance

Enchanting journey

Story’s resilience

 

Wizardry of words

Taking center stage

Spellbinding verses

Poetry’s new age

 

Writer’s gifted words

Singing with passion

Finding fresh magic

Vocal compassion

 

Endless cache of words

Weaving life’s heartbeat

Drafting each new page

Adventure’s front seat

  

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Daily Paradox (Haiku Series #163)

Filling Unlimited Pages

Nothing ever small

Dreaming, another novel—

Writing with bigness

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Choosing Right Stuff

Pick baseball or golf

Swinging for fences or greens—

Which swing shall I use?

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Playing Political Chess

Congress at impasse

Where’s spirit to compromise?

Buried long ago

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Writers’ Quotes

man sitting on handrails

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Everything I write was once real life.

Max Blecher (Romanian)

The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it.

Dylan Thomas (Welsh)

The writer is by nature a dreamer–a conscious dreamer.

Carson McCullers (American)

A Writer’s Draft

This poem is inspired by the quotes featured in Suzette’s post at Suzette B’s Blog.  Her awesome post features wisdom and humor relating to writers.  Visit her site when you have a chance.

focus photo of yellow paper near trash can

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Changing careers, a couple of years ago

Leaving the classroom, becoming a writer

Let’s just say, a writer’s living ain’t too full

 

Dreaming of my name on a bright marquee

Writing alongside . . . Twain and Hemingway

Let’s hope a dim light, stays positive for me

 

Piling up on my desk, many a “cold” draft

Feeling more like a frosty, Arctic breeze

Who ever said my writing is truly a craft?

scenic view of dramatic sky during winter

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Expecting a bonus for my previous posts

Waiting, but no mail, call, or text as of yet

Most of my prose seems read by a ghost

 

Heading outside to start up the trusty car

Hearing only silence, the battery’s dead

Now must hitch a ride, if it’s not too far

 

Standing along the road, for hours on end

Being ignored has become a part of my life

A writer now a beggar, all alone in the wind

boy facing right side of the road

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Returning to my writing, it’s awfully bad

Writing a few minutes, my pen goes dry

A good thing, my mind’s empty and glad

 

Thinking of returning to my former classroom

Wishing my words would spark a young mind

Then Rebel says, “You came back too soon”

 

Looking at drafts, growing taller on my desk

Realizing now, editing isn’t really my game

Phantom words wait with patience and rest

 

Watching outside, realizing I’m truly blessed

Appreciating you, the reader, for stopping by

Just maybe, my writings meet the final test

adult blur business close up

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Sometimes, a crafty writer changes his tune

Words filled with sarcasm, fun to work with

Looking to see you another time, real soon