After years of writing for the ABJ, I remain unable to predict which pieces will elicit readers to reach out (except for columns about local politics, which trigger a barrage of responses). When I expect to spend my Sunday afternoon responding to emails, I receive only a handful. Other times, such as after my last column on the joys of a cold and snowy January, unanticipated messages fill my inbox. In that case, all in agreement on the splendor of a hearty winter in Summit County.
I was first surprised when, in 2017, I wrote about whether or not to replace the manual transmission on my 2003 Toyota Matrix 5-speed. The car had over 200k miles and was like Frankenstein’s monster — a hodgepodge of aftermarket and salvaged parts. The hubcaps frequently flew off and after a few years I stopped replacing them. A beloved jalopy, it was the childhood car of my eldest sons, then the one in which they had learned to drive and their high school ride.
The response to that column could not have been greater had the Matrix itself hired a PR firm to lobby for repairs. I enjoyed readers’ stories of cars kept well beyond what most people would consider practical and was strongly encouraged to do the same. I did and the Matrix provided reliable transportation for three more years.
To give my mind a reprieve from local, national and global events, this past year I have kept my nose in one novel after another. That said, good fiction is never all pleasantries, nor is it always entirely fictive. I’m currently enjoying “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” by Junot Díaz, a story of three generations of one family that doubles as a primer on the brutal 20th-century history of the Dominican Republic.
Last summer, I shared my novel recipe for reducing the consumption of stress-inducing news and readers exploded my inbox with book recommendations. Several underscored the praise for Barbara Kingsolver’s “Demon Copperhead,” which I had mentioned was on my list. A reader who lives nearby insisted I have her copy and I had the pleasure of visiting with her and her dog, Annie, at their home. “Demon Copperhead” is on deck (i.e., my bedside table), waiting for me to finish the Díaz novel.
In November, I wrote of my son Hugo’s love of Norman Rockwell’s art and how I enjoy finding Rockwell collectibles for him in thrift stores. Among the many responses to that column, a 90-year-old man named Joe wrote to share that he and his wife, Sue, also loved Rockwell’s art and had two exquisite books purchased at the Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. He wanted to give them to Hugo.
As luck would have it, only a couple of weeks after I heard from Joe, Hugo flew home to spend a long weekend with me. He and I brought holiday cookies from the Westside Bakery to Joe at his condo on a December afternoon. A beautiful Frazier fir, bedecked in a lifetime of collected ornaments, filled the window at the end of Joe’s sunny living room where he shared stories of his life with Sue, who recently died. The couple first dated when undergraduates at Cornell.
As so often happens in Akron, Hugo and I quickly learned that our host was not a truly a stranger. Until shortly before the pandemic, Joe and Sue had lived for decades on the same cul-de-sac in West Akron where a good friend of mine once lived and whom I frequently visited. My friend’s eldest son and Hugo were buddies from preschool through the first grade. Joe and Sue undoubtedly saw wee Hugo playing outside their home more than 20 years ago.
The three of us reminisced about the colorful neighbors on that cul-de-sac, including a retired Firestone High School English teacher who could talk to anyone. Thin as the side of a yard stick with skin deeply tanned 12 months of the year, I don’t believe I ever saw the woman without a lit cigarette in her hand. She died in her 90s.
Joe and Sue also happened to be active members of Westminster Presbyterian Church where my dear friend Jim Mismas was the music director and organist for over 20 years. A month after Hugo and I visited Joe, I returned to his condo with Jim and Jim’s husband, Bruce Stebner, for a lunch that my dear reader/new friend had prepared for the four of us.
It is a privilege to write a column in my local newspaper for many reasons. At the top of the list, however, is the pleasure of hearing from those of you who take the time to write to me.
This column was first published in the Akron Beacon Journal on Sunday, February 9, 2025.
Whoopsie Piggle 