THURBER AND THE HUMOR OF THE MUNDANE

Dedicated to my old friend and one-time Ohio Arts Council lit guy Bob Fox, who passed away this year.

The house on Jefferson Street in Columbus, Ohio, is a major character in James Thurber's writing. One night, a ghost got in. In the attic, a bed fell, causing pandemonium. The living room light fixtures leaked electricity. Muggs the dog bit people in all parts of the house and throughout the neighborhood.

I was a teenager when I first read Thurber's work. I plucked "The Thurber Carnival" off the bookshelf and plunged right in. Even though I was tempted to scoff at his disarmingly simple tales of Midwestern family life, there was something that grabbed me. I, too, lived in a chaotic household. One of my brothers ate bowls of pickle relish for breakfast. My father played Beethoven and Tchaikovsky on his hi-fi loudly late into the night. A year earlier, my mother had given birth to her ninth child, so there were 11 of us humans and an assortment of cats and dogs packed into the house. During one Christmas, my grandfather left his newly-made turkey sandwich in the kitchen while he went to the bathroom. When he returned, the sandwich had a bite out of it. "Turn your back for a second and the natives eat your food," he said. Grandpa Shay always called us natives, possibly because we seemed like an exotic tribe that he took time out from his well-ordered life to visit once a year.

At 16, I saw nothing funny about my family. Besides, it was the 1960s and the world was screwed up too, far beyond anything Thurber must have seen in his quaint little Columbus neighborhood.

Still, Thurber was funny. He found humor in random events and quirky family traits. And, although I didn't realize this until much later, he was extremely kind with his subjects. He wrote about family members in a way that reminded me of the sardonic view I had of my own parents and siblings. They were quirky, yet lovable. I fought with my brothers but they also were good to have in a fight against any uppity neighbor kids. I teased my sisters, yet I also liked to take the little ones with me to the beach because college girls in tiny bikinis thought they were "so cute!" (HISTORICAL NOTE: Bikinis were two-piece bathing costumes once worn by women. Strange as it may seem, even "itty-bitty" bikinis contained ten times the fabric that one now finds in one-piece bathing suits worn by teen girls such as your very own daughter.)

Thurber taught me the humor of the mundane event. He transformed everyday occurrences into classic humor pieces that stand up several generations later.

This is one of the important reasons for the Thurber House in Columbus, an independent literary center that serves a community that would be only slightly familiar to the noted humor writer. It's part of the Jefferson Historic District which has transformed a decaying inner-city neighborhood into rows of restored homes housing non-profit organizations and the Thurber House.

It's actually two houses, the restored Thurber home, where the family lived from 1913-17, and the newer learning annex next door. Between the two houses is a lush garden with benches and sculptures of Thurber's fanciful dogs. "The Unicorn in the Garden" lives in the park across the street, which also features an historic bandstand that hosts readings and concerts.

Thurber lived in this house during his years at Ohio State University, where he exasperated one of his science professors because he Thurber saw only his eyelashes in the microscope, no matter how hard he tried. He also worked on the school newspaper, The Lantern, and its humor magazine, The Sun-Dial. After graduation, he worked as a reporter for The Columbus Dispatch. In 1926, he was hired as an editor at The New Yorker where he shared an office with the well-known prose stylist E.B. White. Said Thurber: "The precision and clarity of White's writing helped me a lot, slowed me down from the dogtrot of newspaper tempo and made me realize a writer turns on his mind, not a faucet...."

He was a member of The New Yorker's stable of humor writers: Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker, S.J. Perelman, and Ring Lardner. What a line-up. You can't pick up an anthology of American humor without pieces by this crew. Perelman wrote the scripts for two Marx Brothers movies and Benchley also did time in Hollywood. "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" was a pretty good movie starring Danny Kaye based on the Thurber book.

Without these writers, you wouldn't have Fran Liebowitz, Dave Barry, Woody Allen, David Sedaris, or any of the writers spawned by the Harvard Lampoon/National Lampoon nexus, such as P.J. O'Rourke, Bruce McCall, and Michael O'Donahue.

I toured the Thurber House on May 10. It's not a shrine, but a living, breathing focus for writers and writing. In the living room, where Thurber's grandmother was convinced that the fixtures were leaking electricity, organization's staffers were interviewing teachers for the summer writing camp. It offers an array of classes, including "Pens & Palettes" for high school kids interested in both writing and the visual arts. This mirrors Thurber's dual talents. He illustrated his own books and drew more than 600 covers for The New Yorker.

The old dining room is now home to the Thurber Country Bookstore for Midwestern Writers and Presses. Humor books are featured prominently, as are books from some of the excellent presses in Ohio and surrounding states, such as Bottom Dog and Cleveland State University, and great literary mags: Field, Antioch Review, Kenyon Review, and Artful Dodge.

I was tempted to spend my summer vacation money on books. Instead, I bought a few trinkets that celebrate the place: a tote bag, T-shirt, a few small books. The money goes right back into Thurber House programs, which feels good to do since it is a non-profit that does good work. It has an outreach program into area schools and sponsors writers-in-residence at the house, who also teach a course at OSU.

This summer's "literary picnics" features presentations by Steve Kuusisto, whose book "Planet of the Blind" was a NY Times Notable Book of the Year; a family picnic with "How Come?" columnist Kathy Wollard; and a celebration of the Thurber House's humor writing contest winners. The brochure for the picnics is a work of art, and funny too, promoting the events as a summer "staple" for 17 years and featuring a gallery of staplers just looking for a good time: "Designette full strip stapler seeks mature non-smoking 81/2 X 11." Must be a constant challenge to not only be intriguing but also humorous. The brochure also serves as a menu and makes me want to get back to Columbus for the events and the food, especially the coffee brownies with Kahlua frosting. And by the way: Garrison Keillor, a former writer-in-residence, is returning Sept. 6 to Columbus, a place he calls "the humor capital of America," to kick off the publication of his new book, "1956 Lake Wobegon Summer." The Thurber House offers a free ticket to the Keillor event if you buy a subscription to the Literary Picnic Series.

Which brings us to the genius of the Thurber House: promotion. The place sponsors first-class events and it promotes them vigorously through print and on the web at Thurber House. Retiring executive director Donn Vickers, a businessman and historic preservationist, has been aggressive in seeking out sponsors for the Thurber House. That includes the Ohio Arts Council, the Ohio Library Council, and the National Endowment for the Arts, but also foundations, corporations, and individuals. Business sponsors include American Electric Power and Nationwide Insurance (who I am proud to call the insurer of my vehicles). Every two years, the organization publishes the anthology "Mirth of a Nation" with HarperCollins Publishers and also hosts an annual fund-raiser in NYC.

My last stop at the Thurber House was the garden. Thurber's stone dogs and bees the size of hawks kept me company. I sat on a bench and wrote in my journal. Nothing exciting or noteworthy, but I was writing and that was something good. Very Thurberesque, this tracking of everyday events. One day this reverie in the garden might turn up in one of my own humor pieces.

--Michael Shay, May 2001