This was the note that jarred, the one thing that would sometimes break the illusion and set the years moving. "The only thing that was wrong now, really, was the sound of the place, an unfamiliar nervous sound of the outboard motors. (John Updike, "My Father on the Verge of Disgrace" in Licks of Love: Short Stories and a Sequel, 2000) ![]() ![]() "In our kitchen, he would bolt his orange juice (squeezed on one of those ribbed glass sombreros and then poured off through a strainer) and grab a bite of toast (the toaster a simple tin box, a kind of little hut with slit and slanted sides, that rested over a gas burner and browned one side of the bread, in stripes, at a time), and then he would dash, so hurriedly that his necktie flew back over his shoulder, down through our yard, past the grapevines hung with buzzing Japanese-beetle traps, to the yellow brick building, with its tall smokestack and wide playing fields, where he taught."
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