In anticipation of getting Casa de Casselberry ready to put on the market, we've begun the process of clearing out what's not being kept and packing up whatever's making the trip to wherever the next stop is.
Today, I was going through my father's office, beginning with his bookshelf. And I never realized he had so many books about writing. These are just a handful (apologies for the photo quality; the lighting in the room wasn't very good):
Dad always was a stickler for good English. I knew that. One of the last gifts I ever bought for him was Eats, Shoots & Leaves. And he ticked me off a couple of times when he'd read a story or essay of mine and point out grammatical mistakes, rather than give me feedback on character or structure.
But I still had no idea he felt so strongly (or perhaps was so insecure) about writing well to almost fill up an entire bookshelf in his office. This will be added to the list of conversations I wish we'd had before he died. (I can only imagine what he would've thought of the work I've managed to publish since then.)