In August, I arrived at the Cleveland Museum of Art carrying a slim book with a library binding - the original Handbook of the Cleveland Museum of Art, first published in 1925, which promised “a brief description of the museum, its collections, and its works.”
Every watering hole in Cleveland had their TVs on last night to see LeBron's first game back with the Cavs. Even Tremont’s highfalutin Spotted Owl Bar toted out a wall-dominating screen for easy viewing.
Behind the Sign is a documentary video series created by Cleveland SGS to highlight the unsung heroes of Cleveland’s small business community. Their achievements aren’t measured in dollars, but in pride and longevity.
The headwaters of Northeast Ohio’s three iconic rivers--Chagrin, Cuyahoga and Grand--spring out of Geauga County. This rural landscape 30 miles east of Cleveland also contains 1,000 acres of kettle bogs and fens.
Ken bursts through the front door of the Bel-Aire office wielding a can of wasp spray. The woman who ran in just before Ken is, to understate matters, distressed, and both are screaming at each other.
Not far from the ersatz splendor of downtown Cleveland with its god-sized chandelier and soulless schmaltz, a man is keeping the past alive.
NATO held its international meeting in Chicago a couple months before I decided to quit driving a cab in 2012. Mayor Emanuel turned the city into a militarized showplace for the visitors' benefit.
Piles. Piles of limestone, piles of gravel, piles of broken glass. Items haphazardly piled as if to signal that no one cares what happens here.
Bits of good news about Ohio's economy—as welcome as they may be—are dwarfed by a relentlessly bleak reality. The numbers are bad—and getting worse—and the suffering behind those numbers is more wretched.
Every city is a text. You can read the city. My favorite way to read Chicago is like a book of poetry. Not necessarily straight through but jumping around, page to page, focusing hard on one thing, then flipping past others ...
On a cold, clear Sunday in late March, I buttoned my wool coat. "This kind of thing terrifies me,” I turned to tell my spouse. “But I am doing it anyway." Then I went out my door and walked toward the houses of five neighboring families.
In early April of this year, I began reading John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley, an account of his 1960 road trip from Long Island across and up the country to the West coast, and down through the deep south and back home again.