The Fallible Detective

We are in an age of superlatives, fond of the latest and greatest, enamored of super heroes and extraordinary feats. Detective fiction is not immune to these desires, which is perhaps why Holmes, Poirot, and Miss Marple, the three infallible, never to be corrected sleuths, are still crowding the shelves and showing up on screens big and small.

I'm personally very fond of them, but lately I have come to a renewed appreciation of the fallible detective. Not the comic type like Inspector Clouseau, but the competent, hardworking investigator who makes the occasional mistake and who owns up to error, like St. John Strafford.

Strafford, John Banville's detective, is a bit of an odd duck, being a Protestant police officer in very Catholic 1950's Dublin. A member of the Protestant Ascendancy, a fancy term for the descendants of the English colonization project that began in the 12th century, Strafford is a privileged and well educated member of the elite country house set. He is intelligent, quiet, a bit socially awkward, and almost terminally reserved.

Both saddened and relieved by the end of his marriage, Strafford admits he doesn't understand women, an insight that fails to keep him from unwise entanglements. Just the same, Under his cool courtesy, he has considerable sympathy as well as a strong desire to do the ethical thing. This is just as well because unlike some fictional detectives he is not infallible.

John Banville

Strafford's qualities are on display in The Drowned, the newest of Banville's Strafford and Quirke series, the latter being a pathologist who conducts post mortems for the Dublin police. Quirke and Strafford are on uneasy terms, being unlike in nearly everything but a concern for careful work and crime solving. The fact that Stafford is currently seeing Quirke's daughter Phoebe has not helped their relations, either.

The two of them were last seen in The Lock-Up, and one of the interesting things Banville does in the current novel is to shed not only light but doubt on the earlier case. It is an interesting strategy for a novelist and one that raises questions for his detectives.

The 1950's really were a different century as far as forensics goes. Cell phones with their useful location functions, advanced DNA testing, and CCTV footage are tools way beyond what even the best funded copper had in the '50's. Detectives in period novels like The Drowned must rely on interviews, observation, and knowledge of human nature.

This perhaps is what makes a good detective like Strafford a little more cautious, a little more careful, a little less certain that he's on the right track. Or perhaps a certain humility is just part of his character. Another cop on the case has no doubts whatsoever and backs his hunches up with a frequent resource to the third degree.

Indeed, at the end of The Drowned, it appears that the higher powers are about to make a serious mistake, one Strafford sees all too clearly. Is Banville setting up for another novel with yet another course correction? It would certainly be a different strategy and one that his intelligent, humane, and self-doubting detective would be ideal to handle.

The Spurious Scurrilous Scurril.

domesticated flying squirrel

Monday, our Chris Knopf persuasively wrote The Irresistible Sciurus carolinensis, i.e, the grey squirrel. I'm here today with a rebuttal. Much like Miss Bubbles LaFerne, squirrels are cute cuddly…

Homewreckers!

Yep. Wild squirrels let me pet them and I’ve had flying squirrels as pets– they’re small, like gerbils. I’ve met black squirrels, white squirrels, and red squirrels.

But at the moment, I’m leaning toward the rats-with-furry-tails philosophy. The Florida floods following Hurricane Ian persuaded rodents of all sorts to seek higher ground. In my area, the August Council of Rodent Emigration (ACRE) decided that meant Leigh’s attic.

Soffits, we laugh at you! Sciurus carolinensis moved in and never left. Invasive greys are known for driving red squirrels out of their traditional habitats. I know that feeling. They are…

black squirrel

Hometakers!

They refused rat bait (not intended for squirrels) and they discovered Valentine’s cockatoo food suited them quite nicely: sunflowers and salads and fancy nuts, thank you very much. During the recent cold snap– okay, what passes for a cold snap in Florida– the squirrel delegation decided they need not go out when fresh food is delivered downstairs.

Quite the overstayed guests, they are rude little…

Homemakers! (aka Make Themselves at Home)

New drywall– the gypsum board to replace that damaged in Hurricane Ian’s wake– represents a small barrier. The furballs gnaw windows above the fireplace to see what’s going on. The scene resembles one of those old gothic movies where spirits lean out of picture frames. That’s our squirrels, resting their elbows on their most recent window-to-the-world, wondering why Miss M is hurling pots and pans and curses at them. But once upon a time…

white squirrel

Home Fries!

Before Florida, I lived in a state forest in Minnesota. Lots of wildlife, lots of squirrels. Not by coincidence, the electrical power would sometimes go boom with an explosion like a shotgun blast.

The house had its own transformer high on a utility pole. You may have noticed squirrels like to climb, and the pole was no exception. From time to time, Squeaky or Squiffy or Squirmy's curiosity would come to the fore. One or another would climb on the transformer, shorting it out and blowing the fuse with a bang heard ’round the forest. Lois at the electric company would exclaim, “Glory be. Sounds like Leigh’s transformer blew again. Earl, you up for the trip?”

As a result of tripping the fuse link, Squiffy or Squirmy or Squeaky would be blown away, figuratively and literally. Funeral arrangements occurred the next day. Furry families requested sunflower seeds in lieu of sunflowers.

red squirrel

Home Savers!

After transformer blasts occurred a few times, I told the company’s lineman these untenable squirrel blasts were expensive for the electric company, the squirrel population, and me in the middle of critical lines of code on my computer.

“Oh,” Earl said. “Why don’t you request a squirrel sleeve?”

“Why has no one mentioned this?” I said. “What’s a squirrel sleeve?”

The device, as you might surmise, was a 20-inch / 50cm length of galvanized sheet metal wrapped high around the utility pole. Squirrels might ascend to the sleeve, but not climb past its slippery surface. No more Spiffys or Squiffys or Rocky Js would die on my watch.

My thoughtfulness won numerous Squirrelman of the Year awards, whereupon rodents everywhere figured I’d welcome them to my house and hearth.

grey squirrel

Homebody!

I concede a major point to Chris: If I could reincarnate as any karmic wheel-of-life creature, a squirrel would make a good candidate. Sure, they work hard, but the little acrobats play hard too, scampering and teasing, friends-with-benefits flirting and playing you-can’t catch-me tag.

They are smart and wily. Defeated homeowners have posted videos of incredible obstacle courses originally intended to keep the little buggers out of bird feeders.

Score:    Squirrels 137,528    Humans 0

Moreover, naturalists tell us squirrels are the only mammal that can survive a drop from any height. When they spread their limbs, loose skin of the abdomen flattens just enough to resemble a wing suit, letting them parachute safely to a landing. Better than a flat cat! How cool is that!

Rocky J Squirrel
© Geico, Jay Ward Prod. et al

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But chewing the wiring in someone’s old house?

Nuts to that.

So…

Any chance your karmic lineage includes a squirrel?

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wingsuit human flying squirrel © Squirrel.ws

Writing, Reading, and Readings

 

Wondering what that title means? Well, the first two words are things I like to do. The third, I'm not so sure about. 

I feel guilty saying it (so I usually don't), but I don't much like readings. That's not always true, of course--I've been to many readings I enjoyed. Much of it depends on the author and the book, or the subject of the book. What often happens, though, especially at book launches, is that I gladly stand in line to buy the author's book and then I sit and listen to him or her read to the group from the book I just bought, the very one I plan to read for myself when I get home. To me, that's like buying a movie ticket, settling into your theater seat, and then seeing a lengthy excerpt from what you're about to watch.

I had much rather have the author use that time to talk about the book she's written, or how it was written, or what inspired it, or some of her views on her past writing or her writing experiences in general. Sometimes that happens also, but not always. What I probably enjoy the most is the question/answer session, if there is one. I don't usually ask questions myself, but I always seem to learn something from what others ask, and the responses by the author. 

Before you start thinking I'm a complete Grinch, I should say that I'm more likely to enjoy group readings, where several writers--some familiar, some not--read a short bit from their own stories or novels. In that case, I'm not usually sitting there listening to words that I myself plan to read later--unless I'm so impressed that I then rush out and purchase something by that author. One thing I especially like about group sessions is the fact that those readings are short. In my opinion, the one supreme rule about author readings is that they should be short.  

For me, that goes both ways. I also don't usually enjoy reading aloud from my own writing. I realize it's often required and expected, and I've certainly done it when asked to, and I'm always grateful to have been asked to--but truthfully, I'm not overly fond of the sound of my voice. I find it hard, at times, to read aloud with the feeling and expression that seem to come so easily to some folks. Another thing is, I think the fiction that I write, since it was written with the intention of being seen on the page, is harder to convey when it's heard, in spoken words. Especially the dialog. Unless, of course, it's delivered by someone talented enough to do it well. Some of my stories that have been read for podcasts and other such presentations by professional readers or actors have sounded good, at least to me.

In what I suppose is a contradiction, I do like talking to groups of any size about writing, whether it's my own or the writing of others. I guess it's fortunate that I enjoy it, because I taught night classes in the writing and marketing of short stories for seventeen years at a local college. The fact is, I've always been fascinated by the writing process, especially fiction writing. And other writers seem to be interested in that as well.

Having said all of the above, I did do a reading this past Wednesday, at a library several hours away. They showed me a kind and warm welcome and I had a great time--but it wasn't only a reading. It was more of a presentation about mystery writing and my short-story writing, with a question-and-answer session and a booksigning afterward. I did at one point read some things from my latest book because they asked me to, but that wasn't the way the event was promoted, and thankfully no one made faces or blew raspberries or threw tomatoes during that part. Probably because I made sure to keep it brief.

What are your thoughts on author readings? Do you enjoy hearing writers read aloud from their own work--I know a great many people do--or would you rather they just talked about other things? Have you ever sat there thinking Okay, time to finish this up? Do you like to read aloud to a group from your own stories or novels or poetry? Do you initiate that, or is it something you do mostly because you're expected to? Some of my writer friends are also accomplished actors, and I suspect they enjoy doing readings, and do a fine job of it. What are some of your rules and preferences on the subject? Do you always try to leave enough time for Q&A? Please let me know in the comments. And don't worry, I expect a lot of disagreement on this.

I also have a self-imposed rule about my SleuthSayers posts, and since I'm approaching that upper-wordcount limit, I'll obey that rule now.

Over and out.

The Addictive Power of Anglo-Saxon

 Lately, I've been trying to rework my YouTube algorithm. Since the election, the platform has assumed I want to watch every video it can find or my primary channel should be the Meidas Network. (In reality, it's science fiction fan fest What Culture, but Star Trek is between shows at the moment.) So imagine my surprise when, quite randomly, YouTube tosses up BBC Reporter Rob Watts and his RobWords channel.

Well, to the six of you who read my turns at this space, you already know I'm fascinated by how words have evolved. And I haven't forgiven Chaucer and his ilk for that damnable "-ough" construction that has as many pronunciations as the F bomb has meanings. (And is a lot less fun, but probably even more offensive.)

Well, Rob explains all that. And how English is a funny language. Sometimes, he takes a hard left into German or Old Norse because, as we all know, English isn't so much a language as a gang of languages waiting in a back alley to mug some unsuspecting language for more words. Like Japanese. Or Hindi. Or even Klingon. (Yes, you can use Qa'pla in everyday speech, and at least half the people who hear you will know what you mean.) But Rob does more than that. 

He explains how we know what dead languages sounded like. Although Latin has proven questionable because everyone who wrote it assumed everyone else knew how to speak it. In other words, a language like proto-Indoeuropean, the root language of almost every other language in Europe, northern Africa, the Middle East, and southern and central Asia, is easier to extrapolate than Latin pronunciations. Most of what we know comes from speakers of branch languages or of Germanic languages. French, for instance, is a descendent of Latin, but it doesn't really look or sound like it. And then the Normans, basically French Vikings, put their own stamp on it when they brought it to England in 1066. And, of course, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian are no help. They have modified structures from Latin, but the pronunciations just between Spanish dialects are all over the map.

 

There are some really weird things about English: The "th" sound, and how it has two sounds: "That" and "Thing," for example, one voiced, one not. And we don't have letters for some of those sounds. There's that pesky Latin again, imposing its alphabet on a language it's not designed for.

Of course, of all the English variants, the original Anglo-Saxon is pretty much another language. These days, German has spawned Dutch and Afrikaans, which sound like modern English, but not a thing like Anglo-Saxon. (And again, why is it less difficult to figure out what Old English sounded like than Latin?) But for the first 300 years of its existence, speakers and writers used runes to write things down instead of the Roman alphabet. Is it any wonder heavy metal is a decidedly English brand of rock and roll? 

Rob also looks at the origins of some odd words. Why are the military ranks the way they are? What happened to the letters we used to use for certain sounds? What the hell is that "-ough" about, anyway. (Blame vowel drift. It actually had only one or two ways of speaking it before people started talking funny. Like Shakespeare did. Or Stephen King.)

Another thing I discovered was our definite articles. English only has two: "The" and "a/an." The first thing Watts points out is how English has an "a/an" article. While I can think of a handful of Romance languages that have similar constructions, it's actually not that common. And its spelling is determined not by gender but by whether it's followed by a consonant or a vowel. Then there's "the." In other languages, everything has a gender, two or three. Some languages have neutral nouns in addition to male and female ones. And then "the" does not respect singular or plural. It's the car or the cats. Only its pronunciation is affected by the following vowel or consonant. If you don't believe me, ask anyone from Ohio about THE Ohio State University. Then listen to the nearest Michigander grumble under their breath. 

Very few words in English are gendered. Mainly, we call ships "she," and that quaint nautical tradition does not seem to be waning. But English used to have three definite articles for male, female, and neutral nouns. It was nowhere as confusing as German (and even the Germans complain about it), but all three still did not respect singular vs. plural. Then the Vikings gave up their pillaging ways, settled down in what became known as the Danelaw, and, through intermarriage, convinced the native Angles and Saxons to just go with "the." 

Watts's channel goes through the origins of words. Why do we raise cattle but eat beef? Is the word "billion" a recent invention? Just how many make up a "myriad." And how did "skirt" and "shirt" come from the same word? (Hint: So did "shorts," and for the same reason.) Watts compares how English renders some words to how other languages do it. If possible, he will trace it back to Proto-Indo-European, which, while mostly theoretical, often reveals how two seemingly different words in different languages come from the same root. 

REPOST: Who Talks Like This? (Reader Participation Edition)

(Reposting this one from January of three years ago, as it has been one of my most-responded to pieces, and also one of my favorites, because of the reader responses. I will post the original at the end of this repost so that you can go read the originals. They're terrific! Happy New Year! -Brian)

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Happy New Year! 

Just this week I ran across this in The New Yorker: "Movie Dialogue That Nobody Has Ever Actually Said in Real Life," by Jason Adam Katzenstein, and it reminded me of any number of conversations I've had both with fellow writers and with fans over the years, marveling at the disconnect between real life and the artistic treatments of real life situations intended to closely resemble them.

It's a quick read, really a series of single panel cartoons handily illustrating the author's point (example: two women running together, with one of them saying to the other: "As your best friend for the last twenty-five years..." and another, one man saying to another-who is facing away from him: "You know what your problem is?").

So, of course, I began thinking about seeing this sort of thing in the fiction I've read. Everyone who has read even ten novels has likely run across this sort of thing. And I'm interested in hearing examples from our readers here at the Sleuthsayers blog. I'll start, but would really like to see some lively responses in the comments.

Here we go!

My example: the use (or overuse) of names

You've seen it. We all have. Dialogue that goes something like this:

"Well?"

"Well, what, Bill?"

"You know what, Carmen."

"No I don't."

"Come on, Carmen. Out with it!"

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So, who talks like this?

Nobody.

There are great authors out there, masters of dialogue (Michael Connelly, Denise Mina, Megan Abbott, Elmore Leonard, Phillip Kerr, Sue Grafton, Walter Mosley, Peter Temple, and a host of others!) whose work is a collective master class in writing dialogue that's so realistic it leaps off the page. And this is the sort of mistake that authors of this caliber never seem to make.

I think every writer goes through a phase, hopefully early in their career, where they commit this sort of blunder. I know I could dust off my first, never-to-be-published "mistake" novel, and find no end of examples of this sort of writing.

But hey, this is all intended be both light-hearted and instructive. So what examples can you  bring to the conversation? Looking forward to seeing them in the comments!

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(And here, as promised, is the original post with its terrific reader responses! See you in two weeks! -B.)

Inner Spark, Outer Spark

 

I have two new stories in anthologies and they make a nice contrast in answering the age-old question: Where do you get your ideas?

For instance, I was biking one day and saw a phone lying in the street.  It was still functional but it was locked and there was no way to contact the owner.  I put up a message on NextDoor and got no response.

Eventually I brought it to the local shop of the service that ran the phone.  I don't know whether they cracked the code and contacted the author or cannibalized it for parts, or just chucked it in the trash, but I had done all I could do.

Except.

A Nurse Log (National Park Service) 

I could write a story about it.  "The Nurse Log" appears in Agatha and Derringer Get Cozy: Thirteen Tales of Murder, Mystery, and Master Detection, edited by Gay Toltl Kinman, and Andrew McAleer.

It's about a somewhat eccentric biker who finds a phone on a road and tries to contact the owner.  Turns out the device is connected to a crime and he winds up stuck in the middle.

I would call this story the result of an inner spark.  I was reacting to something that I experienced.

Sometime after I wrote that story I received a call from Colin Conway.  He writes police novels set in Spokane and has edited three anthologies, with each story and set in Spokane.

He asked if I would like to write a story for his fourth anthology.  Each tale would involve someone finding a gun (always the same gun), using it in a crime, and then leaving it somewhere where someone else could find it.

Spokane Convention Center

 I thought that was intriguing and wrote back that I would try if he would agree to two points. 1) I had only been to Spokane once and that was for the World Science Fiction Conference, so I would focus my story on the Spokane Conference Center. 2) I wanted to avoid the obvious gun-related crimes (shooting or threatening to shoot someone).  

Colin approved my plan.  The result was ""The Book Deal," a story about a publishing conference and two editors dueling over a new book my a hot influencer.  it is now available in Lost and Loaded: A Gun's Tale. 

So that is an example of an external inspiration: Someone other than me suggested the topic for the story.  

I prefer the internal ones, since they tend to be close to my heart.  But it can be fun to work from another writer's suggestion.  And hey, it's nice to be wanted. 

Afternote: I have since found two more cell phones.  In neither case could I get them back to the owner.

My Favorite Read of 2024

I have become an audiobook devotee. When I first started listening to books about fifteen years ago, I did it only when driving. Listening and driving seemed to require different parts of my brain, enabling me to pay attention to the road and a book at the same time– similar to listening to the radio. I didn't have the same experience at home. If I tried to listen to a book at home, I found myself itching to do something with my hands or eyes and became distracted from the book.

But in the last few years, I realized that there were things I could do at home that allowed me to stay busy and yet focus on an audiobook. I can do laundry and listen. Empty the dishwasher and listen. Make meals and listen. Eat meals and listen. I can brush my teeth, wash my face, change my clothes, and even lie in bed awaiting sleep and listen.

Sure, in the morning I may have to rewind a little to find the last spot I recall, but that is easy to do. And at the end of the workday, when my eyes are tired from reading books and short stories on my computer for clients, I can turn on an audiobook and do online jigsaw puzzles or game at the same time. The brain is a miraculous thing.

It is thanks to audiobooks that I was able to read (can you use the word read for listening to an audiobook? I feel like the answer is yes but it also is not quite right)158 books, as well as three novellas and two novelettes, for pleasure in 2024. What about short stories, you may be wondering. I read those on paper or Kindle. I find I am kinder to authors I listen to, am more willing to shrug off some problems that might have me reaching for my red pen with a paper copy. Since I buy reprint rights to short stories for Black Cat Weekly, I want to ensure I am always vigilant with shorts.

That said, I'm no pushover with novels, novellas, and novelettes. I keep notes on the ones I really enjoyed, what I liked, what concerns I had, and I rank them. It makes things easier come award season to figure out what to list on my nomination ballots. And should a book I enjoyed be named a finalist, I already have notes about that book to help me make up my mind before I vote.

That's not to say I won't reread a book or story that is named a finalist. Indeed, either last year or the year before that I narrowed my Anthony Award choice in one category to one book I had read a few months before and one I finished shortly before voting time, so I read the first book again to better compare the two. Anyway, this is all building up to my saying that I read– okay, listened to– a whole lot of books in 2024, and one easily topped my list. It is… drum roll, please…

“Blood Moon,” a novelette by Linda Castillo. It came out in 2022 from Minotaur Books. The print length is sixty-four pages. Audible says if you listen to it at regular speed, it should take about ninety minutes.

Castillo writes a series about Kate Burkholder, a formerly Amish sheriff in the village of Painters Mill, nestled in a rural Ohio county. When the series began with Sworn to Silence in 2009, Castillo had a book come out each year. A few years later, Minotaur started publishing a novelette by Castillo midway through each year for fans like me who needed their Castillo fix. The novelettes often are a bit lighter and more humorous than the novels. The crime might not even be murder. “Blood Moon” is a perfect example.

In this tale, there is a monster afoot in Painters Mill. Several people have an encounter with it. From their stories, you can imagine different urban legends, and Sheriff Burkholder and her significant other, John Tomasetti, an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Investigation, are on the case.

“Blood Moon” has great suspense, fantastic dialogue, and a solid ending. This novelette is set quite a ways into the series, and I think you would enjoy it even more if you read all the books and novelettes that came before it. There is character development throughout the series that would make the interactions in “Blood Moon” more meaningful to you if you followed the characters from the start. But you certainly could read “Blood Moon” as a standalone should you choose to.

Linda Castillo

You may be wondering why I read a 2022 novelette in 2024 if I love this series. I read so many series that I sometimes fall behind, and that has happened here. But don't worry. I will catch up. I have much to look forward to, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. Books in this series have landed on the New York Times bestseller list, and just last year, Castillo's novel An Evil Heart won the Sue Grafton Memorial Award and her novelette “Hallowed Ground” won the Edgar Award for Best Short Story. If you like reading police procedurals, you won't go wrong by picking up anything in this series.

Want to learn more? Castillo has written interviews with Burkholder and Tomasetti. You can find them here and here.

Before I go, a little BSP. If you would like to read my short story “A Matter of Trust,” which his eligible for the Agatha Award, among others, you can find it on my newly revamped website. Just click here.

Happy reading!

The irresistible Sciurus carolinensis

            One of my writing spaces looks into the woods that stand directly behind our house. It’s full of oak, cherry and birch trees, and teeming hordes of chipmunks and squirrels.

            Also the occasional coyote, bear, deer or bobcat, but they’re infrequent visitors. The dominant species in charge of the woodland are squirrels. Since this year we’ve had the biggest crop of acorns in Connecticut history, there are a lot of those guys out there, and conditions promise to produce even more. It’s rodent heaven.

            Squirrels are the least appreciated of our Northeastern wildlife.

            They‘re often called “The Common Grey Squirrel.” Only common because they’re so successful, more than any other mammal in the neighborhood aside from the homo sapiens looking at them through the window. I also think their behavior is anything but commonplace. I know this because when I’m not working on my computer, I’m watching the squirrels.

            Their industry is phenomenal.

            They leap through the leaves and root around the forest floor with unabated enthusiasm. Their forepaws may not be hands, technically, but they hold things like I do, and munch on acorns the way kids attack an apple. However, I can’t use my hands to climb a tree, balance on a narrow branch, or catch myself after diving several yards from one tenuous hold to another with no fear or hesitation.

            Squirrels are all about work hard, play hard. Much of the entertainment comes from two, or three, chasing each other through the leaves, up a tree, then over to another, around a thick branch, back to the ground and over a split-rail fence into our yard for some open field running. There doesn’t seem to be any practical reason for this, leaving the inescapable conclusion that it’s just pure joy.

            For over twenty years we’ve had a steady supply of terriers, who are the squirrels’ sworn enemies.

            When we let them out, a mighty chase ensues. No squirrels have ever been caught, since they are very fast with plenty of trees at hand to facilitate escape. Our terriers are never discouraged by this, and never hold back, despite the lack of success. In this, they and the squirrels share the unrelenting tenacity of nature.

            We have a birdfeeder guaranteed to thwart squirrels, and it hasn’t failed us yet. That doesn’t mean the squirrels ever stop trying. The feeder is right outside a kitchen window, and after a heroic, gymnastic attempt to get at the bird seed, the squirrel will retreat to a nearby branch and look back through the window reproachfully, though with fierce determination.

“Never give up, never surrender.”

            There are many things that can distract one from writing, some of which are beneficial.

            I think high on the list are making a sandwich, letting out the dogs, putting wet clothes in the dryer, getting another cup of coffee or going to pee (the last two components of the same general process). If you’re looking for something that doesn’t entail getting out of your chair, I suggest monitoring squirrels.

            It doesn’t really undermine concentration and can even provide a bit of inspiration. No fictional character is pluckier than a squirrel. Conservative in his acorn husbandry; liberal in his tolerance of competing chipmunks. Courageous to a fault, innovative in pursuit of life’s rewards, yet always ready to just goof around. Living freely with unchecked abandon. What’s a better model?

            The way my writing space is arranged, there’s a little less than three feet between where I gaze outside and the split-rail fence.

            This means that a squirrel can perch on top of a fence post and look right at me. This happens frequently. When we stare into each other’s eyes, I wonder if he’s thinking, “What the hell are you doing in there? Why aren’t you out here collecting acorns? Don’t you know winter is coming?”

            Or it might be, “Can you please do something about those terriers?”

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2025: The Year of The Bizarre Legal Questions

 

With 2025 in it's infancy, it can already be dubbed The Year of The Bizarre Legal Questions. One of the weirdest of the lot, and one none of us have ever heard before is: if Canada is attacked by the United States, what protections does Canada have? 

This is a rather breathtaking question, given the longstanding friendship between our two countries, but here we are. How we got here and where we go from here are the crucial questions. 

The GOP began threatening Canada around the convoy protests, when in February, 2022, Republican congresswoman, Lauren Boebert, claimed that the United States has, "neighbors to the north who need freedom and who need to be liberated.”

Then entered Tucker Carlson, with comments and a film, proclaiming, "the US should invade our neighbors in the north."

Many Canadians thought this was an extremely odd way to object to how Canada handled a domestic issue, but most of us shrugged and continued on with our lives. Then, in November, 2024 when Canada's Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, met with the incoming U.S. president-elect, Trump talked about the potential annexation of Canada to make Canada the 51st state.

Since then, this conversation has become one where the issues are a moving target. 

After threatening 25% tariffs on all Canadian imports if Canada didn't improve border security, Trump responded to Canada's proposed border investment of $1.2-billion with a new spin that the United States pays to protect Canada. Since Canada has never required protection from attacks, this must mean NATO investments, but Canada's ramping up their investments in NATO also doesn't seem to satisfy Trump. He responded by saying, "Canada and the United States, that would really be something," Trump said. "You get rid of that artificially drawn line, and you take a look at what that looks like, and it would also be much better for national security." 

After meandering around this issue, trying out many narratives, Trump seems to have settled into the idea that he will use, ''economic force to acquire Canada." 

Others in the GOP are lining up on this with Rep. Brandon Gill, a Republican from Texas saying, "I think that the people of Canada, for that matter, should be honored that President Trump wants to bring these territories under the American fold." 

The moving of goal posts is breathtaking, but worse is the misuse of language. 

"In his essay “Politics and the English Language” (1946) Orwell observed that “political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.” In other words, certain political language (propaganda) uses words and phrases to hide ugly truths. He foresaw how politicians would misstate and mislead in order to stay in power, using words to distort more than to inform, not to convey meaning but to undermine it." 

The deliberate misuse of of language is hiding a potential march to war.  

Clearly, Canada is an independent and sovereign country and is not a 'state' or 'territory' but by refusing to call Canada a country, Trump et al suggests that 'annexation' of Canada is easy. 

But we all know that any attempt to 'annex' another country is a declaration of war and we only need to look at Russia's attempt to 'annex' the Ukraine to know the dire consequences of such actions. 

So, as we meander along the path of Trump and his sycophants, it's understandable why Canadians - who are generally a calm people -  are asking about international laws. 

I really hope that someone with true expertise answers the questions that are arising from all this. Certainly, Canada has many multilateral defence agreements, but the most significant and most talked about these days is NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization). Canada was one of twelve founding members of NATO in 1949, and now there are 32 members. Of these, three of NATO's members have nuclear weapons: France, the United Kingdom, and the United States. 

Since the United States and Canada are both founding members of NATO, perhaps this article analyzing this question in the context of the 2020 tensions between NATO allies Turkey and Greece, helps clarify the issue: 

"what if this altercation between two NATO allies did escalate, leading to the beginning of a new armed war? Considering there are no such precedents, what would this mean for the fighting allies and in what way will NATO interfere?

"The goal of collective defence is codified in Article 5 NAT. It states that an attack against one member of NATO should be considered an attack against all. In this case, all other NATO allies will assist the said attacked member...it is important to note that this article does not make a distinction between NATO members and external attacking parties. This could imply that the article could even be triggered when the attacking party is a NATO ally. Since an event like this never occurred, there are no precedents to look into.

"Another Treaty article that could give us more insights into the consequences of such conflict between allies, is Article 8 NAT. The specific article states that ‘Each Party undertakes not to enter into any international engagement in conflict with this Treaty’. Knowing that the main purpose of the Treaty is peacekeeping and preventing attacks against NATO members, this could imply that fighting allied nations means disobeying the article and therefore breaching the Treaty." 

The last point is crucial. The main purpose of NATO is to prevent attacks against members. So, will NATO act as a form of deterrence? Will the United States, if it attacks Canada, be expelled from NATO? Given that the United States is a major contributor to NATO, this will give everyone pause. However, the United States attacking a peaceful country like Canada, with a stellar reputation around the world, will worry all NATO nations that their country could be next on the list and joining Canada in this fight would be a form of self-defence much like the Ukraine is seen as the frontline of Russia's aggression and, if it falls, other countries will be that frontline. 

Underlying all this Orwellian language is the key deception by Trump et al: that mild and meek Canada can easily be invaded by the mighty United States. I leave it to experts to analyze the real numbers in terms of military might of the United States verses the military might of the other thirty one NATO nations combined, as well as other nations Canada has military and cooperative agreements with, such as Canada's defence relations in the Asia Pacific . However, if I can be forgiven for spitballing in lieu of expertise, the United States has touted its large military contribution to NATO of 1.3 million troops. Let's put this in context. Canada contributed  1.159M  troops to World War II, when Canada's population was a mere 12M. Today, Canada has a population of 40M. And we are just one country in NATO.  Also, despite Trump's claims that the United States contributes two-thirds of the NATO overall budget, that number is actually only 15.8% of the total NATO budget as of 2024. Add to this the other two NATO nations besides the United States that have nuclear arms and we have the makings of a real mess. This is why an actual expert is needed to gauge the military might of the United States verses all other NATO countries because if NATO is to function as a deterrent to war - and it should - the might of NATO should be stated as a counterweight to the spin emanating from Trump et al. 

After walking down this road, one can't help wondering how the road ahead will look. First, it could go like all the other trade and tariff wars Canada and the United States have had over the years and end up at a negotiating table with a deal hammered out. We will then have proof - lacking at this time - that all this talk of war was just a negotiating strategy, however, the moving goal posts of how to resolve this makes this narrative a tad questionable. Second, Trump et al could be forced to back down by Americans - citizens and members of the government - calling out the Orwellian language and demanding a stop to calls for war. These first two options are the preferred choice for all those who want peace and a continuation of the long, fruitful friendship between our two nations, so we can go back to walking our dogs, sipping lattes and pondering real problems such as what to make for dinner.* Third, it could end up as a war where the United States attempts to take Canada by force with NATO and other allies of each country being involved. As Canadian citizens from coast to coast and Canadian governments at all levels have clearly stated:  Canada, an independent country, will not become a part of the United States without a fight. Avoiding that war is a crucial issue for 2025. 

*Update: while I was writing this article, my husband made dinner so, that problem is solved. 

The Holmes-Inspired Bank Heist, on Baker Street

January is a time for new inspiration, and for many of us, inspiration came from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Many of us read his Sherlock Holmes stories and decided to keep reading mysteries. Some of us tried writing a mystery ourselves. Or maybe, as really happened, someone digs a forty-foot tunnel into a bank vault. 

And the plan worked.

Mostly. 

The Holmes outing that inspired the crime is, of course, "The Red-Headed League," up there with my favorites. The story has nothing ingenious about it, by such standards, except the Holmes stories usually hide their humor more. This one nails a mystery that--in my opinion--only works as comedy. 

The plot: A pawnshop owner, at the great insistence of his clerk, scores a paying gig with a benefactor society dedicated to the advancement of red-headed men. All the bloke has to do is hang around League HQ all day. He turns to Holmes when the League abruptly closes shop. Holmes deduces a distraction. The clerk is in fact an aristocrat criminal genius who set up a front and uses his alone time to dig into the bank vault next door. Holmes is waiting when the aristocrat genius surfaces inside the bank.

In 1971, a British criminal gang tried the plot in real life. They targeted Lloyds Bank, no less, the renowned securer of London society lockboxes. 

The bank sits at 185 Baker Street.

Now, everyone knew London's wealthy kept serious loot in Lloyds basement vault. No heist team had tried the job for a simple reason: The idea was pure insanity. Lloyds was a high-tech fortress, with trembler alarms and feet of reinforced concrete protecting the vault. Getting in and out couldn't be done.

Enter Anthony Gavin, the real-life genius if not aristocrat. Gavin was Army-trained and connected in the London underworld. And Gavin was properly inspired. 

Nobody was busting in the front way. But somebody equipped and disciplined could tunnel in, Conan Doyle-style. And in May 1971, two doors from Lloyd's at Number 189, the leather goods shop Le Sac had just gone under. Blueprints said its basement sat on the same level as the vault. 

The game was afoot. Gavin worked through an associate Benjamin Wolfe to secure the lease. Wolfe's job was financing and cover. He would keep Le Sac open so that Gavin's crew could come and go as renovators. Not open personally, mind you. For plausible deniability, Wolfe stayed clear of Le Sac.  

The exact size of the crew isn't known. Gavin had a security systems expert. He had a lookout, a demolitions guy, a tunnel man who could navigate tight spaces. And crucially, he had an insider, Reg Tucker, a friend with no criminal record. 

Tucker fashioned himself into a Man About Marylebone and in December 1970 deposited £500 at Lloyds. In February 1971, he returned to rent a safety deposit box in the basement vault. Over six months, Tucker revisited the vault and mapped its layout and dimensions using an umbrella as a yardstick. He walked Baker Street between Le Sac and Lloyds until the crew had precise distance and direction for tunneling. Forty feet, no more, no less. It didn't pay to pop up at the fried chicken joint in between. 

The news got better. Baker Street was torn up for repairs. The security expert checked around and learned the utility work set off so many false alarms that the tremblers had been shut off altogether.

The tunneling started in late August and went on for two weekends. They dug after hours only to lower the risk of being heard. And it wasn't loose dirt they dug through. This was decades and decades worth of old London foundations. A cave-in was one wrong shovel or loose brick away. 

Foot after foot they dug, no ventilation, no calling for help. And nights or not, they were making a lot of noise picking away and clearing tons of debris by bags and a pulley as they moved deeper. The chicken place staff eventually came banging on Le Sac's door to complain. Gavin's crew didn't hear the knocking at first because they were busy mining directly below the chicken place. 

By Friday, September 10, the crew was ready. They had cut forty feet and loaded eight tons of rubble into Le Sac's basement. They'd constructed a chamber 7x4x5 feet where they loaded a 100-ton hydraulic jack onto railroad ties. The vault would time-lock at close of business, as the manager had bragged to Tucker. No one, not even the manager, could open it until Monday morning. Gavin's lookout confirmed over the walkie that the branch had emptied. The crew had all weekend--if they could crack through the reinforced concrete. 

On Saturday, the crew gave it a go. As happens in a heist, the plan immediately frayed. Their staging chamber sat above wet earth from an underground spring. The hydraulic jack pushed the floor down rather than the vault concrete up. 

Gavin was ready for contingencies. Next, and this is not embellishment, they took a thermal lance to the vault floor. That's right, they shot molten slag upward in a tiny space filling with noxious fumes. And for naught. The reinforced concrete held. 

It was time for old-fashioned methods. The crew drilled chunks out of the concrete and stuck gelignite inside. A detonator did the rest. 

Explosives. In the makeshift tunnel. But the crew's engineering was up to the task. As for noise, the lookout confirmed that Baker Street didn't seem to notice a blast under their feet. Which left only basic physics in the way. Bank vaults are airtight. Gavin and his crew pried upward into a thick brume of smoke and dust, too much for starting on the deposit boxes. The crew argued over their walkies about whether and how to change the plan.

Which was a problem Gavin hadn't accounted for. One mile away, a ham radio enthusiast was recording their transmissions.

The ham radio guy was Robert Rowlands, of Wimpole Street. He'd been trying to catch Radio Luxembourg but instead had tuned into the heist. He listened on and even reported a suspected burglary--somewhere--to his local precinct. The cops advised him to record what he was hearing if he wanted anyone to believe him. So Rowlands did. On his home cassette recorder, he caught Gavin's crew wrangling about pressing on or retreating before being overcome by fumes.

By 2am Sunday, Rowlands phoned in a second report. This time, he called Scotland Yard. The Flying Squad drove to Rowlands' flat and listened with him as the crew chattered their progress reports. Eventually, the crew switched channels, but not until the evidence had mounted.

Scotland Yard knew a bank job was happening, but they didn't know where. So they put teams on the streets and canvassed banks in an 8-mile radius of Wimpole Street--all 750 branches.  

One of those banks was Lloyds. 

There wasn't any sign of foul play outside Lloyds, but no one was taking chances. The cops and bank manager went into the basement and listened inside the sealed vault, likely while the crew was inside thinking each breath sounded like thunder. But after a good listen, the police called Lloyds all clear.

Which it wasn't, as was obvious when Lloyds opened Monday morning. The crew had broken into 268 deposit boxes, a quarter of the vault count. A note scrawled in paint challenged Sherlock to solve the case. Also obvious was the hole in the vault floor. That led the cops to Le Sac and the discarded equipment, which quickly led them to Benjamin Wolfe. He had signed the lease under his real name.

Shocked. Wolfe was shocked, shocked, to learn that a crew had used his basement for thievery. Yes, he'd let a crew use the property, but he'd understood it to be for legitimate storage. 

Needless to say, Scotland Yard wasn't buying Wolfe's story. They put him under surveillance and made note of his contacts and movements. Wolfe made repeated contacts with Anthony Gavin, whose voice on the police recordings sounded an awful lot like the crew leader from Rowlands' tapes. Eventually, the police tracked Wolfe to a pay-off. That was that. Gavin, Wolfe, Tucker, and a few others got rounded up. But some of the alleged crew had left England, and possible others have never been identified.

Also needless to say, this was a public sensation. Headlines were written. Fingers were pointed. The job had been ambitious, the crew had gotten away, the police sported a black eye, and rumors sprouted over what other incriminating evidence might've been taken (the 2008 film The Bank Job indulges the conspiracy theories). More than a few Lloyds customers refused to disclose their contents stolen.

Only £231,000 was ever recovered. Some estimates speculate the haul at £3,000,000. In today's money, that is £50,000,000 ($64,000,000), plenty to disappear or pay off bent cops or set aside for retirement. Gavin and Tucker did twelve years. Wolfe did eight.

And that is London 1971 and "The Red-Headed League" come to life. Brilliant criminals, bold plot, and inept police who get their man eventually. And even its sublime ridiculousness, in the form of fake identities, simple mistakes, and irate fry cooks. All that was missing was a great detective. 

Good thing, though, that no real-life Holmes waited there to nab the crew. Gelignite packs a punch.

* * *

In researching this piece, I came across this entertaining dramatization of the crime. They set the stage nicely and visualize the tunneling and the twists and turns of the crime. Like any good heist drama, you're not rooting for the crooks, but you're not not rooting for them, either.

The whole Great Heists series is worth a watch for caper or true crime buffs. 

The Force Beyond You

The closest I have come to believing in divine insight, inspiration, or intervention—or maybe magic—is after I have written something that surprises me. I have created characters who are smarter (or nastier) than I am or ever will be. I have typed dialogue for these beings that shocks or humbles me because I know I don’t have the ability to be so kind, wise, or even so cruel. (A word to non-writers: if you want to write crime fiction, you want to access the darkness. It’s a good thing.)

When someone asks how a particular idea came to me, I always make a joke. Because I have no freaking idea. Sure, I can point to a string of plot points that I scrawled in a notebook before I started—proof of my complicity—but the finished story never quite adheres to them. And yes, I can often recall how or when I first learned certain factoids that I worked into a story, but when they pop up in my prose they are often employed in a manner I had never previously considered.

What I’m saying is that I have come to accept that Creativity is ultimately a mystery. I must leave it at that. I have no choice. The process is too ephemeral to explain any other way. In fact, I’m worried as I write this that words will fail me. We have all heard certain writers claim that the story just wrote itself, or that their characters took on a life of their own. Those sorts of pronouncements are often parodied because they sound fatuous. (Please enjoy the scene below from the film Wonder Boys that marvelously skewers that type of writer.) That’s why I have today brought into the lecture hall the words of other creatives that I have collected. These folks are far more eloquent than I am about this mystery, so I’m going turn it over to them.

The writer Kristine Kathryn Rusch, recently discussing a novelette for which she won a Reader’s Award from Asimov’s, wrote:

“‘The Nameless Dead’ has an opening that I actually heard in my sleep and managed to wake up and write it all down. I really don’t know where these stories come from, but I’m so pleased that readers like them.”

Ever since my wife and I bought two paintings by the fine artist G.C. Myers some years back, I have enjoyed reading his daily blog. He’s an eclectic reader, and often the words that a writer, poet, or philosopher wrote somehow inspires his work, or suggests a title that he contemplates as he creates his canvases. Here is what he says about the process of bringing a painting to life:

“I have often written of sometimes feeling surprised when I finish a piece, as though the end result, the sum of my painting, is often far more than what I have to personally offer in terms of talent or knowledge. Like there is a force beyond me that is arranging these simple elements of this work into something that transcends the ordinariness of the subject or materials or the creator.

“This feeling has remained a mystery to me for almost twenty years, driving me to write here in hopes of stumbling across words that would adequately describe this transformation of simple paint and paper or canvas into something that I sometimes barely recognize as being my own creation, so marked is the difference between the truth of the resulting work and my own truth.”

Someone, possibly Myers, referenced a Rolling Stone interview with songwriter Jeff Tweedy, lead vocalist of Wilco. I went digging, and found a couple of interviews the magazine did with him. Here’s just one that spoke to me:

“I’m not sure I can demystify something I feel wholly inadequate to explain. For me, the moments that make my scalp tingle a little bit are when I hear myself sing a lyric out loud for the first time. On occasion I make myself cry. Not because I’m marveling at my songwriting genius or I’m overcome with my poetic gifts. It’s a moment that feels more like I’m witnessing something better than me, or better than what I imagined I could make, being born. Certain things I’ve written that, at first, didn’t strike me as being remotely worthy of being sung have, when sung for the first time, startled me by uncovering truths about myself I had no intention of revealing.”

By the way, in the same interview he talks about having to write 50 songs or “almost-songs” to get to one, or to reach a point where he is “supernaturally in touch” with his abilities. I liked that turn of phrase immensely. It beats saying what I have always told people: “It came from my subconscious—where the eff else?”

Tweedy’s phrasing reminded me of an essay on writing that I first read in my twenties, and which I have reread over the years. I’ve recommended it to readers here in the past as well. In a 1993 piece in LA Weekly, the writer Michael Ventura said he thought there was a difference between writing and other kinds of creative arts. I think he’s touching on Jung’s idea of archetypes, but you tell me:

“The psyche is dangerous. Because working with words is not like working with color or sound or stone or movement. Color and sound and stone and movement are all around us, they are natural elements, they’ve always been in the universe, and those who work with them are servants of these timeless materials. But words are pure creations of the human psyche. Every single word is full of secrets, full of associations. Every word leads to another and another and another, down and down, through passages of dark and light. Every single word leads, in this way, to the same destination: your soul. Which is, in part, the soul of everyone. Every word has the capacity to start that journey. And once you’re on it, there is no knowing what will happen.”

If Ventura is a little too heavy, then let’s get back to belittling the very question of where art comes from. In a book called The Daily Pressfield, writer Steven Pressfield asks:

“Have you seen archival footage of the young John Lennon or Bob Dylan, when some reporter tries to ask them about their personal selves? The boys deflect these queries with withering sarcasm. Why? Because Lennon and Dylan know that the part of them that writes the songs is not ‘them,’ not the personal self that is of such surpassing fascination to their boneheaded interrogators. Lennon and Dylan also know that the part of themselves that does the writing is too sacred, too precious, too fragile to be dumbed down into sound bites for the titillation of would-be idolaters (who are themselves caught up in their own Resistance). So they put them on and blow them off.”

Pressfield, whom I’ve also discussed before, thinks that creativity springs from a Muse, defined as a part of ourselves that is hidden from us but ever present and powerful. He says:

“People ask me sometimes, ‘Don’t you get lonely being in a room by yourself all day?’ No. I’m not lonely because I’m with this other ‘me,’ who is me and not-me at the same time and whom I have spent my entire life trying to find, to prove myself worthy of, and to labor in collaboration with.”

In his most famous book, The War of Art, Pressfield admits that before he starts work each morning, he prays to this Muse. His practice is to recite a few lines from the beginning of Homer’s Odyssey, believing that all any of us can do is show up for work, signaling to the universe that we intend to labor in good faith.

If you’re in the chair, determined to write, good things can’t help but show up. Or so the theory goes. The opposite corollary, of course, is that if you procrastinate, you cannot be surprised that that Muse has passed you by.

Pressfield’s “show up for work” concept reminded me of another story drawn from the world of music. The songwriter Tom Waits, who doesn’t do too many interviews, once shared this experience with the writer Elizabeth Gilbert. He was driving down the freeway when, out of the blue, a great idea for a song popped into his head. In that situation, flying down the road at sixty-plus miles per hour, Waits couldn’t exactly hit the brakes and jot down the idea. Gilbert, who has told this story a bajillion times in various interviews and her famous TED Talk, describes Waits railing at God or his Muse through his windshield:

“Excuse me, can you not see that I’m driving? Do I look like I can write down a song right now? If you really want to exist, come back at a more opportune moment when I can take care of you. Otherwise, go bother somebody else today. Go bother Leonard Cohen.”

Ok, so let’s say you know all that. You accept that you either have a Muse, or a genius mini-you-who-is-not-you within you, or you accept that you are jacked into the divine source of creation. Would it really be so bad if you ignored that call?

Well, no. Not if you want to get through this life. In an interview with Ken Burns, the late Kris Kristofferson talked about how his family disowned him when he gave up a promising career as a pilot to take a job as a janitor so he could write music on the side. In the middle of this interview, Kristofferson, who studied the Romantic poets, begins quoting from a famous letter by William Blake, which Kristofferson summarized thusly: “He’s telling you that you’ll be miserable if you don’t do what you’re supposed to do.”

He’s referring to an 1803 letter by Blake to Thomas Butts. Here’s a bit of it. You’ll forgive, I think, Blake’s punctuation and mode of expression:

“If you who are organized by Divine Providence for Spiritual communion. Refuse & bury your Talent in the Earth even tho you Should want Natural Bread. Sorrow & Desperation pursues you Thro life! after death Shame confusion of face to eternity —”

See? I started by saying that I don’t know what I’m talking about. And I think I have proved it. But I am grateful that so many people I admire have had exactly the same feeling. Bottom line: Those of us who create really don’t know know where our art comes from. We only know that it comes when we apply ourselves joyfully to the task. That is at once beautiful and relieving.

It seemed appropriate to wait until the turn of another calendar to share these quotes with you. I do so with a prayer that you will get out of your own way in the coming months and let this indescribable mystery lead you into a wonderful, productive new year.

The Fatuous Writer. A scene from the film Wonder Boys.

---

Happy New Year. See you in three weeks!

Joe

josephdagnese.com

2025 and A Wee Bit of Nostalgia

You have to admit that 2025 started off rough: the terrorist who drove a truck through a large crowd on Bourbon Street, New Orleans, and killed 16 and counting. The army vet who blew up a Tesla truck (with himself in it) in front of Trump Casino in Las Vegas. And the gang shooting in Queens, where 4 gunmen shot 10 people (who thank God survived). All on New Year's. I think that's enough to make Baby 2025 go off and put bourbon in the baby bottle.

We didn't have it that easy here, either. In Sioux Falls, we were greeted on January 2nd with the news that a meth head in Yankton had killed his girlfriend and then beheaded her. (LINK here for the gory details.) They had been having a meth party - 

WHICH IS NO EXCUSE FOR BEHEADING YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER, FOLKS! - 

which isn't that uncommon. It's one of the reasons that I laugh as hard as I do at Kathleen Madigan's bit on meth labs:

The truth is, we all know up here that meth is everywhere (here in Sioux Falls it's either meth or fentanyl or heroin and for all I know they're mixing them up together). And there's some small towns that are just one giant meth lab. There are also some small towns that don't want any strangers coming in, through, or by them. I don't know what the Venn Diagram is of that, but I am willing to place a few bets...

And, right now, we're going through a bitter, bitter cold snap, with single digits overnight (if lucky) and barely in the teens, then the 20s. With a wind. Every joint I have is hurting, and the rest of me doesn't like it much either. I'm getting too old for this! I rail at the universe, but the lottery money hasn't come yet. Will keep you posted.

Meanwhile, I do remember when we moved up here to South Dakota. I was 36 and still able to do 99% of whatever I wanted to do, and considered winter a challenge. I drove twice a week at night in the winter to finish my Master's Degree in History down at USD in Vermillion. I remember one night, after a good thick snow that wasn't going anywhere, it was a full moon, and it was so bright, reflecting off all that snow, that I turned off my headlights and just drove without them for a couple of miles. (Don't worry, there wasn't anyone or anything else out on the road with me.)

And I remember taking hikes at the park, and taking pictures of the ice and the snow and wonder of it all:

Looking up, one cold Christmas day:

A picnic area frozen tap, turned into the Ice Walker:

I had such fun. It was good while it lasted.  Meanwhile, I think I'll go mull some ale...