Mystery of Spider Mountain

by Jean Henry Mead

I thought about writing an autobiographical children’s book for years and finally sat down and wrote it. Solstice Publishing brought it out this week and I’m well into the second book of the Hamilton Kids mystery series. I've never had so much fun writing.

By autobiographical I mean that the characters grew up at the foot of a large hill in southern California, as I did with four younger brothers. Because the hill was inhabited by trap door spiders and an occasional tarantula that had arrived on a banana boat from Central America, I called it Spider Mountain.

My brothers and I were close in age and explored our "mountain" together. The apron was filled with purplish-blue lupines nearly all year round and about half way up the hill was Dead Man’s Tree. We called it that because a thick knotted rope hung from a lower limb that we swung on. At the end was a loop that prompted stories of horsethieves we imagined had been hanged there.

A dirt road encircled the hill at three levels but was so chocked with rocks and weeds that even a bicycle would have had difficult passage. We always wondered how the people who lived at the summit were able to reach their house, imagining everything from rock climbers to space ships and helicopters, although we’d never heard one in the area.

When I was twelve and old enough to babysit brothers who were nearly my own size, we climbed our mountain to spy on the mysterious house. What we found was a chain link fence enclosing four large vicious-looking dogs with mouths large enough to swallow a child whole. Or so we thought. It didn’t take us long to scramble back down the hill to our own house. And, of course, we never told our parents.

When I began to write I wondered again who those people were and how they arrived there. I wanted to write a mystery so I had to decide what kind of crime(s) the residents of the house had committed. And how the Hamilton kids would be able to capture them.

I thought of the Ouija board that had frightened us when we played with it at night. That’s when the spirit Bagnomi materialized to communicate with the kids via the board.

My four brothers had to be cut to two to make the story manageable. Even then they were as troubesome as my own brothers had been, so their widowed grandmother came to live with them—as mine had done. However, my grandmother didn’t have bright red curly hair like Ronald McDonald, and wasn’t interested in finding a husband. Even children’s books need humor and the Hamilton Kids’ grandmother provides that and more, along with an adopted Australian Sheppard with a penchant for chewing up furniture.

I enjoyed writing the book and hope that the second novel, The Ghost of Crimson Dawn, will be equally entertaining.

Bu Chester Campbell

It looks like this year's Groundhog Day may put an end to all the foolishness. When Punxsutawney Phil attempts to poke his ratty nose out of his hole tomorrow morning, he'll probably have to burrow through a couple of feet of fresh snow. If he finds the lack of a shadow a reason to remain outside and frolic, he'll wind up with a frozen tush.

According to the omniscient Wikipedia:
 
An early American reference to Groundhog Day can be found in a diary entry dated February 5, 1841, of Berks County, Pennsylvania storekeeper James Morris:

Last Tuesday, the 2nd, was Candelmas day, the day on which, according to the Germans, the Groundhog peeps out of his winter quarters and if he sees his shadow he pops back for another six weeks nap, but if the day be cloudy he remains out, as the weather is to be moderate.

The way it looks on the Weather Channel today, it not only most likely be cloudy but snowy and icy and any other precipitative term you can think of. They're calling it the worst snowstorm in a winter of almost continuous storms. We'd all be ecstatic at the thought of spring arriving any day now, but the prospects are for more of the same.

There's an interesting piece on the ABC News site this morning about the outlook for Groudhog Day 2011. The writer talks about the movie Groundhog Day that featured Bill Murray and compares it to what we're facing now. Being an eternal optimist, I'll take Phil's side and hope he stays out to play in the now and then brings a welcome break in our winter of discontent.

Visit me at: Mystery Mania

A Mystery - Update

By Shane Cashion

Back on November 8, 2010, I posted about a strange murder mystery involving a law firm in St. Louis. The post was entitled, A Mystery. There have been some developments I thought I'd share. This past week Thomas Boggs, husband of Beth Boggs and a partner at their law firm, sought a protective order against former partner, Mark Bates, over the bombing that occurred at the Boggs’ home back in October of 2010. Bates was a founding member of Boggs, Boggs, & Bates. He left the firm in 2008 to join another law firm in downtown St. Louis. According to court filings, Thomas Boggs related that he had been informed by law enforcement officials that Bates is the “primary suspect” in the bombing. Boggs further stated that he had been shown surveillance footage of Bates allegedly purchasing lacquer thinner about a week before the explosion. Lacquer thinner cans were reportedly found at the site of the bombing.

At the hearing, Bates stated that he had no ill will toward the Boggs’, yet he took the 5th with respect to questions concerning the bombing. The presiding judge ultimately denied the protective order, maintaining that a single bombing incident, even if a link to Bates could be proven, wasn’t sufficient evidence for a protective order. To get a protective order in Missouri, the petitioner must establish a series or pattern of incidents; a single event isn’t enough. This is unfortunate as I trust protective orders are quite effective in deterring arsonists, bombers, and even murderers. I can only imagine how many would be murderers have been thwarted by the weight of that document Ordering them to Stay Away!

To date, no one has been charged with the bombing as this mystery continues to unfold.

Embu

A while back, Dan Waddell wrote on Murder is Everywhere:

Places bear the effect of what has gone on before, even if that imprint exists only in people’s minds. 

He was referring to a house, in London, where a number of murders had occurred.

But they called to my mind a town, in Brazil, where one of the most infamous murderers of the twentieth century was buried.

The town is Embu.

It’s in the State of São Paulo about thirty kilometers from the capital.

During my first visit, back in 1972, or thereabouts, I was immediately struck by Embu's colonial charm. 

And by the fact that it had attracted so many painters and sculptors.

I came to live in the neighboring town of Carapicuiba, and soon became a habitué of Embu’s Sunday art fair.

For a dozen years or so, if someone asked me about Embu, I’d think of the things that these images suggest: art, charm, beauty.

 

These days. I think of Josef Mengele, Auschwitz’s “Angel of Death”.

Here’s a picture of Mengele, taken at about the time I first visited Embu:

And, here, one shot in 1944. when he was 33 years old.

Josef Mengele  lived his last years not far from Embu; he was buried there under a false name; and had the Brazilian Federal Police not discovered his last hiding place, his bones would be lying there still. I was ignorant of all of this until the news of his exhumation appeared in the newspapers. But I knew Mengele’s name and was familiar with his history. 

I’d also read Ira Levin’s novel, The Boys from Brazil, and seen the film with Gregory Peck, both released before his death. (How weird is that? There you are, a fugitive war criminal, and Gregory Peck is playing you in a movie. Don’t tell me Mengele didn’t go to see it.) 

Anyway, there I was, close to it all. I went over to that grave to have a look. And, like Dan, being in a place where history happened, set me to musing. 

The first thing that struck me was how different Mengele’s youth had been from that of so many other Nazis. He was born to wealth and privilege. As a youth, he was popular and well-liked. He made people laugh. They nicknamed him Beppo, drawing it from the name of a popular circus clown. He was intelligent and an intellectual. He achieved doctorates in two disciplines from two different universities. He was a decorated war hero and served with distinction on the Eastern front. 

And then he went to Auschwitz and spent twenty one months there. Only twenty-one months, but it was enough time for him to betray all of his early promise, sink to the depths of degradation, and perform unspeakable horrors. 

After the war he fled, first to Southern Germany, then to South America. When the war ended he was 34. When he died, he was 68.

He was on the run for half his lifetime. 

His son, Rolf, visited him in Brazil not long before the end. Mengele was in no way repentant for what he’d done and told him, “Personally, I never harmed anyone in my entire life.” 

Hundreds survived to testify that he did.

            

Leighton - Saturday

MY NEW SHOPPING PHILOSOPHY

by Earl Staggs

I’m sure everyone gets emails every day in which someone forwards something they thought was interesting, funny or outrageous. I usually scan them quickly and delete them with a wish the people who sent them had not done so. I have enough trouble keeping up with my important email as it is.

Yesterday, I received one that stopped me and left me thinking. It’s a simple philosophy about a major problem, and I’ve decided to follow the advice offered. Maybe you’ll feel the same.

I won’t copy the entire letter here, but here is enough of it to make the point.

* * * * *

I was in Lowes the other day looking at hose attachments. They were all made in China. The next day I was in Ace Hardware and checked the hose attachments there. They were made in USA.

My grandson likes Hershey's candy. I noticed it is made in Mexico now. I do not buy it any more. My favorite toothpaste, Colgate, is made in Mexico ... Now I have switched to Crest.

I was at Kroger and needed 60 W light bulbs. Right next to the GE brand I normally buy was an off-brand labeled Everyday Value. The GE bulbs cost more and were made in MEXICO. The Everyday Value brand was made by a company in Cleveland, Ohio.

On to another aisle - Bounce Dryer Sheets. Bounce is made in Canada. The Everyday Value brand was less money and MADE IN THE USA! I did laundry yesterday and the dryer sheets performed just like the Bounce Free I have been using for years and at almost half the price!

My challenge to you is to start reading the labels when you shop for everyday things and see what you can find that is made in the USA - the job you save may be your own or your neighbor’s!

* * * * *

Why do so many of our large companies choose to move manufacturing to other countries? You’d think it's because they can produce it for less money. It would seem to follow, then, they would sell it at a lower price. That’s not always true, as the examples above show.

I certainly have nothing against Canada or Mexico. Or Taiwan, India, Korea, or anywhere else on the planet where our goods and services have been “outsourced.” If it provides jobs for people desperately needing them, that’s fine.

I’m not going to rant about global economy, international politics, NAFTA, import/export surcharges or any of that. My new shopping philosophy is very simple:

I’m going to start checking labels closely. If I can buy an equal product made in the USA at an equal or lower price, I’m going to do it.

I hope you'll join me.

"Stupid is as Stupid Does"

By Mark W. Danielson
The difference between ignorance and stupidity is more than semantics. Ignorance is a lack of knowledge, whereas stupidity is the inability to apply it. When authors witness stupid acts, they should attempt to determine whether it was caused by ignorance or bad behavior. Realizing the difference may help you develop better characters. Lord knows there’s a daily bounty of cases to draw from.

But rather than lecture on this subject, I’m providing a real example of undesirable human behavior and ask that you identify the location where this incident took place. I will reveal the actual location later in a blog comment. It will be interesting to see if any personal bias influenced your answers. Here we go:

The location: A Wendy’s fast-food restaurant. The Wendy’s staff: All African-American, clean uniforms, working as a team. The disgruntled customers: A husband and wife in their early fifties, casually dressed, both Caucasian. The situation: The couple’s food order was not processed properly.

The play book: The couple approaches the order counter, three burgers in hand, anger in their eyes. The wife, short, stout, with gray streaked hair, says to the manager who came to assist, “None of our orders are right. We’re supposed to have . . .” The manager takes the burgers, inspecting them while listening, goes to the kid making the burgers, and tells him exactly what needs to be done. As their new burgers are being made, the wife continues her squawking, saying, to no one in particular in a tone suggesting superiority, “We should get our money back and go somewhere else!” Too busy hawking the burger-maker, the husband doesn’t acknowledge her. Annoyed, the wife leaves. Within two minutes, the manager hands fresh burgers to the husband with an apology, but rather than speaking, the man casts a cold shoulder and walks away. Shaking my head, I tell the girl who took my order, “I don’t understand why people are so rude.” Wisely, she doesn’t comment. Soon after, my order is complete and I leave to find a seat.

I find a table near the rude couple, not by choice, but rather a lack of available space. Turns out this couple is part of a large group whose primary conversation centers on church. Forgive me from bringing up religion, but this couple’s actions seem to contradict the Golden Rule of treating others as you wish to be treated. Then again, I witness plenty of oxy-morons during my travels. Finishing my meal ends this story with the rude couple still sitting among friends.
Dissecting this scenario, was the Wendy’s order error the result of stupidity, ignorance, or oversight? Well, it can’t be stupidity or ignorance since the second order was made correctly, so that leaves oversight -- probably caused by the large lunch crowd simultaneously ordering from dine-in and drive-through customers. Was the couple’s harsh response the result of stupidity or ignorance? Well, you have to give them credit for recognizing Wendy’s error so it can’t be ignorance, therefore let’s chock it up to stupidity. Like Forrest Gump said, “Stupid is as stupid does.” Was their rude behavior racially motivated? From my observation, I suspect racial bias played a part.

So, now it’s time for your written test. Based upon the information provided, where do you think this Wendy’s is located? Before you answer, remember that I travel the world for a living, and that stupidity isn’t limited to this country. I will tell you that it didn’t happen in Asia. (You don’t find many rude people there.) I will also tell you that whether or not you answer correctly is irrelevant. Again, I will provide the location in a blog comment a day or two after you’ve had a chance to think it over and guess. But what’s really important about this whole adventure is that authors should always pay attention to human behavior. Doing so will make you better writers.

Common People

by Bill Kirton

Tears are weird. Why does the body have to produce fluid from our eyes when we feel sad? No doubt the scientists could give me a straight answer about it clearing the dirt out of our eyes so that whatever predator killed the person we’re grieving over won’t get us so easily or something. But, like laughing, it's a puzzling physiological manifestation. In fact, bizarrely, it’s its physiological opposite. When we laugh there are lots of little exhalations – as in ‘ha, ha, ha’ – but sobbing involves a succession of intakes of breath.

I don't cry easily. Not for any absurd macho reasons. I wouldn't mind if I cried. I do now and then. But it's the things that provoke the tears that make the reaction even more puzzling. The lump comes into my throat when I hear the pipes and drums, but I think that happens to everyone. There's some visceral thing about the pipes that drags the emotions up out of you. You give them labels such as pride, triumph, defiance but really you’re labelling something that's a bigger, more profound than all of them. If I knew what folk-memory was, I’d be tempted to say they’re something to do with that. But I don’t.

No, I start feeling the tears when I'm watching athletics, for example. As I see winners and losers alike flinging themselves down the home straight, striving, overcoming odds, these are the things that pluck at me. But why? It's just somebody running, for goodness sake. But this is where the pretension kicks in, because I suspect it's just because they’re striving. For those moments, moments towards which they’ve trained, they find structure, meaning, purpose. As I said in my previous blog, I happen to believe that life is absurd. So there’s a certain sort of glory in the fact that they do all those things in the face of that absurdity. It's our old friend Sisyphus again, knowing he's wasting his time but still determined to push the rock back up the hill. I think the athletics-related tears have something to do with the human spirit and hopelessness.

Which brings me to the title of this posting. There's a lot of music (as well as the pipes and drums) that makes me feel sad. But I think the only one which brings a lump to my throat every time is Jarvis Cocker's Common People. It’s the thought of the inequalities that blight our comfortable society, the fact that rich people can pretend to live like common people but opt out when things get unbearable by phoning their dad to take them away from it all. Which further stresses the fact that, for the real common people there's no escape. And yet they tolerate it, some are beaten down and corrupted but many are proud survivors, worth far more than the obscene values society puts on them because of the conditions in which they’re forced to live.

And when the shock jocks and their ilk crow that they should just get a job and pull themselves out of the mire, all that does is confirm that the tears are legitimate. It's about humanity but also about the absence of humanity in these ill-informed bigots.

Well, well, who’d have thought I’d be saying this just because, now and then, these glands in my eyes overflow?