The Orphan Scrivener -- Issue # One Hundred and Sixty-One -- 15 October 2026

As this issue is written, volunteer wood asters have returned on their annual visit to edge the lawn as if planted there deliberately, the cricket choir is busy serenading the fading year with boisterous stridulations, and darkness shrouds us earlier every night. Soon we shall look out to a dreary landscape of leafless trees accompanied by wind gusts howling and prowling around Maywrite Towers. To add to the general melancholy of the month, here's the latest issue of Orphan Scrivener, so feel free to toss another lump or two of coal on the fire and read on...

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ERIC'S BIT or THE FABRICS OF MY LIFE

Earlier this year we retired my Race with Grace 10K T-shirt. Even by my lax sartorial standards (mismatched white socks) the poor old thing was unwearable -- faded, discolored, a hole or two. It was almost thirty years old, so it had a good innings for a T-shirt.

Digging through our clothing cache for a replacement, Mary came across a number of shirts I'd forgotten. Since leaving the corporate necktie world to work freelance my favored attire has been T-shirts and jeans. Which means I've rarely had to buy a shirt thanks to my collection of such shirts from road races and orienteering meets in which I participated.

Last week I sported a drawing of a tank from orienteering at West Point. The military academy owns thousands of acres of rugged land in New Jersey used for training and recreation and every year it hosted such an event to take advantage of its steep boulder-strewn terrain. I went out into the woods several times and avoided getting totally lost (orienteers are never lost, only "disoriented") and now it's fun to remember being up to the challenge, more or less. Strangely enough, my usually bad memory holds a thick album of snapshots showing the terrain I navigated in parks around the Northeast and even Canada.

I can remember details of road race courses too. Well, it isn't surprising that the leopard-decorated Jungle Jog shirt jogs my memory of running though a zoo. Even I couldn't forget that. My most memorable race T-shirt might be for the Green Mountain 10K Road Race sponsored by the Summit Ski Lodge. Running Times magazine (then the main competitor to Runner's World) paid me to travel to Killington, Vermont, to cover the race in part by running in it. The course was unforgettably hilly (not to say mountainous) but I did pretty well, probably because I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of all the competitors I'd interviewed for my article the night before. Oh, I said that "might" be my most memorable shirt because it seems to have been mislaid over the years. Maybe one day it will turn up.

There are some T-shirts for creative endeavors. One year I had an entry in the Annual Interactive Fiction Competition for computer games in the tradition of 1980s text-based games like Colossal Cave Adventure. In my game -- The HeBGB Horror! -- the player searches for a mystical lost chord in and around a (highly) fictionalized version of New York City's CBGB rock club. I finished in the middle of the competition, same as my road races. Not bad, considering I'd never even seen a computer program prior to my writing the game. The T-shirt lists all the entrants.

My Deadly Ink T-shirt was from the 2000 conference in Mount Arlington, NJ, where I appeared on a panel to promote our first Byzantine mystery novel One for Sorrow.

Mary also came across a T-shirt produced to raise funds for New York Post staffers who were fighting the newspaper's sale to a notorious NY slumlord. The shirt features a spiffy graphic of the paper's founder, Alexander Hamilton, with a single tear rolling down his cheek. The Post is best known as a tabloid with headlines like "Headless Body in Topless Bar".

The earliest surviving shirt dates back to my law school days. Our Entertainment Law professor gave the class "tour" T-shirts at the conclusion of the course. Professor Silfen knew what he was talking about since he represented many bands, including Aerosmith, REM, and Blondie. Debbie Harry and Chris Stein showed up one day to describe the evils of the music publishing industry to us.

I guess I could write an autobiography in T-shirts.

I hated having to discard my Race with Grace T-shirt. The race was named for George Grace, pastor at the Rochester First Bible Baptist Church, who organized the event and ran in it. The race took place on Thanksgiving Day and the T-shirt featured a pumpkin. One long sleeve displayed a Bible verse that runners, writers, or anyone else could take for their motto: "...let us run with patience the race that is set before us..Hebrews 12:1-2".

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NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

Hark! The ticker clicks merrily away, delighted to be bringing a soupcon of news to subscribers....

BEHIND THE SCENES or EVERYDAY MONSTERS

We're happy to announce Jenny Milchman, Mary Higgins Clark Award-winning author of seven psychological thrillers, has contributed Everyday Monsters, the latest entry in our Behind The Scenes series. See

https://reed-mayer-mysteries.blogspot.com/p/weve-thrown-ornamental-iron-gates-of.html#monsters

YET MORE REVIEWS or BUTTERFLIES AND BLACKMAIL

Mary reviews a pair of J. J. Connington Golden Age of Detection novels.

In Death At Swaythling Court Colonel Sanderstead investigates a murder whose trimmings include an allegedly undetectable death ray, blackmail, a profane parrot, and a butterfly collection.

https://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/2026/10/review-death-at-swaythling-court-by-j-j.html

Nemesis at Raynham Parva deals with the murder of a man whose actions would have devastated three families, including that of investigator Sir Clinton Driffield.

https://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/2026/10/nemesis-at-raynham-parva-aka-grim.html

Eric reviews Georges Simenon's Maigret at the Coroner's (its full title for the edition read) wherein the French inspector observes a case in Arizona during his tour to examine the methods of American police departments

https://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/2026/10/review-maigret-at-coroners.html

TOO EARLY FOR CHRISTMAS or BUT JUST IN TIME FOR HALLOWEEN

We've been busy bees of late as we've also added more entries to our library of free links to supernatural stories and uncanny tales in honour of the traditional telling of ghost stories at Halloween as well as on Christmas Eve. Check them out at

https://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/p/stories-of-supernatural.html

We'll also be so forward as to point out a trio of our ghost stories to be found via the Free Stories links at

https://reed-mayer-mysteries.blogspot.com/

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MARY'S BIT or SHE SOMETIMES RINGS THREE TIMES

We're occasionally asked how we broke into publication. Our reply is we arrived there sideways by storming the castle around the back, taking advantage of an overlooked ladder to a window carelessly left open. We say this because Fortuna arrived at the postern of Maywrite Towers on three occasions, bringing unlikely and indeed almost unbelievable assistance on our journey to appearing in print .

It is the tragic fact acceptance of my first solo short mystery story was indirectly connected to terrible events on the world stage. When the hostage crisis in Iran began, a friend who accompanied her husband when he took a job there had to leave for Dubai with their children. Their relocation led to her meeting a BBC employee at a jamboree such as expats often organise and from her learning the BBC World Service short story programme accepted submissions from the public. On hearing this I asked myself why not have a bash at it? And thus it came about Aunt Ba's Story was accepted and duly transmitted. Since I cannot leave subscribers wondering what happened to the family mentioned, I'm happy to report they were reunited in Dubai in due course, followed shortly thereafter by their household effects, and returned safely to England.

Fortuna rang a second time some years later when Eric and I began writing short mystery stories together. Since then, if questioned on the matter he inevitably says he couldn't avoid getting involved since we were married. Several other short mystery stories appeared before John sprang in spritely fashion into the literary arena. His first appearance came about after an unexpected call from England It was from editor Mike Ashley to consult us about contributing a story to an anthology to be devoted to historical whodunnits. Naturally we grabbed his hand off. The problem was it had to be written to an extremely tight deadline. As it happened, Eric's interested in Byzantine history and had a number of books devoted to it sitting right there on our bookcase. Justinian and Theodora -- two powerful and colourful personages even if you don't believe half the scandal penned about them by Procopius -- were a natural choice as major characters so we were off to the Hippodrome races in short order. Using the resources mentioned and burning much midnight oil resulted in John's debut in A Byzantine Mystery in The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits. There is no doubt we couldn't have met our deadline without those books and now, when quizzed how the Lord Chamberlain short mystery stories came into existence, we smile and reply it's all Mike's fault.

Comes the day when, after the fashion of films in which youthful friends decide to put on a show in the family barn despite inexperience in musical matters, we began to consider writing a novel with John as protagonist. We already had a ready-made cast of supporting actors and at least part of their histories from several of these short stories relating John's investigations and possess imaginations we are not afraid to use.

But hold on! After One For Sorrow was completed a ghastly thought struck us. As mapless newcomers wandering at midnight in the dense forests of novel-length fiction, having no agent meant long odds against our finding a publisher.

Luckily for us Fortuna rang again. Poisoned Pen Press was a new publisher at the time. It had recently released AZ Murder Goes Classic, a collection of papers presented at a conference on the topic of what makes a mystery a classic. When it was nominated for an Edgar Award in the Best Critical or Biographical Work category we jotted the press a note of congratulations and in passing, somewhat cheekily in retrospect, asked if they would be publishing fiction. After all, the French have a saying Fortuna holds out her hand to the bold and as it turned out, editor Barbara Peters had only recently commented on the lack of Byzantine mysteries and was willing to consider ours. We confess it was a Herculean struggle to get the first chapter suitably situated but, as my mother used to say, patience is a virtue and One For Sorrow eventually launched John on his full length literary voyage as the first original mystery published by Poisoned Pen Press.

Not being among those who, as they say in the old country, consider themselves all that and a bag of crisps, we acknowledge we were lucky to be standing at the right literary crossroads at the right times. Our theory is it's as well to be ready to leap into action should Fortuna comes a-calling with an unexpected opportunity. Unlike the postman, she sometimes rings more than twice. Still it's best not to complain about the racket but to answer her summons immediately, because being a flighty sort of gal if you don't she'll doubtless cross the street and ring someone else's door bell.

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AND FINALLY

We just added a new entry to our collection of colourful sayings after stumbling over mention of stick season, used in parts of the north-east for the weeks from late this month to the first snowfalls when trees have been stripped bare. So we'll leave with a reminder the next issue of Orphan Scrivener will fall into subscribers' in-boxes on December 15th, bang in the middle of that chilly period of naked timber, at least for some of our subscribers.

See you then!
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, to be found hanging out on the virtual washing line that is the Web at https://reed-mayer-mysteries.blogspot.com/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including a bibliography of our novels and short stories and libraries of links to free e-texts of classic mysteries and tales of the supernatural, not to mention a couple of our short stories of the latter persuasion, as well as archives of contributions to our Behind The Scenes series and the Orphan Scrivener essays. Meantime, just for the heck of it, we'll also mention our names on the site formerly known as Twitter are @marymaywrite and @groggytales. Drop in any time!

To unsubscribe from this newsletter jot a line to maywrite@earthlink.net and we'll take care of it.

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The Orphan Scrivener -- Issue # One Hundred and Sixty -- 15 August 2026

While in north Africa years ago, a member of the family demonstrated it is indeed possible to fry an egg on a vehicle bonnet although whether you'd want to eat the result is another question. Our equally unspeakable heat has begun to subside a little so our horse-drawn computers are struggling less than hitherto. Which means that, all going well, not only will the curfew bell not ring tonight but this latest issue of Orphan Scrivener won't be delayed by electronic difficulties as appeared possible most of this past week. And here it is.....

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MARY'S BIT or EVEN ROYALTY S0METIMES DO THEIR OWN LAUNDRY

Since we last showed up, we've managed to finally tame our front-loader washer, an advanced appliance which weighs the contents of its drum and then supplies the amount of water it reckons should be used for the load . One disgruntled owner declared online his opinion was that front-loaders just dampened clothes and chucked them around a bit and at times we were tempted to agree with him.

Laundering has certainly trundled many miles down the pike since a time.when the traditional Monday wash day involved wash tubs and poss sticks, stiff-bristled scrubbing brushes, yellow laundry soap, and a mangle aka known as the poor man's piano. Drawing a bow at a venture, I suggest this is because fingers of necessity get close to the rollers -- and hopefully no further.

Mr Maywrite remembers how as a child he watched his elderly aunt assist his grandmother to make laundry soap. Its ingredients included lye and fat and the process involved boiling them together. When the witchy mixture cooled into solid form, it was cut into chunks and stored in a bucket in his grandparents' cellar until wash day rolled around again. Buying a jug of detergent these days is so much easier. .

We have yet to see The Odyssey but I for one am interested to see how it handles the sequence where, following a dream, the soon to be wed princess Nausicaa of Phæacia and her attendants hie themselves off to washing cisterns near the mouth of a river. It transpires the royal personage has brought along not only her own clothing but also that of her family members. Well, after placing their laundry in the cisterns the assembled company -- including Nausicaa herself commence trampling on the wet garments to cleanse them, a homely touch in a narrative devoted to high adventure, extensive travel, a touch of magic, and an absence from home for twenty years.

As we all know, moggies may look at monarchs but this scene clearly demonstrates, despite assumptions to the contrary, even royalty sometimes do their own laundry. Sadly, when we recently viewed the mid-fifties cinematic presentation of Ulysses starring Kirk Douglas and Anthony Quinn the laundering sequence was not included. Instead, it depicts the immediately following scene where Nausicaa meets shipwrecked Ulysses nearby.

It is therefore only right that the princess stands on one side of the coat of arms of the Worshipful Company of Launderers.* To my delight, the heraldic device depicts a mangle as well as three flat irons and a laundress with a dolly, an advanced form of our old poss stick**. I particularly enjoyed the inclusion of a cat, that well-known cleaner of self.

Subscribers may recall an essay relating how we toiled mightily to remove an old top-loading washer from Maywrite Towers. While it was an epic struggle between us and the Harvest Gold appliance, we were sorry to see its departure For one thing it was happy to employ any old detergent you cared to put into it whereas the instructions for our current appliance, a front-loader controlled by mini-computer, sniffily declares the machine was specifically designed to use High Efficiency detergent and only that type. Using the wrong sort might, among other horrors, lead to malfunctioning components, cycles taking longer, and over-sudsing. Home-made detergents are included in the warning and we have to wonder what Grandmama Mayer would have to say about that.

Mind you, our opinionated appliance provides an unexpected bonus. Watching clothing circling and twirling in a fantastic fandango past the washer door's window allows thoughts to wander hither and yon, occasionally leading to inspiration for newsletter essays.

As you see.

* Figure 15 depicts the coat of arms of the Worshipful Company of Launderers

https://www.theheraldrysociety.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/Goddard-Coat-of-Arms-2018-1.pdf

** Dolly on the left, poss stick on the far right. Our long since retired poss stick had a shorter handle.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Posser#/media/File:PuckMuseum24.JPG

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NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

The ongoing heatwave has slowed everything to a crawl, including the ticker which sadly has only one item to offer this issue. However, if you enjoy Golden Age of Detection novels you may care to point your clicker at Mary's latest review. It deals with Molly Thynne's The Crime at the Noah's Ark, which relates criminous doings after a number of travellers are forced to take shelter at the titular hostelry when a blizzard closes down all roads..

https://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/2026/08/the-crime-at-noahs-ark-1931-by-molly.html

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ERIC'S BIT or REMEMBRANCE OF FINNEGAN'S PAST

Amateur sleuths are a staple of mystery fiction. From little old ladies with a talent for sleuthing, to bored aristocrats looking for recreation, to today's entrepreneurial types who somehow make a living selling chocolate muffins and still have time for investigations. Quite a few authors have decided that if fictional amateurs are good, amateur detectives who are historical figures are better. Machiavelli, Groucho Marx, Jane Austen, Teddy Roosevelt for instance. it might be easier to think of someone who hasn't been conscripted into the fictional gumshoe brigade. I admit this trend irritates me even more than the proliferation of cats in mysteries. The occasional feline or famous person is fine, but isn't enough enough?

The trend might have gotten out of hand in my opinion, but it isn't new. In the 1938 The Gracie Allen Murder Case S.S. Van Dine had George Burns' wacky sidekick help out detective Philo Vance. The very first mystery to feature a real historical person is arguably Mademoiselle de Scuderi: A Tale from the Times of Louis XIV by E.T.A. Hoffmann, published in 1820. The German author imagined the titular 17th century French poet trying to uncover a band of murderous thieves plaguing Paris.

As with Gracie Allen, Mademoiselle de Scuderi merely assisted the actual detectives. More recently we've seen a spate of mysteries in which usually highly unlikely personages team up to solve murders. I mean, the Bronte sisters? Really? Arthur Conan Doyle, perhaps, but with Oscar Wilde? It seems authors are currently competing to come up with the most freakish, outlandish, and implausible teams of historical figures as detectives.

With that in mind, I offer the following suggestions:

Murder on the Pequod
(A Captain Ahab Mystery)

Queequeg is found pinned to the main mast with his own harpoon. Is the culprit the quarrelsome young chief mate Starbuck, fellow harpooner Tashtego, or the sailor who wants to be called Ishmael (but may be someone else entirely)? It could be anyone on the ship. It's up to Captain Ahab (and the ship's cat) to find the murderer before he can strike again. Before time runs out, Ahab is forced to team up with his adversary the Great White Whale himself, Moby Dick.

Tricky Dick and the Pelvis Investigate
(A White House Mystery)

Elvis visits the White House to receive an honorary FBI badge but soon becomes a real investigator as he and President Richard Nixon (and the White House cat) race against time to find out who did in the First Lady, in the Oval Office, with the tape recorder. Their efforts put the sleuths in perilous situations. Will Elvis-the-Pelvis be able to avert a nuclear holocaust when the red telephone in the Oval Office rings? Can Tricky Dick cover for the KIng's absence from a D.C. stadium concert by performing Hound Dog? The fate of world may depend on it!

A Rat to Remember
(A Titanic Mystery)

Is the Titanic's collision with an iceberg a clever pretext to disguise the killing of someone aboard? Famous mystery writer Jaques Futrelle teams up with two rats -- a roguish ship's rat and an aristocratic little girl's demure pet -- to bring the murderer to justice. Rather than fleeing the sinking ship, the trio race against time to bring the murderer to justice. A thrilling tale told from the point of view of Mollie Brown's cat.

Remembrance of Finnegan's Past
{A Famous Authors Mystery)

Who killed Finnegan? And how was it done? Faced with a case no one can understand, The Royal Irish Constabulary call in those bloodhounds of bafflement, James Joyce and Marcel Proust. Could it have been something as simple as a poisoned madeleine? Probably not. Assisted by several of T.S. Elliot's Jellicle cats, the perplexing private eyes wander through an incomprehensible wasteland of clues and suspects, taking their time in twelve thrilling volumes.

And that's not even mentioning Mickey Spillane and Bennett Cerf (My Pun is Quick) or Arthur Conan Doyle, assisted by a band of fairies, the supernatural equivalent of the Baker Street Irregulars. Which I can't believe hasn't already been done but I don't have the heart to look it up.

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AND FINALLY

The year having passed its midpoint, subtle hints of impending autumn are starting to appear. The dark hours are noisy with insects singing their farewells, here and there a yellow or scarlet leaf drifts to the ground, and dusk arrives a little earlier each evening. Fall is on the way and with it the next issue of Orphan Scrivener, which will creep into subscribers' in-boxes on October 15th, in keeping with that month's mists and melancholy air.

See you then!
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, to be found hanging out on the virtual washing line that is the Web at https://reed-mayer-mysteries.blogspot.com/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays on a wide variety of topics, a bibliography of our novels and short stories, and libraries of links to free e-texts of classic mysteries and tales of the supernatural, not to mention a couple of our short stories of the latter persuasion. There's also the Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Meantime, just for the heck of it, we'll also mention our names on the social site formerly known as Twitter are @marymaywrite and @groggytales. Drop in any time! To unsubscribe from this newsletter jot a line to maywrite@earthlink.net and we'll take care of it.

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The Orphan Scrivener -- Issue # One Hundred and Fifty-Nine -- 15 June 2026

The noiseless feet of time have been marching in double-quick cadence this last couple of months since in retrospect it seems only a few days have passed into eternity since we trundled out the April edition of Orphan Scrivener. We are therefore seizing the transient hour to launch this latest issue into the wild and here it is...

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ERIC'S BIT or THE SCENT OF EARL GREY TEA

This time of year I always think about long ago school vacations when my family moved to a cottage at the lakeside picnic grove they operated during the summer months. Just about everyone remembers how the last school bell of the year heralded what might as well have been an eternity of freedom even though it was less than three months. And though that was an illusion, in retrospect it sometimes seems like those summers, filled with new experiences, did last longer than entire decades later on.

Life at the lake was different than life in the suburbs. To begin with, there was the tiny cottage with electric lights but no indoor plumbing. A hand pump in the yard supplied water that was ice cold and pure, without the chemical taste of the town water to which I was accustomed. There was an outhouse a short walk from the cottage. It reeked sharply of the pink disinfectant cakes sitting here and there. A small ragged hole at the base of one wall showed where a porcupine had gnawed to get at the salt in the wood.

Yes, even going to the bathroom could be an adventure, especially at night, following the flashlight beam along the flagstone walk, alert for prowling porcupines.

The frogs in the creek were exciting too. The creek ran behind a bed of bergamot which filled the air with the aroma of Earl Grey Tea. Hummingbees (as we called them -- actually sphinx moths) hovered around the red flowers looking so much like hummingbirds they didn't trigger my usual aversion to large buzzing insects. I'd make my way through the flowers and hunker down on the bank learning to spot the twin bumps of amphibious eyes poking out of the water like periscopes. I mastered my frog catching technique, positioning my open hand so that I could close my fingers around the frogs' extended legs when they sprang towards safety.

Not that they had anything to fear from me. No frogs were harmed in the making of this memory. I always released them.

The stream was a whole world of wonders. Crayfish rocketed backwards in clouds of mud when I lifted the rocks they hid beneath. Numberless minnows glittered in the shallows and in the slow moving water near the lake floated black clouds of baby catfish. Sticklebacks built pebble nests while water striders skittered across the stream's sun flashing skin and dragonflies darted through the air.

There was plenty of non-aquatic life. A chipmunk made a habit of rambling around under the family picnic table looking for crumbs while we ate. At night bats squeaked and swooped so close you could feel the rush of air as they flew by your face but never colliding with you, and never eating the lightning bugs that twinkled around the edges of the yard like an out-of-season Christmas display. The bats knew the bugs were toxic.

Four-leaf clovers for luck were to be found in the lawn but I found more honey bees with my bare feet, which was not lucky at all. Worse yet were the blood sucking leeches in the lake, undulating alien horrors resembling elongated bits of raw liver. (I found liver almost as horrible as leeches.)

The natural world didn't have a monopoly on amazing new experiences. I hunted along the roadside and amid the tables in the grove for empty soda bottles discarded by careless picnickers. They were returnable and the few cents I redeemed each for added up to more than my allowance every week. The general store where I took the bottles featured a remarkable display of dead and dying flies stuck to coils of flypaper that hung from the ceiling, twisting slowly in the breeze from several large fans.

One summer, the Purple People Eater was another unforgettable novelty. My parents were under strict orders to call me whenever that Sheb Wooley number popped up on the radio and I'd come running even if I was catching frogs by the creek. I'm not sure any other song has affected me as deeply.

Nor have I ever experienced a quest as exciting as my successful effort to collect every Davy Crockett trading card, the card completing my set being, memorably, "A Bullet Finds Its Mark."

And that barely touches on the fascinating new world those ancient summers offered to a grade schooler. I didn't mention Fudgsicles, Fourth of July sparklers, thunderstorms, tadpoles, grilling

No wonder summers seemed so long.

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NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

The ticker, frog-like, leaps into action again!

HELPFUL HINTS CORNER or NEWS WRANGLERS AHOY!

Last month's issue of the Writers and Publishers Network's newsletter included our article aimed at writers contemplating setting up a newsletter. Offering examples and advice on content and publication calendars from four mystery authors issuing these useful dispatches as well as our thoughts on the topic, should anyone present be contemplating taking the plunge, we trust they will find it useful. :

https://tinyurl.com/zck8492s

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MARY'S BIT or THE TELL-TALE TRUNK

According to a song popular with children, Nellie the elephant packed her trunk before running off to join a circus, a very poor career decision if I may say so. By contrast, when the time arrived to pack my scarlet trunk for carriage to these shores, difficult decisions had to be made. Ultimately rather than practical items such as clothing, which could be purchased on arrival if necessary, its eclectic contents meant I had managed to squeeze part of my old home into its confines. Take that, Dr Who!

On reflection, just as bookcase shelves demonstrate their owner's interests, the tell-tale trunk clearly indicated what was important to me.

For example, among the number of items packed into a space seemingly too small to contain them, consider the brown pottery vase with a slight list and the silhouette of a cat applied to its front. Made by my younger sister, it became known as the Jean-Paul Memorial Vase. Jean-Paul was a half Siamese tabby supposed to accompany me to these shores but sadly due to a careless driver he departed permanently a week or two before I set off for the New World. *

There was also a large green jug painted with orange flowers pretending to be chrysanthemums, paired with two similarly decorated flat back wall vases so popular at one time. Apparently the jug held pride of place on the hall windowsill of the cottage to which my family was evacuated during the war but where the vases were hung remains a mystery. My trunk also held examples of cabbageware comprised of two bowls masquerading as half-cabbages and a snack or relish server formed of three cabbage leaves meeting in a wishbone shape with a tomato knob at its centre. If such a category exists I would nominate these items as prime examples of the jolie laide school of china.

I must not overlook mention of a charming china toast rack with floral decorations, equally useful as a letter rack, and the elegant cake trowel with its pattern of blue flowers. The small scarlet non-stick saucepan still in service at Maywrite Towers is not only practical but also a reminder of day trips to London to visit friends. It was purchased in the Tottenham Court Road, still a prime location to find beautiful and stylish home wares.

At the other end of the colour palette, Dad constructed piggy banks in the shape of benches painted beige for me and my sister. These money boxes accepted coins through a slot in their seats and the official method of retrieving our cash involved undoing the screws holding their bases in place. We found it easier to get our pennies back by holding a bank upside down and wiggling a thin-bladed knife in its slot to coax our pennies out into the open, thus demonstrating children are ever inventive.

Speaking of inventive, along with family letters and photos, some of my early scribbles found their way into the trunk as did the novels devoted to the lives of the March family. They were a gift when I was eleven and I still re-read these popular stories every couple of years. Jo was my favourite character and I've noticed a number of writers have made the same declaration.

I should also mention my collection of penguins, including a heavy blue glass example in modernistic style (an excellent paperweight) and an egg timer guarded by a penguin, which I felt was unkind. Two plastic Christmas ornaments from long before I was born also made the trip -- a dark red star and a leaping blue deer sporting antlers, reminding me of the running deer mentioned in the Christmas carol. They accompanied a fairy doll tree-topper. She had suffered somewhat over the years, poor thing, having lost one of her red high-heeled shoes and most of the gold glitter from her tulle dress and magic wand. Despite the damage to her wardrobe she still majestically ruled the Christmas tree every year.

When I went to Port Canaveral to retrieve my trunk the official who examined its contents asked more than once if there was anything else to declare. Perhaps he noticed its glaring lack of apparel but all the garments I possessed arrived in two suitcases already dealt with when I passed through the customs hall at Miami Airport. The inspector involved was a charming fellow who asked me out to dinner that evening so I have no doubt more than one marriage has resulted from a meeting over someone's rummaged luggage!

* See Jean-Paul's Memorial Tombola at https://reed-mayer-mysteries.blogspot.com/p/our-essays.html#jean

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AND FINALLY

To borrow the closing lines of Ms Alcott's Jo's Boys, let the music stop, the lights die out, and the curtain fall on this edition of Orphan Scrivener, with a reminder the next issue will appear in subscribers' in-boxes on 15th August.

See you then!
, Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, to be found hanging out on the virtual washing line that is the Web at https://reed-mayer-mysteries.blogspot.com/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays on a wide variety of topics, a bibliography of our novels and short stories, and libraries of links to free e-texts of classic mysteries and tales of the supernatural, not to mention a couple of our short stories of the latter persuasion. There's also the Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Meantime, just for the heck of it, we'll also mention our names on the social site formerly known as Twitter are @marymaywrite and @groggytales. Drop in any time! v To unsubscribe from this newsletter jot a line to maywrite@earthlink.net and we'll take care of it.

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