Friday, December 15, 2017

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT -- 15 DECEMBER 2017

This issue of Orphan Scrivener is written to an accompaniment of the constant howl of high wind gusting around Maywrite Towers, bringing with it single digit wind chills and snow rather than playing celestial symphonies such as Longfellow heard at a time of similar meteorological conditions. No, hereabouts his downbent branches representing instrument keys are booming out a dirge for warmer days. And on the theme of dirges, subscribers may consider such aeolian lamentations appropriate as they continue reading....


ERIC'S BIT OR SANTA CLAUS AND MR HYDE

Christmas has always been a mixed bag for me. Or perhaps I should say a mixed stocking, remembering the big red ones I hung on the fireplace as a child. Come the great morning and they'd be filled with treats. There were delightful candy canes and chocolate pieces of eight covered in gold foil. But valuable space in the toe would inevitably be filled with a sour, seedy tangerine.

Is it any wonder Christmas -- as usually practiced -- is such a Jekyll and Hyde when it demands we go on an annual spending spree to celebrate the birth of a man who preached poverty?

I loved my advent calendar with the little doors you opened to read about the story of the birth of Christ in twenty-four gradually revealed snippets. What suspense! To be honest, the calendar mostly served as a countdown, not to the Nativity, but rather the arrival of Santa Claus.

Nothing about Christmas is quite right. All the colored lights are gorgeous and cheering but the holiday colors red and green just don't go together. They grate on me. The music can be as beautiful as Silent Night and as maddeningly horrible as Little Drummer Boy. It's exciting to tear gift wrap off presents, but the wrapping and the disposal of the paper isn't so thrilling.

Then there were those weeks of delicious (well, okay -- greedy) anticipation (maybe too many...) and the blissful orgy of piling up new toys under the tree. Still, I never did get that amazing Cape Canaveral launch center with the gantries, rockets, control tower, technicians, astronauts, and utility vehicles. Everything moved and there were lights that probably flashed and maybe bells, and buzzers, and I'll bet the rockets took off too and had parachutes for re-entry. Somehow. I remember that toy more vividly than most of the gifts I actually received.

Come to think of it I never got a handcar for my model railroad either!

That HO railroad setup was a holiday highlight. We'd hike the woods finding moss and appropriate ferns to cover the tunnel in realistic greenery. Great fun. Except my feet froze from stomping around in the snow.

Christmas trees posed a similar problem. There's nothing merrier than a festive pine all tarted up in blinking lights and tinsel. However, I've always favored natural trees and, in my experience, there's no place on earth colder than a Christmas tree lot in early December. Whenever I venture out to buy a tree you can bet that the temperature will be below that at the North Pole. A brisk wind will be whipping the snow off the rock-hard ground into my face, freezing the tears running down my cheeks as I dig blue spruce and scotch pine out of the drifts with numb hands.

Don't remind me about trying to vacuum up the needles that fall to the floor either. I can never find them all. By July I'm still stepping on them. At least the dead tree is gone by then. Although if you miss the pickup date in many places you've got a problem. I've had to saw up the tree with a hacksaw and burn it in the fireplace. That isn't very festive. Plus, next year I needed to ask Santa for a new hacksaw.

Speaking of Santa, he's the worst problem of all. At some point [CAUTION. SPOILERS AHEAD] we all have to endure the disappointment of discovering he doesn't exist. Even if he did eat the cookies and drink the milk I set out for him. In my case, I also went from the magical fantasy of free toys delivered by a reindeer-drawn sleigh to the miserable reality of trying to play Santa, trudging around crowded malls with maxed-out credit cards.

With Christmas you never know what's going to happen. One year I got a bicycle from my parents. Another year I got a draft notice from Uncle Sam.

Perhaps the biggest Christmas inconsistency is how it can make you appreciate those you share it with while at the same time missing those who are gone.

For me what counts, in the end, is that Mary and I will be celebrating our 25th Christmas together this year. And that at least has no downside.


NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

It's not drawing our bow at much of a venture to guess many readers have pets and so our sole bit o' BSP this time around deals with that very topic in a December 13th interview conducted by Heather Weidner and published on the Pens, Paws, and Claws blog. Its tag line is Writers And The Animals They Love and so Heather's questions included the most unusual working animals we've created (hint: see Three For A Letter), a favourite book featuring an animal as a central character, how we have used animals in our writing, and more -- including the revelation one of us may be the only mystery writer whose first childhood pet was a budgie with a Geordie accent. Point your clicker to

http://penspawsandclaws.com/meet-mary-reed


MARY'S BIT or STILL A FAVOURITE MANY YEARS LATER

When strings of street lights sprang up in yellowish necklaces dotting along the busy roads and another sooty night began to fall upon Newcastle-on-Tyne, my sister and I would go up to our attic bedroom and draw curtains patterned with castles, ships, and jesters with curly-toed shoes to shut out a darkening urban landscape of slate-roofed dwellings marching down in regular lines to the river. Ungraced by gardens or trees or any growing thing except whatever took root in the cemetery at the top of our street or on bomb-sites left uncleared for years after the war, those long grey terraces of houses stretched away out of sight in all directions, sheltering the inhabitants of the northern English industrial city known proverbially for its coal, not to mention shipyards and factories that in those days rang with the noise of machinery around the clock.

As bed-time approached we'd read for a while before the light was put out -- and for a lot longer afterwards by torchlight under the covers. Books aplenty were available to us between the city's free libraries and Christmas or birthday gifts, for we always received a book to mark each occasion. So it was that at about l2 or l3 I discovered Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, and later on her other novels about the March sisters' adult lives.

One thing about Little Women was rather puzzling. Like us, they lived in financially straitened circumstances and yet had a servant, Hannah, who had been with them for years. As a daughter of the working class, this seemed very strange to me, the more so as my mother had been a parlour maid and the notion of us having a servant was so alien as to be unthinkable, despite the fact that I was always being told that I had too much imagination. One of my favourite scenes is Beth's reaction to the beautiful piano given to her by elderly Mr Laurence, for her expression upon seeing it must surely have been the same as that displayed by my musically gifted sister when our parents managed to get hold of a second-hand upright piano for her. This piano subsequently lived in our scullery next to the copper where the original tenants boiled up their washing, our street and those surrounding it having been built for industrial and pit workers when Queen Victoria still ruled. Graced with high ceilings, picture rails, and ornate iron fireplaces, they are now sold for fabulous sums as artisans' dwellings. When we lived there, there was still a working gas light in our bedroom but the entire place was also extremely damp and the only plumbing was a cold tap in the scullery, the necessary offices being in the back yard -- about as far as you can get from the brown stone March house which, although old and a little shabby, had a garden with roses and vines and stood on a quiet street in the suburbs.

Yet as thousands of readers from numerous countries living in all sorts of housing have discovered, there is much emotional common ground with this delightful tale of a family's ups and downs and its tears and triumphs. I loved Little Women the first time I read it and every year or so I re-read it. The four March sisters -- gentle and ailing Beth, artistic but vain Amy, quiet, dependable Meg, and the tomboy bookworm Jo -- have become old friends. We see them shepherded by Marmee while their father, not strong enough to soldier and too old to be drafted, serves as a chaplain in the Civil War. Then there's their dashing next door neighbour Laurie, his grandfather Mr Laurence, Laurie's tutor John Brooke, the girls' rich but demanding Aunt March with her huge library and disrespectful parrot, plus a bevy of supporting characters, most of them types familiar to us all. Time has made Little Women as familiar and comfortable as a favourite pair of slippers, while that strong sense of the March family's love and emotional support for each other remains as striking as the first time I opened the book and began reading.

It is Jo, generous and good hearted although hasty in her speech until she learns patience, who has always been my favourite of the four sisters. She is the only character with whom I have ever identified and as a youngster I firmly declared that like her I was going to be a writer and furthermore intended to live in a garret. In fact, I said it so many times that it became family legend, one of those humourous stories trotted out whenever we'd gather for celebrations, like the saga of when my brother-in-law lost me at a tender age in the London Tube system.

Now, years later, I live far away from Newcastle-on-Tyne. But I still have my battered old copy of Little Women and I did finally achieve that long-held ambition -- only I scribbled in a basement rather than a garret!


AND FINALLY

Samuel Johnson once remarked that the business of life is to go forward. Doubtless many of us won't be at all sorry to slam the gate on the difficult twelvemonth that has been 2017 with the fervent hope that next year will be better. Only fly in the ointment: the next edition of Orphan Scrivener will buzz into subscribers' inboxes on February 15th.

See you then!rĂ¢€¦ 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 http://home.earthlink.net/~maywrite/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, a bibliography, and our growing libraries of links to free e-texts of classic and Golden Age mysteries, ghost stories, and tales of the supernatural. There's also the Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Our joint blog is at http://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/ Intrepid subscribers may also wish to know our noms des Twitter are @marymaywrite and @groggytales Drop in some time!


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