Thanksgiving

Instead of pumpkin pie from a can I thought I'd try sweet potato pie (the Southern/African American holiday variant) and we're converts!  Delicious and easy.

Look, it's a SMEG, Ma!

 Ideally we would be somewhere where there's a repair shop for the Dualit that was supposed to last forever, but as we aren't, and the cheapo one that was filling in for the non-functioning Dualit has already packed in, I bought what I hope is the most reliable alternative, that is also aesthetically pleasing.  (I always think of the fridge that Wallace, of "and Gromit" fame, has, called "Smug".)  However, Jami has reminded me that we had a Smeg kettle once and it didn't last very long, so fingers crossed.

 

The Poisoned Chocolates Case by Anthony Berkeley

 

Here's another head scratcher by Anthony Berkeley, aka Francis Illes, AKA Anthony Berkeley Cox, aka A Monmouth Platts. This book, published in 1929, is just about the coziest murder mystery a cozy murder mystery can be.  We have met the hero, Roger Sheringham, before in Jumping Jenny.  That book was published in 1933 and by that time Roger Sheringham is a well-established murder mystery solver, perhaps not as well regarded as a Sherlock Holmes, but nearing that level of celebrity.  Unfortunately for Roger, he isn't nearly as amazingly intelligent as Sherlock Holmes is and, though he always comes up with an impressively complicated solution, he's not always right and his frenemy, Chief Inspector Moresby of Scotland Yard, as often as not outwits Roger. Most annoyingly, Moresby's solutions are often very boring and don't require twists, double twists or even the triple-double twist we saw in Jumping Jenny. But here, Berkeley pulls out all the stops and crafts a story that is famous for turning the murder mystery novel on its head and pulling it insdie out by presenting a murder mystery to end all murder mysteries.

The story begins with Sheringham and Moseby sitting around, smoking cigars, and discussing a recent headline grabbing murder: the death of Joan Bendix, an obscenely wealthy heiress who died by eating fisfuls of poisonous chocolates gifted by her husband, Graham.  But, lest we assume Graham is the guilty party, Graham was given the box of chocolates by Sir Eustace (a notorious womanizer) while they were lunching at their club earlier on the day of Joan's death. BUT, lest you think Sir Eustace poisoned the chocolates, they were a gift to him from the chocolatier, Mason's, because Eustace is one of their best customers (he buys his dozens of female conquests lots of chocolate) and Mason's wants him to test out a new line of chocolates they are considering launching.  But Sir Eustace doesn't care for chocolates (more of a cigars and fattening meats sort of guy), and so offers them to Graham--who also doesn't care for chocolates but takes them because, he says, his wife "is mad about them."  Well, that seals Joan's fate.  So who put the poison in the chocolates and who was their intended target?  According to Moseby, it's simple: a crazed lunatic who will be impossible to catch unless he kills dozens more and gets lazy about covering his tracks. But Sheringham isn't buying that--he's convinced that "poison is a woman's murder weapon" and crazed lunatics are always men. But aside from that dubious conviction, he really has nothing else to offer. So he makes a proposal to Moseby: Sheringham has just launched a "Crimes Circle" club that is going to meet once a week or so for drinks and discussions of unsolved notorious murders. If Moseby would be good enough to attend the next meeting, lay out all the cards Scotland Yard has on the Bendix death, these mystery solvers can put their minds to work solving the mystery.  Moseby is dubious, but he's got no better plan so he agrees. 

And who are these amazing people? First we have Sir Charles Wildman, a famous barrister.  Then, we have Alicia Dammers, a notorious feminist "dramatist". Mrs. Fielder-Flemming is a best-selling mystery writer. Plus there is Mr. Ambrose Chitterwick, a small, nervous man who isn't famous at all and seems to have been invited by mistake. And rounding out the group is, of course, Roger himself, who regards himself as a "famous detective novelist."  After hearing all Moseby has to say and asking him questions to clarify details, all our club members are given their instructions: they get one week to run around and drum up evidence of any sort to help them solve the case.  Then, starting next week, each club member will have one evening to present their theory and proposed solution to the rest of the club.  If the others are persuaded, they will head off to Moseby with their solution.  If not, they move on to the next person.  Each is confident that they will solve the mystery and revel in the headlines announcing their ability to outwit Scotland Yard (all but Chitterwick, that is, who just squeaks in nervousness at the prospect of talking in front of the rest).  

The week quickly slips by and we are back in our Crimes Circle club room.  I won't go through each member's solution, as those are actually beside the point. The real point is that, given the same basic facts, we get five radically different solutions: different motives, different murderers, different intended victims, and different interpretations as to what clues are central and which are beside the point.  And each is absolutely convinced that they have an airtight explanation of the events and that no other explanation could possible exist.  Yet, when we get done, (Mr. Chitterwick is the last to go and almost faints from the stress of it), it turns out that none of them have solved the mystery: instead, the real solution comes from gleaning bits from each of their version.  So, all are equally correct and yet all are equally wrong.  And by the time we get through all this, Joan Bendix and the poisoned chocolates seem utterly beside the point.  

So what is the point?  According to Berkeley, he couldn't stand fictional detectives (like Sherlock Holmes) that locked onto "a fact" and from there were able to deduce solutions infallibly.  Berkeley was convinced that there was no "truth," no "facts," and no "reality"--yes, people died, but who "did it"?  Well, everyone and no one.  It's the Rashamon of cozy British Murder Mysteries and it's no wonder that it rocked that world, creating a standard that (apparently) every publishing author in the 1930s felt they had to measure up to be have the right to call themselves a murder mystery writer.  

Snow!?

Weren't we just swimming?  I forget that every year, just when you think the leaves are never going to fall off the trees, there's a sudden really cold snap and they fall off allatonce.  

 

Burning Bushes

 Every autumn innocuous green bushes around our neighborhood turn the most amazing red.

These include a row that runs along the side of the theatre building at school towards the entrance that have been growing steadily in the 26 years we've been here:
 

Whenever they start to turn they remind me of when Thomas was very little and we gave him his own camera (or probably let him use an old one) - this is pre-digital - and he took pictures of these when they were considerably smaller.  For some reason I had a memory of the picture looking like the one above, but that would be far too prosaic for Thomas The Artist, as you can see (I tracked them down in one of our photo albums):

 What an eye!

Further Fall Fotos

 

Fall Fotos

 

No Kings Rally in Flint

As there were rallies all over the country, I didn't expect many people at the one in Flint, particularly as it wasn't in a particularly nice part of town, but the reason for that might be that, next to an increasingly abandoned mall, there were vacant parking lots to use.  And actually, they filled up.  Jami didn't want me posting any photos because they could conceivably be used against the people in them.  But I imagine everybody else will be posting photos, but anyway I scribbled over faces and only used photos where there weren't many, so here we are.

 

Days like this are why October is my fave month

 Low 60s but bright sunshine - bliss.

 

YMCA

Flint got a brand spanking new YMCA last year, so the old one is slowly being demolished.  I drive by it every morning.

 

 

Still shorts weather

 

Goodbye, old friend

I can't remember how long we've had this hammock (since Arkansas?) but we just weren't using it any more (plus it was covered in black mold).  The one who probably got the most use out of it was Grandpa.  But this was probably its finest hour.  Anyway, I assembled it and put it out on the verge and it was gone the next time I looked.

 

Sylvester is mad at us

 

Is THIS the last swim of the year?

It probably should be, because this was in the big Seven Lake, and the waves were choppy and Frederick gave off "this is no longer fun" vibes.  But it's set to be another roaster tomorrow...