The Secret of the Old Blog

No one had any comments to make on my entry on anonymous comments. This makes me chuckle. I have scared you silent . . . or, quite possibly, no one but my mother reads my blog.

Not quite true. My friend Sylvia, the Hollywood actress, wants to know from Tuesday's blog how it is I can read mystery books and watch Miss Marple marathons when I have issues with deep sadness. She raises this concern after learning that I watched the Memorial Day Concert on PBS and used an entire box of Kleenex watching the Iraq veteran who came home with half a head. Wouldn't a murder mystery be deeply sad?

Thank you for asking, Sylive. What an interesting question.

I don't know. I just can. I can also watch 48 Hours Mystery which is true life crime. Now that's deeply sad.

I saw during the President's introduction of her that the new candidate for the Supreme Court got interested in law reading Nancy Drew mysteries. I read my first Nancy Drew when I was 13. It was the first in the series, The Secret of Old Clock. Nancy needed to find the last will and testament of a dead neighbor. Where could it be? No one knows where to look. Where should we start?

I don't know. How about the old clock? It's right there in your title, Nancy.

I was disgusted and moved on to Trixie Belden. From there I went to Agatha Christie, Diane Mott Davidson, Margaret Truman, Jill Churchill . . . and now Elizabeth George (the murder mystery writer not the Bible Study lady, although she is good too.) Elizabeth doesn't pull any punches. There are no winners in her books, just dead bodies and unhappy, dysfunctional families with senseless pain running amuck through each and every book.

I don't know what to tell you. I can't wait for the next one.

Anonymous comments

Author's note: I wrote this yesterday while I was all hot under the collar about the subject. I've read it again, and I think I do have a valid point or two, so I am going to leave it. That being said, you must, must, must know for the record that Cyberspace has a lovely even-keeled temper and saw the whole situation as an interesting interaction with her reading public. I know we have the same parents. How does she do it?

I know two bloggers who were recently plagued with snarky anonymous comments. One of them was my sister Cyberspace Sarah on the entry I sent you to on Monday. If I find it was one of you, dear readers, I am really going to be miffed, and I am firmly shaking my finger at you right now. Here's the deal:

1. The world takes itself much, much too seriously. If you are any regular reader of mine or my sister's, you will know we would never, never say anything to purposely hurt or offend anyone. There is humor in nearly every situation. I, personally, could find something hilarious at a funeral.

2. I am a firm believer in free speech. That being said, maybe Sarah is open to it, but my blog isn't really a dialogue. If you don't like what I have to say, go read someone else's blog.

3. If you really do want to argue with me, you better tell me who you are, because how am I to know you're not just an angry ex-boyfriend with a grudge or something? See #2. I understand that some of you have to leave comments in the anonymous section of that area, but you can still sign your name.

Oh, my goodness, that has gotten me ALL worked up so early in the day. And with my fragile health, too. Make sure you read Sarah's follow up entry just so we are all perfectly clear on her message. Jeepers.

A Poem for Tuesday

I have been reading the Maisie Dobbs mystery series by Jacqueline Winspear this spring. This series takes place 15 years after WWI and deals with the aftermath of that war upon England's young adults. Our poem today is a WWI favorite in honor of Memorial Day.

In Flanders Fields
Lt.-Col. John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

A . . . a . . . achoo

It's getting much much better, thank you for asking, but I'm still not super energetic or able to think very clearly because of the massive amounts of snot clouding my brain. Why should I knock myself out today when my sister Cyberpace Sarah has summed it up so perfectly in her open letter to our summertime friends from the city.

Achoo 3

I am out of bed today, but not very lively, so today why don't you hum a bit of the Armed Forces March in honor of Memorial Day.

Achoo 2

It's 5:30 a.m. I've been up since 3. Breathing and sleep is for wimps. While I contemplate having some NyQuil at 6 a.m., why don't you catch up with The Jones Family. They are from Minnesota but live in Africa.

Achoo

I'm sick. I don't know if it's the wind fiercly blowing the pollen around or if I've come down with a cold, but I am waiting for the Tylenol Severe Cold to kick in. I'm going back to bed while I wait.

Why don't you go back to yesterday's entry and review the NDSU school song. Make up your own tune. Sing with gusto.

Thank you for being a faithful reader.