A Mystery Reader's Thanksgiving

As long as we're expressing our thankfulness this week, I'm thinking of a special list of thanks for my mystery reading.

T is for traditional mystery. Today's mysteries are fine, but modern technology ruins a lot of the fun. Give me an English country house with an ill-assorted group of guests forced to fend for themselves when their host is murdered during a blizzard that takes down all the phone lines. (Cyril Hare's An English Murder is my favorite of these.)

Murder by complex electronics is a popular theme today, but I'd much rather read about a fiendishly clever way of poisoning with arsenic (Dorothy L. Sayers's Strong Poison) or even a leg of lamb (Roald Dahl's short story "Lamb to the Slaughter").

H is for Hill, Reginald, may he rest in peace. Years ago, the Material Witnesses participated in an online mystery discussion forum. The members were quizzed about their favorite authors and Reginald Hill came out on top. It's still hard to believe we'll never read a new Dalziel and Pascoe adventure. Though I love that series, I'd have to say my favorite Reginald Hill is a standalone, The Woodcutter. You could call it a very different sort of fairy tale.

A is for Anglophile, that's me. When I was growing up, my mother was a mystery addict, but I didn't understand why anybody would want to read about murder. Then, when I went to college and haunted all the used bookstores in the neighborhood, I was drawn to those green spines of the Penguin mysteries. Of course, most of them were the classic British titles, by authors like Margery Allingham, Dorothy L. Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, Leo Bruce, Christianna Brand, Josephine Tey, Cyril Hare, Edmund Crispin, Nicholas Blake, Anthony Gilbert, Michael Innes, Patricia Wentworth and Colin Watson.

I devoured those green Penguins, moving on from the Brits to other European writers, like Georges Simenon, as well as American masters like Donald Westlake and Dashiell Hammett. But I always come home to the British crime writers, over the years adding to my old Penguin green friends by falling in book love with the likes of Reginald Hill, Peter Lovesey, John Lawton, Barry Maitland, Sarah Caudwell, P. D. James, Colin Dexter, Robert Barnard and Ian Rankin.

Would you like to become addicted to Penguin green crime titles? Here's a good place to get started: Vintage Penguins.

N is for new beginnings, as in established novelists deciding to have a go at crime fiction. I'm thinking of two in particular: J. K. Rowling, writing as Robert Galbraith, and Tony Parsons.

Rowling's series began with The Cuckoo's Calling, which introduced us to PI Cormoran Strike, a large, untidy man with a prosthetic leg, courtesy of service in the British armed forces in the Middle East. After he nearly knocks her down a flight of stairs, Strike takes on a secretary, Robin Ellacott, whose role slowly morphs into detective partner. I wasn't crazy about the serial-killer plot of the third book, Career of Evil, but the development of the characters is so good I can forgive the plot.

Tony Parsons is not as well known in the US as in the UK, but he has had a longtime career there as a journalist and novelist. He decided to give crime fiction a try, creating the Max Wolfe character. Wolfe is a single father to a delightful little girl (and I usually really dislike kids in crime fiction) and a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel named Stan. That sounds too cute for words, but there is plenty of hard-boiled and gritty crime in Max's job as a homicide detective with London's Metropolitan Police.

The Max Wolfe series begins with The Murder Man (titled The Murder Bag in the UK), which I reviewed here. The second book, The Slaughter Man, suffered from some truly terrible plotting, but this is another example of a series with such good characters that even a serious mis-step won't turn me off . . . yet.

K is for Kerr, Philip, author of the long-running Bernie Gunther series. Gunther is, variously, a homicide detective for Berlin's Kriminalpolizei in the 1930s, a private detective when the Nazis force him out, a reluctant investigator for the German army and some top Nazi officials, and so on.

I eagerly await each new Bernie Gunther novel, many of which I've reviewed here. (Check it out!) One of the things I most enjoy about the series is that Kerr is no slave to continuity. He's jumped all around the timeline and to a lot of different countries. You never know where (or when) Bernie will be next. I'm reading that the next one, The Other Side of Silence, coming in the spring, will be set in the French Riviera in 1956.

S is for spies. I can't get enough of espionage. Well, actually, that's not true. If the setting is after the Cold War, the subject loses a lot of its appeal for me. I can't get excited about cyberterrorism, nuclear weapons, technological whizbangery and all that kind of modern-era stuff. I prefer your old-fashioned dead drops, coded radio messages, and skulking down mist-shrouded streets somewhere in Central Europe.

To me, John le Carré will always be the master. But add in plenty of Len Deighton, Eric Ambler, Frederick Forsyth and Joseph Kanon, please. Oh, and nonfiction, with large dollops of Ben MacIntyre and anything about the Cambridge Spy Ring or Churchill's Special Operations Executive.

G is for gumshoe. If your definition is any private detective, then my favorite would be Lord Peter Wimsey, who is about as far as you can get from the classic fedora-wearing, tough-talking American guy who takes and gives regular beatings. But if you insist on the more traditional type, then I'd have to decide between Nick Charles and Philip Marlowe.





I is for international. I'm so grateful that the crime fiction market in the US has opened up to books from all around the world. It's a leap of faith to buy a foreign-language title and take the time and resources to have it translated and marketed to an American audience. If publishers and editors hadn't taken this leap, I'd never have read Fred Vargas's marvelous Commissaire Adamsberg series (France), Andrea Camilleri's Montalbano series (Italy)  or the many Nordic titles that have become so popular here.

V is for violence, but the right kind. Graphic descriptions of dismemberment and serial killer rituals? Nix!  I can't read with one eye closed, the way Georgette does, and even if I could, I don't think I'd sleep a wink afterward. I prefer my violence to take place off the page and for the author to take violent death seriously, not as a way to jangle nerves.





I is for investigation. Sure, that's what your gumshoe does, and I've already talked about that breed. But how about those other investigators, the ones we see in the police procedural? Of the many sub-genres in crime fiction, that's way up near the top for me. And I can't think of police procedurals without thinking of Colin Dexter's Inspector Morse series. For so long, I waited impatiently for each new title. I bemoaned just how nasty Morse could be to Lewis, but it was always the price to pay for the investigative prowess.

Despite his propensity to put himself in danger needlessly and break rules all over the place, Ian Rankin's John Rebus has been a good exemplar of the police investigator. In Harry Bingham's Fiona Griffiths you get a much more unconventional approach, but Fiona's definitely still part of the sub-genre, and a welcome one.

N is for Nordic, those mysteries set in the Scandinavian countries and northern Europe. Like most longtime mystery readers, my first foray into the Nordics was with Henning Mankell. My favorite, though, is Jo Nesbø's Harry Hole series. I'm excited to see that more German crime fiction is hitting our shores, like Ferdinand von Schirach's The Collini Case.

Since I've already given my thanks more than once for Eurocrime, I thought about making N be for Noir, but if you're a stickler for precise definitions, I'm more of a fan of hardboiled than noir––though I do like Jean-Patrick Manchette, who is classic French noir.

G is for my longtime mystery-reading buddy, Georgette. Nobody knows mysteries from every time period and sub-genre like she does. Go ahead, ask her for a recommendation of a book about, oh, say, death by ocelot or other exotic animal, and see what she comes up with.

I wish I also had a P for publishers like Minotaur, Mysterious Press, Open Road, Poisoned Pen, Europa Editions, Soho Crime, Severn House, Bitter Lemon Press, No Exit Press, the big houses, and others who feed our crime fiction addiction with new titles, translations of foreign-language crime fiction and republications of old gems.

Thanksgiving Dinner and other Disasters

If there is one thing I have learned after many years of preparing Thanksgiving meals it is this: Never, ever mess with the star of the show. I can get a little creative with vegetables and rolls, and even vary the stuffing recipe a bit, but there must be no variations when giving guests the bird.

Literally no one enjoyed the very expensive free-range turkey I ordered from an upscale purveyor one year. While the idea of fowl cavorting gaily about the fields eating whatever they like is heartwarming, this particular bird must have had very curious tastes indeed. It was so gamy that I should have soaked it in milk for a few days beforehand. Even the dog was suspicious of it. And need I mention that you should never brine a turkey that already has "x% of y solution" injected into it? Wish I'd realized that before I tried; everyone drank quite a bit that year, with very mixed results.

In Isis Crawford's A Catered Thanksgiving (A Mystery with Recipes), rich old Uncle Monty is that picky relative for whom nothing is ever quite right. When he officiously invades the kitchen and opens the oven to check on the turkey, it explodes violently, blowing off the top of his head. Libby fears her new drunken stuffing recipe might have been the culprit, but there are plenty of other suspects with very good motives at this memorable feast.

The most explosive Thanksgiving event I can remember (aside from politics and football) occurred one Black Friday. We kids always came down early and reprised Thanksgiving dinner with leftovers for breakfast. When we cleared up after our impromptu feast, no one realized that the big pot of gravy had been sitting out all night. Mom served her usual anticipated waffles with leftover turkey and gravy for dinner that night. They tasted just fine, but with eight people in the house and only two bathrooms, our house was Misery Manor all night as people did a quick two-step past each other down the hall to pound on bathroom doors.

Unless you live in a mansion, one of the perennially vexing issues at Thanksgiving is where to seat guests for dinner. Like Sleeping Beauty's mother, I carefully count out seating, flatware, and cutlery, but sometimes we are surprised by extra guests and I may wind up eating my turkey from a leftover Fourth of July paper plate with a seafood fork.

One year a young cousin blew in from the West Coast and appeared at our door with a strict vegan girlfriend and the biggest dog I've ever seen. I didn't even have any soy milk in the house to feed the poor girl cereal. She finally picked at a salad and some vegetables (we didn't mention the butter) and water crackers. The dog ate everything––including, I think, a damask napkin (we never found it)––and was perfectly capable of helping himself from the table, thank you.

Dogs figure prominently in author Debbie Viguié's I Shall Not Want, the second in her series of Psalm 23 cozy mysteries set around major holidays. It's the week before Thanksgiving, and Cindy Preston, secretary of First Shepherd Church, is helping her wealthy friend, Joseph, with his new charitable project. Joseph proposes matching homeless dogs with homeless people, in the hope that both will benefit. Joseph's charity will pay for the dog food and veterinary care, and help to find jobs and pet-friendly housing for his clients.

While the kickoff of the event is marred by the murder of Joseph's secretary, over 50 dogs are matched with indigents. But within a few days, the recipients of the charity are being murdered and their dogs stolen. The police are baffled. It is up to Cindy and her rabbi friend Jeremiah to solve the murders in this very light cozy.

This year, Hanukkah, the eight-day Jewish Festival of Lights, starts on November 27, the day before Thanksgiving in the U.S. Usually it occurs closer to Christmas. Does this mean that latkes (yum!) will replace mashed potatoes at many Thanksgiving meals?

With very good luck, the kids will remember in December that they received their holiday gifts in November. If not, this could turn out to be a very expensive holiday season for many parents!

The Mezzo Wore Mink is the sixth in author Mark Schweizer's hilarious series of liturgical mysteries. Police Chief Hayden Konig doubles as the choir director of St. Barnabas Episcopal Church in the small North Carolina town of St. Germaine. While Hayden enjoys both of his jobs, what he really wants is to write a successful noir mystery like his idol, Raymond Chandler.

Thanksgiving is coming and St. Barnabas has yet another new preacher––the previous few having been murdered, imprisoned, or fled the state in sheer terror. This one wants to hold a Harvest Festival at the church, complete with pilgrims, Indians, live turkeys, and original music. The Living Gobbler Festival is born.

What could possibly go wrong with live turkeys and children with hatchets performing together? Add a skit featuring members of the nearby Christian Nudist Camp, a couple of murders, and several hundred escaped vicious cross-bred farm animals, and stir. No additional seasoning is required. Hayden has kept me laughing throughout this pungent slapstick series.

In the spirit of Thanks-giving, many supermarkets participate this time of year in local Food Bank Check-Out Hunger drives by offering either in-store collection boxes for food donations or these handy coupons available at checkout. It couldn't be easier––rip off a coupon and hand it to the cashier or scan it. The amount of your donation is added to your bill and sent automatically to the sponsoring charity. Or give through your place of worship or social organization, wherever works for you. Whatever form of seasonal scrimmage you participate in, your own turkey and abundance of trimmings will taste just a little better if you have helped ease the hunger of others. Happy Thanksgiving, all!

The Kindness of Strangers

After several months of arduous sea travel, the sailing ship Mayflower, filled with pilgrims looking for a new way of life, found its way into Plymouth harbor. This was in the cold November of 1620, and there was an even colder winter ahead. These hardy souls spent the next few months huddled in the holds of the ship, losing more than half of their members before the spring came. The few that were left made their way onto land and began making themselves a new colony. When they were at their most vulnerable, they met with strangers from the local people who aided them in putting down roots.

“Who ever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,” said Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire, by Tennessee Williams, when she was at a desperate point in her life.

Several of my favorite characters owe their current existence to the kindness of strangers. One of these I have been following for about 15 years. This is the unusual character Kathy Mallory, who debuted in Mallory’s Oracle by Carol O'Connell. Kathy was a waif of about 10 or 11, living on the streets with razor blades in her pockets for protection, keeping on the run from the victims she robbed to stay alive and finding safe places to sleep. She had the face of an angel and a heart that was growing harder by the day. Then a kindly cop, Lou Markowitz, and his loving wife, who gave her a home and unconditional love, rescued her.

Over the course of the series, Kathy morphs to Mallory and enters the police herself. The reader gets to see Mallory mostly through the eyes of all those who care for her, but she essentially is a mystery that is slowly revealed over all the books. There are her partner, Riker, her boss, Coffey, her friend, Charles, and several of Markowitz's poker buddies––whom she used to fleece regularly. They all have specific thoughts about what kind of person Mallory is, but the reader knows that they all have it a bit wrong.

In The Chalk Girl, O'Connell’s terrific book that was published by Putnam early this year, Mallory is back at the NYPD after a three-month hiatus, which she spent driving around the country. Her boss, Lt. Coffey, has kept her deskbound in her time-out corner until the day the rampaging rats ran in Central Park. There have always been rats in the park, and the animal and the human vermin types abound there, but on this day, due to unusual circumstances, they are moving en masse through a particular part of the park––the Ramble––and they are delighted to find several dead bodies to augment their frenzy.

Among all the frightened, running, screaming populace at the park, there is a small red-haired child who looks like a sprite, wandering around trying to find someone to help her. But she is filthy, smelly, maybe bloody, and even grown-up people back away from her. Finally, amid all the mayhem and murder, Mallory is released from her constraints to help find the girl, because if there is one thing she knows, it is being young, alone and frightened. There are a few other reports about this child coming in. She appears to be unusually affectionate and is running up to people with arms outstretched as if looking for a hug. When Mallory finds her, she is the first to open her arms and gather the rather disreputable child to her chest. This seems to be quite a departure for the usually pristine detective, but it was not the surprise to me that it was to Mallory's fellow police officers.

The little girl's name is Coco, and she has been looking for her uncle Ben. She says that he has turned into a tree and it turns out that he is indeed suspended by ropes to a tree––and he is not quite dead. Coco is a remarkable child with distinct qualities and Mallory knows that the little girl will be a good witness to help solve this incident and the cases of other similar hanging victims who had been left to die gruesomely. Mallory's friend, Charles Butler, who is a psychologist, is much more worried about the child's state of mind.

Ben is hospitalized in critical condition, his body shut down due to his ordeal, and while there the police guard him. It was a nice change of cliché when the astute policeman at the door of the hospital room is never caught napping or on break when unwanted and possibly dangerous visitors show up. But Ben was not long for this world and though the police are looking for what tied these victims together, Mallory looks for a money angle because she believes it's the motive for most murders.

The story moves along at an exciting pace, as pieces of the past intersect with bits of the present. The pictures of the crime change like the inside view of a kaleidoscope, with all the little facets falling into different patterns as the case moves along. The people involved are among the wealthy––and among the drug-ridden––as well as people in authority. The images become clear and the accounts are melded beautifully and then balanced.

Mallory's relationship with Coco is very revealing and I am sure that many have interpreted it in different ways as did the people who considered they knew her. My take is that it began as the kindness of a stranger who could be depended upon and then turned deeper than that.

Two other series come to mind that reflect this theme. One is Elizabeth Gunn's, about an aptly-named Jake Hines, a man of many bloodlines. Jake began his unpretentious life in a dumpster, found by a pot-smoking janitor, who took him to a motel clerk, who promptly wiped the coffee grounds out of his eyes and called Health and Human Services. He owed his childhood to the foster parents of Minnesota, and it wasn't until he was a little older that he was a little grateful because he knew that other places were a lot worse. Jake is now the newly appointed Chief of Detectives for the town of Rutherford, Minnesota.

These are fast-paced police procedurals with an excellent cast of characters, who work well as a team. This is somewhat reminiscent of Dell Shannon's Lt. Luis Mendoza, albeit in a scaled-down town. I am drawn to the dermatologist/coroner who learned English while he was on the run from a work camp in the Soviet Union. He is hard to surprise, because murderers supervised his adolescence.

In Nury Vittachi's series that begins with The Feng Shui Detective, we meet Mr. C. F. Wong, a Feng Shui master who takes on a world-weary cast-adrift 17-year-old Joyce McQuinnie. Wong, living in Singapore, speaks English, but he considers Joyce's to be speaking a bizarre and incomprehensible sub-dialect of the language. It had taken him a while to learn that her term for no was "As if" and it was another breakthrough to find that "What ever" meant yes.

The adventures of these two are always humorous and both parties benefit from the kindness of a stranger.

At Thanksgiving, many people donate their time collecting and delivering food to worthy families, and many take time from their own plans to serve in soup kitchens. My hat is off to all the strangers who can be depended on for acts of kindness at this time of year.

Note: I have reviewed or will post reviews of some of these books on Amazon, Goodreads and other sites under my user names there.

Murder Most Fowl

For those who have never been there, Plimouth Plantation, site of the village built by the Pilgrims upon arrival in the New World, is a living history open-air museum near Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts. Each actor, or "interpreter," represents as faithfully as possible the life of one of the actual residents of the Plymouth Colony in 1627. It can't be compared to a glitzy theme park or a Murder Weekend; in fact, it feels so authentic that it can be a bit disconcerting to visitors. Chickens and children on stilts or rolling hoops mingle with visitors and characters in the only street. Any character will gladly speak with visitors and try to answer their questions, but only in the framework and words of their character and period. Often they will let young visitors help to knead bread, saw logs, or husk corn.

When my daughter was around six we took her for the first time, although our already Epcot-saturated sophisticate was sure it would be a terrible bore. When the blunderbuss-carrying "guard" at the gate greeted us in friendly but archaic terms, she offered him a stick of gum. His response was perfect; he stared at it in wonder, asked what it was, then started to put it, still wrapped, into his mouth. By the time they found enough common language to explain (he seemed to think a wrapper was a garment), she was shaken entirely out of her complacency and prepared for the wonders to come. She watched beading and clam digging, and we finally had to drag her out of the apothecary's when the place was closing.

Near the Pilgrim village, you can visit the small 17th-century Indian settlement where actual descendants of the Wampanoags and other local tribes practice the ancestral skills of farming, fishing, beading, and boat building (hollowing out logs by burning) as practiced by their ancestors. It is well worth a visit at any time of year, although autumn is best.

Murder at Plimouth Plantation, by Leslie Wheeler, captures a bit of that enchantment. Eighteen-year-old Caroline, niece of protagonist Miranda Lewis, has come from her California home to spend a season at the Plantation "interpreting" Mistress Fear Allerton, a young wife and mother of the Colony. When Miranda, who lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, calls to check on her niece, Caroline bursts into tears and hangs up on her aunt.

Miranda drives down posthaste from Cambridge, but Caroline won't discuss her problem. Next morning, the very real severed head of the ex-policeman who plays Myles Standish appears in Mistress Allerton's work basket, and Caroline becomes the prime suspect.

The story is somewhat confusing, overrun with red herrings and several TSTL* moments for both Miranda and Caroline, but the descriptions of the setting and history are accurate and fascinating.

In Sarah R. Shaber's Snipe Hunt, recently divorced Simon Shaw is invited to spend a laid-back Thanksgiving weekend at a friend's cottage on North Carolina's rugged Outer Banks. He jumps at the offer–Marcus has a stellar collection of classic paperback mysteries he hopes to explore and three charming children who call Simon "Uncle." An archaeologist friend, David Morgan, has a dig in the area, so Simon travels down in advance and slovenly comfort in Morgan's RV to help sift through what a dredge is bringing up, looking for Indian artifacts.

When the dredge pulls up a barnacle-covered body in a World War II-era wetsuit, Morgan persuades the police chief to let him clean and classify the contents of the rubber collecting bucket congealed to the dead man's wetsuit. The body is identified as a local Navy frogman, member of the island's premier family, who vanished in 1942 when German U-Boats regularly patrolled the shoreline, spreading fear of enemy invasion.

The man turns out to have been stabbed to death, not drowned, and his collection bucket contained a small fortune in Confederate gold coins, apparently from one of the many wrecked ships just offshore. The story's combination of Civil War-era treasure, World War II local history, and current-day murder make quick and interesting reading. Forensic historian Simon doesn't get the restful long weekend he had hoped for in this well-written second in a series.

Whether you share your Thanksgiving feast with one or 30 people, at the beach or a crowded family table, watching (or participating in) a parade or football game, may it be bounteous with food, rich with friends and family, and sparkling with conversation. And maybe sometime over the weekend, with some time to pick up and enjoy a good book.

*Too stupid to live

At the Eleventh Hour

Flanders Field Cemetery 

In the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918, a temporary cessation of hostilities was declared between the Allied nations and Germany in the First World War. After years of war and the loss of an entire generation of young men in what was then known as "the Great War," armistice was declared. It was commemorated as Armistice Day beginning the following year, 1919.

It was two decades later that November 11th became a legal federal holiday in the United States in 1938. In a grassroots effort that began in Kansas, America’s heartland, during the years after WWII and the Korean War, a drive to expand the Armistice Day celebrations to include veterans of all wars was successful. Dwight D. Eisenhower signed a bill into law that transformed November 11 to “Veterans Day” in 1954. These days, only 21 percent of employers observe this federal holiday, but still it is a day on which most people think about the veterans of all wars and of those not-yet-veterans who are risking their lives in battle.

Flanders Field

In other countries, November 11 is known as Remembrance Day, Poppy Day, Armistice Day or Veterans Day. Countries that celebrate this day on November 11 or other days include Australia, Barbados, Bermuda, our northern neighbor Canada,  India, Mauritius, New Zealand, South Africa, The United Kingdom, France, Belgium, Germany, Hong Kong, Israel, Italy, The Netherlands, and Poland.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I happened upon this story and it seemed a perfect time to read it.

Miss Dimple Disappears by Mignon F. Ballard

This is a snapshot of an era and a place that evokes a feeling of déjà vu because it is so well done that, as you read, you feel like you were alive in 1942 and living in Elderberry, Georgia. At least that is how I felt and I wasn't born yet.

The story begins at this time of year, during the second week of November, when people's thoughts are turning toward Thanksgiving. It will be a different holiday from those of the past, for so many reasons it is hard to list them. This is the first major family holiday since America entered the war. Most of the young men, sons and husbands will be away from home. They are in training or even in peril and they are all missing home as much as their folks. The windows of many homes have a blue star flashing out the message that an inhabitant is off in the fray. Some homes have the golden star in their windows, memorializing those who have already lost their lives.

Because the nation is geared up for war efforts, there have been many changes on the home front. People are learning to do without sugar, butter, coffee, gasoline, nylon stockings and things made with rubber, such as the prosaic women's foundation garments and decent automobile tires. The citizenry have given up their metal hangers, draping items atop others on one hanger. They have been trying to ease their children into the idea that Santa won't be bringing bicycles this year, because of the lack of metal and rubber and trying to maintain an appearance of normalcy. Elderberrians do a good job of this, but having their family members in danger as well as lonely makes for a melancholy holiday time. This town reaches out to the servicemen who are in their town for leave or passing through.

In a pull-together effort, the people of the town try not to complain about the substitutions, like Postum for the coffee, honey or saccharine for sugar and an unappealing margarine with a blob of food coloring. The ladies wear rayons instead of nylons and such innocent items as balloons are a thing of the past. For Thanksgiving dinner, desserts may be sparse and hens are substituted for turkey. But it is the company that counts.

Miss Dimple Kilpatrick, a first-grade teacher, disappears one morning while on her usual walk and this mystery just simmers a bit because the mysterious death of the school custodian is also the talk of the town. In a community effort, different individuals try to find clues and even though Miss Dimple has left several, the people of Elderberry are so accustomed to safety that they are blind to the possibility of danger. This is the only part of the book that is a little hard to believe, but even as it is today the people are tired, discouraged and busied by their daily lives and have little ability to investigate mysteries.

Initially, it seems that there are too many characters to keep straight, but eventually the reader gets to know the personalities behind the names and begins to feel at home in Elderberry. I have known people like this. I only wonder if we have changed as a society to such an extent that we would not be willing to give up such personal items as hangers and our pots and pans. Are there enough of us who know how to cook using substitutions to make meals enjoyable or even palatable, since we have grown up with ready-made food?

This is a good read for the early days of November, and it made me grateful for what I take for granted. It also helps us all to remember that today we also have service personnel away for the Thanksgiving holiday who are not any different from the soldiers of 1942, and they are also homesick and experiencing a very different type of turkey dinner.

There is no mention of Veterans or Armistice Day in this novel, perhaps because when you are caught up in a war without an end in sight it may seem odd to celebrate the end of the war that was supposed to end all wars.

It is poignant to see pictures of a WWI vet attending the dedication day parade for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in 1982 and holding to his chest the flag he and his son both fought under. On November 11th we salute the living and the dead.

Sometimes it is the survivors who have difficult challenges, and the Veterans Administration helps in some ways, but sometimes the community steps in. An example of veterans helping veterans is a shelter called Home of the Brave which was founded by four Vietnam combat vets in Milford, Delaware. Its purpose is to house and feed homeless vets and help them get back on their feet in hard times.

Here's to you on the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the year 2011, 11/11/11.