Number 9
We pulled into a small farm, surrounded by small farms, from a dirt road fifteen miles outside Durango, Colorado. All around us in the distance we saw mountains. In the fields near us, we watched horses and donkeys, fenced-in cattle, a tall goat the size of a pony, and a white Great Pyrenees larger than that.
Our landlady, Holly, waited for us. A tall brunette, middle-aged, dressed like she’d been busy on the farm all morning, she wore her hair up in a bun, and she spoke extremeley fast.
As we introduced ourselves and the two dogs that accompanied us, she walked us around the little farm, then showed us our temporary home. “The cows are kept in the pen because of the calves,” Holly said (not appearing to take a breath) and then walked us up to a pen with ten cows and seven calves in it. “Keep getting out of the fence in the south forty acres. It’s hell getting them back, so they have to all stay here.”
Meeting Number 9
We walked next to her with our dogs on leashes. The cows moved away as we approached — All but one big Angus that stared back at us, unmoving. The others rotated around her before taking their positions.
Holly looked out at the herd. “That’s Number 9. She’s an old cow, but I don’t kill her because she has a calf every year. Probably too old to be any good anyhow.” She walked on past the pen to show us the open fenced field of forty acres. Draft horses grazed in a neighboring field. A donkey with them heehawed a complaint about something.
Holly started again, “You can see the fence there in back. Calves get through it like I said. Feel free to hike out there all you want. The gates are right there.” As she walked on to show us our place, she added nonchalantly, “Number 9 is a known dog killer. You better watch your dogs.”
Ah, what? I thought. I looked back at the pen. The other cows had wondered off. All but Number 9. She still stood where she had been, staring at us. Not at us. At our dogs.
Lucy the Schnauzer and Number 9
Over the next couple of weeks, I’d take my schnauzer, Lucy, out the back gate to the back forty. The gate is right next to that pen. Every time we approached it, Number 9 pushed against the fence on her side, staring down at Lucy. My dog understood, and kept as much distance between her and Number 9 as she could, continuously peeking back until we wondered off into the backfield.
But when we returned, Number 9 would be at the gate, waiting.
Number 9 became a part of our lives for the weeks we were there, and she took a larger part of my thinking. I imagined her motives. Examined the looks she gave Lucy, and the fearful and careful looks Lucy gave back to her. I think that there is a children’s story wanting to be written about Number 9, but it isn’t a sweet and gentle story. It is a dangerous story. Those can be much harder to write, and we’ll have to see how I do.
What Do You Think?
What do you think about the possibilities for this story? Let me know because I wonder if I’m on to something or not. I wonder if all this thought about Number 9 is just because that whole little farm is such a wonderful place.
The Art of Murder in the English Village
Guest Post by Don Nico
When it comes to murder, no people do it like the English. Specifically, English villagers. Having traveled through the English countryside and its villages from the Channel to the Mersey, from Bamburgh in Northumberland to the Parish of North Hinksey, I testify voluntarily to the lyric timbre of the English village, voicing effervescent peace, magic gardens and the marvelous quiet game of Bowls on manicured lawns in evening light. Where every day is improbably sunny. The lunches, magnificent and mandatory. (Never, ever, interrupt a villager’s lunch. You could be killed. Legally.) Stunning period-costumed celebrations, Veuve Cliquot, followed by Claret, then whiskey. Then murder. Murder. MURDER. In the English village, murder arrives in threes. Or is it fours? I lost count.
The English village is iconic. It is a dream world. Idyllic, untouched, and unsoiled by the stains of the city. No smokestacks or rioting drunken cockney raves. Cricket, not rugby. No homeless child pickpockets. No Sid. No Nancy. No megastores. None of that ick in the English village. A place where the Bookshop flourishes, the grocer delivers veg-baskets door-to-door, the pub serves Good Food, and virile vicars stave off population decline. And… where lurks murder. Think Germany the origin of gruesome tales? Think again. The crown goes to England. If the telly is telling the truth.
A Love Affair with England
In July 1978, my wife and I arrived in London to begin our love affair – with England. It was our honeymoon. This Summer marks the 42nd anniversary, so it’s on my mind just now. Britain was suffering its final year of misrule. Thatcher would take over the next year and become the longest serving PM in history. The hotels were in terrible shape but clean, of course. Sections of the city were beset by squatters occupying abandoned buildings some of which were magnificent, rundown, bombed-out historical masterpieces. Yet, you could feel London about to come alive. The buzz of reconstruction was in the air. In politics, timing is everything and Thatcher’s timing was perfect. From the chaos, hip conceit, and high-low culture of London we ventured a week later into the English countryside with its idyllic and, as it turned out, murderous villages. The contrast with London could not have been starker. What we didn’t know at the time, and what would be revealed beginning with the Inspector Morse shows 10 years hence, is that the idyllic English village is besotted, more than beset, by murder. Out of which comes England’s deliciously odd detective shows.
With our new English friends, we always wanted to discuss Monty Python, Fairport Convention, and Jethro Tull. They would only talk about Kojak, Hawaii Five-O (lovingly referred to as “Five-O”), Mannix, and Dallas. We were floored. And speechless. Kojak, maybe. Five-O? I Get it. Hawaii. Dallas? Okay. J-R. But Mannix? Whiskey-Tango. We spent hours in pubs fielding questions about Kojak, Five-O, Mannix, and Dallas, of which we knew little. No matter – Londoners knew all. One of the benefits of leaving London was not having to talk about Kojak, Five-O, Mannix, or Dallas. We were headed out to the English village. Which brings me to murder. Blessedly.
Demented Cop Shows and English Village Murder Mysteries
It may seem odd to be immersed in English television murder mysteries during a pandemic. But that’s exactly what’s happening in my house. Sheltering-in-place is a terrible thing. Fact is, until Covid, I didn’t watch television. I forgot how to activate the dust-covered sound bar, having canceled cable tv months earlier. Stuck inside, I ordered Amazon Firestick, which took me several days to setup, and which happens apparently all by itself at some point. Then, I subscribed to Hulu and that is where my troubles began. Hulu is a vast wasteland of demented cop shows. Trust me.
At first, I watched every psycho cop show on the menu – and believe you me, there are tons hailing from Canada, Australia, India, China, and America. I even found one from Slovenia which was particularly gritty. Depraved really. Subtitles and all. It is no wonder Melania got out. Within a week, I was having nightmares. On a lark, I switched to English murder mysteries and began watching all the Inspector Morse shows and its spinoffs. Bourbon in hand. No ice. Today, it’s Midsomer Murders, currently Season 9, of 21. Claret. It’s nice to be out of Oxford.
English village murder mysteries are irresistible, and intriguing. A nightmare-free zone. Give it your best shot. Try to guess the murderer, ranging from vicar to Lord-on-the-lamb to aging rocker in from London, to the harlot with no past. From elderly church ladies harboring vintage secrets, to retiring gents holding ancient grudges, unrequited love, and estranged heirs. But you know what? It’s the policing I notice most. Policing in the English village is unique. And that’s where it intersects with the current crisis here in America… as consideration for our nascent reform efforts. In the English village, suspects talk voluntarily to the Detective Chief Inspector. No subpoenas, no cuffs required. The DCI goes about his investigation quietly, unassuming and unarmed, fitting the pieces of the puzzle. And, the coppers will simply not countenance the use of violence in the apprehension of perps. Praise the Lord and pass the pudding. Victims may get shot but there are no shootouts with the cops. It’s all very civilized. To wit, in the end, the DCI completes the puzzle, confronts the perp who confesses willingly, contritely, no solicitor present, before being calmly led away. The best policing happens on a two-way street… where citizens and coppers act like they got their act together.
No one does murder like English villagers.
Best English Mystery Shows for Lock-Downs
Here are a few of the best shows to lock-down with and maintain your sanity. These are not gritty violent East-Ender cop shows. To say nothing of Kojak, Five-O, or Mannix, God forbid.
Endeavour – in its 7th season covers the young formative years of Inspector Morse.
Lewis – Colin Dexter’s spinoff from the Morse series chronicles the adventures of a Morse protégé. 9 seasons.
Midsomer Murders – tour de force of English village murder mysteries. The very best of the best. Stars John Nettles, QBE. 21 Seasons.
Shetland – moving north to the Scottish archipelago. 5 seasons. Scotland getting in on the act. Just started this one.
Stay tuned.
Don Nico is a guitar maker in the American version of the English Village — The Heights, in Houston.
A Test of Character
The world has asked much of us over the last few months. We had to stop traveling. We had to shut down our businesses. We had to take our kids out of school.
More was asked of some. Doctors worked round-the-clock shifts. Businesses closed forever. All their employees lost their jobs. (The Chronicle posts lists of restaurants that will not reopen). How are all these people supposed to pay their rent?
A very close friend posted about what is still asked of us. Judge James Horwitz argues,
A version of ‘personal responsibility’ that looks like ‘I’ll take responsibility for my risk, and you take responsibility for your risk,’ … neglects the reality of a pandemic. Responsibility may be personal— but risk is communal. Everyone can both get sick with the virus and pass it on to someone else. A person who gets infected while packed into an overcrowded bar can pass the disease to a supermarket cashier who is otherwise steadfastly avoiding high-risk situations. A healthy young person whose sense of personal responsibility leaves him comfortable spending a leisurely evening in a bustling restaurant can infect a roommate who works in a nursing home.”
Why are we asked to wear surgical or face masks in public, to practice social distancing, and to observe self-quarantines? Because these practices are not for us as individuals alone, but for the protection of others.
So, it’s a test of our character. I hate character tests. I never quite measure up.
But, I’m trying. In the face of all of this, I’m trying to think of others first. It’s easier when you see someone out and about with scared eyes who might be more vulnerable. Those eyes remind me to care, not for myself or my own cynical opinions, but for that one. The stranger.
Learning
As you age, how do you insure that you continue to enlarge your universe? How do you educate yourself? What do you read? How do you grow? That is our dilemma when we grow old, and we all find our own answers.
Through Work
Some of us stay busy: you choose to (or have to) work, and you grow through your work. In 37 years of practicing law, new revelations and a quick rush of adrenaline have regularly spurred that growth for me.
But there were times when I hit the proverbial brick wall, and stagnated, and then made myself evolve. I would slowly change the type of law I practiced to some new area. A couple of times, it seemed as if I had begun a whole new career. That doesn’t work for everyone. I know attorneys who tried to change, and couldn’t, so they left the law and went to full-time writing. I’m very close to that myself.
Through Shakespeare
Over the last decade, I’ve developed another way to grow and learn. I immerse myself fully in a subject. One subject, all year, intensely. Last year it was Shakespeare. Thirty-one plays. Listen to lectures on the play on the internet, then watch videos of the play, then read the play. Attend performances of the plays when available. A full twelve months of Shakespeare. It was a wonderful experience. I was glad when it was over.
Through Lock-Picking
I’ve done more bizarre subjects. I spent one summer learning how to pick locks. Hours on YouTube watching the videos, and then I’d buy a box of old combination or key locks from the dollar store. Spend all day with my little kit trying to pick them.
My wife didn’t appreciate that summer. We were taking a cruise and as soon as we checked into our cabin, I announced I was going to prove to her how good I was by picking the lock on our cabin safe. I had studied it many times, knew the tricks and understood the probabilities of Cruise Ship Cabin Safes. (That’s a whole separate thing, if you didn’t know, and I was sure I’d learned it).
I shut the safe door and began my effort. My wife stood back, as far back as she could. You know how small a cruise ship cabin is, but she stood back, with her arms crossed and no faith that her husband knew what he was doing (not the first time she showed that lack of faith).
I spun it for a while and set off some sensor. I continued and the cabin automatically locked until a cabin steward came to unlock our door and reset the system. My wife would have been embarrassed if she hadn’t been laughing at me so hard. I wasn’t quite the expert I had convinced myself I was, and her lack of faith had been justified.
At the end of the summer, my wife asked me, “Are you finished with your little crime-spree, now?” Yes. Yes I was. I announced to her that I’d learned all I needed to about locks.
“Good,” she said. “It’s time to study something else.”
Simple Pleasures
We were supposed to be at Mount Fuji in Japan today. That didn’t happen. We had scheduled spending Melinda’s birthday exploring Kyoto: wandering through temples, eating in little restaurants and drinking in closet-size bars, all down streets narrower than most alleys here.
Instead, we are dealing with the pandemic at home, and we appreciate the simpler, truer qualities of life. After the hard lockdown, I took my wife last week to her first restaurant outing in months. She was more excited about that little outing than she would have been at a kaiseki dinner.
You are living through this, too. You know the simple joys of the first tastes of reentering your normal life. Walking down a tree-covered avenue in the park. Relishing your first Tex-Mex meal in months. (I noticed Suzy Lemaster, a friend in Amarillo, bragging on Facebook about her and John’s trip for Tex-Mex this weekend). Melinda was giddy for her first margarita at Houston’s El Tiempo. Nothing special, but better to her after all this time locked up than a cup of sake.
What is better at any time than one of life’s simple pleasures — other than enjoying a simple pleasure you have long been without? Not much is needed for the simple life. Whether it’s looking out the window at happy people in the park, or the mouth-watering sensation of fresh, hot bread dripping with butter, or a retreat into oneself after a busy, hectic day of teleconferences, or fresh, plump blackberries in season, or staying up late with a page-turner by Sue Hawley, or the satisfaction of doing a good turn — these simple pleasures feel more rejuvenating than a million bucks in the bank.
As much as I’d have liked to, we don’t need to travel to Japan to feel good. We don’t need exotic locations. We have so much available to us right now, so many accessible and ordinary pleasures right here where we are.
The events of the world of late are a powerful reminder of this. Don’t ignore your simple pleasures.
Amor fati.
Mother’s Day: Guest Blog by Melinda Little
I love Mother’s Day. It’s a springtime holiday so the weather is usually nice. The day often involves brunch — and who doesn’t love a good brunch? When the kids were little we usually celebrated Mother’s Day at a ball field – softball or baseball — either at tournament or a practice — or both. I never minded because I loved watching my kids play sports. The other moms on the teams were my friends. The weather was usually fantastic – the last of the lovely days before the Houston summer came roaring in like a fire ball.
Russell has always struggled with the month May because not only does he have to deal with Mother’s Day, but our anniversary and my birthday also fall in May. When I was much younger, he was right to fear. I was a little brat. As I age I have mellowed – seeing my family is enough for me these days.
Since my kids have become adults, my sweet daughter, Katie, and my son-in-law, Patrick, usually wrangle my sons, Will and David, into doing something to celebrate the day. She assigns them tasks and they show up – mostly on time. The youngest, David, usually brings me flowers, but Will brings various things. This year it was my favorite brand of prosecco for mimosas. (Smart man!)
Last year we did not celebrate Mother’s Day together because Russell and I were in Oak Harbor, Washington with David for his fiancé Rebecca’s funeral. It was a terrible day, but we were there with David to support him. Being a mom is the most rewarding aspect of my life, but it can also be the hardest. All of my children have had to endure pain for different reasons at different stages of life – some too personal to share in a blog. Watching them go through it and not being able to do anything more than stand by them, just being there, is the most helpless feeling.
While time does not heal all wounds, time does ease grief. This year we celebrated Mother’s Day again together at my daughter’s house. Our sweet little granddaughter, Vivienne, looked as pretty as a picture. My daughter provided brunch. Katie, Patrick and Vivienne gave me a plant in the most adorable pot. David brought me flowers, Will brought all the fixings for the mimosas. We sat outside taking turns trying to ride David’s motorized skateboard and watched Will fly a drone and video us from above. We enjoyed the sun and each other. We took a moment in time to celebrate our family. We remembered family members no longer with us with funny stories and laughed at the things Rebecca would have said. It was a lovely day.
My heart is full and I didn’t even have to do the dishes.