I forgot to mention that I have a new article up at The American Spectator Online today. Political Non-Science.
In a Dry Season, by Peter Robinson
I’ve always been a sucker—I’m not entirely sure why—for the “cold case” story, the mystery that goes back a generation or two, where old letters and the dim memories of the elderly are the chief sources of information. English writer Peter Robinson’s In a Dry Season is an excellent example of this type.
The hero is Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks, a Yorkshire policeman currently in “career Siberia” due to conflicts with his superior. When that superior sends Banks to investigate the discovery of a skeleton found in a shallow grave in the ruins of a small town, drowned by a reservoir for decades but now uncovered in a severe drought, it’s because he considers it a nothing case.
But forensics reveal that the skeleton belonged to a young woman, and she died from strangulation and stabbing. Clearly murder. With the help of an attractive female detective (with whom he predictably strikes sparks), Banks sets about learning what life was like in the town of Hobbs End during World War II, and about a beautiful young woman who came to town as a “land girl” (a substitute agricultural worker) and married the handsomest boy in town. Who had a motive to kill her, and why is everyone who remembers her certain she left town alive?
As a parallel to the investigation narrative, the author switches periodically to an old manuscript, an account of the whole business written by someone who was very close to it all.
Author Robinson does some serious literary work here. The investigation, and its setting, take on metaphorical significance as he examines the nature of memory, and of love and guilt. Alan Banks is a very good protagonist, seriously flawed, especially in his relationships, but generally decent—motivated, we are told, by a hatred of bullies. Although the few political comments tend to the liberal side, there’s a refreshing contempt for draconian smoking laws, and even a suggestion that not having a gun in the house can be a dangerous thing. Also, Robinson seems less certain than the average Englishman that the death penalty is a bad thing.
I liked In a Dry Season very much, taken all in all. Cautions for language and adult themes.
Hostfest 2012, Report 5 (Photo edition)
OK, as promised (I think) here are some photos from our Viking encampment at the Norsk Høstfest in Minot, ND, this past Wednesday through Saturday. You’ll note that they closely resemble my pictures from previous years, except for the addition of some younger, better looking people.
” alt=”” />
This is the fight staging and picture-taking area. It’s next to the “sandbox” where we fight, and it’s also where we keep costumes for people who want their pictures taken as Vikings. Such people, we find, are not necessarily Scandinavian, or even Caucasian.
” alt=”” />
Here’s the newlywed couple I mentioned before, Phil and Kelsey. Kelsey is a bona fide expert on Viking costume, and if you want one you can order it from her online business, Spindle, Shuttle, & Needle. Continue reading Hostfest 2012, Report 5 (Photo edition)
Hostfest 2012, Report 4
Saturday, the final round. There will be no further on-site reports from me, as my ride leaves at oh-dark-bloody-early tomorrow morning.
Another good day for the Vikings yesterday, especially in terms of fighting. I found, to my amazement, that I won most of my fights against much younger, faster opponents. I can only conclude (and Ragnar concurs) that all these years of slogging it out, one on one, with a very good sword fighter have borne fruit in a little actual skill.
I don’t expect it to last. The young fighters will learn quickly, and they’ll learn my weaknesses faster than anything else. I think I can see it happening even now.
My most interesting fight was against a young fellow (coincidentally the Bridegroom I mentioned yesterday) who prefers to fight with a short axe. In that fight I actually succeeded–though not on purpose–in performing a move I’ve often aspired to. That is, catching my opponent’s blade in my shield, and then pulling it out of his hand. In this case he got his axe stuck so firmly in my shield that we had a tug of war over who would get both axe and shield, as they were clearly going to stay together. I got it away, and then he grappled me, so I had a little trouble to finally dispatch him with my short saex.
As for the festival as a whole, today will probably determine how successful it is. Traditionally, Høstfest has had two major sources of visitors–the thousands of RVers who drive in and camp for the week, and package tours that bring people in in buses and put them up at local motels. As I told you before, most of the motels are now booked full with oil drillers, and those that aren’t full have hiked their prices drastically. So, according to the scuttlebutt among the entertainers, about 30 tour companies canceled their visits. Crowds have been less than I had expected.
However, today is the day the air base people and the oil workers will be free to visit, so we’re likely to see a surge.
I’ll tell how that works out Monday.
Hostfest 2012, Report 3
This is shaping up to be the most fun Hostfest I (at least) have ever experienced. We have two young couples in our group this year, one of them newlyweds, and a family with teenage boys. This livens up everything. The combats have been a hoot. Instead of just two old geezers slogging around in the sand, gutting it out for three or four fights, the kids can’t get enough, and like to extend the shows. My own success against them, remarkably, has been pretty good.
The high point of yesterday’s fights was when I “killed” the new bridegroom, raised my sword, and shouted, “SHE’S MINE!”
Also when our biggest fighter and one of our smallest fighters were rolling around trying to kill each other with their backup weapons. It looked like a bear trying to shake off a terrier.
Oh, the delights you’re missing, not being here with us.
Had a conversation in Norwegian yesterday with a gentleman from Bergen, who couldn’t get over how wonderful America was. He went to a bank to change money, he said, and the teller told him he’d have to go to Wells Fargo Bank. Then she accompanied him down the street, to make sure he found the right place.
Faulkner Resigns as Postmaster
Unless Faulkner was completely joking with his resignation letter, he apparently didn’t believe his employer deserved an honest day’s work for a day’s wage. “How can I serve you?” doesn’t appear to be in his English phrase book. I can’t say this speaks well of him.
Hostfest 2012, Report 2
And it’s the second day of Norsk Høstfest in Minot. Gradually our members are straggling into town. The great delight this year is that we have a number of young members who’ve never been here before. No longer is the Viking camp a geriatric retreat. We have youth! Pretty girls! People to fight and carry stuff from here to there, so us oldsters can take a nap!
Heard the New Christy Minstrels yesterday. Of the 1960s group, only founder Randy Sparks is there. Otherwise it’s a group of professional entertainers, most of them pretty old (he says one of them auditioned for him in 1960, and finally got the gig a couple years ago). Nice to hear “Green, Green” again, anyway.
Won a few fights, lost a few fights. I got a sword swipe in the face yesterday, but took no serious damage.
Luther, Martin Luther. I’m an Art Critic
Daniel Siedell, a Christian art critic and curator, writes, “While finishing my doctoral dissertation and teaching modern art at a state university in the mid-1990s, I read Francis Schaeffer’s Art and the Bible and H.R. Rookmaaker’s Modern Art and the Death of a Culture
He finds a path toward a theology of art with from Martin Luther and writes about it in his book God in the Gallery: A Christian Embrace of Modern Art (Cultural Exegesis)
Hostfest 2012, Report 1
Here I am, back at the old stand at Norsk Høstfest in Minot, ND. I got here on Monday, having ridden with another Viking rather than driving myself, this time. So far it’s been pretty low pressure. We’ve given ourselves lots of time for things. That will doubtless change in a few minutes, when the crowds start showing up for the first day.
Oh, by the way, I had a hot beef sandwich at Kroll’s Diner in Minot which far surpassed any I’ve ever before tasted, or dreamed of. This has been an unsolicited testimonial.
It will be interesting to see how how changes in the town make changes in the festival. Minot as we know it has always been a nice, small midwestern city with an air base, remote from the rest of the world. Then last year, after the flooding, it was a recovering disaster area, stubbornly refusing to lose heart.
This year it’s a boom town. The actual boom is centered around 120 miles west, around Williston. But the economic waves have spread to Minot now. At least a half a dozen (that’s what we’ve counted; doubtless there are more) motels are going up around town, and even before they’re opened they’re being leased by the drilling companies for their employees, who will live in the rooms and commute all the way to Williston to work. They’re making so much money, that’s actually economical to do.
Tough on some of the locals, though. Not only because the street traffic’s gone insane, but because prices have skyrocketed, and that puts economic pressure on anyone who’s not in the oil business.
On the plus side, the weather’s beautiful. And aside from the Oak Ridge Boys (as usual), we’ll have the New Christy Minstrels (who are pretty old now) singing at the stage around the corner this year. As someone who actually enjoyed the music in “A Mighty Wind,” that’s good news for me.
More as the situation develops.
Fun When It’s Not Disturbing
Some of the stories have an eery sound to them, and when they come after a few humorous ones, they deflate me a bit. But the quirky and humorous ones come around soon enough. Naturally, if every story had perfect pitch, it would be easy to rave, even if I could only say that you had to read it to know what it’s like. It’s possible short short stories simply don’t reach deeply enough to stir our hearts. Perhaps they can’t, being only 100 words. I like to think they can, even though they are just snatches of stories.
I still have my copies of Story quarterly from the mid-90s. They ran short short stories competitions which had to be kept under 1,500 words. Brady Udall’s piece, “The Wig,” from the Summer 1994 issues, has always stuck with me as a beautiful, human moment. The first line goes, “My eight-year-old son found a wig in the garbage Dumpster this morning.” Story‘s editor, Lois Rosenthal, said, “In three hundred words, Udall’s deft tale of an enormous loss swiftly reduced most of our contest judges to tears.” I think I cried too. At least, I felt the loss he described. (The story is available with others in Udall’s anthology, Letting Loose the Hounds
When I’ve posted 100 word stories here, “The Wig” has been in my ear as the pitch I’m hoping to sustain. It’s hard to tell if I have.
Oh, speaking of Loren Eaton, he has another delightful 200-word tale here: “Silver Sea, Salmon Sky.”