‘The Dreadful Lemon Sky,’ by John D. MacDonald

A fellow who was pretty handy with a boat once said that anything you feel good after is moral. But that implies that the deed is unchanging and the doer is unchanging. What you feel good after one time, you feel rotten after the next. And it is difficult to know in advance. And morality shouldn’t be experimental, I don’t think.

Another deal on a Travis McGee e-book means another Travis McGee review, to the joy of all. Author John D. MacDonald was at the peak of his powers back in the 1970s when The Dreadful Lemon Sky came out; the result is a neat, tight, engaging mystery.

Our hero Travis McGee, Fort Lauderdale boat dweller and beach bum, is not technically a private eye. He basically does favors for friends and friends referred by friends, mostly recovering stolen property, retaining a large percentage of the value as his fee. The Dreadful Lemon Sky begins with something less than a “salvage” job. Carrie Milligan, an old friend, asks him to hold a large amount of cash for her for one month. If she doesn’t come to claim it by then, he should get it to her sister in New Jersey.

But it doesn’t take that long. A few days later, there’s a news item – Carrie Milligan was killed by a truck while crossing a highway near her home in Bay City (which appeared to me to resemble very much the city of Palm Bay, where I once lived). McGee and his economist friend Meyer sail north in McGee’s houseboat for the funeral. There he meets the sister along with Carrie’s circle of friends. And at that point McGee starts getting suspicious. Something is going on under the surface here – he will discover drug smuggling, political corruption, sexual kink and betrayal. The solution will prove to be a complex one, and cruel.

Every McGee novel includes scenes that stick in my mind, even after decades. This one includes a great moment where McGee rescues Carrie’s sister from being fleeced by a funeral director, and McGee’s meditation on the corrosive nature of corporate takeovers of smaller brands. Also, he rents a yellow AMC Gremlin in Bay City, which happened to be exactly the car I was driving back when I first read the book. We Gremlin drivers needed all the support we could get.

Great story. Great reading experience. Cautions for violence, drug use and a pretty lyrical sex scene.

Sunday Singing: Deep River

Today’s hymn is of traditional origin. Deep River is a song about longing for heaven, written over 150 years ago. The earliest printed evidence is from 1867. It’s performed above by Wilford Kelly.

” Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life.” (John 5:24 ESV)

Deep river, my home is over Jordan,
Deep river, Lord,
I want to cross over into campground.
Oh, don’t you want to go to that gospel feast,
That promised land where all is peace?
Oh, deep river, Lord,
I want to cross over into campground.

‘Hidden Realms: Scandinavian Folktales,” by G. K. Lund

Once, the Lord wanted to test if all people could agree on something, like wishing for rainy weather. For three years, there was no rain on Earth, causing great distress. He thought that now everyone was in agreement to wish for rain, and it came. But on the same day, a woman had hung her clothes out to dry, and she was not happy at all. “That’s typical,” she complained. “If it’s been dry for three years, it certainly could have lasted one more day.”

I’ve long had a minor interest in folk beliefs and superstitions, for incorporating in my stories if for no other reason. The folk beliefs of Scandinavia interest me most, of course, but if you read accounts from further abroad, you tend to see great commonality. Everybody seems to have believed in “little people” who lived at the margins of society, and their tales of human interaction with such folk tend to exhibit very similar motifs.

G. K. Lund’s Hidden Realms: Scandinavian Folktales presents a selection of her own translations of folk stories (called sagn, which is pronounced very much like “song”). These are not fairy tales as such – as she takes pains to explain – they aren’t fully formed fantastic tales. They’re more like anecdotes. Some of them are only one or two lines long.

The greater part of the stories involve what were known as Vættir, a broad classification that includes all the Scandinavian fantastic beings. Mostly these are elves, dwarfs, trolls and what the Norwegians call nisser – like a brownie or a gnome. There is no exact taxonomy, of course; the creatures often mix and match traits and can be hard to distinguish from one another.

There are rules for dealing with them, of course, but the rules can vary from one story to another. It’s generally agreed that it’s not a good idea to follow them “into the hill” where they live, or to eat their food, but both those taboos are sometimes broken without harm. Sometimes humans can fool them and profit thereby, and at other times they pay a high price. Sometimes an act of kindness to them brings rich reward, and but at other times it can be a mistake, as when a kind farm wife sews a new suit of clothes for the “barn nisse” only to have him stop helping with the farm work because he doesn’t want to get them dirty.

Such stories fascinate me; I’ve always wanted to write a story about them that captured their alien logic. I’m not sure I’ve ever come close.

G. K. Lund’s translations in Hidden Realms are generally quite good, though I nitpicked from time to time, as one does. The book features very handsome illustrations – somewhat reminiscent of Theodor Kittelsen (see last night’s post) though a little smooth for my taste.

Very enjoyable, if you’re into this stuff.

Theodor Kittelsen

Tonight, I had Norwegian folklore on my mind, and I found this amusing video on YouTube. It concerns the Norwegian artist Theodor Kittelsen (1857-1914), one of my favorites. He was an imaginative illustrator, and sometimes — in my opinion — he was ahead of his time, employing stylistic techniques that would become popular later on.

I came on an anecdote involving Kittlesen in my reading recently. The author Sigrid Undset, when she was a girl, went with her mother and sisters to spend a summer holiday at the seaside. They were very poor after the death of her father, but the cottage was available cheap. To her astonishment, little Sigrid found that their closest neighbor was the artist Theodor Kittlesen and his family. She made friends with Kittelsen’s daughter, and was introduced to the great artist, whom she greatly admired. At that point in her life she was contemplating becoming an artist herself. After a while she worked up the courage to show Kittlesen some of her own drawings.

“You have talent enough, poor thing,” Kittlesen sighed. He went on to warn her that art was no easy career.

‘Gallows Walk,’ by Giles Ekins

Lately I’ve been spending too much time scrolling through those short videos you find on Facebook and YouTube (I believe many of them originate with Tiktok, but I’ve never dared cross that threshold). I had conceived a fear that, like so many people nowadays, I was losing my ability to concentrate. Perhaps my impatience with the novels I’ve been reading lately arose from losing my capacity to persevere through a book.

Gallows Walk by Giles Ekins relieved my mind greatly. The book has many flaws, but it engaged my interest and kept me reading.

Gallows Walk is the first volume in a series set in the town of West Garside, near the city of Sheffield in Yorkshire, during the early 1950s. Our hero is Detective Inspector Christopher Yarrow. He was a flyer in World War II, but lost an eye, rendering him unfit for duty. He is mourning the early death of his wife. He is an intelligent and sympathetic policeman, annoyed by the laziness and bullying tactics employed by some of the older detectives.

The story involves many subplots, but the main narrative concerns a robbery that goes badly wrong. A career criminal attempts to grab a bag of payroll money being carried by a messenger, but meeting resistance, ends up killing a man with a shotgun and, in his escape, hitting a little girl with his car, causing her death. The criminal goes into hiding, and we follow the manhunt as Inspector Yarrow follows up every clue with frustratingly slow progress, and the criminal discovers how hard it is to keep a low profile in a country howling for your blood.

Author Ekins has an unusual style. He tells the story in an episodic way, pausing now and then to provide historical information that’s not strictly necessary to the story – the sort of thing some authors would put in footnotes. The story moves at a leisurely pace, which readers could find boring. But it all worked quite well for me. I liked the depth of the characters – good and bad – and Yarrow’s sympathetic nature. Some digs are taken at the traditional sexual roles of the time, and I confess I sympathized a good deal with the old guard. Still, by and large I found the book very congenial.

The author has some bad habits. The grammar isn’t always correct, and he has a bad habit of forgetting the initial quotation marks in subsequent paragraphs of an extended speech. He also sometimes forgets which tense he’s writing in.

Nevertheless, I very much enjoyed Gallows Walk, and have bought the sequel.

Freezin’ season

Photo credit: Juha Lakaniemi, planetlb. Unsplash license.

I suppose we should all take a second to revel in this rare moment of national unity. By which I mean, of course, the cold weather. All across America, from capital A to shining small a, citizens are sharing the Minnesota Experience. We used to say the winter weather keeps the riffraff out, but it doesn’t seem to be working very well.

Anyway, it’s cold. On Sunday morning I got up for church, put on my suit and trench coat and hat (I’m the only guy at my church who dresses that way for services, but somebody’s got to show the flag), and went out to the garage and got in my car.

And I couldn’t get the door to latch. I slammed it a few times. It caught at last.

And then I checked to see if I could open it again, and I couldn’t.

I hit the buttons on the remote. I hit the buttons on the door. Nothing.

Now I could, in theory, have driven to church and crawled out the passenger side. But after trying it in the garage, I found it was a lot of effort for an old fat man in a long coat. So I gave up on church.

I am, indeed, a fair weather disciple.

My primary theory was that some water had gotten into the door when I washed the car last week, and had frozen, and that was the problem.

Yesterday, I squirted WD-40 into the keyhole. Tried to turn the key, and it still wouldn’t unlock. I gave it overnight to marinate.

Today it was still frozen. I used a hair dryer to warm the lock up. A sleeveless and bootless task, as the English used to say. (I think.)

Tomorrow will be a little warmer. If I still can’t get the thing open, I’ll assume the problem is not ice but mechanics, and try to get an appointment at my garage.

Why you should care about this I have no idea. I’m still at post-translation loose ends. I did nothing today, writing-wise, except to start getting my figures into a spreadsheet for my tax preparer.

As I’ve said too many times, my taxes are way too complicated for my low income. You could say, as far as that goes, that it’s a good thing my script translation gig has gone the way of the floppy disc. At least I don’t have to fill out forms for foreign income. H. & R. Block charges for every form.

But does that make up for losing the right to honestly tell chicks I’m “in the movie business”?

I might be able to tell you if I’d ever tried it.

‘The Hunted,’ by James Phelan

I bought this book previous to my recent resolution (dropped a few posts ago) to ease back on buying thrillers. Just as I grow older and more mellow in my tastes, the thriller genre is on an increasing trajectory of ever-more-implausible cinematic violence and suspense too intense for my old heart.

James Phelan’s The Hunted isn’t actually all that extreme in those regards, but I had trouble getting into it nonetheless.

As you probably don’t recall, I liked Lee Childs’ Jack Reacher books, but swore off when he made it obvious how much he despises Christian Evangelicals. James Phelan’s Jed Walker is advertised as in the Reacher vein, and his last name’s Walker, so I figured I’d give it a shot.

Jed Walker, former Air Force commando (apparently such creatures exist), former CIA covert operative, is similar to Jack Reacher in size, strength, and fighting skills. Otherwise, he lacks Reacher’s intriguing Zen simplicity. Jed is basically a fairly normal guy, with relationships and everything. A couple years ago he was forced to fake his death and stay dead for a year – during which time his wife grieved and then remarried. He still loves her.

He also has a father, another covert operations type. Jed is searching for him, but not because of filial piety. His father is somehow involved with a project called Zodiac, a planned sequence of terrorist attacks, each to be the trigger for the next.

In his investigations, Jed learns that several members of the strike team that killed Osama Bin Laden have been murdered, all in a short period of time. He believes this is connected to Zodiac in some way. He heads to the Ozarks to locate the one survivor – a wilderness-wise Marine who lives in a remote compound, guarding his family. Jed races with a team of assassins to reach the man first.

On the way he teams up with the man’s cousin – who is, of course, a young, pretty woman who does her best to seduce him (but Jed is admirably resistant – he still loves his wife).

There was nothing particularly wrong with The Hunted. It kept the action going through many very short chapters. The characters were varied and individual, though they never really grabbed me. I thought the villains’ motives were a little muddled, and the climax confused me – though that may have been my fault for not paying close enough attention.

The author has an unfortunate tendency to repeat observational passages, and could have used better editing. He is apparently English, as he occasionally falls into Britishisms, such as “crisps” and “boot” (for a car trunk).

The Hunted was okay. You might like it. I found it a little thin.

Sunday Singing: There Is a Balm in Gilead

We return to our Sunday Singing hymn selections with this moving African spiritual, “There Is a Balm in Gilead.” Kathleen Battle & Jessye Norman sing with The New York Philharmonic in the recording above.

It’s a song that provokes you to ask often we should tell people of the living hope that’s been given to us. How often should we echo the words of the prophet in Jeremiah 46:11 (ESV)?

“Go up to Gilead, and take balm,
O virgin daughter of Egypt!
In vain you have used many medicines;
there is no healing for you.”

Other medicines don’t actually work, but the balm in Gilead will heal us completely.

Refrain
There is a balm in Gilead
to make the wounded whole,
there is a balm in Gilead
to heal the sin-sick soul.

  1. Sometimes I feel discouraged
    and think my work’s in vain,
    but then the Holy Spirit
    revives my soul again.
  2. If you cannot preach like Peter,
    if you cannot pray like Paul,
    you can tell the love of Jesus
    and say, “He died for all.”

Reasons to Watch ‘Star Wars: Skeleton Crew’

Star Wars: Skeleton Crew, the latest TV series from a once-beloved franchise, ended this week. It is a space pirate adventure that many compared to Treasure Island, because of a mythical planet loaded with treasure and Jude Law’s character being named (among other things) Captain John Silvo. I watched the show with my oldest daughter, who noticed Silvo’s character arc resembles Long John Silver.

I said when I posted a review of the series’ first half that it wasn’t very Star-Warsy, because nothing essential to the story is essential to the core story of Star Wars; but the second half improved on that front. It would be a big spoiler (perhaps the biggest) to give the strongest bit of evidence on this point, but I could note the introduction of a light saber in episode 5 and an important part of Star Wars history comes into play by the end.

We enjoyed it. The children, who are each roughly 13 years old, mature during the adventure–not much, but noticeably. Silvo is the most interesting, because he’s a charismatic pirate of uncertain motivation. Is he a complete villain or is he just greedy or insecure? Will he do right by the kids at the end?

It’s a good show, not a deep one. It didn’t have syrupy morals found along the way and it had a few moments of … peril. But the final episode leaned hard on the logic of a show made for younger audiences. Again, I don’t want to give big spoilers, but I will note that Dr. Doofenshmirtz has repeatedly taught us the value of not building self-destruct switches into your villainous weapons and that applies to other mechanics as well.

Reports says Skeleton Crew hasn’t drawn many viewers, and the critics I listen to blame previous shows for wasting any hopes the fans may still have. A good show, they say, won’t draw anyone back. It needs to be blockbuster. And a TV show probably can’t get there. Maybe later viewing numbers will improve its reception, but the current outlook is that Disney doesn’t know how to tell great stories.

Meetings are too long, and life is too short

Deathhbed of Hans Christian Anderson, artist unknown.

Today was Sverdrup Forum Day. Our annual Georg Sverdrup Society meeting for students of our seminary, and others interested, in which papers are read and discussion encouraged.

I usually read an extract from one of my translations of Sverdrup’s works, but this year somebody else did that duty, and I was asked to do opening devotions instead.

I’ve written before about my phobia concerning praying in public. But I wrote it all out ahead of time, and read it from my printed text. That was not a problem.

I ran short, time-wise, but not by accident. I knew, from experience, that these shebangs tend to run long. Nobody complained about my brevity, and the forum, as it happened, ended almost precisely on schedule.

[Insert here labored metaphor about the concept of brevity and its application to life.]

As I’ve told you, I just finished translating a literary biography.

A question occurred to me – “Is there such a thing as a genuinely good biography that isn’t sad?”

I once read (I think) a quotation by Oscar Wilde (can’t find it online, so maybe it’s one of those made-up things. Still good): “Tragedy is comedy plus time.”

In other words, you can make any comedy a tragedy by just leaving the curtain up. In the end, everybody dies, just like in Hamlet.

You’ve got two choices in a death. It can be too soon, or too late. There never seems to be a perfect time.

Most of us look forward to a long life. But that often means a slow decline as health problems increase, and friends die, and the world gradually turns alien and dangerous around us.

I just wrote a novel where two main characters die Viking deaths.

There’s something to be said for that.

Does this mean I’m ready to go now, while I’m still ambulatory and not wearing a diaper?

Are you kidding? No way.

Book Reviews, Creative Culture