FURTHER AVENTURES OF A TRAVELING BANDERSNATCH

by Steven Steinbock

I’m still on the road. As I write this, I’m sitting by the pool at a hotel in Seaside, Oregon, fifteen miles from my birthplace of Astoria (the mouth of the Columbia River, the end of the Oregon Trail, and the oldest town west of the Rockies).

We’re here with my sister, her husband, and their two small kids, Harry and Anna. We’ve also been joined by my son Nate’s childhood sweetheart Eliza. (It’s strange to say “childhood sweetheart” when they’re still only fourteen, but they’ve been close since they were seven-years-old). Eliza and her family moved to Colorado when the kids were in fifth grade, and they’ve kept in touch with each other since. Two years ago their emails and Instant Messages took a more serious tone, and then a year ago, they broke up. Sort of. I guess I don’t understand the younger generation. Just when I thought things were over between them, her mother called aqnd said that she wanted to spend a week with us. Eliza has grown into a serious looker, which makes life strange for me. I don’t have any daughters. I’m accustomed to having boys, and suddenly I find myself walking along the boardwalk with someone who is attracting leering glances at every step.

Adventures of Uncle Stevo

Anna and Harry are four and five-years old. It’s been fun having my influence on them. One day we were talking about penguins, and it reminded me of the scene in Mary Poppins when Mary and Bert were waited on by a penguin. I asked the kids if they had seen the movie, and when I learned they hadn’t heard of the bewitching nanny, I knew I had to do something about it. I bought the P.L. Travers book and began reading chapters to them. (It’s tough to compare the book to the film, but the book has a lot more witticism than one would expect from a 1934 children’s book. However, it must be noted that the waiters in the book are not penguins).

My other realm of influence on my young nephew and niece was much more unplanned and unexpected. I bought a DVD documentary about the sixties musical group, the Mamas and the Papas. When I put it on, I found that Harry and Anna were glued to the tube. When it was over, they wanted to watch it again. They began asking me questions about the group. “Why did Mama Cass die?” “Why did John die?” “What about Denny?” “Is Michelle still alive?” “Is she old?” “Why did John and Michelle break up?” A lyric from the song “Creeque Alley” that went “No one’s getting fat except Mama Cass” drew lots of laughter, as well as questions about the appropriateness. “Uncle Stevo, why did they say that? Is that nice? Isn’t ‘fat’ a bad word?” Who woulda thought? Uncle Stevo is doing his part to keep the light of flower-power burning bright.

Grosse Point Blanke Revisited

Being in Seattle this summer afforded me the chance to attend my high school reunion.

Some might see that as a curse. In a way, it was. As the day approached, I was dreading it. In preparation I looked over a roster of people who were attending. I only recognized one out of every twenty or thirty names I came across. (I did have a graduating class of around 700 people, but I got around and thought I knew most of them).

Arriving at the reunion party, it didn’t take long to be certain I had come to the right place. There were still a lot of people whose names, faces, and even the yearbook pictures on our nametags were completely unfamiliar to me. Those who I did remember fell into two categories: the ones who looked exactly as they did thirty years ago except for a few wrinkles and gray hairs, and those who looked entirely different. Tim had completely changed in appearance, to the point that I had trouble associating the face in front of me with the kid I knew in junior high and high school. But a few short minutes of conversation, and I was completely comfortable with the clever, easygoing guy I had known. That was when I spotted John and Karen, the homecoming king and queen who were dating even before they were separately elected to high school royalty, and who had now been married for two and a half decades. This couple were unchanged, except for a receding hairline (on John, not on Karen).

Two pals I was looking forward to seeing were Kevin and Grant. But Grant informed me that he’d be more inclined to attend his father’s 65th class reunion than to attend ours. Kevin informed me that he’d find an excuse not to go, like taking his daughter out for a burger. (I did get to see Grant when we took a hike together in the Snoqualmie National Forest, and I’ll be seeing Kevin next week; see below).

Three days after the reunion, I received a group email from Mike, suggesting that several of us get together for auld lang syne. After several exchanges, we agreed on a date. Now we needed a venue. Kevin, despite the fact that he no longer drinks, asked, “I have a question. Is the place we used to have campfires out on the tracks between coal creek and the trestle still viable?”, to which Mike responded, “Dude, it’s condos.” Kevin answered back, “SIGH. Another memory crumbles to dust.”

But when it’s not now or what’s happening next, memories are what it’s all about, isn’t it?

Blogging with from the Uninformed Highway

One of the big downers of participating in this blog while I’m on the road is that I have limited internet access, and so am rarely able to comment on my fellow Criminal Briefers’ columns. Although this is already becoming an overlong blog column, I want to acknowledge my online friends and colleagues for the reading pleasure they’ve given me through their columns and comments. JLW, I’ll have some stories for you ere long. Rob, thank you for the Nasrudin song. And I love the clever subheading (and the story that accompanied it) in your last column, “Today I am a Textbook.” I think you have to be Jewish (or married to someone who is Jewish) to appreciate the reference. Deb, I have long felt that the art of legerdemain (sleight of hand magic) has many connections to the art of fiction, especially as far as the mystery and detection genres is concerned. Vis-à-vis The Big Sleep, I was going to bring up the story of Hawks asking Chandler about a suplot (I think it was how so-and-so ended up in the lake), but Chandler didn’t have the foggiest. Melodie, you starlet you. You stole my thunder on that one. Deb, there’s a little bit of Walter Mitty in all of us. Leigh, your August 12 column had so much wisdom that it would take several full columns to respond to it all. Angie, welcome to the group. I was feeling all alone as the sole East Coast Criminal Briefer. Glad to have you aboard.

Till next time.