Jersey Tales

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SKELETON MAN and Thoughts on Long-Running Series

First of all, the pictures on this post have nothing to do with the content – just recent odds and ends. 

A few days ago I mentioned  that I was reading Tony Hillerman’s Skeleton Man and Merisi (Vienna for Beginners) asked for a review. So here it is, not so much a review as a commentary, along with some thoughts on long running series… 

Hillerman's Chee and Leaphorn books have long been favorites of mine. The list of titles is impressive (and there were a dozen other non- Leaphorn and Chee books interspersed in here -- Hillerman was prolific.) But the Leaphorn and Chee novels are the ones I read and reread.

The Blessing Way (1970), Dance Hall of the Dead (1973),, Listening Woman (1978), People Of Darkness (1980), The Dark Wind (1982), The Ghostway (1984),Skinwalkers (1986), A Thief of Time (1988), Talking God (1989), Coyote Waits (1990), Sacred Clowns (1993), The Fallen Man (1996), The First Eagle (1998), Hunting Badger (1999),The Wailing Wind (2002), The Sinister Pig (2003), Skeleton Man (2004), and The Shape Shifter (2006).

The first ten, eleven, twelve books are all memorable and strong as the characters of Leaphorn and Chee grow in complexity and likeability. The plots are ingenious and the setttings magnificent. In every book, Navajo religion and belief (and sometimes the beliefs of other tribes) play an important and fascinating role.

But, and this is just my opinion, somewhere along the way, the series weakened. And I love these books so much that I hate saying it. But I remember reading Sinister Pigs and feeling that it was a well done first draft -- or a condensation. The settings were still magnificent -- those towering thunderheads rising over the Chuskas -- and all the familiar character were there but somehow it all felt diminished. And it was certainly shorter.

And, to get to Merisi's question, I felt the same way about Skeleton Man. Still worth reading -- a diminished Hillerman is better than no Hillerman. But just a shadow of the earlier books.

 

Now some of this weakening of the series could be due to the fact that Hillerman was in his late seventies and, as I recall, had not been in good health.  But I wonder if  part of this is just the nature of writing a long-running series -- each book presents the challenge of bringing new readers up to speed with the backgrounds of these beloved characters while trying at the same time not to bore long-time readers.

Or to bore the writer. I wonder if Hillerman ever sighed to himself and thought -- time to write about the thunderheads rising over the Chuskas . . . Remember, Conan Doyle tried unsuccessfully to kill off Sherlock because he was tired of writing about him.

We faithful readers expect, even demand a certain familiarity -- we don't want Joe Leaphorn to stop being wise and practical and we want Jim Chee to continue to be in conflict with his spirituality. And I want to hear about those thunderheads yet again... and at length because no one does weather better than Hillerman.  

It's the dilemma Hollywood faces in making sequels -- make it the same -- but with surprises.

There are lots of long-running mystery series out there -- Sue Grafton is almost at the end of her alphabet series, Janet Evanovich' s Stephanie Plum is up to twenty. Margaret  Maron, Elizabeth George, Deborah Crombie, Lee Child, Laurie R. King, Ian Rankin . . .

Have any of you followed a long-running (over ten books) series?  What are your thoughts? 

 

Forboding Weather

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cats and Jim Chee and Me

I was reading Tony Hillerman's Skeleton Man -- a recent acquisition from the library book sale -- when I came across the following description of Jim Chee's relationship with a stray cat:

"Only when snow began did it move in to spend the nights, still keeping a cautious distance from Chee. Thus they lived together, Chee serving as food provider, Cat operating as feline watchdog,bolting in with a clatter when a coyote ( or any visitor) approached the trailer. Otherwise they ignored each other.

"The relationship perfectly fit Chee's Navajo traditionalism. Natural harmony required all species, be they human, hamster, hummingbird, snake, or scorpion, to respect each other's roles in the natural world. He saw no more justification in pretending to "own" a pet than he did in human slavery. Both violated the harmony of the system and thus were immoral."

This struck a chord with me, especially pertaining to the kittehs.  Sometime, especially when they're thumping and bumping around the house in the middle of the night or when I come upon them staring at something invisible to me, I feel that we are two very different types of beings, who simply happen to occupy the same house. Our paths intersect now and then and if I didn't keep the food bowl full and the litter box clean, they'd be displeased. But they are so very much their own selves and independent of people.

 

The dogs seem to be emotionally dependent on us to a certain extent-- especially the Border Collie Dan whose life work involves keeping an eye on John.

The cats, on the other hand, enjoy being around us some of the time -- especially when it's cold. But they make it clear that they have their own lives to lead . . .

I've always felt that having cats in the house is much like living with semi-tamed wild animals.  My pleasure comes from watching them.

 

Beaver Lake, Asheville

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patch, Patch, Patch . . .

Monday morning, as I was eating scrambled eggs -- scrambled eggs, for heavens sake! -- something went dreadfully wrong with one of my teeth -- it seemed to have exploded.  A look in the mirror confirmed my diagnosis -- one side of a lower molar had fallen away from the filling that was the main part of the tooth.

I'd just had my teeth cleaned the week before and  there'd been no untoward signs. But this couldn't be ignored. Fortunately there was a cancellation at the dentist's office and he was able to see me that day.

This is a new dentist who appears to be about 16 years old. Our old (younger than I) dentist retired recently, turning over his practice to this kid.

The kid was sympathetic and professional.  The tooth was past saving.  He numbed up my jaw and a few unpleasant (but not painful) minutes later, the tooth was out. I asked the kid to tell me what my options were, beginning with the cheapest.

The cheapest, at just under a thousand dollars, is a partial -- a removable false tooth. Next -- at just under three thousand, would be a false tooth held in place by two crowns -- which would involve putting crowns on the adjacent teeth . . . Then there's an implant . . .

We don't have dental insurance, alas.

"Stop there," I told the kid. "I believe the partial will suit me just fine."

I've heard it said that getting older is just one damn thing after another -- and I'm beginning to see the truth of it.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not complaining. There are so many folks out there with real and chronic problems. I've had, and continue to have, good health. It's just that this piddly stuff keeps happening as the infrastructure deteriorates -- the ophthalmologist trying to talk me into bifocals and nattering on about cataracts, the hearing in my right ear becoming marginal (though if people would just quit mumbling...,) the sudden appearance of chin hairs (maybe if I had bifocals, I'd notice those hairs before they got so long.)

On the other hand, the knee replacement was a great success, so much so that I don't feel the need to do anything about the other one at this time.  My shoulder, that I was afraid would need surgery, is slowly improving thanks to physical therapy. . .  (though my friend Josie says she's saddened to think I'll never pitch again. . .)   

Not that I ever pitched before. But there was always the possibility . . .

It's odd to find myself almost seventy-one. (Wait a second! When did this happen? It was only a few years ago that I was riding in the car with my mother and she was about to turn forty. I never though I'd be this old, she said.) 

My mother died at sixty-nine. (Virginia would have hated being seventy, one of her friends told me. Virginia said that seventy was really old.) 

I don't know... I guess at this point I'm thinking seventy is getting old and eighty is  pretty old, and ninety, now that's old, and a hundred, really old. . .

But I'll tell you one thing: I prefer to be seventy (or eighty, or ninety, or a hundred) years old.  When folks start calling you however many years young -- that's when you know they think you're actually pretty ancient.

In my case, you'll know I'm senile and past caring if you call me___ years young and I don't hit you with my cane.

  

Clouds and Con Trails