The Sherlockian Summer Continues

Ah, what a marvelous Sherlockian summer it is....

Of course, at the present moment I'm putting off mowing my grass. As it would seem on the surface to have little to do with Sherlock Holmes, I could almost seem justified in doing so. Yet everything has something to do with Holmes, and so does lawn care (aside, even, from the fact that the editor of P & D regularly greets me at my door with the words, "Mow your lawn!"). Let's check our Canons....

Jabez Wilson had "a lawn of weedy grass." Grimesby Roylott had an "ill-trimmed lawn." Reginald Musgrave's staff wasn't much on patching bare spots, leaving "the scar on the lawn where the elm had stood." And the late John Douglas had "a beautiful stretch of lawn with an old sundial in the middle, the whole effect so soothing and restful that it was welcome to my (Watson's) some- what jangled nerves."

A murder victim should have a well-tended lawn. Sherlock Holmes was apt to crawl about the lawns of the suspiciously dead, and if I'm ever murdered in such a horrendous and mysterious fashion as to draw the master detective out of retirement, I would like for him to have a nice lawn to crawl about on. To say nothing of soothing Watson's jangled nerves.

But constantly mowing the lawn isn't all of what summer is about.

When we left our plucky columnist last issue, he was at a certain convention in Lansing, Michigan, having purchased a fanzine or two, and lamenting upon their general absence from the Sherlockian scene.

One of the treats of wandering through the mixed masses of fandom is the unrepentently bizarre people one encounters. A panel discussion on the newest of the Granada Holmes series quickly went awry at the mention of "The Three Gables." One extremely stubborn and vocal woman announced that there was no such story as "The Three Gables," and that the rest of us were obviously confusing "Three Garridebs" for something else. She even persisted to the point of claiming, "I've read all of the 52 stories and 4 novels three times, and I know it's not in there." At which point, I started laughing out loud, then went to retrieve a copy of the Doubleday Complete, which, oddly enough, turned out to be the very same version of the Canon the alien intruder had read her "52 stories and four novels" in.

With the physical evidence in hand, the matter was settled, and the discussion moved on to tales of "Mycroft the warlock." I was not to fully understand this reference until later, when seeing the Granada version of MAZA/3GAR. Jeremy Brett's illness had caused the Granada people to pull Mycroft in to take Sherlock's place in the combination case, which wasn't a totally unpleasant turn. But as the tale nears its conclusion, brother Mycroft suddenly appears to have developed the powers of teleportation and x-ray vision. Add the simple "dink-a-dink" nose twitch sound effect from "Bewitched," and you do indeed get Mycroft the warlock.

The morning after the warlock discussion, I arose and headed into town in search of scones. Finding a nice selection of scones and tarts to go with our tea at the first ever "Sherlock Holmes Festival of Consulting Detection" later in the day, I barely made it back to the hotel in time to see the Granada DYIN, relaxing for
just a moment before the onset of the Lemmings.

I've been involved in several Sherlockian societies over the years, and I highly recommend it. Even though the ongoing maintenance of a club can be a chore, the creation of one is always a wonderment (being almost similar in relationship to the conception/birth of a child and the raising of it). Even if the darn thing dissipates and disappears later on, a club's creation is still a very happy thing, a mutual acknowledgement of things we share, a recognition of the commonalities of our humanity, and an establishment of little clans of relatives beyond the ones bound by blood ...

... even if you just start drafting your members, which is how the Reichenbach Falls Lemming Society began. As soon as anyone showed up for the Sherlock Holmes Festival of Consulting Detection, membership director Bonnie Bills would accost them with the membership roster, making them sign it and presenting them with membership kit and a pipe made out of cherry licorice. Since the club has no dues or mailing list, and can only be joined by showing up at that certain Lansing convention anyway, we didn't think we were imposing on people in just getting their name. They didn't seem to mind ... even after the game show.

The foundation of the Reichenbachian Falls Lemming Society would eventually be followed by an impromptu Bhurmese Python Petting Society formed in the hotel lobby (imagine about twenty people playing "Twister" with a fifteen foot snake), an even more ephemeral group than the Lemmings, but I can see I'm running out of column.

The summer continues, and there are still tales to be told, but I'm afraid they'll have to wait until the unforeseen future (just be glad I don't have slides or video). It's time to prepare for the possibility of my murder and mow the lawn.