A STUDian Banquet and the Morning After

By Brad Keefauver

Chicago, Illinois, has had a colorful history, both as a city and as a capital of Sherlockiana. With both Vincent Starrett and the third-oldest scion of the Baker Street Irregulars to claim as their own, its Sherlockians take back seat to nobody, and have a lot of pride in their many long-standing traditions. Of course Chicagoans also take a lot of pride in Al Capone, the Cubs, and having burnt to the ground once, so you do have to take that last part with a grain of salt.

When I got asked last spring to speak at this year’s STUD Sherlockian Society’s Annual Banquet, I took my grain of salt and said “yes” anyway. Being from downstate Illinois and the son of a farmer’s daughter, I have a natural wariness of them big city folk and their fancy ways. My speaking abilities are also somewhat questionable (occasionally lapsing into phrases like “them big city folk and their fancy ways”) so driving up into the middle of the Chicago rush hour to speak in public held all sorts of little worries for me.

Among my concerns was the fact that I still wasn’t even sure what the STUD Sherlockian Society is. Their red stop sign logo, with the letters “STUD” replacing “STOP,” had always baffled me (eventually I came to realize that it must have something to do with the Rache Road Rally which they sponsor). Their founder and original STUDmaster, Don Izban, is one of the most energetic fellows in modern Sherlockiana, and always full of surprises, so I couldn’t be sure what to expect. A couple of friends of mine from further downstate had attended the year before and survived, however, and I didn’t remember Peter Blau’s Sherlockian society list including a new category for “Special Interest: Cannibalism,” so it had to be somewhat safe, right?

Later, in the cemetery, chilled to the bone and facing the grim reaper, I would have my answer.

But that was later. Back to the banquet itself.

Fred Levin had been kind enough to have plenty of copies of The Armchair Baskerville Tour on hand, so I didn’t have to beg strangers to talk to me during the cocktail hour. A few kindly souls came up and asked to have their copy signed, and I said hello to those folk I’d met on previous excursions out of Peoria, and the time flew, as it does on such occasions.

At the end of the cocktail hour came a single toast, as we were told was the tradition of the STUD clan. The inimitable Tom Stetak took the stage in a dual role, as himself and Reginald Musgrave, to give a Musgrave Ritual-style tribute to young Stamford (of Stamford and Son . . . which gives you just a hint of the toast’s somber tone). Master of ceremonies and STUDmaster Dennis France then led the group in a moment on the terrace for the late Marilyn Zych, followed by the introductions of the STUD board and out-of-town guests. Out-of-towners were present from as far west as California and as far east as New Jersey, so it could truly be claimed a coast-to-coast event.

As dinner began, I found myself seated at a table with two of the five new Baker Street Irregulars for this year, Margaret Smedegaard and Roy Pilot, which seemed a remarkable enough occurrence. What was even more remarkable was the procession of food that started appearing at our table. Sherlockian banquets, like any other large dining function, are not always blessed with great food, but this wasn’t going to be one of those times. The Starlight Inn, a banquet facility in the penthouse of the O’Hare Aerospace Center, did a marvelous job of feeding the assembled throng. I believe I counted six courses in all, and every one of them was a well-thought-out delight.

I would have been happy with just the dinner and the company, but there always has to be a bit more at these functions, and indeed there was. The first ever Donald B. Izban Living Memorial Award was presented by Donald B. Izban himself (which just goes to prove that he’s still living) to Paul Smedegaard (husband of the aforementioned Margaret, and noteworthy Sherlockian in his own right) for service to the cause. Osmotic Spouse Awards, for Sherlockian spouses who’ve gone over and above the call of spousedom in their acceptance of the Sherlockian life, were presented to June Kinnee and Jerry Kunnath. The Order of the Lauriston Garden Guards went to . . . drum roll, please . . . me (there is a definite point-of-view problem with writing one of these reports yourself in such situations). I was too surprised to deliver the appropriate thank-yous to the Academy at the time, and so, with your indulgence, I will do so now:

“I’d like to thank the STUD Sherlockian Society for letting me come to their dinner, then giving me this award, even though I’d have given the talk later in any case. I want to thank the Double-Barrelled Tiger Cubs of Champaign-Urbana for telling a young Sherlockian, ‘There’s a society in Peoria, hint, hint.’ I’d like to thank The Hansoms of John Clayton en masse, and Bob Burr in specific, for not trying to pawn me off on another group like the Tiger Cubs did. I’d like to thank my wife Kathy, who accompanied me to the STUD banquet, but didn’t get mentioned in the article I wrote on it thus far. And most of all, I’d like to thank my mother, for doting on me more than my older brother Mycroft. This one’s for you, ma!”

Ahem.

In any case, Dennis France then inducted new members into the STUD Society, presenting them with their STUD lapel pins and gold-rimmed coffee mugs. I felt the testosterone surge within me as my name was called and I was proclaimed a STUD. Then they proclaimed my wife a STUD, and the moment kind of lost its manly zest.

Once the new members were all in there new member places, it was time for the after-dinner talk, given by me. After hearing my Lauriston Guards award acceptance speech, you really don’t want to sit through that one. Suffice to say it was called “Generation X; Generation 221B,” and no rotten tomatoes were thrown when it was over.

Bob Hahn read a very nicely done “221B,” and the evening came to a close.

Thanks to in-room Nintendo at the hotel and a bad estimation of how long it takes to get across Chicago, Kathy and I were forty-five minutes late to the Solar Pons Breakfast the next morning. We missed both Solar Pons and the power blow-out that hit the restaurant as the festivities began, but the food was once again excellent (cinnamon rolls to die for). The STUD Sherlockian Society knows its eating establishments as well as it knows A Study in Scarlet, it seems, a fact for which Kathy and I were very grateful.

Following the Solar Pons Breakfast, Don Izban led a tour of Graceland Cemetery, stopping at seventeen sights of interest on the way to Vincent Starrett’s grave. Still behind schedule from our earlier tardiness, Kathy and I missed a number of the seventeen stops as we raced to catch up with the tour group. Fortunately Joel and Carolyn Senter (of The Sherlockian Times) and Tom and Janet Biblewski (of The Baker Street Dispatch) were equally behind schedule, so the six of us made up our own tour commentary as we hunted down the main group. Was it just a coincidence that everyone in the laggard group had some publication connected with them? Oddly enough, I think it was.

We eventually caught the tour proper somewhere around the grave of some Chicago architect or another, and found that Troop Leader Izban’s comments were a bit more informative than our own. As we moved onward, his wisdom even drew young non-Sherlockians to join our group in hopes they might learn a thing or two. And they did learn a thing or two, especially about Vincent Starrett, which was important since the people that make the Graceland tour maps seemed to have left Starrett off their list of famous people buried there.

Vincent Starrett has a really nice headstone, made possible by Sherlockian donors. It’s an open book, with a quote and his bookplate art on it, and to get a really good look at it you . . . well, you have to . . . uh, you kind of . . . y’know, wind up standing on his grave. (Sorry, Vincent.)

Since that was the final stop on the tour, we made our way back to the cars, pausing along the way to get one more look at the life-size statue of the grim reaper that adorns a certain Mr. Graves’s grave, and is one of Graceland’s most popular sights (because this isn’t the one where Elvis is buried, in case you were about to ask). Most of the party would be continuing north to Scotland Yards Books, but Kathy and I had to get back to Peoria at that point. And, there, facing the grim reaper and chilled to the bone in the icy Chicago air, as I mentioned earlier, I had my answer about the mysterious STUD Sherlockian society:

They’re Sherlockians.

It really needs no more explanation than that.