Tomorrow I head to Brooklyn, where I will compete as a rookie in the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament.
Yes, the one featured in the movie "Wordplay" and run by Will Shortz of The New York Times.
I'll report on it early next week.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
William F. Buckley Jr.
A friend of mine has written a reminiscence of a memorable encounter he once had with Buckley.
I humbly suggest that it's well worth your time, and you can read it here.
I humbly suggest that it's well worth your time, and you can read it here.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Orthography and me
It's the early 1960s. I'm maybe 6 or 7 years old, and I walk into the kitchen and find that my mother is listening to the radio.
"It's the spelling bee," she says.
I am a very literal-minded little kid; when I first heard of the song "I Only Have Eyes for You," I pictured a doctor in a hospital ward, telling the patients that there weren't enough eyes to go around. (I am a very literal-minded, very weird little kid.)
I remember thinking that it is interesting that a bee can spell, but not unlikely, given my acquaintance with cartoon animals who can do lots more than talk and who can even get shot in the face without being killed, although they always seem to wind up with a nominal amount of gunpowder on their face.
Eventually I figure out what is really going on: A bunch of kids are spelling words on the radio as a kind of game.
Flash forward to 1968. I'm on a stage in the auditorium of a downtown high school, competing in the very same spelling bee, sponsored by the local newspaper company. Earlier in the day, the other kids and I took the written test, after which we were treated to a Henry Aldrich movie that featured Carl "Alfalfa" Switzer in a small role. (I sometimes can't remember where I put the TV remote, but somehow I remember that.)
After a luncheon across the street at a motel that later became a place that treated alcoholics and people with mental problems, and that later went belly-up, the finalists, including me, were announced and were marched back across the street.
And now we're all live on the radio. I still remember the engineer and the announcers, and the judges, including the head of the Catholic schools. (He's still around, a bishop now.)
One girl misspells "derringer," and after doing so she leaves the stage and she and her parents leave the building. Years later I will work with her on my college's newspaper and will be stupid enough to bring this up. Especially stupid, considering she is very nice-looking. As you and everyone else with a brain out there have guessed by now, her misfired "derringer" is not a happy memory for her, and although she is polite about it, I might as well have a nominal amount of gunpowder on my face, and rightly so.
I finish eighth that afternoon, going out on "divertissement" -- a French word given to a kid who hasn't taken French yet.
Later that year, I am invited to the state fair spelling bee. Robert Earle, the guy who replaced Allen Ludden on GE's "College Bowl," has been hired as the pronouncer. But he has canceled so he can tape a pilot for another game show. His replacement is a woman who is not pleasant to deal with; if you miss a word, she doesn't let you walk away -- you have to stand there with egg on your face while she judgmentally spells it correctly for you.
When it comes time for me to spell my first word, "accurate," I draw a blank in the middle of it while my brain takes a round trip to Chicago. After it returns, I add an extra "r" and get the bell, finishing dead last, with an entire omelet, plus two frittatas, on my face.
Worse yet, I don't get to leave the auditorium, much less the building. I have to keep sitting in front with the others for the entire bee.
Flash forward to last Saturday. It's about 40 years after that first bee, and I am now a judge, by dint of having worked for the local newspaper company for many years. I've been serving as a judge for about six years, and the bee is now on TV instead of the radio. It's still live, though. Boy, is it live.
I suppose one could argue that my generation was made of sterner stuff; the written test and the final spelldown are now on separate Saturdays. But these kids are more sophisticated; I suspect most of them have seen the national bee on TV, or the documentary "Spellbound," or another film, "Akeelah and the Bee," or all of the above. They're more likely to ask for other pronunciations. (And who knew there were so many kinds of schwas?)
This year the bee, which is supposed to be 90 minutes, runs more than two hours straight; it's on the local PBS station, so there are no breaks until we get a winner. For me, that means a lot of sitting and concentrating under very hot lights. And a lot of straining to hear some of the kids; though they're a few feet away, because of the audio engineer's skills, they're more audible to the folks at home than they are to me, except when my earpiece is working -- which it doesn't for a time; I suspect I've screwed it up somehow.
And this year, for the first time, I'm the one who hits the bell. I hate doing it at first, but I get used to it; I suppose the same thing happens to hired killers.
Aside from its length, this bee is especially dramatic because there are a couple of rounds where all the kids misspell, meaning they all have to come back. Never seen that before. The winner is the same kid who won last year, and he seems just as thrilled.
Soon it's all over; the bright lights are turned off, the unabridged dictionary is closed, and as I uncreak my knees (funny how arthritis didn't bother me 40 years ago), I watch the parents coming forward to chat with the pronouncer and the representative from the paper, and I am happy to notice that none of the parents seem to be heading my way, bearing lighted torches.
I wonder how the 13-year-old Mark Murphy would have reacted that day at the high school -- or better yet, at the state fair -- if someone had told him that four decades later he'd be a spelling bee judge. I would like to think that he would immediately have undertaken a comprehensive study of schwas, but having known this kid for more than 50 years, I wouldn't have bet the rent on it.
And I'm still looking forward to Mr. Earle's new game show.
"It's the spelling bee," she says.
I am a very literal-minded little kid; when I first heard of the song "I Only Have Eyes for You," I pictured a doctor in a hospital ward, telling the patients that there weren't enough eyes to go around. (I am a very literal-minded, very weird little kid.)
I remember thinking that it is interesting that a bee can spell, but not unlikely, given my acquaintance with cartoon animals who can do lots more than talk and who can even get shot in the face without being killed, although they always seem to wind up with a nominal amount of gunpowder on their face.
Eventually I figure out what is really going on: A bunch of kids are spelling words on the radio as a kind of game.
Flash forward to 1968. I'm on a stage in the auditorium of a downtown high school, competing in the very same spelling bee, sponsored by the local newspaper company. Earlier in the day, the other kids and I took the written test, after which we were treated to a Henry Aldrich movie that featured Carl "Alfalfa" Switzer in a small role. (I sometimes can't remember where I put the TV remote, but somehow I remember that.)
After a luncheon across the street at a motel that later became a place that treated alcoholics and people with mental problems, and that later went belly-up, the finalists, including me, were announced and were marched back across the street.
And now we're all live on the radio. I still remember the engineer and the announcers, and the judges, including the head of the Catholic schools. (He's still around, a bishop now.)
One girl misspells "derringer," and after doing so she leaves the stage and she and her parents leave the building. Years later I will work with her on my college's newspaper and will be stupid enough to bring this up. Especially stupid, considering she is very nice-looking. As you and everyone else with a brain out there have guessed by now, her misfired "derringer" is not a happy memory for her, and although she is polite about it, I might as well have a nominal amount of gunpowder on my face, and rightly so.
I finish eighth that afternoon, going out on "divertissement" -- a French word given to a kid who hasn't taken French yet.
Later that year, I am invited to the state fair spelling bee. Robert Earle, the guy who replaced Allen Ludden on GE's "College Bowl," has been hired as the pronouncer. But he has canceled so he can tape a pilot for another game show. His replacement is a woman who is not pleasant to deal with; if you miss a word, she doesn't let you walk away -- you have to stand there with egg on your face while she judgmentally spells it correctly for you.
When it comes time for me to spell my first word, "accurate," I draw a blank in the middle of it while my brain takes a round trip to Chicago. After it returns, I add an extra "r" and get the bell, finishing dead last, with an entire omelet, plus two frittatas, on my face.
Worse yet, I don't get to leave the auditorium, much less the building. I have to keep sitting in front with the others for the entire bee.
Flash forward to last Saturday. It's about 40 years after that first bee, and I am now a judge, by dint of having worked for the local newspaper company for many years. I've been serving as a judge for about six years, and the bee is now on TV instead of the radio. It's still live, though. Boy, is it live.
I suppose one could argue that my generation was made of sterner stuff; the written test and the final spelldown are now on separate Saturdays. But these kids are more sophisticated; I suspect most of them have seen the national bee on TV, or the documentary "Spellbound," or another film, "Akeelah and the Bee," or all of the above. They're more likely to ask for other pronunciations. (And who knew there were so many kinds of schwas?)
This year the bee, which is supposed to be 90 minutes, runs more than two hours straight; it's on the local PBS station, so there are no breaks until we get a winner. For me, that means a lot of sitting and concentrating under very hot lights. And a lot of straining to hear some of the kids; though they're a few feet away, because of the audio engineer's skills, they're more audible to the folks at home than they are to me, except when my earpiece is working -- which it doesn't for a time; I suspect I've screwed it up somehow.
And this year, for the first time, I'm the one who hits the bell. I hate doing it at first, but I get used to it; I suppose the same thing happens to hired killers.
Aside from its length, this bee is especially dramatic because there are a couple of rounds where all the kids misspell, meaning they all have to come back. Never seen that before. The winner is the same kid who won last year, and he seems just as thrilled.
Soon it's all over; the bright lights are turned off, the unabridged dictionary is closed, and as I uncreak my knees (funny how arthritis didn't bother me 40 years ago), I watch the parents coming forward to chat with the pronouncer and the representative from the paper, and I am happy to notice that none of the parents seem to be heading my way, bearing lighted torches.
I wonder how the 13-year-old Mark Murphy would have reacted that day at the high school -- or better yet, at the state fair -- if someone had told him that four decades later he'd be a spelling bee judge. I would like to think that he would immediately have undertaken a comprehensive study of schwas, but having known this kid for more than 50 years, I wouldn't have bet the rent on it.
And I'm still looking forward to Mr. Earle's new game show.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Barry Morse
You might not remember that name, but if you're a certain age -- OK, OK, if you're my age -- chances are you'll remember Lt. Philip Gerard, the grim policeman who hounded Richard Kimble in "The Fugitive."
Yes, that was Barry Morse. He died last weekend at the age of 89.
Even now, as I recall the series -- in its original run and in its reruns -- I remember Gerard as a rather fearsome character, always tightlipped, never losing control and somehow scarier for never losing control.
And I suppose if you weren't around at the time, it might be difficult to believe what a hold the series' finale had on the American public. Is there an actor anywhere, in any century, who could look more put-upon than David Janssen, who played Kimble? And I can still remember the catharsis I felt (my aversion to violence notwithstanding) when Kimble, in the climactic scene at the top of an amusement park ride, began to beat the crap out of the one-armed man who had actually killed his wife. And how, when the one-armed man fought back, got the upper hand and was about to kill Kimble, a gunshot from below killed the killer, and how the shooter was revealed to be Lt. Philip Gerard himself. Wow!
Not to mention the epilog (as producer Quinn Martin always spelled it), in which Kimble was shown beginning his best day in years. (What guy wouldn't want to start the day with a new lease on life and a new girlfriend, especially one played by Diane Baker?) And how Gerard was standing by and shown to be, um, smiling, though maybe a bit painfully? (That would make sense -- I suspect Gerard hadn't used those facial muscles in some time.)
Morse also did a science fiction show, "Space 1999," which I never did watch. But I also remember him from a "Twilight Zone" in which he played an abusive critic who buys a player piano that proves his undoing. Then again, anyone who would abuse Joan Hackett (who played his wife) is clearly a swine who deserves whatever Rod Serling could dish out. (Or more specifically, Earl Hamner Jr., who wrote the episode long before he created "The Waltons.")
I can't remember whether it was during the original run of "The Fugitive" or afterward, but I did see Barry Morse as himself as the host of a small show on PBS. (Or maybe it was NET at the time -- remember National Educational Television?) How amazed I was at his volubility and his British accent! This, my unsophisticated self thought, was truly a classy guy!
And years later, my somewhat more sophisticated self still thinks so.
Yes, that was Barry Morse. He died last weekend at the age of 89.
Even now, as I recall the series -- in its original run and in its reruns -- I remember Gerard as a rather fearsome character, always tightlipped, never losing control and somehow scarier for never losing control.
And I suppose if you weren't around at the time, it might be difficult to believe what a hold the series' finale had on the American public. Is there an actor anywhere, in any century, who could look more put-upon than David Janssen, who played Kimble? And I can still remember the catharsis I felt (my aversion to violence notwithstanding) when Kimble, in the climactic scene at the top of an amusement park ride, began to beat the crap out of the one-armed man who had actually killed his wife. And how, when the one-armed man fought back, got the upper hand and was about to kill Kimble, a gunshot from below killed the killer, and how the shooter was revealed to be Lt. Philip Gerard himself. Wow!
Not to mention the epilog (as producer Quinn Martin always spelled it), in which Kimble was shown beginning his best day in years. (What guy wouldn't want to start the day with a new lease on life and a new girlfriend, especially one played by Diane Baker?) And how Gerard was standing by and shown to be, um, smiling, though maybe a bit painfully? (That would make sense -- I suspect Gerard hadn't used those facial muscles in some time.)
Morse also did a science fiction show, "Space 1999," which I never did watch. But I also remember him from a "Twilight Zone" in which he played an abusive critic who buys a player piano that proves his undoing. Then again, anyone who would abuse Joan Hackett (who played his wife) is clearly a swine who deserves whatever Rod Serling could dish out. (Or more specifically, Earl Hamner Jr., who wrote the episode long before he created "The Waltons.")
I can't remember whether it was during the original run of "The Fugitive" or afterward, but I did see Barry Morse as himself as the host of a small show on PBS. (Or maybe it was NET at the time -- remember National Educational Television?) How amazed I was at his volubility and his British accent! This, my unsophisticated self thought, was truly a classy guy!
And years later, my somewhat more sophisticated self still thinks so.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The day I saw Garrison Keillor (or did I?)
It's a Friday afternoon, maybe 10 years ago or more, and I'm about to board a train to Albany.
As I stand in line I notice that one of the other passengers has gotten off the train. He's having a smoke and looking around, a tall guy with glasses and with eyes that are taking everything in. A writer's eyes.
That's Garrison Keillor, I think to myself. I don't get all excited; I think that thought in the same way I might think "The sky is blue today."
Remembering the title of his first book, I'm tempted, as I walk past him, to say "Happy to be here?"
But I look at him and he looks at me and he doesn't look as if he especially wants to trade pleasantries with me.
OK.
I get on the train for the three-hour trip to Albany. He's in another car. I read a book, but now and then think, "Is that really him?"
Finally we're in Albany. He's among the people getting off. Boy is he tall. And that dark hair, those glasses, that chin.... Has to be him.
I see him get off. Two guys meet him. They seem nervous. If you were casting actors for an episode of "Those Nervous Guys from the NPR Affiliate," they'd do very nicely.
He says a few words, something like "They're not here." I'd heard Keillor speak before, either on the radio or TV. As Adrian Monk would say years later, "He's the guy!"
My relatives pick me up. I tell them I think I saw Garrison Keillor on the train. They look as if they're questioning my sanity, and not for the first time.
While I'm in Albany I call a couple of local NPR stations. They say Keillor isn't in town, and boy do they seem surprised that I'm asking.
A few days later, back in my hometown, I eventually look up the address of "A Prairie Home Companion." This is years before I had Internet access, let alone Google, so this takes some doing, but I find it and write a letter, asking if the creator of Guy Noir had stopped off in the state capital.
A few weeks later I get a letter. I've long since lost it so can't quote it, but this will give you the gist (and the tone):
"Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately, on the date you mention, Mr. Keillor was on a flight to Europe, so he certainly couldn't have been in Albany, could he?"
I had never before realized that NPR actually stood for National Patronizing Radio.
I'd never really listened to "Prairie Home Companion," and I somehow manage to get along without it very nicely for some years, but I eventually give in, not because I'm a big fan of Keillor's (though I appreciate his talent) but because I think their voice actors are brilliant, especially Sue Scott.
And when I eventually get around to watching the Robert Altman movie inspired by the show, I can't help thinking it all over again.
That's the guy.
OK, maybe it isn't. Or wasn't.
But if it wasn't, Mr. Keillor should watch his keister, because he sure has one hell of a doppelganger. (Or, given his height, a doppelganglier....)
As I stand in line I notice that one of the other passengers has gotten off the train. He's having a smoke and looking around, a tall guy with glasses and with eyes that are taking everything in. A writer's eyes.
That's Garrison Keillor, I think to myself. I don't get all excited; I think that thought in the same way I might think "The sky is blue today."
Remembering the title of his first book, I'm tempted, as I walk past him, to say "Happy to be here?"
But I look at him and he looks at me and he doesn't look as if he especially wants to trade pleasantries with me.
OK.
I get on the train for the three-hour trip to Albany. He's in another car. I read a book, but now and then think, "Is that really him?"
Finally we're in Albany. He's among the people getting off. Boy is he tall. And that dark hair, those glasses, that chin.... Has to be him.
I see him get off. Two guys meet him. They seem nervous. If you were casting actors for an episode of "Those Nervous Guys from the NPR Affiliate," they'd do very nicely.
He says a few words, something like "They're not here." I'd heard Keillor speak before, either on the radio or TV. As Adrian Monk would say years later, "He's the guy!"
My relatives pick me up. I tell them I think I saw Garrison Keillor on the train. They look as if they're questioning my sanity, and not for the first time.
While I'm in Albany I call a couple of local NPR stations. They say Keillor isn't in town, and boy do they seem surprised that I'm asking.
A few days later, back in my hometown, I eventually look up the address of "A Prairie Home Companion." This is years before I had Internet access, let alone Google, so this takes some doing, but I find it and write a letter, asking if the creator of Guy Noir had stopped off in the state capital.
A few weeks later I get a letter. I've long since lost it so can't quote it, but this will give you the gist (and the tone):
"Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately, on the date you mention, Mr. Keillor was on a flight to Europe, so he certainly couldn't have been in Albany, could he?"
I had never before realized that NPR actually stood for National Patronizing Radio.
I'd never really listened to "Prairie Home Companion," and I somehow manage to get along without it very nicely for some years, but I eventually give in, not because I'm a big fan of Keillor's (though I appreciate his talent) but because I think their voice actors are brilliant, especially Sue Scott.
And when I eventually get around to watching the Robert Altman movie inspired by the show, I can't help thinking it all over again.
That's the guy.
OK, maybe it isn't. Or wasn't.
But if it wasn't, Mr. Keillor should watch his keister, because he sure has one hell of a doppelganger. (Or, given his height, a doppelganglier....)
Suzanne Pleshette and Lois Nettleton
They died within a week of each other, but the death of Suzanne Pleshette received a lot more publicity than the passing of Lois Nettleton.
Which is understandable, given Pleshette's long career in movies and her long stint as the television spouse of Bob Newhart. And I'm afraid there's not much I can add to the posthumous tributes to her. She was beautiful, she could be naughtily witty, and her portrayal of Emily Hartley was one reason the relationship between her and Bob Hartley seemed at least somewhat more realistic than the marriages of many, if not most, sitcom couples. Emily was not a doormat, but neither was she a steamroller, and the couple's repartee always had an underpinning of respect.
I also remember thinking that they were the first couple who seemed as if they used their bed for more than just sleeping. This, of course, was well past the era of the Laura and Rob Petrie Twin Bed Set...
My first memory of Lois Nettleton is from 1960s TV: "Accidental Family," a short-lived series starring Jerry Van Dyke -- a redundancy if ever there was one. Jerry played a widowed comedian who moved with his very young son to a farm owned by Nettleton's character, a divorcee. I remember that it also featured John Byner, a comedian who in recent years has been too rarely seen. (I always remember a hilarious routine he did about a standup comedian who's bombing. And his impression of Brian Keith on "Family Affair." which basically consisted of Byner running his hand down the side of his face, in mock "Uncle Bill" frustration. I know he's still around, and I really wish he'd do a DVD of his best stuff.)
I don't remember much else about "Accidental Family," but I always remembered Lois Nettleton's performance, and I almost always watched everything she did after that. I suppose this was at least partly because I had a little crush on her, but she also had a way of making you care about her characters. (I would have liked to see her performance as Blanche in "A Streetcar Named Desire.") She also made many game show appearances -- mostly on "Pyramid," I think -- and I read somewhere that she spent so much time chatting with her "civilian" partners, showing an interest in their lives, that she could lose sight of the game.
Don't know what you think, but that sounds like a very nice person to me.
Which is understandable, given Pleshette's long career in movies and her long stint as the television spouse of Bob Newhart. And I'm afraid there's not much I can add to the posthumous tributes to her. She was beautiful, she could be naughtily witty, and her portrayal of Emily Hartley was one reason the relationship between her and Bob Hartley seemed at least somewhat more realistic than the marriages of many, if not most, sitcom couples. Emily was not a doormat, but neither was she a steamroller, and the couple's repartee always had an underpinning of respect.
I also remember thinking that they were the first couple who seemed as if they used their bed for more than just sleeping. This, of course, was well past the era of the Laura and Rob Petrie Twin Bed Set...
My first memory of Lois Nettleton is from 1960s TV: "Accidental Family," a short-lived series starring Jerry Van Dyke -- a redundancy if ever there was one. Jerry played a widowed comedian who moved with his very young son to a farm owned by Nettleton's character, a divorcee. I remember that it also featured John Byner, a comedian who in recent years has been too rarely seen. (I always remember a hilarious routine he did about a standup comedian who's bombing. And his impression of Brian Keith on "Family Affair." which basically consisted of Byner running his hand down the side of his face, in mock "Uncle Bill" frustration. I know he's still around, and I really wish he'd do a DVD of his best stuff.)
I don't remember much else about "Accidental Family," but I always remembered Lois Nettleton's performance, and I almost always watched everything she did after that. I suppose this was at least partly because I had a little crush on her, but she also had a way of making you care about her characters. (I would have liked to see her performance as Blanche in "A Streetcar Named Desire.") She also made many game show appearances -- mostly on "Pyramid," I think -- and I read somewhere that she spent so much time chatting with her "civilian" partners, showing an interest in their lives, that she could lose sight of the game.
Don't know what you think, but that sounds like a very nice person to me.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Edward D. Hoch
If you pick up the latest issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, you will find a short story by Edward D. Hoch.
Actually, if you pick up any issue of EQMM from the last 35 years or so, you will probably find a short story by him.
Mr. Hoch died Thursday.
As I suspect you have deduced, he was one prolific guy. His byline appeared on more than 900 published stories. Some stories were standalones, but I think he was more famous for his series characters including Nick Velvet, Dr. Sam Hawthorne and, most recently, Stanton and Ives.
He never lost the ability to fool the reader, and he devised so many ingenious locked-room mysteries that I'd almost have hesitated to be in the same room with him unless I had a key to it.
But Mr. Hoch was not an inhuman plotting machine; within the limits of the traditional mystery story, he knew how to create characters that weren't stick figures. And he wasn't stuck in the past; the Stanton and Ives series, featuring two young amateur sleuths, were distinctly modern and fresh.
I wish I could say I'd known him, especially considering that he lived in a city that's less than two hours away from my city.
But I met him only once -- in Toronto, oddly enough, at a conference for mystery writers and their fans.
He had just given a presentation along with several other writers and was sitting at a table signing copies of EQMM. I approached him and told him how much I admired his work and how I studied each story as it came out, wondering how he'd fool me THIS time.
He was impeccably polite, but it was clear he did not want to talk long. I suspected he had had a long day and was tired, so I politely withdrew and he closed his eyes, probably for a catnap. (After 900 stories, who could blame him?)
Or maybe, behind those closed eyes, he was plotting yet another locked-room murder....
If you search the Web over the next few days, you'll probably find many tributes to Mr. Hoch by people who had the great fortune to know him far better than I did.
I hope you will look up these tributes -- and his stories.
Actually, if you pick up any issue of EQMM from the last 35 years or so, you will probably find a short story by him.
Mr. Hoch died Thursday.
As I suspect you have deduced, he was one prolific guy. His byline appeared on more than 900 published stories. Some stories were standalones, but I think he was more famous for his series characters including Nick Velvet, Dr. Sam Hawthorne and, most recently, Stanton and Ives.
He never lost the ability to fool the reader, and he devised so many ingenious locked-room mysteries that I'd almost have hesitated to be in the same room with him unless I had a key to it.
But Mr. Hoch was not an inhuman plotting machine; within the limits of the traditional mystery story, he knew how to create characters that weren't stick figures. And he wasn't stuck in the past; the Stanton and Ives series, featuring two young amateur sleuths, were distinctly modern and fresh.
I wish I could say I'd known him, especially considering that he lived in a city that's less than two hours away from my city.
But I met him only once -- in Toronto, oddly enough, at a conference for mystery writers and their fans.
He had just given a presentation along with several other writers and was sitting at a table signing copies of EQMM. I approached him and told him how much I admired his work and how I studied each story as it came out, wondering how he'd fool me THIS time.
He was impeccably polite, but it was clear he did not want to talk long. I suspected he had had a long day and was tired, so I politely withdrew and he closed his eyes, probably for a catnap. (After 900 stories, who could blame him?)
Or maybe, behind those closed eyes, he was plotting yet another locked-room murder....
If you search the Web over the next few days, you'll probably find many tributes to Mr. Hoch by people who had the great fortune to know him far better than I did.
I hope you will look up these tributes -- and his stories.
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