Ralph's Mom's Ginger Snaps - The Best!

(Just another cold morning at Strawberry Hill Farm. Happiness is a stock tank heater that works!)

Ralph's Mom's Ginger Snaps (this recipe probably came from England although measurements are now in "U.S." lingo...)

1 1/2 cups. shortening (hint USE REAL BUTTER!!)
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup dark molasses
2 eggs

4 teaspoons baking soda
4 and 1/2 cups flour (or a little more)
1 teaspoon salt
1 and 1/2 teaspoons ground cloves
2 teaspoons ginger
1 teaspoon cinnamon

Hint: not for the faint hearted - if you like them with a real kick use somewhat more spices than "level" spoonfuls.

Demirara or other sugar crystals

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Cream together shortening and sugar, then add molasses and eggs.

Mix in one bowl flour, soda, salt, and spices, then add gradually to the butter/cream/molasses/eggs mixture till well blended. Dough should not be tooooo sticky - add more flour till it is a little stiff and easy to handle.

Chill (or not!) and drop by rounded teaspoon fulls or blobs or chunks into the crystallized sugar, then place on a cookie sheet or cooking stone. I cover either one with bakers' parchment paper. Cook 10-15 minutes - watch for the tops to crack a little. Cookies are done when they darken a bit, crack on top and aren't "jiggly" when you touch or move the cookie sheet You will have to experiment a little - shorter cooking makes chewy cookies, longer makes them crisp. They will spread so leave about 1 1/2 inch between cookies. Easier to get off the cookie sheet if you let cool a couple minutes after removing them from the oven. Even simpler if you use parchment paper.

These freeze really well, as does the dough, so you can make them up now, wrap the dough or the baked cookies well and toss in the freezer till some cold January night, if you have too many sweets right now...
Best eaten with COLD milk!

The Barn Coat

I have discovered that while we horse owners converse or write at length about our favorite ponies, our trailers, our tack, our show clothes, even our long-suffering spouses, we have blatently ignored that most important item each and every one of us owns...the item completely taken for granted that nonetheless completes every equine enthusiast's wardrobe: The Barn Coat.

It comes in a variety of weights and colors (depending upon local weather conditions, owner preferences, and whatever was cheapest, free or inherited from someone else), and it may or may not be the coat we actually ride in, but it is de rigeur apparel for stall cleaning, grooming, feeding and visits by the vet or farrier.

My theory that Barn Coats are - like dogs - genetically identical despite variations in their outward appearance evolved several years ago while I was visiting a friend after work. For whatever reason (or perhaps none at all) we decided to mosey out to her barn, so she loaned me HER Barn Coat. I put it on, automatically shoved my hands in the pockets (which were right where they needed to be, of course), and discovered that The Coat felt and smelled (!) exactly like mine. While I didn't take inventory, I'd bet a sizeable portion of my income that her Barn Coat Pockets contained, as we say in southwest Ohio, the "exact same" items as mine. In short, her coat felt just like home.

My current Barn Coat (see photo,taken just this morning. The coat is accessorized with fleece hat (Lands' End c. 2005), fleece HeadSox c. 1995 and which, if it ever disappears or falls apart, will necessitate my immediately moving to the equator! - Muck boots, canine action figures and the unofficial uniform of SW Ohio country people, Carhartt Coveralls) , belonged to my father, whose passing in 1990 elevated it to the status of holy relic. Mom gave it to him for Christmas around 1972, so by my reckoning it is at least 35 years old . It's a three-quarter length, fleece - lined Levi's denim model, still held together by its original stitching and whatever nameless goo has been ground into it over the years.

I wash it once a year whether it needs it or not (it usually does), but at its advanced age I view its annual bath with some trepidation; I'm never sure whether it's going to come out of the washer in one piece or dozens. In deference to its geriatric state I use the gentle cycle; this of course is no match for smears of hoof dressing, spots of betadyne, molecules of manure, horse hair, dog hair and particles of hay dust...a biochemical mixture which probably turns into a sort of glue when agitated in warm water. In fact, I suspect this is actually what preserves the aging cloth, and have considered peddling this formula - once I nail it down - to art conservators who deal with antique tapestries.

Whatever the reason, The Coat seems to be made of iron, and I think there is every likelihood it will outlast several washers. Not washes. Washers.

I have to wash it at home, of course. Any self-respecting laundromat manager seeing and smelling the thing would meet The Coat and me at the door and send us both packing.

The laundry soap commercials would impress me a lot more if, instead of demonstrating their soaps' effectiveness on mud-and-fruit-punch stained kids, they attempted to tackle Barn Coat stains.

However, as any horse owner knows, the Barn Coat is much more than a garment designed for warmth and protection from the elements. Because...it has pockets.

About ten years ago, before I got into the habit of giving it a yearly bath, I decided to take a formal inventory of my Barn Coat pockets (Ok, so it was one of those icy January days in which I had entirely too much free time on my hands). The items I discovered and listed filled an entire notebook page - both sides. I was amazed at how much easier my walk to the barn became after I had divested my Coat of approximately 20 pounds of "stuff" though in subsequent weeks about 15 pounds of "really necessary stuff" found its way back into the pockets.

As I viewed the list and the pile, I began to truly appreciate the many functions of the miraculous Barn Coat:

It is a portable tool box (wire cutters, two screwdrivers, and a pocket knife; a pantry (if you crave last year's candy canes, six month old chewing gum, or a worn-around-the-edges Milk Bone); a linen closet (assorted rags); a first aid kit (two Band-Aids, - one used - and a wrinkled tube of eye ointment), a bank, and an occasional cat bed. And oh yes, a repository for Lost Items (my best suture scissors). If the truth be told, the Holy Grail is probably in somebody's Barn Coat (Barn Cloak?), somewhere.

I found surgical instruments that had disappeared years previously. Rolls of Vet Wrap mashed to the density of granite (and speaking of granite, several "neat rocks" picked up on the path to the barn). Fencing material sufficient to repair a five acre pasture. A "chestnut" (for you non-equestrians, this is a part of horse anatomy of callous-like consistency located on a horse's legs) peeled off my gelding's leg and stashed away to keep the dog from eating it now and upchucking it later in the living room in front of New Years' Eve party guests. Enough Kleenex (only slightly dirty) to mop up a classroom of first graders during cold and flu season (and hey, is that lint -covered thing a cough drop?). Gently cushioning it all, having worked its way past $18.73 in loose change - presumably to pay for a parking space at the barn? - to the very bottom of each pocket, was approximately half a bale of prime mixed alfalfa-orchard grass hay. And - wait for it - a hoof pick.

On any given day, my personal Barn Coat will also contain a broken dog leash and a half-full tube of horse wormer. My friend Yolonda added that hers was not complete without a "gross, slimy" tube of Chapstick, and also noted that matching buttons - or even a complete set of buttons - were NOT a a requirement for a good Barn Coat. After all, you can always hold the thing together with baling twine - which of course is in one of these pockets, somewhere...

Despite its frayed sleeves and a permanent crust of what I fervently hope is just dirt, but from which several useful vaccines and a cure for the common cold just might be developed, my Barn Coat looks to be around a while longer. Amazingly, the coat has not yet exhibited even that first symptom of Terminal Barn Coat Disease: ever-widening holes in the pockets that allow their contents to hemorrhage into that hinterland between the lining and the outer shell, never to see the light of day again.

I had occasion several years ago to treat a young relative of our pastor's to a midwinter horseback ride. Of course, in my concern that everything was safe and comfortable, I forgot to change from my Barn Coat to my Official Riding Coat (which might one day become a Barn Coat in its turn, although right now it is still much too clean). The pastor took one look at my Coat and offered to perform an exorcism on the spot (I declined, cackling evilly with my head spinning on its axis...).

Remember that scene in an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, where Bugs spots a Scottish Elmer Fudd playing the bagpipes? Mistaking the bagpipes for an attacking monster, Bugs tries to wrestle the instrument to the ground. If my Barn Coat should ever make a noise, I think that will be all the excuse my dogs need to do the same thing in my defense. And it won't be pretty.

Regardless of the shock value of its appearance, I think I'll keep my old friend going a while longer. However, as time goes by I can't help but give some thought to what actions would be appropriate when my Barn Coat has outlived its usefulness. I am wavering between cremation and a decent burial, but I'm not kidding myself; there's every possibility, at this rate, that my Barn Coat will outlive me.


I recently settled onto the living room couch to watch (for the umpteeth time) the finale of the Lord of the Rings movies. I sincerely believe that if Frodo had concealed the One Ring in the pocket of a Barn Coat, the story could have been told in three chapters, instead of three volumes. Of course, the Fellowship would probably have been trailed anyway by the horses of the Dark Riders, irresistably drawn to the scent of hay, peppermints and old cookies also residing in the pockets!

I'm thinking I should notify the Levi Strauss company. I'm available for endoresments, and so is the Coat, but it insists on signing its own contract.
Bar

The Real, Truly Original Chex Mix Recipe a.k.a. "Scrambles"

It's almost Thanksgiving, almost my birthday. We've negotiated the twin seasonal portals of Halloween and Election Day (why "twin?" Because both days involve a lot of dressing up, a lot of false faces, the passing out of sweets and other benefits, and once the dust has settled and the papers are picked up , not much to really show for it..). Now it's finally growing colder. Most of the leaves are down, except for a few rattly brown pompoms that shake and rustle in the breezes and in the passing of my horses as they step carefully between trees on our morning rides. We begin to look forward to holiday foods and snacks: turkey and dressing, ham, sweet potatoes, pies and cakes, cookies and candy, hot chocolate and hot toddies. In short, nothing much that's good for you, but hey, winter's coming on and perhaps some primoridal instinct buried deep within our subconscious is responding to the shorter days by trying to convince us it's entirely appropriate to put on some body fat to shield us from the chill winter winds. OK, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

With that in mind, I share one of my favorite holiday recipes: "Scrambles." This one goes way back before I was born (yeah, that's WAY back), to the days when my child-free parents held card parties and other holiday get-togethers. I can remember wolfing down bowls of Scrambles at my parents' parties till my lips shriveled up from the salt. Conditioning my maturing digestive tract with this stuff probably goes a long way toward explaining my current iron-clad constitution, gastrointestinally speaking.

Scrambles are not for the faint-hearted (or for the diseased-hearted, for that matter). If you choose to indulge, do so at your own risk and in moderation at first. But enjoy!

Don't be fooled by the recipes posted online and on boxes now touting the "Original" Chex Mix - it uses bagel chips, and a microwave. BAGEL chips!! WTF?? No one from my parents' generation living outside of New York City had even heard of bagels back in the 1950's, much less bagel CHIPS.

This IS the original. It's been typed with a manual typewriter on a recipe card that is tattered and browned at the edges from use. It was served by the Armco Girls' Association when it and Armco Steel existed here in Middletown, Ohio.
Happy Holidays!

2 lbs mixed salted nuts (I just use peanuts and cashews.)
1 12-oz box Wheat Chex
1 10.5 oz box Cheerios
1 6.5 oz box Rice Chex
1 6 oz bag pretzel sticks or bits or minis
2 cups salad oil
2 Tbsp. worcestershire sauce
1 Tbsp. garlic salt (or 1 tbsp. garlic oil)
2 Tbsp. Lawry's seasoned salt.

NOTE: the measurements for the DRY ingredients are approximate; box sizes have changed! Plus - you can add more of the ones you like, less of the ones you don't.

Mix all ingredients in a very large roaster, tub or on a large sheet of brown paper (NOTE: I mix the liquid up first in a blender, then pour it on the dry ingredients that I've shaken together in a big tupperware cake storage tub. Shake, shake, shake...it's the only calories you'll burn with this puppy!).

Spread the coated ingredients out in a couple of big pans and bake in a 250-degree (NOT A TYPO! NOT 350!!) oven (Microwave? We don't need no stinkin' microwave!!!) for about 1 1/2 to 2 hours, stirring every 15 minutes and being careful not to crush the cereals. Makes - a bunch. Store in plastic bags when cool.

Memorable Meals, Forgotten Festivals

Home and Away Magazine - published by AAA - has a feature entitled "Back Page" which asks readers to submit travel stories on a variety of subjects. The most recent assignment was ""Tell us about the best festival you've ever attended while traveling and why it was special." So I submitted the following. The real challenge was not recounting the story - it was making it short. This should not surprise anyone who knows me.


My mother and I – and a busload of traveling companions - were on a tour of Europe in October, 1995; we were scheduled to arrive at Innsbruck, Austria early in the day with most of the afternoon free to explore, but due to a labor strike which delayed traffic for several hours we stumbled out of the bus late in the afternoon and were informed by our guide that we had exactly 45 minutes to see the town square before moving on to Munich, Germany to spend the night. We were tired, stiff and in my case nursing a migraine, a situation which hunger did not improve even though everyone on the bus had been generous about sharing whatever treats they had purchased along the way. I stared blearily at my surroundings but my interest was suddenly revived by a magical aroma that was wafted along on the warm autumn breeze – brats! There was a festival in the town square and glory be, someone was selling bratwurst. I hurried over to the booth, but realized at the time, coming out of Italy as we were, I had only Italian currency. “Does anyone speak English?” I asked at the bratwurst booth. One person nodded tentatively, in the universal language that translates as “yeah…sort of…” “Will you take lira?” I asked (this was before the Euro became standard currency). “How much?” There was some discussion in Austrian among the booth workers. “Fifty thousand lira,” one said. My head was aching too badly to do the math; I scrabbled in my bag for a 50,000 lira bill. Suddenly another person waiting in line bravely threw herself between me and my waiting bratwurst. More discussion ensued and the booth worker turned sheepishly to me. “Five thousand lira,” she amended. OK – I had one of those too. I handed it over and was rewarded with a plate containing two brats, a huge chunk of rye bread and a puddle of spicy mustard. I never learned the name of the festival, but we remember it and Innsbruck fondly as the location of a truly delicious and reviving meal, as well as for the good Samaritan in line who prevented me from accidentally spending the equivalent of $50 for a brat - although in retrospect I was so hungry it probably would have been worth it!

Some Reflections on Calvary Cemetery

Several years ago I was asked to fill a vacant space on the Calvary Cemetery Board of Directors (in one of those drily humorous twists of fate that you gotta love, the seat was vacant because the previous board member had - you guessed it - died. How eminently logical and wierdly appropriate....) Up until then I had no idea there was such a board, although I was dimly aware of the existence of the mysterious old graveyard behind a vintage iron fence on Clark Street a few blocks from Holy Trinity Church.

On the Sunday afternoon in March that I attended my first annual board meeting, I decided to take a walk through the cemetery. As I passed under the arch that displayed the name “Calvary” the quiet enveloped me. The traffic from the neighboring streets seemed muted. I began to read tombstones and get acquainted with those whom I felt, as a board member, had become my charges.

Calvary Cemetery was founded in the 1850’s during the pastorate of Fr. Jeremiah O’ Conner. Originally known as Holy Trinity Cemetery, it was the burial place for many of the Irish immigrants who settled in the area west of Clark Street known as “Little Dublin, ” now the site of Trinity Place apartments. Their presence is reflected in the many tombstones inscribed with Irish names: Mahoney, McNary, Sheehan, Flynn, Mulligan, O’Brian, Dillon, Kelly. Some of them speak to us. “It is therefore a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they may be loosed from sins,” James Ryan (died March 15, 1862) reminds us, with a quote from the Apocrypha, on his monument. They hoped we would keep them in our thoughts long after their passing.

Parishioners from neighboring St. John the Baptist Parish, and later, St. Mary’s, many of them immigrants from Italy and central and eastern Europe, also found their final resting place at Calvary Cemetery. Their names add a cosmopolitan flavor to the cemetery roll: Scarpa, Earnst, Habig, Lafayette, Neiderlander, Opavsky.

Many of the names are familiar to me: I rub elbows with their descendents every weekend at Mass. Others bring back childhood memories: beloved priests including Reverend John Oberlander, pastor of St. John’s when I attended grade school there. I can remember his funeral, grand and solemn in a standing-room-only, incense-scented church, but most times when I see his tombstone on my cemetery ambles, I remember how he could descend from the pulpit after delivering a high volume, hair -raising sermon on the perils of sin, then come out to the playground and jump rope with us school kids.

Over 2000 people have been buried in the cemetery since its founding. Early records are sparse and unfortunately many were destroyed, along with some of the tombstones, during the 1913 flood that swept away much of the area’s history. An early trustees report which survives, dated 1908, notes that a Mr. William Barry was responsible for maintaining the grounds in “a very well-kept condition” and adds that “rigid economy had to be exercised so as not to exceed our income” (so what else is new?). It too contained many familiar names of dues-paying members including – to my surprise – my grandfather , who died long before I was born – Frank Burk.

This same 1908 report notes that “surely Catholics want their Cemetery to be a credit to them, and all should evince the right kind of spirit and show the proper interest in bringing this about.” Some things never change and yes, a hundred and two years later, the same sentiment might be expressed along with its logical conclusion – a request for contributions to help maintain this cemetery which contains so much of our history as a parish. There are no remaining open lots for sale, but we still have yearly expenses to address, including maintenance and insurance. Virtually our only income, apart from a few burials a year, is our annual collection. We hope you will be kind enough to contribute to this treasured part of our parish history, and perhaps make some time for a quiet stroll on the old gravel paths. What memories will you uncover?

The Old Neck Fishing and Gardening Club

Note: one of the best pieces of advice I've ever encountered about writing was from a noted author who said above all "write about what you know." Hence the narrator is - you guessed it - a vet. Not exactly a stretch there.



Chapter 3

Two pairs of alarmed eyes were looking at me, and I hated being the center of attention.

“All right,” I said briskly, “no police.” Given the degree of incompetence exhibited by the local law brigade in dealing with even the slightest of misdemeanors, coupled with the general knowledge that if you ever wanted to dispose of a body, Middle Township just outside Polled Neck was the place to do it and get away with it, I figured that since no one was dead despite Patsy’s earliest assumption, , we could simply go into her kitchen, sit down over a cup of coffee, and figure things out. Edna was dozing in the sun, one hip cocked, ears and lower lip drooping, and the dogs were sprawled nearby and snoring. They would be fine, and I could see them from the kitchen window anyway. They were frequent visitors to Patsy’s garden and long ago I had made it clear that dreadful punishments awaited any dogs who decided to entertain themselves by uprooting Patsy’s botanical children. I gestured to the man who was now on his feet, though swaying slightly, and we managed the dozen or so steps to her kitchen door without incident.

Patsy’s cottage was as much a showplace as her garden. The kitchen was a comfortable den of knotty pine paneling that had taken on a warm reddish glow with years of care and elbow grease; a vintage table and chair set that she had rescued from the basement of the Thunder Mug, Polled Neck’s ancient downtown bar, sat in retro splendor next to the picture window that overlooked the garden, and the cottage’s original, shockingly turquoise appliances still chugged obligingly along year after year, having outlasted several generations of repairmen. They had gone well beyond retro into the realm of miraculously cool. When asked by drooling collectors when she planned on replacing them, Patsy inevitably said with a wave of her manicured hand, “when they stop working.” So far, so good.

It was to this homey setting that we helped Patsy’s uninvited guest. He sat down heavily in one of the metallic cushioned chairs and sighed. “Thank you,” he said in a cultured accent that, now that I took the time to listen, was quite clearly Italian. “I am in your debt. “

“You might not be in just a minute,” I said, “let’s get those wounds cleaned up.” I turned to Patsy, who said “I’ll get the first aid kit” and disappeared through the door that led down the hall to the cottage’s tiny bedrooms and bathroom.

“If you don’t want the police, then presumably you don’t want to go to the emergency room either,” I addressed the man who, after clearly trying to decide whether he ought to nod yes or shake no, opted instead for words and said “that is correct.”

“Well, you know we’re going to want to know why. But in the meantime let ‘s get you cleaned up. I’m not a doctor – but I am a veterinarian – so I think I can get you taken care of, if you’re comfortable with that.”

“Entirely comfortable, molti grazie” he said, so I wetted a couple of paper towels at the sink, squirted a small amount of antibacterial hand soap on them, and applied them to the cut on his forehead. He sucked in a breath between his teeth and then relaxed. “If you think this one’s tough,”I remarked , “wait till we get to that arm. We’re going to have to talk about that.” Among other things, I added silently to myself. He nodded, grimacing slightly. “Just so. When your friend gets back---“

At that moment several things happened simultaneously. Patsy was coming back down the hall and had almost reached the kitchen when the front door rattled under someone’s determined knock. Still clearly on edge, she yelped and dropped the first aid kit, which the man gracefully retrieved for her. “Come in,” I called, recognizing that a knock with that degree of authority could only come from our friend Darla Roberson. The dogs out back didn’t care where the knock originated and launched into a flurry of loud barking. In the corner of my vision I saw Edna’s head jerk up when the dogs’ noise disturbed her sleep. Then the door burst open.

“What was that guy doing in your birdba – oh!” Darla stopped in surprise midway through the living room as she saw the stranger reseating himself at the table. “I came as soon as I saw you were bringing him into the house – what the hell were you thinking? A total stranger!!” Privately I wondered the same thing, but I had to admit there was something to this man’s mannerisms that spoke of class – and more importantly of kindness, or maybe innocence. I suppose Patsy and I both felt he merited a chance to explain himself.

“Bon giorno,” the man nodded at Darla, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his left ear. Darla nodded curtly in his direction and thrust out her hand, shaking his in a firm grip designed to intimidate any potential stalker. She was a short, solid woman who would have needed to crane her neck up considerably had the man been standing. As it was, they were nearly eye to eye and she took off her “Neighborhood Watch” ball cap in order to more accurately fix him with a stern blue gaze from behind her round, wire-rimmed glasses. “Who are you?” she demanded bluntly.

“We were just getting to that, Dar,” I said, “but I need to do a little first aid here.” The wound on his temple was clean and had stopped bleeding, so I applied a couple of small bandages, butterfly-fashion, after drying the skin which, I noticed, was disconcertingly warm, smooth and tan. I blinked a couple of times and moved on to his left arm. I held my breath as I peeled away the remains of the shirt sleeve that had stuck to the raw flesh. He gave a visceral grunt but made no other sound.

“Look, this really needs a graft or something, “ I said, “It’s going to leave a nasty scar otherwise.”

He looked alarmed and shook his head again. “Please, no doctors. You do what you have to do. I am healthy – it will heal.”

“Ok,” I said. “What the heck did you do, anyway, catch your arm in something? Did a boat propeller do this to you?”

“No,” he replied, “I was…how do you say it? I was skinned.”

The Old Neck Fishing and Gardening Club

Note: You may want to read the Prologue and Chapter One first! Scroll down!

Chapter 2


I stood shoulder to shoulder with Patsy, surveying the damage.

Patsy’s garden was her pride and joy, her source of solace and strength, the fertile breeding ground for her botanical works of art and, now that I think of it, probably HER place for epiphanies - not to mention daylilies and hydrangeas. After she and her husband Edgar parted company following the rather explosive revelation that not only had he been married before – twice – but he had never exactly bothered to become UNmarried from wife #2 before marrying Patsy, she plunged all her frustrations and energy into her property, transforming a rather humdrum collection of geraniums, boxwood and yew bushes into one of Polled Neck’s landscape showplaces. At this time of year, a profusion of purple and white lilacs spilled over the stone fence next to an antique hitching post where I had tied Edna, but even the fragrant perfume of thousands of tiny flowers, coupled with the smell of the steaming manure pile the pony had obligingly, neatly deposited next to Patsy’s compost heap , failed to mask the pervasive sour odor of alcohol-laced vomit produced by the victim who lay sprawled half in-half out of the birdbath.

This birdbath – and I use the term loosely, because that was how Patsy always referred to it – was in fact a water feature of surprising proportions given the small garden space which it occupied, but the simple fact was, the structure had been there years before the area had been split into tiny lots by some opportunistic vulture of a developer who saw a chance to make a fast buck offering “beachfront” property at exhorbitant rates back in the post World War II economic boom. The once formidable Singer mansion at the intersection of New Jersey Avenue and Morgan Street had been falling to bits for some time until a quorum of Polled Neck residents declared it to be an eyesore of epic proportions; it had subsequently been torn down and the estate divided and subdivided and sprinkled liberally with miniscule cottages that just – barely – met with the existant zoning regulations (no surprise that said regulations were shortly thereafter substantially rewritten until they were tighter than a bikini bottom worn by a middle-aged matron on the first day of beach season, deluded into believing that she still had a girlish figure). Nonetheless the cottages persisted and, as these things inevitably do, came to be viewed as “retro” and soon found themselves in demand again. Patsy was fortunate to have inherited the bungalow her father had purchased soon after being mustered out of the War following a head injury sustained while fighting in the European theater . In any case, the Brelsford family’s miniature estate happened to be the one bit of property which had a piece of architecture remaining from the old Singer buildings – Patsy’s birdbath.

In reality, the “Birdbath” was actually a sort of grotto-esque water feature, complete with several unnecessarily pudgy putti fastened to the back wall so that they gazed down into the pool below them with what I always thought was an expression of rather supercilious fascination.

At the moment they were gazing at the victim.

‘A quick touch on his neck assured me that he still had a pulse, and in fact his color was quite good – tanned skin, flushed cheeks. His breathing was deep and regular. He was rather the worse for wear, however. His dark green uniform shirt was torn at the left shoulder, the right sleeve was missing entirely, and the shirttail was half out of his pants and gaping from the missing bottom button. His khakis were stained and torn at both knees and his hands, though the fingers were long and graceful, were filhy, with broken nails and numerous abrasions. He had fairly long brown hair pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, dusted at the temples with a few strands of grey. Indentations along the bridge of his nose indicated that he wore glasses most of the time though none were evident at the moment.

“He’s not dead, Pats,” I said, “he’s sleeping it off.”

“But what’s THAT?” she fluttered, pointing a pink-enameled index finger at the ground just in front of the stone rim of the pool. I bent over and touched the grass. My finger came back with a brownish red stain.

“Oh. Well, yeah, that’s blood.” Patsy uttered a tiny shriek. I stooped down, shoving aside the dogs who had finally finished their investigation of the garden’s borders and Edna’s manure pile and had come closer to check on what the humans were up to. I discovered a sizeable gash on the side of his head, on the temple closest to the grass, but the blood had clotted and the wound appeared to be fairly superficial. I was pretty sure it would be sore when he came to, however, and also fairly certain that the wound had not been the result of an accident. How the heck would he have met with accident in Patsy’s backyard, after all?

Just then, with my face was only a few inches from his, he groaned. I took a pace back, stepping on Jasper’s toes in the process and eliciting from the startled dog a high, short yap which caused the man to open his eyes. Jasper retreated with his pinched toes and injured feelings to a safer position beneath a bush near Edna, with Coal trailing solicitously after him. Patsy and I retreated also and with good reason, for the man suddenly rolled over, pulling the lower half of his body out of the pool with a splash , and retched painfully into the grass. It was then that I noticed an injury I hadn’t seen before; the movement had caused his torn left sleeve to flap back from his upper arm, revealing another smear of blood and something more: a jagged square of exposed muscle measuring roughly four by four inches. In short, he had been skinned.

“Patsy,” I said, “go call the police.”

“NO!” she yelped and, to my surprise the man simultaneously bellowed the same response.

I turned to stare at her as if she were out of her mind, then came to a decision. “All right,” I agreed, “then go call the club.”