My mother loved words and had a gift for using them.

Thursday, May 31, 2001

My mother loved words and had a gift for using them. When I was at camp or away at the University, and occasionally shared what she had written it was only a short time before I was surrounded by an audience who wanted to hear more. I never knew how the word got around so quickly that a letter from her had arrived.

If my mother had a fault in her rhetoric, it was a certain lack of precision. On one occasion she said to me, with some severity, &uot;I don’t want to see you reading another of those horrid True Detective magazines.&uot;

Now read that sentence over carefully to yourself. Did she say once that I was not to read a True Detective magazine? No. A thousand times no.

Of course, I had to read True Detective in interest of my future career. As far as my mother not wanting to see me read said magazine, I was more than willing to oblige. I had my little loft out in the barn. I had a flashlight under my pillow during the night hours, and could always push my magazine under the mattress in the morning.

It wasn’t so much the reading matter that appealed to me. The writing always spoke of the victim, usually a woman, as &uot;a beautiful young woman.&uot; Since the stories were accompanied by photographs of the actual victim I was somewhat puzzled. Few of the women were what seemed beautiful. They were fat, ill-attired and their close-ups seemed to indicate that they were somewhat lacking in charm.

I liked the way the writers led up to the murder though, &uot;Little did poor Lettie Marsh think as she went for the mail that never would she return from the mailbox.&uot; &uot;Had only Maggie Brown confided in her husband, would she have met her tragic fate?&uot;

So I read and read, paying particular attention to the methods used by the detectives in solving the cases, and having every now and then a screaming nightmare.

Even if it hadn’t gone farther than that it wouldn’t have been long before my mother discovered what she regarded as my perfidy. The nightmares were a dead give away.

My object, though, was to further my education. I read the ads in the back of the magazine with far greater interest than I did the stories. There were all kind of correspondence schools for studying the art of detection.

Unfortunately, they were all, from my point of view, a bit expensive. The cheapest I could find offered 10 lessons for $25. I had an allowance of 50 cents a week and half of that had to be put in the bank. I didn’t even have money to buy magazines, but had to depend on a secret outside source of supply.

It did seem to me that the money in the bank offered some hope. I was sometimes allowed to use it for large project, such as a bicycle, when my parents approved.

Always an optimist I cut out the slip from the magazine, carefully filled in my name and address and sent it to the detective school advertised.

If I had received only one answer all would have been well. Sensing a sucker, though, letter from that school followed letter. As I’ve said before, my handwriting has never been of the best. So the letters coming back to me, bearing an eagle crest, and the name of the School of Detection, were all addressed to Lore Cruikshark Jr. I still wonder where the junior came from.

My mother was not a prying woman, but five or six letters addressed to Lore Cruikshark Jr., were not to be ignored. When everything got sorted out, she was not pleased.

&uot;Detectives!&uot; she snarled, &uot;Whoever is sending these letters to you hasn’t even the good sense to take one look at your handwriting and realize that you are not detective material. Neither is he.&uot;

Things weren’t very comfortable around the house for a few days. I was sorry to have brought down upon myself the wrath of my elders. I was more sorry, though, about having my correspondence with the Detection School brought to a halt. In the last letter I received I was told that due to what appeared to be my unmistakable talent, the school was prepared to offer me the course for $15 and even throw in two extra lessons, one on the art of disguise and one on foolproof instructions for shadowing a suspect.

Even in old age, one sighs for opportunity lost.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.