And the winner of the Mystery Couple puzzler is...

Yesterday I posted this photo:



...and asked you two questions:

Who are they? And why did I put them on my blog?

We had hundreds dozens several four entrants.

And the winner (cue trumpet fanfare) is:

Not Mary Z who said, “Vernon and Irene Castle? Arthur Murray and wife?” because even though one of her two guesses is correct she didn’t address the “Why?” part of my puzzler. I did inform Mary Z. that Arthur Murray’s wife’s name was Katherine.

Not Hilltophomesteader who said, “Ah, you and Mrs. RWP look so utterly charming, gliding and swaying together as cheek to cheek you dance to the music in your hearts on your recent anniversary. My but you make a lovely couple! No wonder you’ve been married all these years - cemented together by such a great love....(You said ‘the best answer’...not necessarily the ‘correct’ answer, yes?)” because even though she obviously knows how to butter up a judge she didn’t really address the “Who?” part of my puzzler. Hilltop was definitely a contender, though, unlike this person.

Not Shooting Parrots who said, “The chap looks like David Niven, but Tin Eye tells me it is indeed Vernon and Irene Castle.” not only because he didn’t address the “Why?” part of my puzzler but also because he used Tin Eye when the rules clearly stated “No fair cheating by using the intricacies of modern technology to find out. Either you know the answer or you don’t.” Shame on you, Shooting Parrots.

Not Yorkshire Pudding, film pioneer, who said, “I know virtually nothing about dancing but I would say that that is a picture of Vernon and Irene Castle. My suggestion as to why they are in your blog is because you and your lady Ellie have decided to change your names to Vernon and Irene. Vernon Brague has a sophisticated ring to it - unlike the common sound of ‘Bob’ Brague. Janitor? Trucker? Once renamed you will waltz through the streets of Canton like Ginger and Fred (another unsophisticated name).” which, though it is rather the opposite of buttering up the judge, was the only one of the four entries that really addressed both parts of my puzzler. I replied to Pudding thusly: “Vernon and Irene Brague doesn’t carry near the sophistication of, say, Nigel and Penelope Brague or even Clive and Pamela Brague. But as one should be grateful for what one has been given, we have no plans to change our names.”

But as we must have a winner, a winner we shall have.

The winner, the only entrant who answered both parts of my puzzler, is none other than Lord Yorkshire Pudding of Pudding Towers, Sheffield, Yorkshire, England. He was wrong, however, as to the reason I posted the photo of Vernon and Irene Castle.

Receiving honorable/honourable mention and the Creative Writing bouquet of virtual daisies is the one and only Ms. Hilltophomesteader of Somewhere In The Western Portion Of The State Of Washington, Sixty Miles From The Coast.

The other entrants are urged to continue honing their problem-solving skills and to continue entering future contests, reading the rules very carefully. If at first one doesn’t succeed, one should try, try again.

You may remember that the prize was a year’s supply free.

Of what?

Why, happy thoughts, of course.

I have changed my mind -- I hereby declare everyone officially a winner, and here are five happy thoughts from a blogger named Gary to start you off. I’m afraid you’ll have to find the rest yourself. I lied.

I thought the second half of my puzzler -- why did I put a photograph of Vernon and Irene Castle on my blog? -- would have been obvious to regular readers of this blog who ought to know by now are constantly amazed at apparently have no clue about how my mind works.

It seemed the only logical thing to do -- it followed as the night the day -- after I showed you my poem, “The Rather Odd Story Of Iris McGee” which begins:

In a house at the edge of a deep, dark wood,
Near the place where Irene’s castle once stood,...

Well, it seemed obvious to me.

Mystery couple

I have two questions for you:

Who are they? And why did I put them on my blog?

No fair cheating by using the intricacies of modern technology to find out. Either you know the answer or you don’t.

The person with the best answer will receive a year’s supply free.

A year’s supply of what is for me to know and for you to find out.

I will also be the sole determiner of how much constitutes a year’s supply.

Consider yourself warned.

On your mark, get set, go.

Showing you that poem about Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout yesterday made me think of...

...an old poem of mine that never saw the light of day. It has been in a drawer for a very long time, by which I mean since the 1990s. I’m not even sure it is finished. For better or worse, here it is:


The Rather Odd Story Of Iris McGee
by Robert Henry Brague

In a house at the edge of a deep, dark wood,
Near the place where Irene’s castle once stood,
There lived a young woman named Iris McGee.
She washed clothes on Mondays from seven to three;
On Tuesdays she ironed, then opened her mail;
On Wednesdays she waxed all the floors without fail;
On Thursdays she dusted and made up her bed;
On Fridays she painted the living room red;

On Saturdays, wearing a white wedding gown,
She drove a green tractor six miles into town,
Ate lunch at the deli and bought some new shoes,
Attended a concert, and paid union dues,
And waved at the townfolk, who thought her quite odd.
On Sundays that rained, she would think about God.
On Sundays with sun, she would sleep until eight,
Then go to her garden and swing on the gate;

She’d talk to the squirrels and prune a few trees,
For these were traditions among the McGees.
Now Iris, not one to break with tradition,
Was the twelfth in her family to hold the position
Of “Ringer of Bells and Singer of Blues”
At the church two blocks east of the place she bought shoes.
She loved ringing bells, but the blues made her cry,
So she thought and she thought till she thought she knew why:

The bells gave her joy but the blues made her sad;
The blues made her cry but the bells made her glad!
So one Sunday, early, she told them the news:
She’d gladly play bells, but she’d sing no more blues.
It caused a great stir when the church heard about it,
But she said, “Sing the blues? I most seriously doubt it!
I can’t sing sad songs when my joy is so full!
I’m off to the belfry the bell ropes to pull!”

She climbed up the staircase and started to play,
And the townfolk said, “Iris is happy today!”
They started to hum and they started to smile,
And at the bus station they stood single file
With never a murmur at having to wait
For a bus that was always a half-hour late
(It took them to jobs in the next county over
Where they packed jars of honey from local-grown clover),

And even the corner policeman was singing,
For Iris McGee was again at her ringing.
For Iris had told them, “This day you must choose.”
And never again did the townfolk hear blues.
She rang all the bells till no more could be found;
She rang them each day until joy did abound,
And the townfolk, with laughter and joy their hearts brimming,
Left off riding buses and took up team swimming.


The moral of this poem might be “It is possible to have too much of a good thing.”

Or it might be “My mama done tol’ me, when I was in knee-pants, My mama done tol’ me, Son, a woman’ll sweet talk and give ya the big eye, but when the sweet talkin’s done, a woman’s a two-face, a worrisome thing who’ll leave ya to sing the blues in the night.” (Don’t send your complaints to me, send them to Johnny Mercer.)

Or the moral of this poem might be “Never try to make sense when you can leave your readers thoroughly confused.”

For a complete change of pace, read this.

Or perhaps you’d prefer to stare at a swatch of Yves Klein blue for a while.