| As
was my habit while visiting Santa Fe, I was browsing in Nick Potter's
bookstore just off the plaza, when I asked him if he had seen John Shaw
lately. "Oh!", he said with a bit of a start. "He died last week. Didn't you hear about it?" What a shock! It had been a couple of years since I had been in "the slumber room", the private library of the world's greatest collector of "things Holmesian". Every summer during our familiy's annual visit to Glorieta, my children and I would go to the Shaw's on a Saturday morning and spend an hour or so swapping stories about Oklahoma, the funeral business, the oil business, and Sherlock Holmes. |
| It
was easy to find the Shaw's abode. Turn right off the old Pecos Trail,
onto Zia, then left on Ft. Union, where it became a dirt road, and look for the 221B tiles on the adobe and the car with the SHERLOK New Mexico tag. We would tap the car horn so John could come out to greet us and bring us safely into the library. Otherwise his two large dogs would not treat us with much respect. Once in the room, they were puppy dogs, up in your lap and licking your nose if you let them. John was great with kids. He made sure Hannah and Travis had something Sherlockian that a kid could really enjoy. One of his favorites was a picture book of The Mouse Detective, a Shaw favorite. And he spoke easily with children, always making them a part of the conversation. Travis, now 22, still has fond memories of John Shaw, and remembers how Dorothy, The Woman in John's life, would, without fail, have a snack ready for them in the kitchen. With that taken care of, serious Sherlockian discussions could take place. And we never left empty-handed. John would inevitably choose a book or flyer or poster to send home with us. |
| These
memories came flooding back to my mind as I attended the dedication of the John Bennett Shaw Library at the University of Minnesota in October of 1995. Upon arrival the weather was balmy, with temperatures in the 60's. But by next morning we were back to the real Minnesota, with the mercury in the 30's, and the wind howling. Yet the climate was warm inside the Holiday Inn Metrodome. Gathered there were some of the greatest living Sherlockians from around the world, and I do not exaggerate. Australia, Japan, Norway, England, Canada, (and Texas) were just a few of the countries represented. Mixed in the crowd were several of the Minnesotan Norwegian Explorers, a local scion, second only to the famous BSI , the Baker Street Irregulars of New York, the Mother of all Sherlockian groups, or scions. Several BSI members were present, of course, since Shaw had been a long-standing member of that venerable group. Every January 6, Sherlock Holmes' birthday, Shaw would gather with the other BS:I members for a festive celebration. I once heard him interviewed on National Public Radio from that very party. |
| Day
One of the Minnesota conference was devoted
to presentations of Victorian history, giving us a setting for the Conan Doyle stories. This was college-level stuff, somewhat numbing to the mind and the arse. There was little about Holmes and practically nothing of John Bennett Shaw. But when Enola Stewart took the platform on Day Two, I got the emotional cleansing I needed and sought from the event. As the proprietress of Gravesend Books in the Pennsylvania Poconos, Enola had been a constant source of books for John for more than 20 years. Tears flowed as she shared how sad this world would now be knowing that John would never again ring her from New Mexico looking for that certain canonical book. She never made it to Ft. Union Drive, but she certainly knew John Shaw. Their relationship was the epitome of what is possible when one seriously endeavors to "keep green the memory" of Holmes. It was a love affair of wit, humour, intellect, sharing, and caring about the honorable truths one discovers in the written word. It was a love of life that flowed through John and enlivened all those who came into his presence, either by phone or in person, or through one of John's famous letters. |
| How
Shaw ever found the time to write as many letters as he did no one will
ever know. He was a tireless scribe, answering the enquiry of the lowliest
neophyte from some far-flung hamlet or the most erudite Sherlockian scholar
from London, Norway, or Australia. His homemade stationery showed Holmes,
with deerstalker and pipe and magnifying-glass in hand, poring over a
map of New Mexico with the town of Moriarty in view. Moriarty, the town,
was important to Shaw's local scion, The Brothers Three, whose annual
trek to that pitiable village was called the Happy-Birthday-You-Bastard-Moriarity celebration. Perhaps that was the key to John Shaw, and consequently to participation in Sherlock Holmes society. All Sherlockians meet on common ground. The love of the stories, the characters, the era, and the clever plots and outcomes become the focus, not the status of the participant. As I sat in John's library, he never drew attention to the fact that I was in the presence of one of the all-time superior Sherlockian minds. His encyclopedic knowledge of Sherlockiana did nothing to distance him from me or any devoted Holmes fan. In fact, John was a great evangelist for Holmes and an encourager of beginners like me to become active, start a local scion, and spread the gospel of Sherlock. And like himself, he trained me to be a collector with "the selectivity of a vacuum cleaner." It was fun, and friendship flourished. |
| That
first night at the JBS Library Dedication, as the temperature fell and
the wind rose,we marched from the Holiday Inn to the University of Minnesota
library door, with a Scots Regimental Band in the lead. My heart literally
raced. I had just returned from Edinburgh in August, where I had taken
lunch in the Conan Doyle Pub and visited the Sherlock Holmes statue just
across the street. In London, I had just dined at the Sherlock Holmes
Pub and toured the reconstructed Holmes and Watson flat at 221B Baker
Street. All this was too much. Twenty-eight years of collecting Holmes,
nineteen years of visits and correspondance with John Shaw, and recent
forays to Edinburgh and London all merged into an overpowering synthesis.
And now, marching to the library with the Scots bagpipes stirring the
soul, I experienced a euphoria that is as rare as it is wonderful. I was in for an even greater thrill, however, as we entered The Library, John's lifetime collection of treasures. There on the wall was the poster of Young Sherlock Holmes -the very one the kids and I had given John on our last visit with him in Santa Fe. He had shared with us the story of how Steven Spielberg, who owned a house in Santa Fe, had called him unexpectedly from Hollywood. Spielberg was desperate to have the script for Young Sherlock verified for Holmesian authenticity within the next 48 hours. John agreed, even though he was preparing for a Brothers Three dinner the next day. Spielberg chartered a jet, flew the script to Santa Fe within the next two hours, raced it to Ft. Union Drive, and waited while John completed the task. When we presented the movie poster to John that summer, he was delighted. I'll always remember his remark: "I never got a damned thing from Spielberg!" My kids and I had actually given John Bennet Shaw something Sherlockian that he didn't have and was thrilled to receive. So there it was. Our gift to John. On the wall of his library. For all to see. Forever. This was in my heart in Minnesota. Thank God I hadn't missed it. What a completely selfless, giving man John Shaw was! He has given all of us memories for a lifetime. [ John Bennett Shaw was born 10 OCT 03 ] |