It was a late night for the Maroon Household last night. Yesterday afternoon, Mr. CJ managed to bang his head hard enough to be concerned about a concussion. The thing to do in these situations, of course, is to keep the person awake for a decent amount of time, twelve hours being a pretty good rule of thumb. So we prepared our favourite caffeinated beverages and settled in for a late night.
We watched Pirates of the Caribbean, and some Stargate SG-1. I read my current library book, Hallucinations by Oliver Sacks, which caused me to occasionally open the computer to google things like interictal personality syndrome, palinopsia and the relationship between spirituality and temporal lobe epilepsy. I kept an eye on Mr. CJ to make sure he wasn't falling asleep. He's fine, by the way, and didn't fare any worse than a nasty headache. Amongst all these noctural activities, I somehow had a thought, a memory, come to me quite strongly.
I was thinking about a series of books that I loved to collect and read as a child. I was such a little bookworm. I have no idea what made me think of it, but I suddenly remembered these books that I loved. It was a series of detective mystery stories where the kids are the detectives and solve the mysteries that even the adults can't work out. The main character had the particular gift of a photographic memory. He could see something, and remember it so perfectly afterwards, that he could draw a picture, and we were to know that the picture was an exactly faithful reproduction of what he had actually seen. The clues would be in the picture, and we had a chance to try to work it out for ourselves, or look up the solution in the back of the book.
And when I say we, I mean me, because I didn't know anyone else who read these particular books. Most of the books I was reading - the Trixie Beldens and the Famous Fives - I could share among my friends. But nobody was interested in these particular mystery stories.
What the bloody hell were they called? I kept asking myself as the memories of the books, and the times I spent with them, flooded through me. I wracked my brain and came up with the first name of the main character - Hawkeye. Well, that was actually his nickname, on account of his photographic memory. I knew he had a last name, and a female friend who was his partner in crime-solving - but I couldn't remember any more names, or any useful clues like the title of the series or the books. I figured this was a bit vague even for google. I realised that I had never seen these books around since my childhood, though I often come across copies of most of my favourite childhood books. I mentally shrugged and let the mystery of the unknown mysteries go. It's okay to not know some things.
Today, I had to go to the hospital to pick up a prescription for Mr. CJ at the outpatient clinic. It takes them a little while to fill the script, which I fill in by perusing the hospital book stall. I was halfway through the racks when I came across this.
I resisted the urge to exclaim 'you've got to be fucking kidding me!' aloud.
So the mystery is solved. The dynamic duo I had so admired were Hawkeye Collins and Amy Adams.
This sort of things does happen quite often, really, where you think of something or someone you haven't thought of for ages, and then it, or he or she, just sorts of pops up sometime soon after. Sometimes I think I shouldn't even be surprised any more. But in this case, the object concerned was something that I hadn't seen or thought of for more than twenty years, and it turned up in real life in less than twelve hours. That's pretty impressive.