Tag Archives: original brady spouses

Pop Culture Mysteries – Case File #001 – Here’s a Story (Part 3)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

READ:

PART 1 PART 2

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

I returned to my office, worn out and weary after a day of shaking the beep boop machines to see what would fall out vis a vis the mystery of what happened to the original Brady Bunch spouses.

Correction – I let Agnes the Librarian do all the work.  This new fangled technology confuses me more than Chinese Algebra translated into Greek.

Like a monk studying a holy book, I poured over the printouts Agnes made for me and came up with the following:

OBSERVATION – Though tame by today’s standards, the Brady Bunch was ahead of its time.

Hatcher ponders the possibilities.

Hatcher ponders the possibilities.

No matter what happened to the original Brady Bunch spouses, one thing became apparent to this sleuth after watching a few episodes:

Mixed/blended families were not a big staple of old television.

Hell, I remember watching a few sitcoms in the early 1950’s.  When the show called for a night time scene, the mother and father would be shown sleeping in separate beds, as if the fictional characters weren’t canoodling like a pair of jackrabbits when the cameras were off.

I’m still getting up to speed on all the pop culture I missed, but I’m fairly certain Mr. and Mrs. Brady were one of the first TV couples to share a bed on camera.

And if you can imagine that it wasn’t easy getting couples to share a bed on TV, it was yeoman’s work to get a show on the air that featured a man with kids marrying a woman with kids.  Happens all the time but for whatever reason, it used to be considered unseemly to talk about.

THEORY #1  The Original Brady Spouses Were Bumped Off

As a detective, one of the first tasks at hand is to establish motive.  Did someone have a reason to do something?  Someone having a reason to do something doesn’t automatically mean they did said thing but it can give you some insight into the case.

Mr. Brady’s Motive – None as far as I can see.  He was the only one bringing any money into the house. Why would a guy bump off his first wife just so he can marry some dame and dole out extra cash to raise her three kids?  Hell, he even had to keep a housekeeper on the payroll just to corral all those rugrats.  Doesn’t seem like a deal most fellas would sign up for, let alone kill for if you ask me.

Mrs. Brady’s Motive – To be a kept woman.  Carol never had a job and yet Alice the housekeeper did all the work around Casa del Brady.  Sure, it’s understandable that with six kids a woman might need an extra hand, but out of all the episodes Agnes the Librarian showed me on the library’s beep boop machine, I didn’t see Carol lift a single finger, fold a bed sheet, or even rinse out a pair of track marked underpants.

As said above, motive does not always mean guilt (or that a crime even occurred in the first place).  All I’m saying is if some rich architect broad wanted to give me a life where I could just sit back and let some happy go lucky housekeeper do all the work, I might tempted to outfit my wife for a pair of cement shoes.

Luckily, I’m not married at present.  And honestly, out of the three wives I loved and lost, Muffy’s the only ex that I’d seriously consider the proposition for.  And even then, I wouldn’t.  I might be many things, but a law breaker ‘aint one of them, Jack.

Conclusion – If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years as a law man, it’s this:

Few secrets last forever.  Sooner or later, they bubble up to the surface.

You’ve got a big house with six kids, a man, a woman, a housekeeper, an occasional cousin (Oliver) and regular visits from Sam the Butcher.  Had the original Brady spouses been put on ice, then someone would have noticed something off in the family dynamic and would have squealed louder than a prize pig at the county fair.

Thus, this detective concludes there was no foul play.

Theory #2 – Divorce

Splitsville.  Calling it quits.  The old dumparooni.  Make no mistake about it, divorce was a taboo topic back in the day.

I asked Agnes to run the stats on divorce between 1950 and today.  Here’s a chart that barked at me like a junkyard dog in search of a bone:

TOP REASONS GIVEN FOR DIVORCE BY YEAR

1950 – Husband attempted to murder me more than seven times and I’ve had enough. I hope Jesus will forgive me for breaking my vows.

1965 – Husband cheated on me fifty times and the fifty-first time was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I hope I don’t burn in hell for leaving.

1975 – Husband cheated on me ten times and hey, you other women can put up with more than that if you want but ten times is too many for this empowered female.  Vows schmows.

2000 – I hate my husband’s face.

2010:  I need more me time.

2015 – Husband farted in my presence, broke my fantasy of living in an ideal perfect marriage. Note to self:  find a fartless husband.

SOURCE: The Fake Institute for Made Up Research

See a pattern? As time progressed, people became more accepting of couples breaking their wedding vows like so many smashed dishes.

In the olden days, people either stayed together until the end of time and if they didn’t, then no one wanted to hear about it, especially on national television.

I determined Mike Brady and his first missus weren’t divorced.  More on that later.

First, here’s the intel I honed in on vis a vis Carol:

“Creator Sherwood Schwartz maintains Carol was divorced from her first husband, but nothing about it was mentioned on the series. At that time, divorce was a subject matter that was still considered largely taboo for television, particularly a series aimed at family audiences.”

Source: IMDB

Further, after viewing the first episode, The Honeymoon, which shows Mike and Carol getting married, Carol tells her parents, “I don’t know what I’d of done without you the past few years.”

Is that a vague clue?  Did Carol have to rely on her parents after her first marriage turned as sour as a six month old jug of buttermilk?

Another clue – Carol, before the wedding, tells Mike, “A few years ago I thought it was the end of the world…”

Why did Carol feel like it was the end of the world?  Perhaps because her first marriage blew up like a Tiajuana firecracker on Cinco de Mayo?

CONCLUSION:  Would that most of my cases wrap-up so easily.  Carol and her first fella broke up but the subject was considered too risqué to discuss on TV at the time.

THEORY 3 – Death

In the first episode, there’s a scene in which Bobby has hidden a picture of his biological mother, afraid that Carol wouldn’t approve of him having it displayed in his room.

Mike tells Bobby to put the picture back up, that he and Carol don’t want Bobby to forget about his mother, and that she’d be proud of him.

CONCLUSION:  Seems obvious that the first Mrs. Brady died from natural causes, though I suppose there could have been some kind of accident.  We aren’t told the details of the original Mrs. B’s demise, but it was obviously a tragic event that caused a lot of sadness in the male side of the Brady Bunch household.

Mr. Battler, for the sake of your 3.5 readers, I’ll wrap this report up with some info about the show:

THE BRADY BUNCH

Years on air – 1969-1974

CREATOR:

Sherwood Schwartz

ACTORS/ACTRESSES:

Robert Reed (Mike Brady)

Florence Henderson (Carol Brady)

Ann B. Davis (Alice Nelson aka Alice the Housekeeper)

Maureen McCormick (Marcia Brady)

Eve Plumb (Jan Brady)

Susan Olsen (Cindy Brady)

Barry Williams (Greg Brady)

Christopher Knight (Peter Brady)

Mike Lookinland (Bobby Brady)

WHERE TO STREAM IT:

Available on Hulu.  Though vague, the first episode provides answers as to what happened to the first Brady spouses.

FINAL OBSERVATIONS:  Parents.  Kids.  Love.  Happiness.  It’s what every family wants.  Ideally, it all lasts forever.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out.  Sometimes the Man Upstairs makes a mess of your plans and takes a parent away or sometimes a couple isn’t able to make it work as a package deal.

Sometimes parts of families come together to “form a family.”  A new one.  Who are we to say that’s wrong?

Corny as it may seem today, The Brady Bunch was a pioneer when it came to putting mixed/blended families on television.

shutterstock_278169329

Have a pop culture mystery?  Put Hatcher on the case!  Tweet your questions about movies, music, books, cultural happenings and more to @bookshelfbattle or drop it in the comments on bookshelfbattle.com

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All rights reserved.

Detective and stamp images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Pop Culture Mysteries – Case #001 – Here’s a Story – Part 1

By:  Jake Hatcher, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Private Eye

POP CULTURE MYSTERY QUESTION:  What happened to the original Brady Bunch spouses? (Or, what happened to Mike Brady’s first wife and Carol Brady’s first husband?)

“Son, I’m going to tell you one more time what I want and if I don’t get it, we’re going to have a serious dilemma on our hands.”

The lad on the other side of the counter stared at me blankly, a dumbfounded expression on his face.  We both spoke English, but it felt like we were from different planets.

“I want…a cup…of coffee.  Black.  No sugar.  No cream.”

If there's two things Jake Hatcher hates, it's Commies and Fancy Coffees.

If there’s two things Jake Hatcher hates, it’s commies and fancy coffees.

Immediately, the kid started in with the fancy mumbo jumbo.

“Do you want a half-caf, quarter-caf, decaf, or slim caf?”

I slapped my forehead and looked around.  The line behind me looked like it stretched all the way back to China.

“Buddy,”  I said.  “I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.  Just pick one of those.  Any one.” 

“Mega size, king size, or ginormo size?”

“I don’t know,”  I said.  “Smallest size you got.  I just need a little jolt, kid.”

“Vanilla shot, butter shot, raspberry shot or do you want the mango starlight swirl with optional honey berry jasmine?”

Instinctively, I reached under my trench coat and gripped the handle of my old service revolver.  Betsy, I called her.  Old Bets and I shot over a thousand Nazis together in World War II and I never went outside without wearing wearing her in a shoulder holster under my trench coat.  I’d developed a bad habit of grabbing my piece whenever I was annoyed.  (No pun intended).  That’s what happens when you live life on a razor’s edge.

It dawned on me the coffee shop worker was just a boy, no more than sixteen or seventeen, and although I was decapitating scum sucking agents of the Third Reich two at a time when I was only a little older than he was, I decided to give him a pass. 

After all, it wasn’t his fault that he was born at a time when the world was being flushed down the toilet like yesterday’s dinner.

“Take the pot of coffee behind you and pour some into a cup,”  I said.  “Then don’t do anything else to it. Just hand it to me.”

The kid acted like I’d just asked him to paint the Mona Lisa and decorate the Sistine Chapel for extra measure.  He did as I asked and handed me my coffee.

“That’ll be three-seventy five.”

One more surprise.  This strange new world was full of them.

“For a cup of coffee?!  Jumpin’ Jesus H. Christ on a Pogo Stick! Son, what kind of film flam operation are you running here?”

“I’ve got it.”

There she was, sauntering up behind me like a beautiful dream made reality, Ms. Delilah K. Donnelly, Attorney for my newfound employer, the reclusive Mr. Bookshelf Q. Battler.  She wore a slinky black dress and of course, her strand of glistening pearls.  She retrieved a plastic card out of her clutch and handed it to the lad.

“Debit or credit?”  he asked.

“Debit,” my colleague replied.

“Electronic money,”  Delilah explained.  “Takes the price of the coffee right out of my bank account.”

A dame buying me my morning joe.  The indignity of it all.

“Yeah,”  I said.  “We had credit cards in my day, ma’am.  Only tycoons, industrialists, homosexuals, communists and fellas named Lance used them though.  And back then we just had those click clack things that made an imprint of the card on carbon paper.  Personally, I’ve always believed a man should never buy something he can’t dole out the cash for.”

“Then you won’t be buying much these days, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said as the boy returned her card and handed me my coffee.

“I have half a mind to report this establishment to the DA,”  I said.  “Three-seventy-five…the nerve.  Rita Hayworth better come sit with me while I drink this and…”

I stopped myself, realizing I was in mixed company.

“…and I’d tell her to take a long walk off a short pier because I’m busy with you, ma’am.”

We found a table.  I pulled the lady’s chair out and held it for her as she parked her keister.  

“That’s sweet,”  Delilah said as she clacked open her briefcase.  She retrieved a file and handed it to me. 

“Your first case.”

I opened up the file.  Notes, records, transcripts and nine photographs – three boys, three girls, a man, a woman, and an old lady in a blue apron.

“I’ll shake a leg and get to work on this right away,”  I said.

“No hurry,”  Delilah replied.  “I’m sure Mr. Battler prefers a thorough investigation over a fast one.”

I pulled a cigar out of my pocket, struck a match and lit it.  Suddenly, everyone in the place came down on me like a ton of bricks.

“Disgusting!”  shouted an old lady behind me.

“Put that out!” 

“You can’t smoke that in here!” 

“Oh my God!!!!”

The complaints bounced at me faster than a kangaroo on a trampoline.

Angry Dames in Trousers - Hatcher hated them as much as commies and fancy coffees

If there’s THREE things Jake Hatcher hates, it’s commies, fancy coffees and angry dames in trousers.

Some dame wearing trousers waltzed on over, a look on her mug like someone had just beaten her with the business end of a Louisville slugger.  I assumed she was the manager or the boss or something.

Lady bosses.  I’m not against the idea.  I’m just not used to seeing it.

“Sir!”  the woman said.  “This is a no smoking establishment!  I’m going to have to ask you to leave!”

I turned to Delilah.

“Did I miss something?”  I asked her.  “Did the Nazis have a comeback while I was asleep?”

“We’d better go,”  Delilah said.

Good old Delilah.  I hated to see her go, but I loved to watch her leave.  Her derriere was like two ripe cantaloupes packed into an airtight sack, swinging left and right to the tune of their own internal metronome.

Outside, we found a bench and took a load off.  I sucked on my stogie.  Delilah pulled a silver cigarette case out of her clutch and popped a smoke into a long black filter.  I struck another match and gave the lady a light.

“Thank you Mr. Hatcher,”  the lady lawyer said.  “Such a perfect gentleman.”

“Pull out a lady’s chair and offer her a light,”  I said.  “Two rules old Ma Hatcher taught me.”

“She taught you well,”  Delilah said.

“Yeah,”  I replied.  “What the hell was that back there?”

Delilah blew out an array of smoke, too troubled to bother with her usual rings.

“You’re in a different day and age, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said.  “Smoking has been banned in all public establishments.  It’s considered vile and bad for your health.”

“Back in my day if a fella wanted to kill himself it was his funeral.”

“True,”  Delilah said.  “Although modern science tells us smoking negatively affects the health of those around the smoker as well.”

Hatcher was a ten pack a day man.

Hatcher’s a ten pack a day man.

“Hogwash,”  I replied.  “Tell me another whopper why don’t ya.’”

“You can’t argue with scientists, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Buncha no good eggheads if you ask me.”

There we sat and smoked away like a couple of broken chimneys.

“Ms. Donnelly,”  I said.  “If I may be so bold, there’s something about you I can’t quite put my finger on.”

“I don’t think you should be putting your finger anywhere on me,”  Delilah said.  “It’s never a wise idea to mix business with pleasure.”

“I never drop a fudge pile where I get my dough either, sister,”  I replied.  “But that wasn’t what I was getting at.  There’s something about you that’s different from the other dames I see around here.”

Across the street, there was a young woman with short purple hair, a ring in her nose, a pink tank-top that revealed tattoo covered arms, and a pair shorts so tiny they barely covered her posterior.

“Take that painted hussy for instance,”  I said, pointing at the floozy.  “Broads like that are a dime a dozen these days.  You?  You dress, act, and sound like a high falutin’ gal from my time and yet, you know all about this modern era – like how to pay for stuff with electronics and how to use a beep boop machine.”

“Speaking of,”  Delilah said as her phone buzzed like an angry bumblebee looking for a flower to copulate with.  “That’s Mr. Battler.  I’d better call him back.  He wants a legal opinion on the propriety of writing, and I quote, ‘the ending of Dexter sucked big donkey rectum.’”

“Helluva job you’ve got there, counselor,”  I said.  “But I’ll figure you out soon enough.”

“I hope you don’t,”  Delilah said as she stood up and stretched out her hand.  “A girl’s got to have her secrets, you know.”

“Ma Hatcher never taught me about that one,”  I said as I completed the handshake.

And with that, I watched Delilah walk down the street until she was a blip on the horizon. 

After that, I stood there on the sidewalk, puffing away on my stogie and doing my best to ignore all of the free, unsolicited advice.

“Damn dude,”  a local yokel said to me as he passed me by.  “Gotta quit that man, you’re gonna drop dead from cancer.”

“We all gotta go sometime,”  I replied.

Will Hatcher figure out what happened to the Original Brady Bunch Spouses?  Join us next time on Pop Culture Mysteries!

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015  (All Rights Reserved)

Coffee, angry woman and smoking detective photos courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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