There was a bit of relief when I read a review of a new book that declares that “Go Set a Watchman,” is not a sequel to the 1960s blockbuster novel that became a great movie, “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

But before proceeding, let me release the long-standing pun regarding the Mexican mixed drink called “Tequila Mockingbird.” There might be some mixicologists who will prepare you a Bloody Mary, or Gin and Tonic or a Hot Toddy, but a Tequila concoction? I don’t think so.

Harper Lee wrote “To Kill a Mockingbird” back in 1960. It became an instant hit, spawning a movie by the same name, starring Gregory Peck. I’ve read it several times and love the give-and-take between Peck, qua Atticus Finch, and his daughter, Scout, who many readers assume represents the author herself. I wondered why the pre-teen daughter had the temerity to call her dad by his given name instead of simply “Dad.” How many offspring call their parents by their given name?

“Mockingbird” became a film not long after Lee published the book; in my opinion the film was one of the few books-turned-films that remained true to the original and escaped becoming “Hollywoodized.” I saw the movie with friends in 1964 at the Fort Union Drive In. So impressed was I that I returned, solo, the next evening to watch it again. Lee did a masterful job of portraying mores of the Deep South, the whites’ treatment of blacks, feelings toward a neighbor whom the Finch children called “Boo” Radley, and the way southern justice was meted out.

The friend who went with us the first night remained upset for several days after watching the movie. “How could the jury find Tom Robinson guilty after all the evidence Atticus presented?” she would keep repeating. Was there anyone anywhere who would think otherwise? It’s a moot point, as both Evelyn and I had read the book and were predisposed to the notion that Hollywood wasn’t about to change the script in order to have Atticus win his case.

“Watchman” is available now, but my copy didn’t arrive by the time we left for vacation. As a result, I can’t turn this column into a review of a book that followed the first one by 55 years. I hope to zero in on some salient issues when I do read the book and/or see the movie. What seems to pre-occupy most critics currently is their opinion that Atticus Finch has become a racist.

The guilty verdict is hard to imagine, even harder for a person who has only the critics’ words as evidence. I find it hard to conceive that Atticus could be anything like a racist, inasmuch as he showed so much compassion for the many people in that small southern town who could not believe his client assaulted a white woman. The evidence in the book and the movie of “Mockingbird” suggests her father himself was the person who blackened the woman’s eye.

After I — and I hope several others — have had a chance to read about Atticus as a racist, it would be great to discuss it in this column.

Yes, I realize my approach, you could say, is half-cocked, as I’ve read only the first half of Harper Lee’s creation. I can assure you I will have plenty of strong opinions in a few weeks, when my copy of “Watchman” arrives.

• • •

What would the world be like without 14-year-olds? When each of my sons turned 14, they realized they’d be relegated to tasks involving electronics too complicated for oldsters like me. “I don’t want you to show me how to set up the VCR; I want you to set it for me.”

I was 14 when my father expected the same thing of me: “I want you to set the car clock, not show me how.” And that continued forever, even to the point that my mother, Marie, in her widowhood, tried to pay me $20 just to set her car clock (and a few others in her house).

So today, as a dozen of us Trujillos are spending a few days at the Radisson in Salt Lake City, there’s a gathering of quite a few of men my age and younger, wearing multi-colored wigs (some with dyed hair), fake ears, sewn-on figures on their shirts and strange animal-like protuberances on their noses. (I’m not making this up!)

My first glance of these aged conventioneers reminded me of a convention of Trekkies, with people older than William Shatner attending conventions while dressed as Mr. Spock, Mr. Sulu, et al.

My own 14-year-old granddaughter, Carly, rescued me, or at least brought me up to date on Bronies, the above-described group visiting the hotel we’re vacating today.
Carly said the Bronies are about friendship. For the most part, they’re middle-aged men who are “not a cult, but more of a fan-dom.”

They grew popularity and membership through “My Little Pony” and “A Brony Tale.” “My Little Pony” is a toy- and-merchandise enterprise that became popular in the ‘80s and whose popularity blossomed in 2010, when an animated series appeared.

One post on Facebook says of Bronies, “They are just guys. Dudes. Dudes who like “My Little Pony.”

Are they comparable to Roswellians alluded to by former Optic publisher Tom McDonald, recently, whose weekly column described people who have taken the supposed alien invasion seriously?

Again, apparently, I’m feeling like a charter member of the Great Uninformed. My oldest son, Stan, just now pointed to a site on my computer that shows no fewer than 9 million “hits” for the word “Brony.”

My point here isn’t to tout my ignorance about an informal organization that has drawn 9 million Internet “hits,” but rather to utter a gee-whiz about some people’s devotion to a cartoon.