Last night friends took me to a small, private museum in Weatherford. This couple--he a retired college English prof--had for years a private collection of artifacts, primarily from Mexico, some from Texas, others from Latin America. Six or seven years ago they opened The Museum of the Americas in an empty store near the Weatherford square. Last night was an opening reception for an astounding collection of Texas arrowheads. The owner told us they arrived, unidentified, in cardboard boxes. He had to sort, identify, mount, and do signage. And then build display cases to hold the collection. I cannot comprehend the time it took. But I can comprehend and much admire the passion he and his wife have for their collection and their museum. I love to meet people who have found their passion in life--and they certainly have. The museum has a small room devoted pretty much to Day of the Dead symbols, a miniature but large Mexican village in a case, and other artifacts--clothing, dishes, masks, jewelry, decorative objects--scattered mostly in four room. I wandered and oohed and aahed for an hour--and I'm not usually good at museums.
There's a small gift shop, and my mind was whirling with plans for our forthcoming Day of the Dead book. By the end of the evening, we had agreed to talk about plans for a reception with the author of the text present. I found lots of things in the gift shop that would be great stocking stuffers. All in all a most pleasant evening--and one out of my usual range of activities. Afterward my hosts and I had a light supper and talked endlessly about cooking and food writing--subjects dear to all of us.
We did also talk mysteries. I am reading a Martha Grimes mystery. I read one, enjoyed it, started another and couldn't get into it, and now am into this one, bored with it, but want to know the outcome. The trouble for me--and my friend Katie agreed--is that there's too much introspection on the part of the main character--along with him, we wallow in his mind--and his eccentric coterie of friendsd are too much to believe or, as Katie put it, too "cute." I'll finish it, because I want to know how it all links together and because I hate to leave a book unfinished. But I'm not frantic to find time to read it, as I often am with a good mystery. I keep going back to it so hurry and get through it.
A good friend loaned me several mysteries by Elizabeth George--I read one and liked it, couldn't get into another--and Martha Grimes. This longtime dear friend and I are polar opposites--she is, as she herself puts it, content to watch paint dry, whereas I always have to have something going on. So maybe that's why I don't like many British mysteries--reading them is akin to watching paint dry. On the other hand, Deborah Crombie's mysteries are British, but she's a Texan--does that explain why I avidly devour every one of her books? I'm going to keep pondering the subject of mysteries and readers' taste.
A day in the country tomorrow. Jeannie and I are driving down to visit my brother and sister-in-law and drink wine on the porch. We'll shop and lunch in Granbury first. I'm looking forward to it.
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