Just to be alive is a grand thing

 

I guess Agatha Christie has been on my mind since I’ve just read a cozy mystery, Fatal Fascinators by Jenn McKinley, set in a British castle on the weekend of a lavish wedding—and a double murder. That was one of Christie’s signature plots—a variation on the closed room mystery, where all the possible suspects are gathered in one spot so the detective’s job is made a bit easier by the smaller numbers. With Christie it was often someone's country estate. As a side note, McKinley’s latest in her Hat Shoppe Mysteries combined the best of an American cozy and an Agatha Christie weekend in the country.

Christie has long been a puzzle for me. Of course, I’ve read several of her mysteries, but I never could finish Murder on the Orient Express (a shameful confession from one who aspires to write mysteries), and I’m simply not a Christie scholar. I have read and enjoyed some of the books about Christie’s life and particularly the two weeks when she disappeared from sight. Much of what I’ve read about her convinces me she was not always a happy person, didn’t have that happy a life, let alone a happy childhood.

Yet here she is, proclaiming how much she loves life. There’s an obvious lesson there about enjoying life as it is handed to you, making the best of what you have—and whatever other platitudes you can bring forth. But I think for those of us who are aging, there’s a deeper message. At the age of eighty-five, I am very much aware of Andrew Marvell’s 17^th century poem to “To His Coy Mistress”: “But at my back, I always hear/Time’s Winged Chariot Hurrying Near.”

You don’t have to be a coy mistress to get the meaning: death is always just around the corner, and you never know when its chariot is going to catch you. I think Marvell, centuries ago, and Christie, fifty years go or more, have the same message for us: enjoy life while you can and don’t anticipate death. It will come when it comes. I fully understand Christie’s sentiment about having been miserable—haven’t we all been there one time or another, when we’ve lost a loved one, faced a disappointment in love, lost a job or a career—and yet the trick is to admit that you love life overall. That may be the whole energy behind suicide hot lines.

My life right now is not exciting, but it is comfortable, and I am enjoying it. Until I am forced to, I am not going to dwell on thoughts of illness and death. Jordan suggested tonight that I talk about illness a lot—the illnesses of those around me that I care about. And probably I do—my brother has been ill for a long time though he’s doing better, a friend’s brother is battling cancer, another friend is having memory problems, and yet another had an unexplained blackout which is worrying both her and her doctors. I suppose it’s inevitable that when you reach my age, you are surrounded by illness—and by the death of contemporaries. But I refuse to dwell on it.

What Christie is telling us is to move on, leave that behind, and treasure your life. I had a friend once who said she couldn’t bear that this table, that chair, and that painting would still be here when she was gone. I find just the opposite—it reassures me that life will go on. And I think that’s basically because as Christie suggests, I love life.

And on to the mundane—so far, it’s been a busy week, with happy hour company every night. That, too, is part of what I love about my life. And of course, the cooking—Monday night we had hot dogs. It was, after all, Labor Day. So what if everyone went out last night, and I ate a leftover hot dog at home alone. Tonight we had Greek hamburgers with marinated tomatoes and cucumbers. Pretty good stuff.

And so what if the days are a bit long right now, because I’m not sure what I’m working on. That will resolve itself. Meantime, I can read emails and recipes online and keep up with national politics and this week, the hullabaloo of the Austin impeachment trial of Kenneth Paxton.

Yep, Agatha, just to be alive is certainly a grand thing.

Sushi, Sophie, Agatha, and bureaucracy

 

Spicy tuna tower, with sushi rolls
Pretty food

Been a busy couple of days. Jean and Jeannie picked me up last night for sushi supper at Tokyo Café, one of my favorite places. We went early but still waited almost an hour for our dinner—as the server explained, sushi slows everything down, and the kitchen was behind. I had salmon crudo which was good but not enough to eat; Jeannie had some kind of roll—and tried Kirin, a Japanese beer, which she said was terrific; Jean had the prettiest dish of all—a spicy tuna tower. She said it was both spicy and good. Fun to get out for dinner.

Sophie is coughing again. Poor dear started with a few coughs a couple of days go, but I am alert to that sound now and vowed not to let the problem develop. Jordan took her for an allergy shot yesterday, but she’s still had some coughing spells. I think though the steroid did to her what steroids often do to people—hyped her up. She woke me at 4:15, dancing in a manner that says she’s desperate to go out. You always hate to refuse in case she really does need to go, so I got up—and watched her disappear into a far and dark corner of the yard where I cannot see a black dog. She finally came back and lay on the patio, as if ready to begin the day—I enticed her in with treats which she then refused. Five-thirty came too quickly, and she had to go out again. This time I dished up her breakfast, and she reluctantly came in but was not interested in eating. At 6:45 we made one more trip; after that I refused, loved on her, and gently told her to go take a nap. It was nine o’clock before I woke up. Tonight she ate her breakfast, asked for more, doesn’t seem to be coughing. It will be a watchful weekend.

Yesterday was National Cozy Mystery Day, in case you missed it—a day in honor of Agatha Christie’s birthday. Confession: I am not especially a Christie fan; in fact, I’m not a fan of British mysteries, as are so many of my friends. I have enjoyed the two books about Christie’s mysterious temporary disappearance, but I’m not much schooled in her actual mysteries. It makes me feel a bit guilty, as though I am masquerading by calling myself a mystery writer when I don’t have the right credentials. Like those people who fake their academic degrees. Oh, I’ve read some of the books, but a long time ago. I need to buckle down and re-read. Jean particularly recommended the one in which Poirot dies—wonder which book that is?

I rarely diss on businesses or companies, but I’d like to issue a warning here: do not deal with Cigna insurance. Six months ago, when TCU cancelled their dental insurance for retirees, I took out a policy with Cigna. I paid each month, and each month they returned the check to my bank. SO each month I called to find out what was wrong and was given a variety of fixes, like a code on my check, none of which worked. And each month I would get an overdue email statement. This week my bank called and was told I need to put P.O. before Box on the envelope—is not the lamest thing ever? But this week, when both the bank and I talked to Cigna, the representative acted as though I had an active account. A note on my account on the website made me nervous, and I asked my dental office to call. Cigna had cancelled the insurance as of July 1 without notifying me either through a website message or email. Upshot: I have cancelled my dental appointment for next week and applied for new insurance. In retrospect, I think the problem was that I didn’t let Cigna automatically debit my bank account, but I am leery of having many automatic debits. I want to be in control of what happens with my banking.

Now waiting for Jordan to arrive with supper—for me, veal caprese from Macaluso’s just down the street. It was a hectic day, with Jacob playing 36 holes in a golf tournament, and nobody thought about dinner until too late to defrost anything. And Jacob will be in a hurry to get to the Paschal homecoming game. Meantime, I’m hungry!

Happy weekend everyone.

A birthday and my week that wasn’t

 

Blatant self promotion to lead off a post about cozy mysteries
with the cover of one of my own, but Dame Agatha
doesn't need the sales, and I do.

Happy Birthday today to Dame Agatha Christie, the queen of cozy mysteries. Christie, who was born in 1890, died in 1976 at the age of 85, having published sixty-six mysteries, fourteen short story collections, six novels under a pseudonym, and the world’s longest-running play, The Mousetrap, which played in London from 1952 until 2020. In my world of mysteries, she’s like a mother figure, with a major award named after her.

For many mystery authors, the occasion of Christie’s birthday sparks a nostalgic look back at the books that drew us to the genre. No surprise that many cite Nancy Drew as their inspiration, but there was also Cherry Ames, the nurse, and Trixie Belden, detective. I remember, before that, the Bobbsey Twins and the Little Colonel Stories—no, they’re not mysteries but they were books that fed my early interest in reading. And after Nancy Drew, I was drawn to the New Orleans/Mississippi River/plantation life novels of Francis Parkinson Keyes.

Confession: I never have read much of Agatha Christie. I am not as much drawn to the British mysteries as some readers are. Sometimes, because of my love of Scotland, I try to read some of the better-known Scottish mystery authors, but they tend to be gloomy—must be all that dark and dreary weather in the Highlands. There are a few cozy mysteries with a Scottish background that I have enjoyed—the Paislee Shaw mysteries by Traci Hall (a single mom eking out a living with a yarn shop) and Paige Shelton’s Scottish Bookshop Mysteries.

What I have read and thoroughly enjoyed is a book about Dame Agatha—and the time she disappeared for two weeks. I recommend The Mystery of Mrs. Christie, by Marie Benedict.

Pretty much though, I’m a fan of American cozy series. Although some authors, more likely thriller than cozy, are finding success with stand-alone novels, the conventional wisdom in mystery circles is that you draw readers to the characters in your series so that they want to read more about them. I have read and enjoyed most of Sue Grafton’s Alphabet Mysteries, several of Margaret Truman’s mysteries, and most of Ellery Adams’ Book Retreat Mysteries. Some of my favorite series have ended—Julie Hyzy’s White House chef mysteries and her Manor House Series were both work-for-hire, and then the publisher shut them down, Hyzy did not own the rights to the characters—a blow to many readers. These days I jump with delight if I discover a Goldy Schultz book I haven’t read or a culinary mystery by Diane Mott Davidson. My current favorite series are Susan Wittig Albert’s China Bayles herbal mysteries and Ellen Crosby’s Wine Country Mysteries.  

I have some mysteries on my to-be-read (commonly known as TBR) list—Leslie Budewitz’s Bitterroot Lake, her venture into thrillers (I like her Spice Shop Mysteries and Food Lovers Village Mysteries) and Vicki Delany’s new Deadly Summer Nights, set in a Catskill resort.

 I’ll need those books because this was to be a busy week, but I am wondering if I’ve offended the gods of calendars or something. All the fun things I had scheduled have cancelled, even my neighbors’ weekly Tuesday happy hour fell through. Tonight, I was to go to a birthday celebration with three longtime and dear friends, but one thinks she was exposed to Covid and cancelled, so we postponed until we could all be together. Tomorrow I was to have lunch with Melinda, who worked with me at TCU Press and who is a special person, but her elderly mom fell and broke some bones. What was not cancelled? A trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get an official identification card now that I no longer have a driver’s license. Sort of like going to the dentist.

How’s your week going?