Celebrating Tommy and Tuppence

My contribution to the Agatha Christie blog tour celebrating the 120th anniversary of Agatha Christie's birth. Thank you for stopping by!

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The persistent tapping on the outer door of the office of the International Detective Agency caused an immediate flurry of activity. From behind one office door came a sudden wild staccato of typing, while from the other came the screeching wail of a violin in pain. Albert the office boy rolled his eyes as he carefully laid aside his spy thriller and wiped his fingers, sticky from sweets, before heading to the front door.

A couple of minutes later the typing ceased, and a small, neat head, topped with a shining bob of black hair, poked around the corner of the boss’ door. Red-haired Tommy had just put the violin back on the shelf and out of its misery. Now he obeyed his "secretary’s" beckoning hand and joined her to look through the small peepholes and into the outer office.

Tuppence too rolled her eyes. “You weren’t supposed to play the violin,” she hissed. “You know Albert likes to tell new clients that you’re on the phone with Scotland Yard.”

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” replied Tommy, stolid as ever. “But I don’t think it’s a new client this time.”

“No?” Tuppence stood on tip-toes, squinting. “Are you certain?”

“Pretty certain, my girl. I think it’s just the folks arriving for the blog tour.”

“For the what?” She raised her eyebrow.

“The blog tour. Oh, don’t look at me like that…I’ll be dashed if I can really explain the thing. We’re behind the times, you know, old girl!”

“I wonder….” Tuppence mused. “Are we really, Tommy? I mean, I know we’ve been around for a while now….but do characters like ourselves really go out of fashion?”

“Well…” Tommy critically appraised her outfit. “You’re certainly not dressed for the twenty-first century.”

“No,” Tuppence said slowly. “I suppose not. All the same, I find it rather comforting to know that there are people out there who still care. Who still know about us, Tommy, despite our age, and who think we’ve worn rather well. Because you know, they still read our books, don’t they? It’s not just all about Hercule and Jane, bless her…”

Tommy laughed. “Of course they’ve worn pretty well themselves, when you consider it.”

“Yes, but they had such good publicity! All those novels! All we ever got was four novels…four novels, Tommy! And a handful of short stories! Though I must admit,” Tuppence added with a faraway look in her eye, “I loved those short stories.”

Tommy regarded her with affection. “You always were a bit of a romantic, Tuppence. Full of nostalgia.”

She smiled at him. “Well, one good thing about living on forever in reader imaginations is that we always get to stay young and adventurous.”

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Although I suppose it could be argued that Tommy and Tuppence are minor league detectives compared to the great Hercule Poirot and the amazing Jane Marple, I have always had tremendous affection for these lesser known sleuths of Agatha Christie’s.

Last year I went on a Tommy and Tuppence reunion tour and re-read all the books in which they’re featured. They loomed so vibrant in my reading memory that I was almost astonished to discover their scarcity in Christie’s canon. But in many ways, that simply adds to their mystique. They pop in and out of Christie’s long writing career, like old friends that every once in a while she simply had to revisit.

They show up early (very!) in 1922’s The Secret Adversary, beaten out only by Poirot’s first case. As dashing young adventurers, their story has far more of the romantic and comedic spy thriller about it than the straightforward cozy-whodunit.

They come back in 1929’s short story collection Partners in Crime, still arguably my favorite Tommy and Tuppence book (in case you couldn’t tell). Their witty banter seems perfect for these shorter tales, and I’ve always wished for more stories from this period in their detecting/spying careers.

They arrive on the scene again in N or M? of 1941, a terrific espionage novel set in war-time. We don’t see them again until 1968’s By the Pricking of My Thumbs, a somewhat disturbing novel set in a very different season of Christie’s writing. They appear again in the poignant Postern of Fate, a novel marked by a great deal of nostalgia – and the last novel Christie ever wrote (though others were published later).

Admittedly, the final two books don’t show Christie at the top of her game. But considering there were only five Tommy and Tuppence books altogether, it seems striking to see the placement of those books in her canon. It suggests a great love for these lively characters when you realize that Christie created them so early in her career and felt an urge to return to them so near the end of it.

And although Christie seemed to save her most brilliant plots and creative bits of writing for other detectives, there’s a wonderful vibrancy to Tommy and Tuppence. Why do I love them so? Let me count the ways…

1) I love that they’re a couple. All of Christie’s other detectives may have help or even partners of a sort (“mon ami, my dear Hastings!”) but Tommy and Tuppence are truly a team. Each brings unique strengths to the work they do. Tommy is completely solid, faithful and trustworthy. Tuppence, as Christie herself once described her, is "scattily intuitive" (love that phrase)! Tommy may be the “official” investigator in the world’s eyes, but Christie -- and the elusive Mr. Carter -- both know that he’d be nothing without Tuppence. And Tommy knows it too.

2) They’re funny. Really, truly funny, in that stolid British way. From Tuppence’s penchant for buying hats to Tommy’s gallant flirtations, they make me laugh.

3) Albert.

4) They age! Miss Marple, like your maiden aunt or your first Sunday School teacher, has been old ever since you met her. Even Poirot, by the time we first see him, is already retired and moving into a long second career. But Tommy and Tuppence are different every time we see them, and grounded, at least somewhat, in real time.

They meet during World War I, their courtship, marriage and early career are totally defined by the 1920s. Their work for the government, in their late middle-age, is colored by World War II, the war in which their own grown children serve. In the final books, Christie even gives us a glimpse of them when they’re elderly, and of course part of the delight comes in seeing how essentially unchanged they are.

OK, don’t push the timeline too hard – it won’t stand the scrutiny. Still, every time Christie popped in on Tommy and Tuppence (or they popped in on her?) she showed them in a different season of life. It gives them an extra layer of reality, so that you almost feel as though you’ve been flipping through the photo albums on their coffee table. It also makes you miss all the intervening years you don’t get. I still long to see Tommy and Tuppence sleuthing up a storm while Derek and Deborah are in nappies. Can’t you just imagine Tuppence, pushing a pram, hot on the trail of some underworld crook?

Long live Tommy and Tuppence Beresford! They deserve to be celebrated.

Poetry Stretches

In the midst of crazy days, I've been reading more poetry ~ and beginning to write more too. It's helping to keep me sane!

One of my favorite stops for poetry stretching is the Miss Rumphius Effect. Each Monday you'll find a new "stretch" for your poetry writing muscles. Even when you don't have time to play, it's always fun to check back in and see what others have written.

That's how I found this wonderful poem by Jane Yolen, which she submitted for last week's poetry stretch. The challenge was to write a poem consisting entirely of questions. If you're a fan of Charlotte's Web, I think you'll find this just delightful!

And wouldn't it be fun to take this for a model and write a series of "questions poems" from the perspective of some of your favorite literary characters? I may give it a try. If you do too, I'd love to have a look.

Wilder Prayers

Sometimes the books we're reading aloud, especially when we're reading them at bedtime, end up coloring our nighttime prayers.

Saturday evening we all cuddled on the couch and read another chapter of Laura Ingalls Wilder's The Long Winter. It was the chapter where the blizzard comes up suddenly while the children are at school, and Laura and Carrie have to battle their way home, through blinding wind and snow, with their teacher and schoolmates. It's a harrowing passage, made moreso by the fact that they almost miss the last building in town (Laura literally runs into it with her shoulder) and blunder their way into the open prairie.

A few minutes later we were praying our bedtime prayer, thanking God for his various blessings and asking for his peace and rest for the night. Suddenly the sweet girl's voice piped up from the blankets: "And please help us not to get lost in any blizzards!"

Amen.

And by the way, I couldn't resist the post title. I think I could often stand to pray some bolder, wilder prayers...

Gratitude Thursday

I'm back...and you probably didn't even know I was gone!

We spent the past few days in Virginia visiting with my husband's family. His mother and stepfather are going through some major changes and challenges as his alzheimer's grows worse and it was a hard few days for all of us. Lots of laughter and love, yes, but also some stress and tears.

Seeing someone you love fall into such confusion and disorientation is always difficult. Robert is the only grandfather my daughter has ever known on her dad's side of the family (her paternal biological granddaddy died when she was three months old). And of course, my dad, her Papaw on the other side, has been quite ill this year too.

We got back last night, quite late, and all of us feeling right on the edge of getting sick. The sweet girl has congestion and a hacking cough; I'm battling sore throat and on-again/off-again sinus pain; Dana is just plain tired. We were so tired that we probably should have come straight home, but we decided to try to visit an old friend of D's in West Virginia. We met him and his youngest child for lunch, then followed them several miles off the highway to their house. It was good to see them, but we promptly got lost trying to find a way to another highway on our way out, and the whole day was like that -- missed turns, needing extra bathroom breaks, long lines at restaurants, tempers getting short from time to time, everybody just longing for home and our own beds, everyone just a little "off" emotionally.

The only thing that finally worked to get us all back to some sense of balance was a long time of reading aloud, which is one reason why my throat is sore and hoarse today. We finished The Wheel on the School (incredible book!) and plowed several chapters into The Long Winter. I was planning to read that one later this autumn, when we were closer to actual winter, but it happened to be handy as I scooped up a "just in case we need one more book for the car" book on my way out the door Sunday afternoon. And it turned out that Wilder was just the voice we needed in that final push homeward -- a prose voice we all know, love and appreciate so much.

You're probably wondering, given the title of this post, where's the gratitude? But there's a lot of there, shot through the details of the exhausting past few days. Here are just a few blessings I'm counting this afternoon (adding them to my ongoing gratitude list)...

63. The opportunity to just be present for my husband and his family through this really hard time. The blessing of hugs given and received, and laughter in the midst of hard decisions and painful moments.

64. The beautiful minute the other evening when Robert, D's stepdad, seemed to become fully and suddenly "himself" again. He smiled, made a joke, touched his wife's face with loving affection, gave me a wink. It faded quickly and he soon wandered off again, but it was such a good reminder of who he is (not who he "was" but still "is") and why my mom-in-law is doing her level best to make good decisions about loving care.

65. Fun cousin time for the sweet girl her younger cousin Tori (just one of two younger cousins she has -- though she has a plethora of older ones!)

66. The beauty of apple tree country when we got lost in W. VA. If one must get lost, getting lost on a beautiful blue-sky September day on winding roads past ripening orchards is definitely the way to do it.

67. Work to come home to. Yes, I'm being grateful for this. There is way too much of it, and I have no idea how it will all get done this autumn -- the overwhelmingness of it all kept me up part of the night, though a good prayer time enabled me to get back to sleep about 5 this morning.

68. And yes, we slept in.

69. Poetry. Billy Collins. 'Nuff said? I'm hoping to dig up some scraps of writing time to review his lovely collection The Trouble with Poetry which I finished reading early this morning.

70. Homeschool resources and books from my sis-in-law. She brought a huge plastic tub of stuff over for me to go through, and I plowed through with great eagerness (there was a lot of plowing through of "stuff" over the past few days, as we began to help my mother-in-law go through things preparatory for their big move to a retirement community). It was fun, in the midst of all that, to have some good books to go through. We wedged them into the back of the car, a couple of nice big stacks.

71. The first book I saw on top of the stack, when I opened the big tub, was a copy of Melisa Wiley's Little House in the Highlands. Almost cried when I saw it -- in the middle of exhaustion and much emotion, seeing that there was like seeing a note from an old friend. (I know Melissa is just a blog acquaintance, but she blesses my life regularly...and what delight to own this lovely book!)

72. A chance to talk with my mom by phone for a while, during the time we were at my mother-in-law's. It was one of the hardest decisions in the world to not go on to Richmond; I miss my parents so. My dad, thankfully, is still stable and seems to be strengthening, but I miss them. But I trusted their wise counsel when they asked us not to push it in our tired and overwhelmed state.

73. The work I came home to...did I mention I am teaching again? That the door that seemed to slam shut irrevocably over the summer miraculously opened again? And that, though I am challenged tremendously (in terms of time, mental space and many other things) I am also grateful to be teaching and having a chance to read and learn more about the era of the early church?

74. Rain. It rained all morning, and looks as though it could rain again. We've needed it so, and the world looks refreshed.

Book Sale Bounty

Today was the Harvest Festival a couple of towns over, which includes...book sales!

I found some wonderful things in the children's section at the large sale at the Presbyterian church. Look at this lovely haul ~~

The Friendly Beasts (an old English Christmas Carol)
illustrated by Tomie dePaola

Caterpillars, Bugs and Butterflies
from the "Take-Along Guide" series of kids' nature kids we like so much

Drawing Faces
from the Usborne ARTideas series (internet-linked)

Mary Cassatt
by Mike Venezia (probably our favorite author on "introducing great artists" for now)

What Makes a Cassatt a Cassatt?
from the Metropolitan Museum of Art series I've heard such great things about (clearly someone was getting rid of their Cassatt books, to our delighted gain!)

Do You See What I See?
A Devotional Seek-and-Find Book for Advent
(published by Creative Communications for the Parish)

Socks
by Beverly Cleary (the sweet girl's big find of the day!)


A Hole is to Dig
by Ruth Krauss, illustrated by Maurice Sendak
(I practically danced a jig when I saw this -- a beautiful hardback copy in very nice condition, and I think it's a first edition! Of course I immediately thought of Ursula Nordstrom)


The Dragon of Lonely Island
by Rebecca Rupp
(which I just recently reviewed here)

And my dear husband picked up two great reference books, one called An Illustrated Life of Jesus (from the National Gallery of Art collection) and a book on the Age of Exploration (Time-Life's Great Ages of Man series)

And we got most of these for 50 cents each. A good day for books!

That Tiny Little Word "So"...

This week's gospel readings have us in John 11, the story of the raising of Lazarus.

This has always been one of my favorite stories in the gospels, not only for how it shows us the love and power of Jesus, but because I am blessed to have sisters named Mary and Martha. The stories involving the sisters in Bethany have always felt especially close to my heart for that reason.

I've read John 11 so many times that the contours and curves of the narrative almost feel worn smooth. So when I hit a surprising "bump" in my reading yesterday morning, it grabbed my attention.

I was reading in the English Standard Version (ESV) and got to verses 5 & 6:

"Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was."

Jesus LOVED them. So when they were sick and in need, he....rushed to their side to do everything he could right away to fix things! That's what we expect from this story, isn't it, when we're reading with our natural mind and heart? That's what makes sense to us.

I was reminded of a scene with the sweet girl from sometime last month. She wanted something, something badly, and we wouldn't let her have it (I honestly don't recall what it was, but it wasn't something we wanted her to have at that time, and we were trying to help her work through her initial response, which involved a lot of anger and petulance.) She got a little tearful and said "But don't you love me? If you love me, and it's a good thing, why won't you let me have it?"

So often this is the state of my heart before God. Sometimes I'm angry and petulant, but sometimes I move past that and just end up weepy. "But Lord," I say, "this isn't a bad thing I want. It's a good thing! It's something you'd bless! I don't understand why I can't have it!"

And it's harder sometimes, isn't it, when the "thing" we want isn't so much a "thing" as something even more important and intangible (but just as real a need as any desire for a more tangible object). Lord, I want healing for this person I love. Lord, I need to be able to feel your presence NOW.

That tiny little word "so" really jumped out at me. Jesus loved them, SO he waited. Some translations use the word "yet" or "but" which alters the meaning a bit, or at least bends to our natural bellowing in the face of this kind of thing. The "so," tiny as it is, helps me comprehend at least a fraction more of the deep love and wisdom of God.

He loved them too much to give them the quick and easy "fix." He could have rushed to their side and healed Lazarus, and yes, that would have blessed them (how many times do we see Jesus heal in the gospels, so simply and quickly and in immediate response to a request made in faith). In this case, he had a bigger blessing in view, one that would not only do more in the lives of Mary, Martha and Lazarus than they ever would have imagined possible (and we ourselves can only imagine the soul growth and the deepening trust Jesus' actions brought forth in the hearts of these dear friends) but a blessing that encompassed many more people who witnessed the raising of Lazarus and who came to know Jesus as a result of it. Jesus had the kingdom in view, and his waiting was part of that kingdom work.

But Jesus never loses sight of his friends or how much he loves them. Maybe that's why John gives us that glimpse of Jesus weeping at the tomb. I remember I used to wonder, why was Jesus weeping? He knew what he was about to do! But his friend is dead, and has been dead for four days. As we see Jesus weeping in that moment, we realize that he knows what his waiting has cost these beloved friends in terms of real anxiety and grief. He knows, more than anyone, the darkness and sadness of death and how it's left its mark on his good world. He knows, more than anyone, what it will cost to defeat it.

It dawned on me that there's one other place in John's gospel where the word "so" has jumped out at me before. That would be in chapter 3, verse 16. "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life."

He loves us so...enough to weep with us, enough to give us what he truly knows is best, enough to keep the world and the kingdom in view even while working in the small seedbeds of our hearts.

There is so much to that tiny little word "so."

Two More Agatha Christie Reviews

I'm continuing my quest to read all the novels of Agatha Christie from the 1920s. You can go to my earlier post to find new links to my reviews of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926) and The Big Four (1927). Just scroll to the bottom of the post to find my list of reviews, with titles listed by publication date.

I've read The Man in the Brown Suit (1924) and hope a review will be coming soon. I'll continue to post whenever I edit/add links.

Attentiveness

One of the things I love about building a learning life are the moments of serendipity.

Yes, some of the moments are at least partly, semi-consciously planned (which OK, I realize, makes them less serendipitous...). For instance, during this first week of school we've begun to focus our world history studies on the 17th century. Next week we'll be looking at the Netherlands in the early 1600s, and...not entirely by coincidence...our artist of the month in fine arts appreciation is Jan Vermeer, a Dutch artist who painted in the early 1600s. I've even decided that we're going to launch into The Wheel on the School (set in the Netherlands) as our next read-aloud.

But some moments are so beautiful you just can't plan them.

I've decided that this year we're going to focus, gently and as naturally as possible, on one character trait each month. This will be a trait we talk about sometimes during candles (our family's time of evening prayer) and try to work into other learning moments from time to time. I chose "attentiveness" as the first trait for several reasons. It seemed like a good one to start the school-year with, as we turn our attention to a whole new season. More than that, however, I am trying to be more sensitive and open to what God is doing in the sweet girl's heart by paying closer attention to the stories from Scripture that really grab her and won't let go. For the past few weeks, the story that has done that for her is the story of Samuel -- the boy Samuel in the temple hearing the voice of the Lord. We have read a particular re-telling of this story over and over, and she is clearly very drawn to it.

And of course, what Eli does near the end of the story is to teach Samuel how to pay attention, how to listen and respond to the voice of God. No small thing. I love listening to the sweet girl chime in on Samuel's words "Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening."

And listening is not easy for my girl. Is it easy for any of us? She is a worrier, frequently restless with anxiety and full of what ifs. She can be contemplative, but it's not her natural state these days (full of curiosity and lots of energy, as she should be!) so a listening stance is something we have to nourish. Some of her developmental issues show up in the struggles she has to fully pay attention to and catch "cues" from the people around her. So I'm trying to find ways to nourish listening and attentiveness in small ways: through encouraging us to pause for a period of about half a minute or so of silence before we begin to pray, through the drawing lessons we started together last week (using Mona Brookes' Drawing With Children) where we are learning to relax our eyes and really look, long and carefully, at the elements of shape in an object.

All of which made me smile this morning when I opened up the website I was planning to use for our introduction to Vermeer, and saw this beautiful painting:



It's called "The Lacemaker" and it immediately spoke "attentiveness" to my soul. I quickly shifted from my original plans to look at another Vermeer painting and we spent time with this one. All during the rest of this busy and somewhat stressed day (I'm overwhelmed with work, fighting illness, and supporting my husband through a very stressful time in his family's life) I kept going back to the quiet serenity of this picture.

I love it when moments like these happen. Serendipity.

Things I Love About the First Day of School

~How eager we all are to get up in the morning, even though we're tired and still making the move from relaxed summertime bedtime schedules.

~First day of school muffins. I think I made the best ones ever this year -- really tasty! I always feel like we should wait for Tacy to drop in to have one.

~The handprint tradition, which we started in kindergarten. Oh Lord, bless the work of our hands this year!

~Cracking open brand new books. There's something about glossy covers with no bent corners and bindings that are still uncracked that just get the learning sap flowing!

~New pencils. This year's treat: a root beer scented smencil.

~The first "learning bumps" (both teacher & student). It's almost a relief when we hit them because it snaps us out of the "everything is going to be perfect this year" mode (which usually only lasts about fourteen minutes...)

~Figuring out what's missing or not yet organized. For instance, all of our hand-held pencil sharpeners seem to have gone AWOL, and the battery-powered one is running out of juice. (But hooray for my DH, who stocked up on batteries the other day...

~Seeing how much your student REMEMBERS from last year. Yes, it's also a day to begin to realize what they've forgotten -- and that's helpful in its own way. But lots of fun to celebrate, with small inner cartwheels, all the good stuff that "stuck."

~A spirit of openness and flexibility!

ETA: Although it has an early time signature, I enjoyed adding to the post a bit at a time through the day.

Augustine of Hippo (d. 430)

It's the feast day of Augustine of Hippo (not to be confused with Augustine of Canterbury, another Augustine of particular significance in the Anglican tradition).

I recently finished David C. Downing's book Into the Region of Awe: Mysticism in C.S. Lewis. I was hoping to have a chance to review it this week, but thus far that time has eluded me! But I thought I'd make a couple of brief comments on his sections on Augustine, the "prince of mysticism." Downing sees Augustine's influence on Lewis, by the way, particularly in Till We Have Faces.

One of the most interesting things I learned from Downing about Augustine is that Augustine's account, in his Confessions, of a deeply mystical experience is:

"remarkable in several respects. It is the earliest account of the actual stages of mystical transport: from contemplation to a sense of leaving behind the material world to entering the quiet sanctuary of one's own soul to momentarily glimpsing eternal truth. Augustine's description is typical in that the rapturous experience is transitory and it seems to occur in distinct stages. But the account is also highly unusual in that it seems to occur communally, not individually, and that one of those caught up is both uneducated and a woman. In the mystery religions of the ancient world someone like Augustine's mother, however devout, would not be an initiate and would not be considered qualified for mystical experiences."

I loved this thought for two reasons:
1) It seems fitting that Augustine and Monica would share such deep spiritual closeness, especially given her deep love for son, and her tears and prayers that availed so much in moving Augustine toward God's path for his life.

2) Once again, I am unutterably grateful for the radical availability of God's grace and love, which flows so freely to all and is not reserved for a special few or some mysterious "initiates" who possess great wisdom, learning and secret knowledge. God welcomes all to his table, all to his family, regardless of their background or status. Worldly prestige and honor matter not a whit. In fact, God seems to rejoice in choosing the lowly and those of "no account" in the eyes of the world.

"...For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God."

100 Species Challenge #12: Yellow Flag (Iris)

I took this photo a few months ago on the bank of a stream at the duck park we like to frequent. Not my best shot, but it was a beautiful flower. I just recalled it the other day when looking through a book on water plants, where I spotted its classification "Iris Pseudacorus - Yellow Flag" and remembered again how lovely it was. Apparently this flower likes to grow near natural ponds. There's also a variegated variety with cream striped leaves.

The sweet girl has been lugging home big gardening books from the library. Although we don't have a yard (and hence no garden) she loves to look at beautiful gardens and flowers, just like her mom. She first discovered a big gardening book with color photos when I was looking through new non-fiction at the library one day. Since then I've introduced her to the gardening section in the grown-up part of the library (her first foray into that area) and she's been choosing some gorgeous books. They've been providing me with some wonderful beauty breaks too.

One day (I hope, I dream) she and I will be able to grow a real garden together. In the meantime, we'll keep cultivating a love of beauty!

T-4 and Counting...

We start school again in four days. Four days! The sweet girl couldn't be more excited. While I've been printing daily schedules, setting up notebooks, re-organizing our shelves and doing other things to get ready, she's been gathering supplies for her school box and decorating it. Her annual school box is one of those sturdy plastic boxes you can buy for a $1 at Staples. This year she has covered it in stickers and adorned it with a name tag. One of the stickers reads "Congratulations!" which she said she put on there to celebrate going into third grade.

I've been planning lots of posts, mentally at least, about our school plans, but I've been too busy this week actually implementing them to write about them. Still, I am feeling much better this year, than in years past, about my attempts to organize and set up record-keeping. Most of all, I am just excited...as excited as S. is...to get started again.

Wherever you and your family may be in the "back to school" process -- blessings!

********************

We do all children a massive disservice when we "chew" over the material and "spit the pulp" out for them. People reject the secondhand results of someone else's efforts. No, let the children remember because they took it in themselves. Let them think their own thoughts about it. Let them respond in narration, with questions, with... ideas. -Susan Schaeffer Macaulay

Agatha Christie in the 1920s

I've always had a bit of a love-hate affair with Wikipedia. Back when it was still a novelty, some of my graduate level students would use it rather liberally as a source for academic papers. And while I discouraged that kind of use, I've come to realize it can be a help even in researching more academic sorts of topics, especially if you focus on the "external links" at the end, which can lead you to good websites of primary sources.

But one thing I've come to love about Wikipedia is the thoroughness of many of its articles on pop culture and literature. I love looking up favorite authors there, not only to find links to good sources, but because you can also find full bibliographies right there at your fingertips. Without having to lug out large reference books (which, depending on publication date, might or might not have a full listing of a more contemporary author's books) you can peruse a full listing of an author's works, usually in publication order.

I'm a sucker for publication order. There's something about it that satisfies all my inner "J" (that's the "J" that comes at the end of the Myers-Briggs personality type test) the same J'ness that loved doing shelf-reads when I worked in a library. I love seeing the order of things. In the case of an author's work, I love seeing the order in which they wrote their books, especially if they wrote a lot of them. That doesn't mean I will always go back and read their books in a certain order, or that I won't have favorites I return to disproportionately, but it's such fun to note the development of characters, themes, images and ideas when you read an author from start to finish.

Agatha Christie, the great mystery novelist, has long been one of my favorite writers. I discovered her when I was about fifteen. Our local library had at least two or three shelves stuffed with her books, and I worked my way through the lot of them. Of course, back in the technological dark ages (long before Wikipedia!) I didn't have a handy list of what she wrote when. With Agatha, more of a pulp novelist (though a brilliant one) it matters less what order you read things in than it would with a more sheerly "literary" author. But I still did little inner cartwheels when I came across her Wikipedia bibliography not long ago. Suddenly I could see when and where she introduced her various detectives, and note where her particular masterpieces arrived in her writing career. Great fun for a "J" gal like me.

So I've begun working my way through, in order, Christie's novels of the 1920s, the first decade in which she was published. I think Hercule Poirot, with his love of method and order, would be really pleased! In the last few years I'd read the first two anyway, when I'd gone in search of the first Poirot and the first Tommy and Tuppence. I plan to review them all on Epinions, a fact which I hope won't annoy the ever-patient book category leads too much, since I'm having to get them to add some of these to the database. (When I requested she add a book from 1923, the CL informed me that she thought this was probably the oldest "new" book she'd ever been asked to add to the database!)

If you're a Christie fan...or thinking of becoming one...I hope you'll take a look at my Christie reviews from the 1920s. Here are the first three (linked) with the last just posted this morning. As I keeping reading and adding to my reviews, I'll edit this listing and try to give a shout-out.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920) -- the first novel starring Hercule Poirot, the amazing Belgian detective, and his stolid English sidekick Hastings

The Secret Adversary (1922) -- the dashing crime novel that introduces Tommy and Tuppence, two of my favorite Christie detectives (though they only starred in a handful of books over the years)

The Murder on the Links (1923) -- Poirot and Hastings together again! Poirot proves the superiority of his detective methods, and Hastings finds romance.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926) showcases Christie's audacious artistry and provides one of the best surprise twists ever. Poirot is on the job again, though the beginning of the story finds him "retired" and growing vegetable marrows.

The Big Four (1927) brings Poirot and Hastings back together to hunt down four arch-criminals trying to take over the world!

Patchwork Post as Summer Winds Down...

I didn't mean to disappear entirely, but the past couple of weeks have been busy! Last week we helped our church put on our (mostly) annual Vacation Bible School. This year we went off-site and did it at the rec center of the housing projects up the hill. The result was challenging, exciting, wonderful and exhausting. Over the course of the week, we had well over 50 kids come through the program, though I don't think we ever topped 45 on any given night. Still, that's a lot of children in a very small (and hot and humid) space.

It was a privilege to be able to help feed these children: food for their physical bodies, but most of all food for their hungry hearts. We used the curriculum my husband wrote/developed three years ago, called "Pirates in Paradise." The nightly skits included a band of awful pirates who at first are focused on finding treasure, only to discover the truth that earthly treasure rots and decays, and only heavenly treasure really lasts. In the end, all of the pirates, except for the villainous Captain Harry DuPillage, come to accept "the royal pardon" and find their lives and hearts totally changed.

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We were so tired on Saturday, following the VBS week, that we took the whole day off. That probably doesn't sound like a big deal for a Saturday, but with my husband's two-job schedule, it's a rarity. We all slept in, and after a leisurely breakfast did our weekly library visit. Then in the afternoon we went to a local park to play on the playground and feed the ducks.

It turned out the ducks weren't very hungry -- most of them had congregated on a small island in the middle of the lake, taking naps in the heat of the day -- but we found a few stalwarts near the left-hand bank and fed them. Or at least we tried. Two of them, one white, one black and white, kept patrolling the territory and pushing back a slightly smaller brown duck that wanted food too. We did our best to lob small pieces of bread over the heads of the bullying ducks so that Mr. Brown could also eat, but after a while he gave it up and so did we.

We stopped for ice cream on the way home and made friends with a small, bright-eyed wren in the parking lot begging for crumbs from our cones. We obliged him with a few pieces and watched in fascination as he would pick up the crumb and fly off, every time in the same exact flight pattern, across the busy road and into the parking lot of a shopping area across the street. He'd swoop up high over the roof of the pizza restaurant and zoom into the thicket of a tall green tree. Clearly he was taking food home to the family, for just as soon as you could blink, he'd zoom back out, fly back across the road (same flight pattern) and land just a few feet in front of us, looking at us with bright expectancy. It was my hubby who suddenly remembered we still had bread in the car, leftover from the ducks. So we sprinkled a liberal amount of crumbs all over the parking lot and watched our wren friend, along with some other birds, have a feast. They all seemed to enjoy it, but none more than that hard-working little bird who kept up his trek to the tree behind Pizza Joe's, over and over. What faithfulness!

********

We're heading out soon for our two-day mini-vacation in Erie. We realized simultaneously that we couldn't afford it and that we desperately needed it. The Lord blessed us in that we were able to find a good spot at a local campgrounds (the one we stayed at last year, very reasonably priced, had closed). I can't tell you how much we're looking forward to two and a half days of sun, wind, sand, waves, trees, birds, clouds....the peninsula has become such a refreshing oasis in our busy city lives. I always come back renewed, after lots of time to rest, pray, read, and just soak in the goodness of creation. Hopefully by the time we get back, I'll be in a better writing rhythm here. Here's hoping our computer will also be functioning better after some time off!

100 Species Challenge #11: Peony

Two years ago (!) I decided to embrace the 100 Species Challenge. I began taking pictures of various plants and flowers in our area, and posting them here, in the hopes that I might eventually catalog 100 different kinds of flora and fauna.

It's actually been a great challenge. It's kept me on the lookout, these past two years, for whatever bits of natural beauty I can find in our little town. It's also sent me looking up information about various plants: sometimes to identify them and learn their names, and sometimes to learn more about plants I already knew. Because we live in an urban area, the species diversity is not as strong as it is in some other parts of the country/world, but I've still been pleasantly surprised and grateful for the diversity I've found.

I've been remiss in posting many of the pictures I've taken, which is why I'm only up to #11 on my "countdown." Just recently I've resized and tagged a good handful of photos and hope to post several of them in the coming weeks. A lot of them are spring flowers, so don't be surprised by a sudden onslaught of spring beauty here on the blog as we begin wending our way towards fall.

But as I get back into the swing of things, I thought I'd post a photo from early June. Every June, for the past several years, I try to get a picture of the beautiful white peonies (genus paeonia) that push through the white fence of a nearby yard. I love walking down that particular street in early June, just to find these short-lived but sumptuous blooms.



I'm not sure what the lovely little wildflower scraggling up the side of the fence is -- if you know, I'd love to find out (and will add it to my growing list).

I was curious to know why we always see ants crawling on or near the peonies. I've wondered if they might hurt the plants. Apparently the answer is no -- they're neither "harmful or beneficial" -- they're just there because they like "the sugary liquid secreted by the flower buds."

Reading Round-Up, Summertime

I've not been posting regular reading lists this year, but lately I find myself wanting to post some reading reflections. So I thought I'd start with a brief list of some of the things I'm reading/reading "at" this summer.

I've been following Jack Lewis' advice about the importance of reading old books alongside new ones. My old book at the moment is very old indeed: Athanasius' On the Incarnation.

Athanasius has long been one of my heroes of the faith. Sitting down to actually read one of his books, cover to cover (not in excerpted snippets) has been powerful indeed, and far more than the interesting academic exercise I thought it would be. I've spent so many years, as a church history teacher, encouraging the reading of "primary sources" -- and for all sorts of good reasons. But when I open one myself, the immediate benefits hit me right away. Sitting at the feet of someone, listening to their voice, tends to break down the walls of years. You begin to see how much you and the writer have in common, despite the centuries between you, because of your bond in Christ. That bond begins to look again like the shining gold ribbon it is, running through the years and making sense of the wonderings, ponderings, tears, fears that are all so essentially human and that hardly ever seem to change (yet another bond).

What a treasure-house of books we Christians have that we hardly ever open. And what a privilege to be able to take our time, to be able to walk slowly through old pages and really digest what's there. Sometimes I think I have spent so many years as a student or student-teacher that I have a tendency to rush to understand/synthesize/spout back. Sometimes those are important parts of learning (one reason I use narration so much when I teach the sweet girl!) but as you season as a learner, you can learn to slow down. I'm lingering on passages in Athanasius for the pure joy of it, for formation and not just information. More on this book soon.

From old to very new...about a week ago I picked up a small paperback on the "new books" shelf of our local library. It's a memoir called Thin Places and is written by Mary E. DeMuth. I've never heard of her, but apparently she is a novelist who has written for Christian publishers (this book, described as a "spiritual memoir" is published by Zondervan). I primarily picked it up for its title, since the image of "thin places" is one that's been important in my own spiritual journey. The book has been nothing like I expected, but in a good way. I want to call her a kinder, gentler version of Anne Lamott, except that sounds too derivative (and I don't mean the comparison to demean either writer in any way). At any rate, I'm several chapters in and have been slammed to the heart by a few passages. More on this book soon too.

From the sublime to the...well, no, not ridiculous. I refuse to call juvenile mysteries ridiculous, particularly because I'm attempting to work out the plot for one again! Yes, with my husband's encouragement I am back to work on the juvenile mystery I began to write about four years ago. I abandoned it then due to lack of time and some major plot problems. He and I have been working (aloud, in the late evenings) on some of the knottier plot problems...have I mentioned how much I love being married to a dramatist? He's so good at understanding dramatic action...what will work and not work as opening/rising action, what characters I've sketched that hold the most potential as major players in the drama. He's also great at getting me to visualize the scenes I consider most important. I love working with him, and I am getting excited about diving back into the writing. I'm also priming the pump through the reading of a slew of old Trixie Belden mysteries. These are the books that turned me into a mystery enthusiast at the age of nine. They are the backbone of my understanding of the genre, though I've read other juvenile mysteries (then and now). I'm especially studying up the first 6 books in the series, the originals (for Trixie purists) penned by Julie Campbell. She really did an amazing job of writing character.

Reading with the sweet girl this summer has also been a delight. We finished Caddie Woodlawn (a lovely book I hope to review soon) and moved on to the sequel to All-of-a-Kind Family, appropriately entitled More All-of-a-Kind Family. (This became a fun joke, when S. would ask, "Could we read More More?") We loved the sequel almost as much as the original, and that's saying something.

The summer has been more of a challenge for S. as an indepedent reader, which concerns me a bit. I know she's had camp; she's also been bitten by the retro-video-game bug (her Dad got us a plug n' play video game for family present on her birthday, and she's become an amazing Pac Man player!). I've had to really encourage the reading time every day, something that's hard for me to fathom. By her age I was gobbling books without any encouragement at all, and so I'm trying not to either worry or compare...just encourage. Reading is just a huge part of our lives, and I know how much she loves stories, so I think big reading seasons, and eventually deep reading habits, will still come. She's been reading more of the Ramona books on her own, and I've encouraged her to read aloud to me from some readers. We've especially been enjoying the Poppleton and Mr. Putter and Tabby books by Cynthia Rylant.

The Slow Learner I Am (And God's Long Patience)

Late last night I found myself feeling discouraged at the end of a long day. And I found myself doing something I don't do very often: visiting the archives of this blog.

I don't know why I don't think to do that more often. I will often wend my way through pages of old journal (the physical journal notebooks I still keep, albeit less often than I used to) to mine them for quotes, snippets of half-finished poems, bits of half-shaped creativity, insights into struggles. And maybe that's the point. My private journal often feels like a work-in-progress (more like me) and something that I can turn to to find ongoing sustenance as I keep journeying on.

My blog, simply because it is a blog, feels somehow tidier and more complete. First of all, it gets broadcast -- it's "out there" -- ostensibly for anyone to read. And it looks so darn organized, with those neat little blogger functions tying up each month in a bow and then each year in a bundle. For the past couple of years, I've even "tagged" my posts, so I can go back and sort them according to category. All in all, it's just a very different way of writing and thinking.

But it's still me, and I'm still and forever a work in progress, which means plenty of ragged and half-finished creative moments. So when I felt a nudge from the Lord last night to go back and look over some posts from the first couple of years, I did.

And I found this, from a post written about 3 1/2 years ago, a piece of a post which I could have almost written again last night. The challenging issues in my daughter's life have changed; the physical season has changed (though not the crazy work schedules and the tiredness); my ongoing struggles to do what I'm called to do haven't. In some ways that's frustrating, in other ways comforting. At least I know these are the edges God has been working on in me for a long time. And I can trust his hands.

"Being patient with myself and loving myself is far harder. Why? I'm not sure. I'm tired right now; I do realize that. Winter is long and cold and icy in our neck of the woods, and D. and I have been working far too many hours and juggling far too many things. We haven't had a really refreshing break in I don't know how long. When I get depleted like this, I am more susceptible to letting myself be shaped by discouragement and untruths. I need to stop doing that, because that kind of behavior hurts me. (Sounds familiar -- sounds like the kinds of things I say to S.!)

So I will try not to listen to the lie that I am a bad parent, and a failure as a mom and a teacher. My daughter is struggling with something that she needs to overcome; I need to find creative ways to be patient enough with myself and with her to help her overcome it. This isn't the first hill we've faced together, and it won't be the last. Grounded in prayer, we're going to keep on climbing."

Happy Birthday JKR and Harry (The 3rd Annual HP Birthday Post)

For the past two years, I've posted a poem or essay in honor of Harry Potter's birthday, which also happens to be the birthday of his author, JK Rowling. Last year I decided to make it an annual tradition, so here I am again to hum a few bars of "Happy Birthday to you" and hoist an imaginary slab of smushed chocolate cake (from Hagrid's pocket!) in honor of the day.

By creative reckoning, we know that today would be Harry's 30th birthday -- a milestone birthday indeed, and one that I'm sure causes him to reflect and look back on many birthdays past.

I've had the saints who have gone before on my mind lately, as you can probably tell from yesterday's posting. One of the most powerful elements of the Harry Potter series is how Rowling depicts Harry's departed loved ones and how they help Harry in times of deep need. So for this year, I decided to pull out a poem I wrote about Harry's mother Lily.

*****

Lovely Lily, always smiling,
always winning, always shining,
lovely Lily, prettiest sister,
stubborn friend, staunch resister.
Not easy to sway, no simple romantic,
but once she loves, that love’s titanic.

Lovely Lily, precious wife,
still young mother, willing to give
herself for others, courage blazing,
voice beseeching, green eyes gazing.
Last moments spent with arms spread wide,
protector with nowhere to hide.

Lovely Lily, lioness
protecting cub in deep distress,
now forever memory, voice,
mirror image, finest choice,
shade who comforts, fortress strong,
the one to which he still belongs.

Lovely Lily, look down and see
the lion your cub has grown to be.

~EMP

Many happy returns Harry! And Jo too!

I'm Trying to Imagine...

I'm trying to imagine what it must have been like for William Wilberforce, as he lay dying (during this July week one hundred and seventy-seven years ago) to receive word that slavery had been abolished in Great Britain.

The abolition of the slave trade, and eventually the institution of slavery itself, had been a major part of Wilberforce's life work. When he experienced his Christian conversion as a young man, he was already a rising star in parliament, and his immediate reaction was to think he should leave politics for some other more spiritual field. With the encouragement of his good friend William Pitt (then the youngest PM in British history) and his spiritual mentor John Newton (former slaver ship captain, then pastor, who penned the beloved hymn "Amazing Grace") Wilberforce was convinced that God could indeed call him to stay in parliament, and even use him there.

And oh, how God used Wilberforce's gifts as an orator, and his seemingly tireless passion for justice! I'm trying to imagine what it must have felt like, after years of weary work and toil, for Wilberforce to receive the news that righteousness was dawning and justice rolling down like a river.

But even that sweet and blessed news, after a lifetime of toil and even suffering, must have faded in comparison to the amazing moment of seeing his Savior and hearing "well done my good and faithful servant."

I'm trying to imagine what it was like for Miss Eleanor to enter into glory this week. Miss Eleanor was the oldest member of our church, 95 years old to be precise, a vibrant, joyous African-American lady who loved her Lord and loved others. She lived a life of service...to her country (she was with the Medical Corps in WWII) and to her brothers and sisters. Well into her 90s, she worked as a volunteer with various ministries in town. My husband used to wheel her down the street to the office of the mission organization where he works, where Miss Eleanor would hold court, blessing everyone with her joyous smile while she busily folded envelopes.

This was a woman who radiated joy and peace. When I went to the viewing at the funeral home last night, I was immediately struck by the fact that she still did. Everyone seemed struck by it: her body lay in such tranquil repose, the hint of a smile on her face still so sweet, that it was impossible not to know that she had passed from this earthly life into the presence of her Lord. And she too heard "well done, my good and faithful servant."

I'm trying to imagine what that move, from earth to heaven, must feel like for those who are ready, who slip from one dimension to the next with the fluidity of light or water, so ready are they to lay down their journey here and continue it there. Absent from the body, present with the Lord. No wonder we celebrate a saint's feast day on the day they die (something I've been talking about lately with my eight year old). As joyous as a birth is, how much more so the passing into new and fuller life! Higher up and further in! Pressed in close to Jesus! Cup overflowing!

For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. Romans 8:18

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal ;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul...

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

(From A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; you can go here to read the poem in its entirety.)

Multitude Monday

Yes, it's Monday again! And I'm feeling especially thankful today...

56. For God's mercies, new every morning.

57. For a lovely note from friends, with a gift to help with our livelihood and support.

58. For other encouraging notes and emails from friends in the past week, including those who have sent me job and writing leads in this challenging time.

59. For the life of Miss Eleanor, a beloved member of our parish, and a great saint of God, who went home to Jesus this past weekend (she was in her 90s).

60. For the ways in which the sweet girl and I were able to talk openly, from the heart, about Miss Eleanor's life and death.

61. For my precious Daddy's recent 78th birthday. How thankful I am that he is still on this earth, able to celebrate his life and the many wonderful things the Lord has done to sustain him in the health crisis of the past months.

62. For writing time...reviews, an article proposal, and some preliminary thinking (creative, collaborative brainstorming with my dear husband) on the juvenile mystery novel I began and deserted a few years ago. It may yet get written!