Leavin' on a Jet Plane

     A black crow sat in the bare tree outside the bedroom window this morning and cawed its dark opinion of the world. Rain is spitting against the glass and the temperature is a grungy fifty-two degrees. And my perfectly balanced washer decided it would be hilarious to cha-cha this morning’s load of wash around the basement. 

 

 Not the most auspicious beginning for a Big Trip. 

At this rate, it makes me wonder if a tasseographist might find in my tea leaves the shape of a mountain (a signal of a journey marred by hindrance), or if a Babylonian haruspex (thank you, Google) would be likely to discover something hinky in the liver of that day’s unlucky sheep.

Still, I’m all packed, the timers are on the lamps, the neighbor’s picking up the mail, and the newspaper’s been stopped so I guess there’s no backing down now.

We’re off to Yurp, refugees and terrorists be darned. We’ll be floating down the Danube some of the time and hiking around over cobblestones the rest. If nothing else, judging by the stern requests for contact numbers, this trip has proven that my kids are officially adults and I need to stop thinking of them as perennially 12 years old with scrapes on their knees. 

 I’m not sure whether or not I should instruct you to watch this space. My blogging ability and/or motivation is hard to predict at this point. A lot will ride on a delicate balance between the availability of wine and Wi-Fi.

People are Strange

I began yesterday with a water aerobics class and as my day progressed, my fellow humans provided me with several opportunities for reflection.

Mystery Lovers

     Back in my days as an English teacher, I remember telling my students (after I first learned this from somewhere else) that the popularity of the mystery is driven by our need for order. Unlike the messiness of life, in a mystery there is always a tidy end. This is very satisfying. Also, the evildoer is usually caught, or at least identified. There is none of that frustration we feel in real life when that undeserving snake we have the misfortune to know sails off smugly, the apparent darling of fate.

               In high school when I moved my bedroom down to the basement, I shared the space with shelf after shelf of my father's discarded who-dun-its. Since like any card-carrying teenager I would rather have sat next to the nose-picker in geometry than spend any time with my parents, I spent many hours down there working my way through the entire Nero Wolfe series, most of the Miss Marples, and endless Margery Allinghams.  I still read mysteries today and never do I concern myself with the actual clues. When I get to the finish, I think "Oh, so that's how he did it" rather than "Aha! I was right - the fingerprints on the elevator buttons were only a ruse!"

      I read mysteries for the characters within them, which is why I regret that Christie didn't write more Tommy and Tuppance (spunky and fun) and less Hercule Poirot, (annoying). (Haven't you ever wanted to grab the man and say, "Buy some shoes that fit, you fool"?) I'm just along for the ride, enjoying Lord Peter Wimsey's urbane world and Miss Marple's cozy St. Mary Mead. 

     Now while struggling to write my own mystery, I realize to my chagrin that I suppose I'll have to put some clues in it. Hard work.  I regret my past cavalier attitude and wish I had paid more attention to the masters when I was reading from one end to the other of those paperback-lined shelves.