I'm not sure why but I'm feeling much less bah-and-humbugish than I did at this time last year. Perhaps it's because I did all my Christmas shopping early for a change, or maybe it's because COVID has abated enough to allow us to get out of town a few times, most recently to visit some of C's family in North Carolina. One thing that definitely makes this Christmas season a thousand million trillion times better than last year is the fact that that ludicrous, lying, gobsmackingly awful, wonky-haired orange ogre no longer occupies the Oval Office of The People's House (aka The White House) in Washington D.C. True, he's just up the road a ways at Smarm-a-Lago and if the wind is coming out of the north-northeast, you can catch the distinctly Trumpian stench of bloat and corruption. However, all things considered, better he spend his down time in Palm Beach, scheming and bloviating, than in any official capacity in the U.S. capitol, wherein a perceived lack of adequate veneration from any of the world's players would reliably unleash some form of havoc, ranging from the expected verbal assaults to threats of a potential military response (so far avoided but maybe not for long if he manages to finagle his way back into power in the 2024 election). Whatever the reason for my mood of not good cheer, exactly, but not quite nihilism, either, I've decided to try and be grateful for something each day from here on out. 

Last night I watched an old (circa 1980's) program featuring P.D. James, one of my favorite British mystery writers. A full-fledged baroness, Ms. James seemed comparatively down-to-earth as she discussed her research and writing methodology while giving the viewer (me) a tour of old haunts that inspired her astonishingly well-written, very British tales of secrets, lies, adultery and murder (I considered adding a comment here regarding the dolt in the above paragraph but decided against it). The Dorset coast and countryside seems to have played an important role in James' creative life, and just looking at this old documentary made me yearn to follow her footsteps down those lanes and cliff paths above the roiling sea. Of course, I can only dream of emulating her elegant, beautifully modulated style and concocting such intricate plots but it's certainly something worth aspiring to, even for an aging, cantankerous American male like me. Sadly, Ms. James died at 94 in 2014, and another of my favorite British mystery authors, Ruth Rendell (aka Barbara Vine) followed suit the next year. Having read many of their books when I was in my 20's, I now seem to have forgotten not only who-done-it, but the why's, where's and what-not's of the plots so I am happily rediscovering the earlier works of these two ladies. Luckily, both were prodigious writers so by the time I'm done with their pre-1990 output, I should be approaching 80 myself. 

Another British mystery author I have greatly admired is the very funny, highly entertaining Christopher Fowler, whose uproarious Bryant and May series of books have brightened my reading experiences for almost 20 years. The openly gay Fowler is my age and also publishes a sometimes serious, sometimes fun, always informative blog. He also has terminal cancer and has just released what will almost certainly be the last of the Bryant and May books (London Bridge Is Falling Down). I am looking forward to reading it although it is likely to be a bittersweet farewell to both characters and author, all of whom I have come to love. To his immense credit, Fowler discusses his illness and the horrific side-effects of his treatment on his blog, with candor, courage and humor. He also talks about film, books, travel, and the peculiarities and similarities of British and American readers. In other words, he has kept his blog much as it has always been without allowing his illness to monopolize the conversation. 

Over the years, I have come to enjoy a fairly eclectic array of books and subject matter, although mysteries are most central to my core. Maybe this post is my way of expressing gratitude for the numerous authors who have brought me such pleasure, enlightening me on the many ways people express themselves while exposing me to other cultures, different viewpoints and the vagaries of the human condition. Long before I had a passport, I traveled the world through the vibrant words of these  writers. So thank you P.D. James, Ruth Rendell, Christopher Fowler, and all the brilliant, disparate voices who have made such a difference in my life. You have helped me cope, kept me (relatively) sane, and enabled me to anticipate each day with the excitement of beginning a new chapter.