Dear Agatha!
Surfer girl. Roller skater. Pharmacy technician. World traveler. Amateur archaeologist. Photographer. Car owner. Home owner times ten?! Pianist.
Daughter. Sister. Wife. Mother. Wife. Friend.
Writer.
Detective stories, thrillers, romance novels, memoirs, plays, poems, songs - not war propaganda. And yet, even at the end of your life, you felt it hard to consider yourself an accomplished author.
I love your voice. I love your stories - not just facts about your life but memories that impacted who you are. At times I think I can relate to you, and other times I think you and I could not be more different.
I do not understand your relationship with your daughter. It seems like you are close, but you were hardly ever home! I tell myself it must be a cultural thing but honestly I just don't understand it.
You do love fiercely. Archie. Max. Rosalind. Mathew. Your mother.
You brought the Middle East in the 1930s alive for me. Apart from Biblical history and our current issues with that part of the world, I never have given it much thought. To see your love for this land and the way you shared Max's passion and supported his dreams was amazing to me.
Courageous. Adventurous.
Bed bugs. Unfortunately, I can relate.
I love how you handled your money at the end of your life. Better to share it with people you love and admire than give it all to that tax man.
I wish I'd taken more notes as I read this, dear Agatha. But these are the thoughts that come to mind when I read your story.
My only disappointment is that you didn't even allude to your scandalous disappearance. Not even a mention that it ever happened! Almost 650 pages and nay a word. Tut tut.
This may be the book, other than the Bible, that has taken me the longest to read. Still, I loved every minute of it.
Always with admiration,
Beth
