Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew'd by Alan Bradley: A review

It wasn't actually a "brinded" cat that mew'd; it was a calico. But literary license is allowed, I suppose, since the writer seems to base all of his titles on nursery rhymes.

Flavia de Luce is Alan Bradley's charming heroine and I have enjoyed reading his tales about her from the beginning. When he published his first book in the series, he came through Houston on a book tour and my daughter, who was then a librarian with the Houston Public Library, met him and she recommended his book to me. I've looked forward to reading each entry in the series since then, but I had last visited with Flavia more than three years ago, in January 2015, when I read As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust. She was brought to mind again recently when I needed a less than serious distraction from the news of the day.

In Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew'd, Flavia is now twelve years old and she has been sent home from the school in Canada to which her family had sent her, perhaps in hopes of teaching her some decorum. If so, their hopes were dashed. Now Flavia has been sent home to England once again to the family's country estate of Buckshaw in the little village of Bishop's Lacey. Flavia is delighted. But when the ship docks in England, instead of the joyous welcome home that she had anticipated, she is met by her father's factotum, Dogger, who informs her that her father is in hospital and is gravely ill with pneumonia. He is not being allowed visitors.

Even so, Flavia is happy to be home and distracts herself from worry about her only parent with squabbles with her two older sisters and her insufferable cousin, Undine, who now lives with the family. When her friend, the vicar's wife, asks her run an errand and deliver a message to a wood-carver who is needed to do some work at the church, Flavia jumps on her trusty bicycle, Gladys, and heads out, regardless of snow and wind and cold winter weather. It's the middle of December after all and cold weather is good for you.

Arriving at the wood-carver's home and getting no response to her knocks, she tries the door and finds it unlocked, so, of course, she enters...and finds the wood-carver hanging upside down from a contraption strapped to a door. He is quite dead.

Was it murder? There are no obvious signs of violence; nevertheless, it is in Flavia's nature to be suspicious. She seems to have an uncanny ability for finding dead bodies and there is nothing that fascinates her more. She does love a nice juicy murder. Soon, she's off and investigating and finding a much more complicated story than that which appeared on the surface.

Flavia de Luce is sort of a female Harry Potter, not exactly a wizard but definitely a prodigy with a natural talent for chemistry and an insatiable curiosity. Bradley's books are not really marketed as YA, but I can definitely see how they would appeal to that age group. She is an engaging and winsome character whose antics can be enjoyed by any reader regardless of age.

This story has a shadow hanging over it, cast by Flavia's father's serious illness, but in the end, we know that the de Luces will maintain their best British stiff upper lips and carry on.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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