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Work in Progress
 In the
summer of 1976, the bicentennial mystique emanating from Washington D.C. made
it all the way to the tiny goofy town of Monmouth, Oregon, where I was busy
being fourteen. American flag pants proliferated, a
happening addition to a zeitgeist already sparkling with sideburns, Ziggy
cartoons, and two-dollar bills. I wore a flag-themed bracelet with my satin
shorts and Dr. Scholl's sandals, and I was as big a fan of fireworks,
celebration, and the pursuit of happiness as the next kid. But that summer my
loyalty had been stolen, if temporarily, by another country. If my physical
life was lived in Volkswagen microbuses, the Dairy-L drive-in, and Crider's
Variety store, in my mind I repeatedly took tea, hunted grouse, rode
slow-chuffing trains and wore a maid's white pinafore. It was but too true: I
had become an Anglophile, and it was all Agatha Christie's fault.
I had recently fallen into my mother's copy of Ten Little Indians --
probably the first book I'd ever read through that starred exclusively adult
characters -- and instead of it being dull or embarrassing or unpleasantly
morally ambiguous, this little mystery was alluringly simple and crisp, one
tiny scene following the next in rapid order, one-dimensional humans
characterized by stereotypes intelligible even to un-read, un-travelled me:
sanctimonious judge, uptight spinster, louche playboy.
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