An Archaeologist At Heart

"The books we read should be chosen with great care, that they may be, as an Egyptian king wrote over his library, The medicine of the soul." -Oliver Wendell Holmes

So I just joined a book club. A book club existed in our neighborhood for some time. I found myself to be a sporadic member at best and felt shamefully responsible when the club dissolved. So when a cute new neighbor, with an english degree, decided to start one up again, I was resolved to join and more actively participate this time. 

I used to kind of poo-poo the idea of being in a book club, a little literary snobbery showing its ugly head. I just couldn't imagine allowing other people to choose my literature for me, and I knew that no one would be interested in the stuff I was reading. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed being a part of a book club. Books I would never open under any other circumstance ended up delighting me, and the conversation was always a treat, as were the refreshments.

This week was our first meeting. I had dragged my feet in ordering the book, so it showed up only a day or two before camp. I found myself starting the book a day before book club, but was able to finish it no problem. Yes, a little child and house neglect may have been a consequence, but it was a mystery, and I didn't want the ending ruined for me at book club. 

It was a delightful little summer read, all about an independent spinster of the Victorian age, willed some money by her father,  who goes about having an adventure in Egypt. The characters were sweet and the writing enjoyable. Though the story was a little predictable, I enjoyed putting down my heavy reading and just getting wrapped up in a good mystery.

I think the real reason I enjoyed the book was for nostalgic reasons. Books about Egypt were always lying around the house growing up. Mom had a fascination with the study of ancient Egypt, and she passed it on to her children. I was constantly leafing through Mom's library books, dreading that moment that I would come across a mummy photo, and yet feeling drawn to the pictures with a compelling curiosity. Sure enough, I would be up with nightmares all night. It didn't help that Mom would make mummy faces to scare us. Such are the joys of growing up with jokester and sometimes sinister parents.

Not many twelve year olds could pick out Ramses's or Seti's mummy in a line up, but I most certainly could. I was surprisingly proficient in hieroglyphics, and practiced writing in it all the time. I was probably the only twelve year old with a favorite pharaoh as well. Under my mother's tutelage and stories, I came to admire Akhenaten, as he was the only monotheistic pharaoh, who worshipped only the sun god Aten. He was rejected because of his belief and any inscription bearing his name was scratched out.

 Most people think of Cleopatra when they envision beautiful women of ancient Egypt. I dressed up as Cleopatra for at least five Halloweens. I sported the costume my sophomore year and was told, "Nice Asp" by my world civ. teacher who also happened to be the basketball coach. This was before the days of sexual harassment, but I was offended, until I remembered the tin foil snake that was coiled around my upper arm. I still wonder if ol' coach Whiting was referring to the snake. But Cleopatra was not my favorite Egyptian queen. Nefertiti was. She was the wife of Akhenaten and considered one of the most beautiful women in Egypt. I'm still dying to get my hands on a bust of Nefertiti to put on my bookshelf. So when Elizabeth Peters centered her book around the tomb of none other than my favorite pharaoh, I was instantly intrigued. 

I read my first account of Howard Carter's excavation of Akhenaten's nephew, the boy king Tutankhamun's, tomb when I was 14. In fifth grade, I wrote a report on the artistic style of the ancient Egyptians, and when  asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, it was a toss up between an actress and an archaeologist. I had visions of grandeur. I could see myself walking the ancient temples and pyramids of Egypt. I could not help but relate to this author who earned her PhD in Egyptology. A story of romance and mystery combined with mummies and true stories of Egypt's history had me hooked.

Spoiler Alert! Sabrina sat on my bed last night and read 20 pages out of the center of the book and announced, "It was Lucas wasn't it!" I suppose the fact that the child devours Sherlock Holmes stories like I do a bag of Cheetohs made for an easy deduction. Like I said, the story was a little predictable but charming none the less. I told Sabrina she should read the whole book. "No thanks!" she exclaimed. As soon as she found out mummies were involved, she was out. We haven't driven into Salt Lake for the last six months for fear that Sabrina might glimpse up to see a sign for the mummy exhibit in town, thus rendering her sleepless for the rest of the year. She and I share a dangerously active imagination. She's just smart enough to keep away from the disturbing images while I tend to seek them out, a sort of self-torture I suppose.

I'm afraid that me and my siblings have not outgrown our love for all things Egyptian and archaeological. My brother hosted a party a few years back because the history channel was featuring a documentary. We get excited over documentaries like most people do the Super Bowl. They had found a mummy and thought that it might possibly be...you guessed it...Akhenaten. There we sat, eating our nachos and little smokies, riveted to the television. A collective moan came across the room as...the quarterback fumbled the football, you ask? No, as we learned that the mummy was not our favorite pharaoh. That elusive unpopular king shall forever remain a mystery.

But even if you find yourself having to swim out of the nerdiness of this post, I would still recommend the book. The Egyptology is really a side note. There is a whole series about Amelia's adventures, and I just might read the next book and find out how dear Amelia gets herself out of the next predicament. 

Crazy crazy thing. I was just closely examining the photo of my collection of Egyptian literature only to discover a book by Barbara Mertz. Barbara Mertz is none other than Elizabeth Peters. She wrote a few non-fictional books about ancient Egypt and used her married name for those books, whereas the name Elizabeth Peters is strictly a pen name. I've enjoyed some of her fiction, perhaps it's time for some non-fiction.