In Search of An Honorable Man

Starting sometime after Christmas, my mom and I work our way, night after night, episode after episode, through the TV show Foyle’s War.

It’s the story of a policeman in the town of Hastings on the south coast of England during the Second World War. The main character, Christopher Foyle, is a man of dignity, honesty, intelligence, and uncompromising honor. 

Though he tries to join the Service so that he can do what he feels would be a greater part for the war effort, for political and often malicious, revengeful repercussive reasons, year after year, he’s kept in his role as detective chief superintendent.

From that place, in that position, he upholds the law because it is his job to do so.

As murders happen (it is a police show after all), he seeks justice for those who died—whether of British, German, or other nationality—and tries to deliver, if not peace, at least the comfort of the knowledge of what happened for the ones left behind.

When possible, knowing circumstances matter, and when he legally can, he lets people off with warnings as he does with a young woman who had been coerced and threatened into performing acts of sabotage such as cutting telephone lines to a nearby base.

As the war stretches out longer than anyone imagined it would, as both sides do more heinous actions, as prejudices swell like blisters, Foyle holds himself, those who work for him, and those he encounters to the highest standards. To the law. To what is right.

For example, when a war profiteer is arrested and the fresh food he was price-gougingly and illegally offering is confiscated, the hungry, rationed officers including his WTC-borrowed driver salivate over the turkey locked up in the evidence room. It is not right, by law, for them to eat the evidence. But Foyle, understanding the folly of waste and the needs of those around him, manages to get permission from the proper hierarchy to use a photo instead of the perishable item for when the trial goes to court. But even then, Foyle does not allow that turkey to be cooked and awarded to himself or his officers. He recommends, instead, that it be donated to a refugee station but with the invitation for his driver (to her delight) to be able to attend the dinner.  

Time and again, he’s offered incentives to let something illegal slide “for the sake of the war.” Time and again, he’s both underestimated and threatened by bullying military brass and other powers-that-be who try to pull rank and rain down fire and brimstone on his head.

Time and again, he acknowledges that the fire and brimstone might rain down, but, nevertheless, that that doesn’t concern him where the law is involved.

The actor who plays him, Michael Kitchen, is a master of subtle expression showing a range of emotion, thought, and character.

It is easy to see, through Kitchen’s skill, the disappointments Foyle feels, the horrors of war, death, and destruction, the recognition of the gray lines that are drawn when law and procedure are abandoned for the “greater good” of the war, his joys and sorrows (British stiff upper lipped as they are), and his dreams.  

It is also easy to see, in the historical context and with such visual representation, how quickly a world can be divided against itself. And how, unfortunately, many of the blistering prejudices depicted in the show (and known from history) still exist today. In the exact same form.

We still kill each other. We still hate what is other. We still make horrible mistakes. 

And while I despair at times for our world, this country, and the future of democracy, I’m reminded of the anecdotal memory which television’s children host Mr. Rogers offered as a way for parents and children to deal with tragic events depicted in the news. He said, “My mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.”

While wars still wage on, while people are still killed, abused, and tortured, while prejudices balloon, while hate lingers, while injustices are done, while laws are broken, while unjust laws are enacted, while good things are destroyed, I think about the character and leadership of the fictional Christopher Foyle, the goodness of the real Mr. Rogers, and I remember that the bad picture isn’t the whole picture.

It isn’t the only picture.

It isn’t the entire story.

As the series comes to its last episode, and I’m thinking (as I often do as a writer) of the character in terms of character development, character arc, and the story as a whole, I bookmark Christopher Foyle as the honorable man—a solid rock in a sea of horrific turmoil, as an impeccable leader, as a helper for the people of Hastings, and as a fierce advocate for preserving the integral underlying structure of law in his country. For, if lawlessness and wrongdoing are allowed in times of war, if the evils the Nazis did are then done by those at home, if those atrocities are allowed because they are being done by the “good guys” then, as the questions are raised often within the show, “What are we fighting for?” and “What was the point of the war?”

The point of war… well, that is a barbed-wire subject for another day.

As the show concludes, and I tease apart (as I so often do) the story as a whole to see the parts (story, character, story arc, character arc), knowing that as humans we have our flaws and too often want to see those flaws revealed in others, I rejoice that the show’s writer(s) didn’t bend or break Foyle. Fictional though he was, and though he comes off as nearly so, Christopher Foyle wasn’t perfect, but even so, he never compromised his values or principles. And that makes me happy.

For, these days, more than ever, I find myself wishing for the honorable man and wishing for the honorable woman in both real life and in fiction.  

The human experience is a strange and messy one. We are all figuring out what it means to be alive. What it means to live. We don’t always choose the right options when given them. We don’t always follow our values and principles. We don’t always learn from history.

We are flawed. Fortunately, and unfortunately, that is part of what it means to be human.

But even so, despairing at times at the apparent lack of good people (mostly good leaders), I remember Mr. Rogers reminding me that they’re there. They’re all around me.

They’re the helpers—for big, world-changing events and for the every-day-oh-so-important little ones.

I think of Mr. Rogers as that helper for many, many children (and adults). 

I think of my father, who was kind, generous, quick to stand up for a cause, and ready to fight for the underdog, as a helper.

I think of the examples, historical, actual, and fictional, of good people, honorable leaders, and all the helpers there have been, are, and will be.

With the show’s images of a blitzed out London in my mind’s eye, my experience with a British woman who still, these generations later, remarked upon my use of cream in my coffee as an extravagance (are we still rationing ourselves this long after that war?), and with my 2015 visit to the concentration camp Sachsenhausen which opened my eyes with heartbreaking wideness to the atrocities that humans are capable of in a way they had not before been opened, I think of what I—being as idealistic and hopeful as my father was—desire for the world.

Peace, for one. Love for one another. Kindness. Understanding. The type of compromise that allows one to live with the other. The ability to share. The telling of stories that reveal honor more than dishonor and a hopeful outcome rather than a dystopia. The speaking of words that unite rather than divide. And… And, isn’t that just the tip of the iceberg?

I think of myself and my place in this world, as beautiful and messed up as it is, and as beautiful and messed up as I am, and hope that I can also, despite my flaws and mistakes, as much as possible, where and how I can, be an honorable woman, a leader—even if only by good example—and, most of all, a helper.

The Year in Review

Although Christmas with its sweet anticipation and joy is over, the Christmas lights still gleam as the rain comes down. The end of one season. In the end of another, the year clunks down the final stairs of days.

On a morning when I’m making a smoothie and listening to the Huberman Lab podcast, the guest, Dr. Laurie Santos, brings up the book The Book of Delights by Ross Gay.

With happiness as the episode’s main topic and delight as a part of happiness, Santos states that, like anything we focus on, delight can become more noticeable. She says, or the message I walk away with and then write down in my notebook is, “Be on the lookout for delight.”

With that in mind, with the referred to book already downloaded from the library (a delight) and with a number of The Book of Delights essays already read, I think back over 2024 with delight as my landmark guide.

Here are some delights for each month of 2024:

January: I finish writing the novel (finishing is a delight) whose working title was Chasing Light and whose finished title becomes Beyond the Nornir Hall. When I was still half a year from finishing it, in fact, when I’d barely begun the work, in the final months of my dad’s life he would tell anyone who came over how I’d gone to Paris specifically to study the effect of light coming through the Gothic cathedrals’ stained glass windows and then on to Skagen, Denmark which is known for its special light to feel the “blue hour” for myself. It always astonished me how my dad could make the things I did sound so brilliant. So big. So eventful. I never doubted that he was proud of me.  

February: After posting my resume on an online site, I get a recommendation to apply for a contract job that wants my exact skills. So I do. Without any big expectation of success. A week after I apply, I get the job. Without having to interview. Which is unusual. Which feels lucky. Which is unexpected and delightful.

March: My cousin plays a role in the musical version of Little Women. My mom and I go thinking only to support my cousin. I find out that I love musicals. At least this one. The singers are fantastic. The blend of humor and sadness are well-handled. There’s a magic to stage acting. What a wonder to be audience to a tradition that has lasted likely as long as humans have had their full consciousness and the desire to act out stories. A few weeks later, some of my long-time judo friends come to town to bring their kids to an indoor waterpark and enable a reunion of sorts. I haven’t seen one of these friends in nearly twenty years. Spending time with him again is a delight. After they’ve all gone home, my other friend texts me to say that her youngest daughter told her that the best part of the trip was getting to see me (delight).

April: In the early days of April, my youngest brother comes to town for his vacation. We take my niece and nephew to see the dinosaurs at the Perot Museum. Dressing for the occasion, my nephew and niece wear their monster slippers (delight). The following Monday, on the day of the full solar eclipse, at totality the kids from the nearby elementary school scream with delight or fear or wonder. Or all of the above. This is delightful. Their screams make my experience even more full than it already was. For what a wonder it is to stare at the moon-covered sun. What a wonder it is be a part of space and time and existence. Some weeks later, planned around bird migration, my mom (the birder) and I drive to Houston to visit a cousin. In 2022, after a visit (during which I’d arrived with the unpleasant discovery that I had Covid and she, with amazing hospitality, encouraged me to come anyway and then to stay as long as I needed to recuperate), I’d promised I’d bring my mom with me to visit again some time and this trip fulfills that promise (a delight). Sitting on her back porch at dusk, the bats swoop and fly. Bats. Another delight.

May: I sign up for a creative writing workshop featuring speculative and fantastical fiction. The job I’ve been working since February allows me to pay for this without having to think overly hard about cost or time. What a delight. Midway into the month, my mom’s 70^th birthday comes around. We throw a party. Not one for being the center of attention, I’m delighted when she says it was a fun day and a fun party.

June: I travel to Colorado to dog sit for my friends. From their house, I’m within minutes’ drive of good hiking trails and I take advantage of this closeness. For mountains are one of my biggest delights. While there, I turn 46 years old. On my birthday, one of my friends gives me a birthday card. She writes something like “We all cherish you.” What a thing it is to be cherished.

July: July is filled with delights. Five days spent alone at a condo in Silverthorne where the hummingbirds are fierce, the mountains beguiling, and the air thin and clean. A conversation with a from-out-of-state hiking family who ask me what they should see in the area and end up telling me about Boreas Pass which I hadn’t known about and drive over on my way back to Colorado Springs. A delight. Game nights with my friend’s friends with whom I feel included and liked for who I am. Movie dates with another friend. Hikes and talks with another. A surprise encounter with yet another friend at Barnes and Noble. The summer Olympics.

August: I go back to Texas for a number of reasons including that I want to be there on the anniversary of my dad’s death. My siblings drive up from the hill country. My youngest brother surprises us by coming to town from Florida. On the day itself, we light candles to honor my dad’s memory. Probably as a way to clean out the house, one brother brings back my guitar which he’s kindly kept for me for over ten years. I start playing again (delight). One afternoon, on a walk in the usually dry portion of the neighborhood creek, I discover a pool filled with tadpoles (delight). Another day, my sister-in-law invites me to go with her and the kids for their first theater movie. First experiences are a delight to share.  

September: With an idea that comes like a magical flash of inspiration from the Speculative and Fantastical Fiction Workshop I attended those months ago, I write a few stories about a wizard. This delights my mother. And to my joy and surprise, the stories also delight my uncle, my dad’s brother. He encourages me to think about writing the stories into a compilation and self-publishing it. So I think about it. As I write and as I think, I also send the stories out to traditional publishers. I receive as many rejections as I send out submissions. Rejections are not a delight but they are also not the only measure of a story’s goodness.

October: My mom and I go to the State Fair of Texas on its last weekend. For the first time in my life, I ride the Texas Star – the State Fair’s biggest Ferris Wheel. A delight.

November: I arrange to take my niece and nephew to see the play Peter Pan. My niece sings along to the songs she doesn’t know (delight). She dances in the aisles (delight). She pretends to be scared of the pirates (cute delight). My nephew laughs at the crocodile (delight). A bit out of the blue, one of my long-time friends and his fiancée invite me, my mom, and my sister over for an afternoon of visiting which is promised to then lead into dinner. He tells me to bring my guitar. I do. When the scheduled day comes, we play music together (delight) again for the first time in over 25 years. For Thanksgiving, my mom arranges a place for us to stay in the hill country. My siblings come. It’s the first time we’ve all been together since my dad died. It’s the first time we’ve been all together for a holiday in a long time. The next day, we hop over to San Antonio and visit the Natural Bridge Caverns. Caverns, what a delight!

December: My sister-in-law invites me to meet her and the kids at the theater to see Moana 2. When I walk through the theater’s doors, the kids cry out my name and run to greet me (delight). During the songs, my niece dances in the aisles (delight). When I come back from taking my niece to the bathroom during a climatic movie moment, my nephew leans over and says, “You missed a lot.” (hilarious delight). Days later, videochatting with my nephew, he tells me to call him back in ten minutes because he has to wrap my Christmas present. So I do. When we’ve connected once more, he shows me a wrapped gift that has the unmistakable shape of a rock. Though he’s quivering with the desire to tell me what it is, he restrains himself enough to only say, “It’s something from nature.” I find out during our present exchange that it is indeed a rock (delight). Excessive Christmas lights (delight). Wrapped gifts with fancy ribbons under the tree (delight). Sappy Christmas Spirit movies (delight).

Through the lens of delight—and these I’ve mentioned are the bigger ones that stand out the most—2024 was a wonderful year. But what of the other delights? What of the two owls I saw on Christmas morning when I was out at the break of sunrise for my walk? Or the two snails, on separate patches, of differing sizes, crossing the sidewalk? Or the random pipe I pass on a hiking trail in Colorado on which someone wrote to follow the curve of the piping, “Everything will be okay” and that same person or someone else wrote on the side, “You matter”? Or the book recommendations my older sister and I exchange? Or the way my youngest niece tells my youngest brother, “Pick me up”? Or the red-tailed hawk that I see while thinking of my dad? Or the time my eldest niece sent me a chain letter by text? Or the latte art flower decorating the latte I get on my birthday?   

The delights are all around me, there to be noticed if only I will.

With the new year only days away, I resolve to keep my eyes open for new delights.

I hope you will too.