Entitlements

Mix modulated voices, awesome vistas, vintage clothing and a bit of venal behavior with unerring words delivered by accomplished actors and the result is singular bliss. Beginning with the Titanic tragedy that still resonates a century later, the story's characters become familiar almost instantly. Significant disparities never strip away the household's collective humanity and though some may long for a different life, not even the quasi-evil individuals fail to comprehend their current station.



It is impossible to compare this BBC boon with other current television fare without realizing how much richer is the story of the first decades of the last century as witnessed through the lens of an agreeable collection of British subjects. Though intellectual in approach and delivery, the masterful tale is filled with human folly, intrigue, encroaching change, and substantial sorrow. No reality show or situation comedy, no crime drama or doctor-driven saga can compete with this Masterpiece.

I'm enmeshed in Downton Abbey's web, absorbed by each episode. I've been transported to Edwardian England with its rigid social standards, vast estates, and legions of overworked servants. I fondly remember the early 1980's when the BBC's Brideshead Revisited captivated me as Charles Ryder began a fateful friendship with Sebastian Flyte. The castle was just as grand, the clothing totally sublime, the cars elegant and the time period nearly identical. I adored Sebastian's bear, Aloysius, and considered him simply a non-speaking member of the group.



With two seasons completed and a third being filmed, Downton Abbey has garnered an audience to be envied. Though predominately female, there are also many men who applaud its significance and never miss an episode. The class lines are drawn, then partially erased when the country is at war. Politics cannot be halted at the property boundaries, resulting in animated conversations centering on individual opinions, gender specific disagreements and economically based attitudes toward land based issues. Nearly cataclysmic change awaits everyone. Some will adapt, others will retreat.

Beauty befalls the production as the faces of young adults materialize, revealing comeliness in each countenance. Who can gaze upon Matthew Crawley and not be mesmerized by his charming smile and unforgettable eyes? Even with her quixotic behavior, Lady Mary Crawley's poise and perfect features urge one toward repeated forgiveness. Although she may appear rather plain, Daisy exudes embryonic pluck which indicates her ability to conquer her circumstances.

These charming cast members are occasionally overshadowed by the inimitable Maggie Smith in the role of the Dowager Duchess. She is given the very best lines and utters them with alacrity. I look into her graciously lined face and I see not an elderly actress of extraordinary talent but her younger self. For a fleeting moment, Maggie's a middle-aged red haired teacher in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, an incomparable role from the 1960's. She remains an arresting figure and much credit must be accorded to Julian Fellowes, creator of Downton Abbey, that she plays a pivotal part in his drama.



As Lady Cora Crawley, Elizabeth McGovern balances her quest for three daughters' marriages with household responsibilities and never quite loses her uniquely American approach to life's challenges. There's something so charming about her almost English accent and the way she gently cajoles her family into proper behavior.



Carson, the butler, commands his vast space with just the right amount of self-confidence, deference, and dignity. Miss O'Brien, the Lady's maid, wavers between devotion and deviltry. Bates, a man of mystery, manifests strength as he copes with what seem like endless reversals, anchored by his love for sweet Anna. Mrs. Patmore governs the kitchen with tactics that might make a general wince but also evidences a soft side on occasion.

As I watched week after week, I understood that even the exceedingly rich appear trapped, though luxuriously so. Tradition triumphs until it becomes tarnished or morphs into new habits. Change is fearful for all strata of society. War is a leveler with unimaginable waste of human lives, not respecting the ancestry of any caught in the carnage. Victory on the battlefield in no way assured that what was known before would still exist when the fighting finally ceased.

On Sunday evenings, I can surround myself with the elegance of a country castle inhabited by exquisitely dressed residents. I'm able to admire the incorporation of historical events into the script and watch with interest as relationships develop and sometimes dwindle. With courage and a bit of apprehension, these people of nearly a century past allow me to be enfolded into their story. I feel delightfully entitled by the opportunity.

Whose History?

When I was a child, I sometimes wondered if the Civil War had ended not long before I was born. In my more rational moments, I knew that it was, in fact, World War II, that nearly abutted my birth and actually facilitated my existence. However, there were enough references to the War Between the States, as it was known in my locale, for some confusion to exist. I could walk around town and see a statue dedicated to the Confederate fallen. If I were visiting the city cemetery, and I was there almost every week, I'd see metal standards proclaiming the deceased as a member of some Confederate unit. Adjacent to the public burying ground was a National Cemetery which served as a final resting place for quite a few Union soldiers. Men who fought each other so fiercely lie eternally in close proximity.

My daddy was born in 1910. During his childhood, many former slaves were still alive. Even more numerous were the children of former slaves. Most likely he encountered individuals with the same surname, acquired through ownership not parentage. For him, the Civil War and its aftermath had a very real presence.

I recall vividly an evening when Daddy, my brother and I went to the home of a man who occasionally worked on our farm. The man's name was Tom Clark and he had a wife named Rosie. As we entered the living room, Daddy turned to his two children and said, "Be very quiet. There's an old woman in the next room and she is very sick." Then he added, "She was born a slave." Why he shared this fact, I do not know. Maybe he was telling me that history is transitory, brief, and that we are all part of the past as much as the present. I've never forgotten his words, though nearly six decades have passed since they were spoken.

Recently, my husband was watching excerpts from vintage television shows on YouTube. I sat with him as episodes from "What's My Line?" were revitalized in all their black and white glory. Among the celebrity guests were Frank Sinatra and Jimmy Stewart. After I left the room, he began sampling various segments from "I've Got A Secret." Both of these television shows were immensely popular in the 1950's and '60's. He and I recall watching them faithfully when they were first broadcast.

Later in the evening, Henry joined me as I was watching present day television. He said that he was especially intrigued by one particular guest on a 1956 "I've Got A Secret" clip. The gentleman, a very coherent 96 year old, was not able to stump the panel. His incredible secret was that he was in the audience at Ford's Theater the night that Lincoln was shot in April, 1865. Astonishing!!!!

Though somewhat enfeebled by age, the guest spoke eloquently about seeing a man jump from the balcony and fall as he reached the stage. As a five year-old, he did not realize what had happened and all of his concern centered on the man (John Wilkes Booth) who appeared hurt. When this accidental witness of a major historic event was telling his story on television, I was ten years old. The fact that he and I were alive at the same time is incredible.

My daughter's heard stories all her life. Some of these tales must seem fanciful to her for the world she knows differs vastly from that her mom experienced. When I casually remark that girls weren't allowed to attend Ivy League colleges and universities when I graduated from high school, she is aghast. Even more startling and compelling are my accounts of attending segregated schools, shopping at stores that were segregated in their services, sitting in a doctor's office where patients were separated by race, and riding buses with rigidly drawn color lines. She listens patiently as I reminisce about our kitchen stove that was neither gas nor electric, but rather powered by wood. I invoke a quasi-pioneer spirit when mentioning our primitive bathroom in a small clapboard building behind the chicken house. While these vignettes form part of my personal history, not hers, they emanate from a time not so long ago.

Perhaps we are all part of an unfathomable continuum that swishes history through our lives and on to the next generations.

Cross Alley Conversations

The houses were new. Some of the occupants were not. As a first-time homeowner, I had a lot to learn. I'd grown up in the country without neighbors but always longed for sidewalks and people surrounding me. With only four models in the development, streets looked repetitious and residents tried to distinguish their spaces with dissimilar landscaping.

Nearly every yard was enclosed by a grapestake fence. Inexpensive, unpainted, easily broken through by a determined dog, the fences served their purpose adequately. Separating the back of the fence from that of the neighbor's was a small alley. Trash receptacles were positioned near the back gates and the city's garbage trucks rumbled along the narrow gravel path each week.



Soon after moving into my house, I became acquainted with my back alley neighbors. They were retired, happily removed from New Jersey to Arizona. Already in their 60's, Charlie and Billie were old enough to be my parents but became my friends instead. On many a hot day, I exited my gate, crossed the alley and lifted the latch at their house. No need to call, I was welcome anytime. In retrospect, it is curious that the Thompsons never ventured to my house. Maybe my unruly bulldog stopped them at the fence.

We talked for hours as I sipped iced tea. Their family room was a comfortable place and mirrored my own in design. I listened to Charlie's stories of his career working for Grauman, the maker of airplane engines. Even in retirement, he often received calls to join a National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) investigation after a plane crash. His skills were very valuable, unique.

I learned that some years previously he'd been sent from the east coast to the Long Beach Airport. The purpose of his trip was obscured. He was told to be ready to show a new airplane to a potential customer. Charlie arrived at the appointed time and waited. Hours later, he was still waiting. Eventually a large car crossed the tarmac and stopped near the plane. A man and woman got out and walked toward the plane. Charlie greeted them and immediately recognized both individuals. Ever the professional, he began discussing the airplane's features and answering very technical questions from the gentleman. The woman, dressed in expensive tailored slacks, said little. She sat quietly in one of the seats.

Midway through Charlie's presentation, the unnamed buyer began berating his female companion. She had put her feet, clad in soft moccasins, on the seat. The man was so incensed that he banished her to the car. She left meekly.

Though the deal wasn't consummated that evening, Charlie said that subsequently he would receive phone calls in the middle of the night from a man with an unusual voice. At first, he thought some of his colleagues were teasing him. Very soon he realized that the man was indeed identifying himself correctly and that he simply had additional questions about the airplane. As this story is unfolding, I am intensely curious about the identities of the mystery couple. I could only smile when Charlie told me that they were Howard Hughes and Katharine Hepburn.



In the early 1970's, I worked for a city in Arizona. Through some mismanagement by the administration, the city's financial condition became imperiled. To solve the immediate problem, extensive lay-offs were proposed. Early in the discussions, the extent of personnel losses was unknown and thus each employee worried that his or her name might be on the fateful list.

With grave concern about my future employment, I went to talk to Charlie and Billie. I've never forgotten the advice I received from Billie. She said very calmly, "Imagine the worst that can happen, find a solution for that and everything else is easy." As a twenty-something, I had not yet experienced significant losses in my life. My parents and only sibling were thriving, as were my friends. I thought the worst thing that could happen to me would be to lose my job. Billie gave me a pathway to consider and helped to reduce my anxiety significantly.

Robert Frost wrote that "Good fences make good neighbors." His message was more about separation than assimilation. Today I am most grateful for my good neighbors, fences or not.

Matchless

Sartorial advice is often dispensed without being requested. I've made many fashion faux pas over the years, some of them slightly hilarious or hideous. Correcting my mistakes and encouraging me to broaden my purchasing palette is my fashionista daughter. The message to her mom is always, "Too matchy matchy." Often I heed her direction as I greatly admire her enduring style.

As I opened the living room shutters around eight AM this morning, I viewed snow tipped mountains. Dark clouds hovered close to the abundant whiteness and beyond, a brilliant sky beckoned. A camera moment. Not pausing to shower and dress properly, I grabbed my Sony and hurried outside.

My daughter would have smiled at my outfit. I had taken her admonitions to the extreme. There I was in the front yard wearing:
.a somewhat short green polka-dotted nightgown
.a pale lavender pique bathrobe (summer weight)
.dark blue fleece slippers



My hair was askew, my face unwashed. I focused on capturing the matchless mountains.

Blood Match

It began so innocuously, quite innocently. A question is answered, two lives transformed. We met on-line but definitely not for dating purposes. She inquired about my ancestors who also happened to be hers. The venue was a genealogical message board. From those first tentative e-mail exchanges, both of us sensed something. Perhaps it was a calling, a connection, intertwined psyches previously unknown to each other.

Meeting Dottie was almost like meeting me. We're very alike and yet distinctly different. She's been married 40+ years to one wonderful man. I'm 35 years into my second union. Dottie's progeny are four boys while I have one biological daughter and a son acquired by marriage. I'm encouraged to 'share' her nine grandchildren.



Dottie's personality is infectious. Her sense of humor, generosity of spirit, and ability to listen cogently draws people to her sphere. She's Southern to her very sinew and regularly uses phrases from that region that I've long forgotten or never remembered that I ever knew. We have many common childhood experiences though our years were spent totally apart, not knowing the other person existed.

News reports recently described two late twenties' Swedish twins who had been reunited. These girls, Indonesian by birth, had been separated during the adoption process and went to live with different families located rather a great distance apart. Though non-identical, they share perfect DNA matches. Records are wrong, genetics are right. While I realize that Dottie and I weren't separated at birth, if for no other reason than she is nearly 11 months my younger, there are moments when the concept of being twins doesn't seem implausible.

Dottie is my more relaxed self. She is effervescent, truly Erma Bombeckian as a natural humorist. Maybe she's a female Mark Twain with deeper roots and probably a larger heart. She has a whimsical side which can make anything fun, even the most boring chore. With an incredible zest for life and an attitude of nearly consummate positiveness, she is indefatigable in caring for her family and friends.

Though we had no contact for a few years, during which Dottie suffered the devastation of losing her house during Hurricane Katrina, we're welded together again. Visits to our respective homes in Mississippi and California are occasions of pure delight. Our somewhat bemused husbands provide constant encouragement. Others are simply puzzled. When either of us attempts to explain the origin of our relationship, faces often frown and quizzical glances abound. Lately we've decided that explanations are useless. As Dottie says so cogently, "It is what it is."

Earlier this month, Dottie honored me with a birthday visit. In five short days, we managed to dine at several restaurants she enjoyed on a previous trip. Tiki Tenders and Shrimp Tacos satisfied our palates. (Should I mention that we order exactly the same thing every time?) Lunches at our house included favorite fare from local grocery delis. A belated birthday cake for our special guest, made by the talented folks at the Ralphs bakery, featured delicious daisy frosting.



With my mania for shopping and utilizing coupons, we wandered through multiple stores on my birthday. Locating the perfect decorative pillows to adorn our new living room couches encompassed several hours. We laughed much of the time to the amusement (befuddlement?) of the various salespeople. While selecting a new frame and mats for a stunning photo of Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia, taken by Henry in 1987, we marveled at the patience and expertise of several young men who attempted to gently guide us to final decisions. One of those fellows said to us, "When I came out to help you, I knew you were sisters." Well, almost right. We are actually fifth cousins, once removed.

Dottie has the ability to share herself magnanimously and to exhibit enthusiasm for topics of interest to others. She spent considerable time attempting to drive Henry's race car (a very spiffy Corvette) as part of his Play Station game. The results were totally hilarious as the car careened from track to grassy area, got turned around the wrong way, incurred numerous damage to its body, and finally finished the race long after the other cars had departed. Dottie's pluckiness never abandoned her and she obligingly sat through a tutorial to improve her skills. What a lady!!!



Nearly a whole day was consumed fluffing down pillows and moving them from couch to couch to ensure just the perfect effect. Though I am amply appreciative of the beauty that has been created, I do not possess the artistic acumen necessary to design such a palette. Dottie is able to 'see' what I cannot. I am the grateful girl. She's the one who is gifted. Once the living room met her design standards, she moved on to shelves in the family room, the kitchen garden window, and the bookcase in my office. Each space has been totally transformed. Anyone who visits the house will know instantly that I'm not the one responsible for the beautifully refreshed rooms.





We're easy with each other, respecting space, knowing that our closeness is inviolate. We talk about our families. A lot. We share sorrows, fears, triumphs, more photos than anyone else would want to view. We never tire of stories about our children, her grandchildren, something we've read or thought or seen. When we're together, we often utter the same words spontaneously. And then we giggle.



Very long ago, Thomas and James were brothers. Their descendants, Dottie and I, are cousins/friends/sistergirls. Our blood matches perfectly.