First order of business, my belated announcement of last week’s winner–Ida C, congratulations to you.
Now, for the Spokane weather report. Yesterday, we had wild, blizzard-like flurries of snow–today, sunshine. I’ve been sitting outside on the deck this morning, soaking up the Vitamin D and loving every moment of it. I walked around a little, inspecting the flowerbeds, heartened to see how big the daffodils and tulips are getting. No blossoms yet, of course, but it won’t be long now. And the grass is greening up nicely, too.
I’m into the new book, though I made several false starts. The initial chapter must be exactly right, obviously, since it sets the stage for the rest of the story.
I continue to obsess about “Downton Abbey”. What IS that? I’ll be minding my own business and, then, all of a sudden, I’m fretting over Mr. Bates, falsely imprisoned for the murder of a woman who, as we say out West, needed killin’. I’m wondering if Milady’s maid is really the sneaky viper she appears to be, lurking in corridors, listening at keyholes, plotting with Thomas, the man I love to hate. When Lady Grantham (probably misspelled) fell ill with the Spanish flu, this same woman refused to leave her bedside and was the very picture of devotion. Go figure.
The worrying doesn’t end there. What if the fortune really IS gone forever, and the staff has to be let go? What will we do without Carson and Daisy and especially Anna Smith, the brave bride of the beleaguered Mr. Bates? To think of that magnificent ancestoral pile standing empty or, worse yet, turned into a hotel–well, it just won’t do. Fortunately, Maggie Smith is on duty as the dowager duchess, and she’s a real force of nature. If anyone can save Downton Abbey and, indeed, England itself, Maggie can. (As an aside, I once saw the illustrious Ms. Smith perform in a play in London, along with Hailey Mills and Vanessa Redgrave. It was an experience I will never forget.)
I suppose I’ve rattled on long enough, for today at least.
Be well, be brave, and be kind.