Downtown Abbey Jumps the Shark

What a lovely ending for this season of the Downton Abbey…IF you got a phone call from the President during the last three minutes and missed the end!!!  I’m sorry, but the Downton Abbey team has jumped the shark. 

If you are unfamiliar with that term, think back to Happy Days when Arthur Fonzerello, AKA Fonzie, AKA “The Fonz”, for some inexplicable reason, donned a pair of water skis and jumped a shark.  Did he think he wasn’t popular enough any more? Too much. Trying too hard.  Complete loss of credibility, and dare I say, coolness, even for the Fonz.

Why??? Maybe Happy Days was losing viewers or ratings.  I don’t know.  But Downton Abbey? They were at their height of greatness!  Even my husband looked forward to it (and I don’t think anyone is reading this will mock him for that—right?). Did the Downton Abbey writers not feel there was already enough drama?  Let’s see:

·      Dramatic death that could have been avoided in childbirth

·      Gay encounter made up only by a good sound beating

·      Prison release after proof of suicide rather than murder

·      The Catholic chauffeur son-in-law helping save the entire estate with his farming skills

·      Love from a married man whose wife is in the looney bin

·      A prostitute for a cook who brings shame on all who enter but gets to leave to be close to her child

·      A wild teen-ager bound to bring shame upon the whole family if the writing sister doesn’t do it herself first?

Wow.  Looking at it on paper it is clear we have entered Soap Opera Realm here.  Hmmmm…That can only mean one thing—Matthew isn’t really dead!! He’s just staring intently at the lovely hummingbird fluttering near the broken steering wheel of his smashed up car! And that red stuff is just strawberry preserves spilled from the passing truck, which will turn out to be a secret family recipe and become famous, making certain Downton maintains their fortune ever more!  Hoorah! Ok.  I feel much better. Maybe I will watch next season afterall.

Pitch Perfect

There are a few perfect sounds in the world, including: the first cry of a newborn baby, the trickling of a mountain stream far away from civilization, and the crack of a young boy's bat hitting a baseball right at the perfect sweet spot.  

I went to my son's first scrimage on Saturday and was reminded of how much I secretly love baseball. Now, what I am about to say is not to make all of my family members choking to death in the bitter cold Utah inversion feel bad, but wow, what a beautiful day.  

I walked up to the park where people huddled togther seeking the cool, slender shadows of scattered trees, almost like campers grouped around the warmth of a fire at night. Finding a shady spot, I sat back and watched my son throw pitches from the mound.  Every time the ball left his fingers, my heart stalled until that little leather-covered ball sped across the plate, narrowly missing the smack of the bat. Yet whether it was a strike-out or a hit (see the comment of the perfect sound), I still felt a thrill.  

There's just something about the combination of sunshine, neighborhood crowds, dirt, chalk, and a baseball, that makes me fall in love with the game.  It's the highlight of my summer Saturdays. And the best part of basebal in San Diego, we can play all year round--we don't have to wait until Opening Day!