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The Downton Connection.

June 21, 2013June 21, 2013 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Downton Abbey, Photographical Oddities

{SPOILER ALERT: Vague references to Season Three of Downton Abbey are in this post. Read at your own risk.}

A couple of weeks ago, a reader wrote on my Facebook Page:

I read it, and I puzzled.

She was right – despite my fandom, I had certainly never picked up on a resemblance of my daughter to any Downton Abbey characters.

At least it wasn’t Edith.

And Cora is a beautiful lady (even though she always has the exact same facial expression.)

But as I sat with my phone in hand, pondering how in the world my daughter could look like her, I pulled up a photo of Ali, then found a photo of Lady Grantham.

And gasped.

OHMYGOSH SHE’S TOTALLY RIGHT.

My child is future fiction British Aristocracy.

What could this mean?

How should I train her correctly?

Clearly, I’d be totally fine with her marrying British Royalty. After all, I had my own ambitions of marrying Prince William, but ultimately I decided that the fact that I was six months older than him might make it too weird, so I let him off the hook.

(Plus I imagined the pranks that Prince Harry would come up with would make for a complete bloody mess of a wedding getaway car.)

(And Camilla Parker Bowles as a Step-Mother-In-Law is what Horror-Fairytales are made of.)

(Poor Kate. I should have warned her.)

But back to Ali. The only reason that British Aristocracy ever marries American Women is if the woman in question has a massive family fortune with which the aristocrat can use to save their family estate, and that’s not really going to be possible around here.

(Unless Ali does a better job of saving her $5 allowance, or perhaps sends out royalty support letters.)

So I decided to strategize in a different direction.

Perhaps I should notify the producers of Downton Abbey that my daughter is available for any needs they may have. Such as a prequel of young Cora in the United States. Or perhaps a dream sequence or childhood memory. After all, her wardrobe would be stunning. And I bet they’d let her keep a piece or two for dress-up.

(And I’d get to meet the cast. Which would be way more exciting if they hadn’t KILLED EVERYONE THAT I CARED ABOUT.)

But at least they hadn’t killed Cora. So I knew there was hope for Ali’s future.

As I was pondering all of these things in my heart, we took a trip over the river and through the woods to my parent’s house, and I had the realization of where Ali’s antique soul originated.

This is not a scene from Downton Abbey.

This is my Dad, driving his grandkids around his property.

When she gets her big role, I can be confident that she’ll be chauffeured properly.

Know Your Downton Risk Status.

February 20, 2013January 3, 2014 Rachel Callahan Anal Retentivity to a Fault, Downton Abbey, Downton Abbey Graphics, Pop Post

{Spoiler Alert – only continue reading if you’ve finished watching Downton Abbey Season Three, which ended in America on Sunday.}

I felt it best to give you all a couple days of Downton Silence out of respect for your mourning.

Because I know – I’ve been there. Since I hacked it and watched Season Three with England, I had to deal with my grief privately, finding a quiet solace with a few other equally impatient friends.

Fortunately, Christmas Day was too busy for me to watch the last episode, but when I did watch it on the 26th of December, I empathized for all of the ruined Christmases in the UK (and was surprised that I hadn’t heard of any Class-Action Lawsuits against Julian Fellowes.)

But besides the fact that the last episode was horrible, it was, in my opinion, a very shoddy death. Could it have been more obvious and foreboding? Could they have worked any harder to throw an heir into the picture at the last minute?? How dare they rob us the joys of nine months of Lady Mary as a half-crazed, fire-breathing, hormone-fueled pregnant ogress???

Reprehensible.

For weeks after watching, I didn’t know if I even wanted to watch Season Four. I quit recommending the show to everyone I met, and was positive that I would have been happiest if I’d blissfully concluded my stint as a Downton Fangirl approximately 45 seconds before the end of that cursed Christmas “Special.”

But I’ve had a couple of months to acclimate now, and I’m feeling better.

And you will too – I promise.

But in the meantime, I thought that it was time for an updated chart.

With the bodies stacking up, we’re all a bit more jumpy these days.

Who’s next?

Is it safe to get attached to anyone?

What about me – if I were to suddenly find myself in Downton Abbey, would I meet an untimely demise?

Not to worry – I’ve made you a handy flowchart so that you can know with certainty whether to take out that extra life insurance policy or rest on your Aristocratic Laurels.

I hope that helps.

Now go finish your mourning.

The General Woods Inn: Downton Southby.

October 10, 2012July 13, 2013 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, The Blissfulness of Life

For the weekend before my birthday, Chris took me to one of my favorite places on earth: The General Woods Inn.

I’m not a Bed and Breakfast person, but yet this and only this Bed and Breakfast has stolen my heart over the past three years.

Why?

1. It’s Front Porch
2. Looks out on this:

3. It’s only two hours from my front porch.

A quick geography lesson: my city, Birmingham, is at the very tippy-bottom of the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. Which means that we could by no means be considered a “Mountain City,” but we have hills (that we refer to as mountains) that we’re very fond of – hills that give us views like this:

Thanks to our foothill status, it only makes sense that if you start driving north out of Birmingham, you’re bound to run into some fabulous vistas very quickly.

My favorite of these vistas happens to be located in the part of Georgia that is pinched so hard between Tennessee, Alabama, and I-59 that it probably has a water blister.

The town of Rising Fawn, which houses The General Woods Inn, General Woods himself, and his precious wife Nadine.

And us – if we’re lucky that day.

We discovered it by accident three years ago when I needed a quiet place to retreat for my Birthday, and since what trip, returning there has been my recurring daydream during every moment of stress. We’ve been back a couple of times, and we love it so much that we even forced my parents to relax there.

(As an aside, they spent their visit touring one of Nadine’s other business interests: chicken farms. By request. My parents are so weird.)

(As another aside, Nadine is also working on renovating and opening another Inn in Michigan for all you northerners. You’re welcome.)

When I called to reserve a room for my birthday this year, Nadine, apologized because there would be a wedding going on while we were there, and so she gave me a lower rate.

(Chris and I both felt guilty taking the lower rate, because we were unduly excited about the wedding lurkage that was to come. But we took it anyway.)

We arrived a few hours before the wedding, and the dreaminess of the inn was only enhanced by the nuptial preparations.

[As an aside, doesn’t that hallway look like an ideal location to angrily kick tuxedo hangers about in the late evening? That’s what one of the groomsmen thought.]

The romance floating in the air made me begin wondering how I could talk Chris into marrying me again. In Downton Abbey attire.

Even without a wedding going on, the inn is magically decorated with both an antique flair and a General’s memorabilia,

And I really felt as if I needed one of Mary or Sybil’s fabulous dresses to dine there. Or at least a dress belonging to one of their Wild American Cousins.

I could very nearly picture the Dowager Countess sitting upright and unduly bothered in one of the highback chairs as I conveyed the matters of America to her from the couch.

And – where was Carson?? It’s time for the bullion course!!

Outside, wedding preparations could make even the most unromantic O’Brien swoon.

Old Church pews, shaded by a white drapery tent, enveloped by stunning vistas on every side,

all facing the most amazing backdrop that any wedding has ever known.

Lining the bride’s walk was a touch of Southern Charm, Mason Jar tea lights.

Under the reception awning, beautifully draped tables and chairs were prepared for guests, highlighted with burlap, gold, and flowers.

A garden of rose bushes surrounded the reception awning. [Which is apparently quite dangerous to get in a fight with. Or at least so claimed a bridesmaid much later that night.]

The courtyard and pool area was prepared for a live band and cocktail hour. [And a thorough post-dinner party that ended with a tux in the very frigid pool.]

A couple of hours before the wedding, we assumed our highly anticipated position on the front porch, where we usually do nothing but stare at the mountains, and excitedly waited for our added benefit of getting to be those nosy inn-dwellers who watch other people’s weddings, analyze the interactions between the parents of the bride and groom, and make assumptions about the familial relationships of the future.

By the end of the pre-wedding photography, we had their Future Grandparent Styles pegged.

We lurked around until after the ceremony, then headed out to dinner during their Cocktail Hour. The reception awning was beautifully lit and ready to be enjoyed. [And the tablecloths sat elegantly and innocently, not realizing that two of them would later be stolen and tied to the getaway car.]

When we got back from my lingering birthday dinner, their dinner was also long over, but the lights were still blazing.

We assumed our nosy position on the back porch, overlooking the growing-in-frenzy party that had moved back to the pool area.

It was fabulous. Never have I been so entertained at a Bed and Breakfast.

When we had finally gotten enough post-wedding amusement [and had watched the Bride and Groom escape right before the ‘friends’ of the groom were able to successfully tip his brand new Jeep over and down the long hill], we retired to our room. Although I preferred the romantic décor of our usual place of rest, The Patterson Room, by the next morning, I had decided that from now on, we would be staying in the O’Connor Room.

The bed was MAGICAL.

I woke up the next morning, perfectly sunken (sunk? sanked?) into the mattress, knowing that it was made for my body.

I considered stealing the mattress. Surely Nadine wouldn’t notice… right?

Since she’d already nearly lost a couple of tablecloths [they were rescued just in time], I decided a more honest approach would be in order, and asked her about the mattress at breakfast instead. I discovered that it was locally made by Murmaid Mattress.

I spent the rest of the day trying to talk Chris into the fact that we need a new mattress. Aren’t they only supposed to last for 10 years? And we’ve been married 11 1/2 years. Clearly our mattress is totally shot and we will find ourselves at a place of imminent death and/or injury unless we replace it.

After breakfast, we headed back out on the porch, doing nothing but watching the sky play silently with the multi-colored, panoramic mountains.