Matthew, about to board his train back to war, is surprised to see Mary in the distance. She is up and about early, before the family usually arises, anxious to give him her good luck toy from childhood before he goes. Mary hopes it will protect him. Her only request is that Matthew bring it back home, back to her.

He says that even if he doesn’t come back, Mary has made him a happy man, restoring their friendship. He looks as if he wants to tell her more and she seems expectant. Perhaps she is hoping for a declaration of love?

Instead, Matthew asks if she’ll take care of his mother, should anything happen to him in the war. And his fiancé. Will she look after Lavina, too?

Mary replies, “Of course” and leans forward, giving Matthew a tender, goodbye kiss on the cheek as befits a lady.

Touching. I felt as if I’d seen it before. But where? The question nagged at me. Today I realized that the Matthew/Mary parting was very similar to another famous goodbye scene between Ashley Wilkes and Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind. Consider:

Scarlet waits alone at the bottom of the staircase for Ashley to descend. She hopes to have a few private minutes with him before he goes back to war. When he finally comes down, Scarlet tells him she has a parting gift.

She unwraps the package containing a yellow, fringed sash and gives it to him. It is made with Scarlet’s own hands. She ties it about him in a love knot. As she drinks in the last moments with Ashley, he asks her to promise him something.

If anything should happen to him, will she take care of Melanie, his fragile wife and Scarlet’s perceived enemy?

Scarlet reluctantly promises and asks Ashley to kiss her goodbye. She pulls him into an unseemly embrace. She is no lady.

Hmmm. There is a definite similarity here. Wondering if anyone else had seen the same, I checked the Internet for articles or blogs about connections between Downton Abbey and Gone With the Wind. There were many. And they were published during the first season.

So much for my literary insight.

Though I didn’t see anything that noted the scenes I mentioned above, there were several thoughtful comparisons between the two works:

• Both had a cast of three sisters – the eldest the most beautiful and callous (Mary & Scarlett), the middle girls (Edith & Suellen) the least attractive and overshadowed by their older siblings , while the youngest daughters were both idealistic and wanted to make the world a better place (Sybil & Carreen).

• Both eldest daughters were unable to marry the man of their choice – though the jury is still out for Mary & Matthew.

• Both had American mothers and fathers from a foreign country – Irish Gerald O’Hara and English Robert Crowley.

• Both sagas dwelt on the importance of family property and both fathers poured their souls into the land.

• Both stories were set against a backdrop of impending war.

There are other parallels noted online by various astute critiquers, but you get the idea. Still, knowing all this does not lesson my ardor for Downton Abbey in the least. I’ve already scheduled time for Masterpiece viewing this the coming Sunday evening. The answering machine will be poised and ready to take messages. My eye-glasses will be cleaned and tea will be at-the-ready.

Perhaps the lesson here is this: if you are going to engage in fictional-thievery, then for goodness sakes, steal from the best!

But most of all, everyone wanted a healthy child. Heidi’s age made her a better candidate for a Down’s syndrome birth than several years earlier. We discussed it sometimes, she wondering how she would handle such a challenge while I comforted myself that God would give His special grace wherever needed. True, I didn’t know any of these special children personally. But what I had experienced at my workplace provided a particular view of this population, endearing them to me.

TYPICAL EXAMPLE: Some years back, the local community college educated a number of these special kids during the day. They took classes and enjoyed the benefits of the campus, especially our library, where I worked at the Circulation Desk.

One day, a “normal” student marched up to the desk, slammed his fist on the counter and said, “Hey! How about some service here?” I looked up from my project and tried not to fake my can’t-wait-to-assist-you smile.

“Sure,” I said. “How may I help?”

He held up a book. “See this? I’m going to drop this book into the slot and stand here and wait while you check it in. I don’t want to get ANY overdue notices from you guys ever again. That’s just *&%$#*!” He stared at me until I had completed the transaction and the book was filed on the book truck, and then he trounced off.

What a day-brightener. Was it a full moon or something?

A little later, one of our special kids came in and stopped in front of the book drop, waiting until I noticed him. His eyes shone and his grin widened as he held up a library book sporting a colorful cover.

“I liked reading this book. It’s due today. Thank you!” He slipped it through the slot and waved good-bye, still smiling as he headed for the exit.

Now, I ask you, who is the real day-brightener? Who adds more value to society? Which is the better communicator?

As a mere mortal, I cannot declare one person of more value than another. Nor should I. But numerous situations like this built a fondness within me for those special needs kids. They always arrived with cheerful attitudes in tow. Never ill will. They brought what I seemed to need. Eventually, I came to think of them as individuals born without malice. Like they lacked the mean gene.

So when my daughter had to recognize the risk that her coming child could be born with Down’s syndrome or some other handicap, I was able to say with honesty, “I love Down’s kids.” It wasn’t something I knew much about, nor relished for us, but I knew God’s grace would cover the situation, as always. And the sweet students I had observed over the years softened my apprehensions.

When Nicholas Scott was born without any problems, gratitude filled my heart. This special boy would not face the challenges of Down’s. Other challenges? Of course. But not this one. It was a great kindness from God.

Yet I could not help but pray that Nicholas’s nature would be sweet and without malice, like those other special kids I met along the way.

Special children who were not only day-brighteners, but role models, too.

Special Nicholas is adored by big sister, Special Sidney.

Nice. No paper hinges to tear off at the dress’s shoulders and sides. No ruining your favorite paper doll by coaxing her cardboard cuteness into a chair, bending her at the backside and knees.

Not that I ever did such a thing.

As the sales clerk rang up my gift, we reminisced about how we’d once played with our paper dolls until the edges were frayed and worn with wear. She mentioned having an entire set of the lovely Lennon Sisters (as Lawrence Welk used to say).

“Lucky you,” I said. “I used to channel Janet Lennon, singing ‘Getting to Know You’ all around the house, hoping to be discovered.”

The clerk laughed, understanding.

I added, “Of course, that was after I’d channeled Shirley Temple and retired ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop.’”

Her eyes lit up. “I had Shirley Temple, too!”

Wow. I don’t remember having celebrity paper dolls. But I didn’t suffer. Every month I looked forward to carefully cutting out the Betsy McCall doll and her fashion-forward outfits from Mother’s latest McCall’s magazine. I glued Betsy to some thick paper, trimming away the excess, so she’d last until next month’s issue.

When I turned ten, my artist-mom made original paper dolls to give all the guests at my birthday party. She spent days sketching and coloring and cutting. Every doll had an extensive wardrobe and boy-oh-boy, were the girls ever awed to receive something so special. No one else’s mother attempted such a feat. I felt as famous as Shirley Temple for many days after that.

And now, years and years later, it’s time to introduce the current version of paper dolls to Sidney Anne.

Welcome to my world, little one.

Inspired by the Rosemary Wells children’s books I have loved for years, these DVDs star mischievous Max and his long-suffering-big-sister, Ruby. My granddaughter, Sidney, likes these sweet adventures. Me, too. I’ve bought more than a few for us to enjoy together.

The other day, I found an unfamiliar episode called “Ruby Writes a Story.” What could be better for a writer? It made sense to add it to my collection of writing-related DVDs. Maybe I could show it at our writer’s group, Quills of Faith. A legit reason to keep a Max & Ruby story for myself, right?

Ruby Writes a Story

I was all anticipation as I shoved the disc into my computer. What wonderful wisdom would Ruby have for us writers? After all, her creator, Rosemary Wells, was a prolific children’s book author. Maybe there was a wee writer nugget somewhere in this little story.

But I didn’t love it.

The characters were still adorable. I related to Ruby’s struggle to start her “Once upon a time” story, while Max, astride his stick horse, roped his wind-up lobster and herded toy chicks. Such distractions are a part of the writer life.

I detected a wee gem, too: the story you seek might be right in front of you. And it could start, “Once upon a time, there was a cowboy….”

But for me, the best part of the Max & Ruby adventures is sharing them with my granddaughter, Sidney. Hearing her cute comments and contagious giggles always pushes the experience over-the-top.

The new DVD and I are planning a trip soon.

I have PBS. For you educational TV types, it’s not what you think. Rather, a severe case of Purse Buying Syndrome.

Though now in remission, a recent invitation to a purse party sent me into a panic. I had to stop, take deep breaths and remind myself how far I’d come in recovery. Over the years, I never could find the perfect purse, though not for lack of trying. When I spotted a good one, it always hung on some other gal’s shoulder. But that never stopped me from purchasing a bevy of bags. “You have to hit the jackpot sometime,” I told my inner shopper. Soft leather beauties, tapestry totes, crocheted clutches, straw sacks. All with fabulous linings, zippered hiding places, and interesting handles. I was smitten with each one. For a while.

Then last year, the handbags had multiplied beyond the storage space in my bedroom. So, I sorted through, making some semi-tough decisions. Some went to a friend. The rest found homes at the Salvation Army. My new goal? Downsize. To purchase a summer purse, a winter purse, and a fun bag. Plenty, right?

Goal in sight, I shopped and bought a couple winners, receiving my favorite as a birthday gift from my daughter. But somehow, I inadvertently added several new fun bags to that group. The purple satin lining in one romanced me to the checkout counter before I could protest. “Oh, you clever lining, you!” A Navy-themed bag worked its way into my hand when I wasn’t aware, pleading for purchase. (What if I needed Navy? Like a good Boy Scout, I always prefer to be prepared.)

All of these purses were wonderful, timeless designs that I could use forever. At least, that’s what I told myself. So when my friend extended the purse party invitation, I had the wisdom (for once) to decline. Enough’s enough. I’m in a good purse place and dare not tempt fate. My PBS is under control. One purse at a time.

Then the other day my cousin, Sam, told me about another syndrome common to all handbag holders. PDD. Or Purse Digging Disorder. She showed me the remedy. A charming beaded hook that hung on the rim of her purse which, when pulled away, brought her attached keys along for the ride.

The sparkly thing jingled, its crystals twinkled, and beads shone seductively. What an adorable invention. What other colors and styles could one find with a little research? I suddenly remembered how annoying it was to dig through my purse for keys.

Oh, no.

Hi. I’m Cathy and I have Purse Digging Disorder. (Also.)

Before each tune, Conductor Mark Franklin turned to the audience and said, “This one is my favorite.” They laughed, but he meant what he said. And he was right. Every rousing or heart-tugging tune celebrating our military heroes was the best.

If I had to pick a favorite, and don’t hold me to this choice, it might be “This Is America.” A medley of theme songs played for each branch of the service. Our mighty chorale’s rendition of “The Caissons Go Rolling Along” and “Anchors Away” gave me goose bumps. Members of the audience who served in that branch or whose loved one had done so were directed to stand and be honored when they heard their familiar tune. I saw tears stream down proud faces and cried a few of my own.

As July 4th approaches and we ready to celebrate our freedom, I’ll be remembering all my favorites again. And they will be embodied in every man or woman who stood during that song. And many more heroes who could not.

Long may she wave....

The roses remained. They must have been rooted deep because in spite of little care, they flourished.  Climbing roses with no planned place to climb, they still survived in colorful profusion. In desperation, one brave bush attempted to climb a nearby tree. Wild, red blossoms twisting around the trunk offered a sort of blessing to the yard. With absolutely no help from me.

The bush I favor most boasts Floribunda bouquets of peachy-yellow blooms that look as if someone truly tends them. In fact, I did water them already once this year and am considering doing so again. As long as it doesn’t throw them into shock.

INSIDER INSIGHT: I live by a river and have a very high water table. I’m sure it’s why the roses thrive and my lawn stays at sage on the color-wheel without outside intervention. That’s okay. In my world, sage is the new green.

One of the things I like best about this pretty pastel rose is how well I can coax it into a flower arrangement for my sideboard. Add some heavenly bamboo leaves and it’s glorious. More than a blessing to my yard, those bouquets also bless my home with color and sweet fragrance. A very undeserved blessing, I must say. (Really, I’m going to water them tomorrow.)

All this maintenance-free beauty and still I miss cutting roses from my next-door neighbor’s yard. She sported a very verdant thumb and often asked for my help to cull her overflowing flora. Nice, eh? Sadly, that time has passed and now the new occupants cut their own roses. (The nerve.)

Recently, a friend purchased a new place with several thick rose bushes bordering her porch. She had no idea of their type or color. Eventually they bloomed into lush yellow “cabbage” roses, like the old-fashioned flowers decorating ladies’ hats at a garden party. Reminiscent of David Austin English roses, they were completely different than the old faithfuls in my yard.

AND, here’s the good news. My friend needs help thinning out the blooms. In fact, she invited me to cut a bouquet any time I want. Here is my first one.

Aren’t these heavenly? Even without the bamboo. Seems like everything’s coming up roses of late. Literally. More undeserved blessing to decorate my life.

But I can’t say goodbye to my Danny Kaye videos. After researching online, I find the same titles in DVD are not good quality. Do I want substandard Danny Kaye movies? I mean, it’s Danny Kaye! Should I be subjected to faded DVD colors when I’m used to the Technicolor brilliance of The Court Jester, Inspector General, and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty? In good old video?

I think not. Besides, they look so nice and comfy in that big drawer.

Woman’s World, with Lauren Bacall, Fred MacMurray, and my favorite Cornel Wilde, is not even offered in DVD.  Another video I’ll have to keep. Really, there is no choice.

Some I’ve already substituted with DVDs: American Dreamer with Jo Beth Williams, Crossing Delancy with Amy Irving, the Pride & Prejudice BBC collection, Without A Clue starring Michael Caine and Ben Kingsley.

What about my dear Christmas movies! I have to replace those. Oh, dear. This is getting expensive.

I gaze at The Three Lives of Thomasina and the rest of my Disney films, lovingly collected for my future grandchild, who is here at last. I can’t toss out those charming adventures when Sidney might enjoy a movie night with her Gramsey.

The drawer is filling up again. Note to self: Buy new VCR.

Among other things, I learned:

• The correct method to square-up my half-triangle squares, using my lethally-sharp Gingher rotary cutter. Without slicing off a finger.
• How to make perfect star-points. Well, almost perfect.
• About the wonders of glow-tape, heretofore unknown in my world.
• How to make an exact ¼ inch seam though my 1945 Singer Featherweight sewing machine was missing the proper presser foot. Whew.

The ladies’ expertise was freely shared, as well as laughter and friendship, encouragement, and a generosity of spirit that made me wish my weeks were bursting with workshops. Even lunch was a practice in generosity. Each woman at my table brought enough for five or six others, joyfully passing around the avocado, melon, tuna, Tillamook cheese, and yummy Girl Scout cookies special ordered from Iowa. Yum!

I hadn’t realized the recommendation to “Please bring a bag lunch” meant a grocery bag to share with everyone. But now I know. I’m already plotting treats to lug along next time.

Within this circle are some who meet on Mondays for Community Service, making comfort quilts to cover special folks with that cozy, quilted love. Last year alone, the women made and donated over 400 small and lap quilts to various organizations, including Head Start, Meals on Wheels, Children & Adult Protective Services, Alternatives to Violence, convalescent hospitals, and rest homes.

That shared quilter heart is everywhere. In our small community and far beyond, quilters rush to rescue those in Japan who have little or nothing left, sending soft, baby and lap quilts. A national movement called “Quilts for Japan”  is already coordinating a gargantuan effort to reach out to the Japanese people affected by the earthquake and tsunami. A true tidal wave of loving care.

I think I’ll dive in.

Interested? To learn more about the “Quilts for Japan” project, go to A Quilter’s Newsletter. Then, get quilting!

Last night, I opened the curio cabinet and tried to decide between various teacups. Which had the best story? What about that delicate cup of Grandma’s? Or the antique chintz charmer I bought in Alaska? I considered several, enjoying their cool smoothness in my hands, remembering how they came to be mine.

Then I realized that many of these collections started because someone I knew collected it first. The teacup bought on my Alaska trip reminded me that my sister-in-law collected chintz long before me. In fact, I recalled once buying three pretty, patterned cups and saucers for her in an antique store in Woodland, California.

The plan was to give my sis a set every Christmas for the next three years. Only, that’s not what happened. I gave her the first one as a gift, then accidentally displayed the others, adding to them on occasion, until it became a full-blown collection.

A similar thing happened when I bought my niece a pink lustre plate for Christmas. Extremely attracted to this piece, I sensed the danger of another accidental collection about to materialize and multiply. Since there were many months to go before the holiday, I wrapped that baby in a box and hid it in my gift cupboard.

Danger alert averted.

Or so I thought. Until I found three more pink lustre plates in an antique store in La Pine, Oregon. Those pesky plates persuaded me to take them home and soon showed themselves off on my wall, whining for a fourth plate. I dug it out of the gift cupboard and added it to the arrangement. Gorgeous.

Great. Now, I collected pink lustre, too. And was in need of a gift for my niece.

What did that say about me? Was anyone’s collection safe? Did I have to duplicate everybody’s coolest stuff? I hoped not. Perhaps there was another explanation.

Maybe I just shouldn’t shop so early for Christmas.