Day 139 Nat'l Emergency: Taylor Swift's Rebekah Harkness Song Is Only Part of the Family Story

Music superstar Taylor Swift is making scores of news with the release of her latest album which includes a song about the family—mostly the eccentric socialite heiress—that owned the mansion she bought in 2013 for $17 million in Watch Hill, RI. 

For a short time, just the seven years they were married, Mr. and Mrs. William Hale Harkness lived in what they called the “Holiday House.” William died in 1954 from a heart attack. His widow, Rebekah, renovated the 40-room house to include eight kitchens and 21 bathrooms. She died in 1982. For tabloid details about the Harkness heiress, click onto this Daily Mail article: https://mol.im/a/8557467

Why Swift would desire the property that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean is a question only she could answer, though the spectacular views for sure were an enticement. Doubtful at the time she contemplated it as inspiration for a song, “The Last American Dynasty.” 

The Harkness family is associated with John D. Rockefeller, Henry Flagler and the origins of Standard Oil which made them the wealthiest of Americans.

Holiday House is 25 miles northeast of Waterford, CT, outside New London, where the neoclassical mansion Eolia stands at the cliffside edge of the 230 acre Harkness Memorial State Park. Eolia was one of seven homes owned by Edward and Mary Stillman Harkness. Edward is the son of Stephen Harkness, a silent investment partner of Rockefeller’s oil empire. Harkness was the second largest stockholder in Standard Oil, just ahead of his stepbrother Flagler. 

Harkness invested in Rockefeller’s enterprise on the condition Flagler would be made a partner. Aside from the fortune Flagler made as the “brains” of Standard Oil, he later gilded his coffers by building a railroad network into Florida all the way to Key West and developing resort hotels in the Sunshine State including the Breakers in Palm Beach. He is considered the “father” of Miami.

Like Holiday House, Eolia is majestic. It has 42 rooms, 20 bedrooms, 11 fireplaces and 14 bathrooms. 

Upon his mother’s death Edward became the sole heir to his father’s estate. In 1918 Forbes magazine ranked Edward as the sixth richest man in the United States.

Edward’s wife was no slouch when it came to wealth, as well. Her maternal grandfather owned much of what we now call Mystic Seaport.

Rebekah was unconventional, even as she supported charities and the arts. Edward and Mary, on the other hand, enjoyed a more staid reputation. Childless, they endowed many institutions, chief among them the Metropolitan Museum of Arts. Specifically, as he was fascinated with Egyptian artifacts, Edward funded the Met’s purchase of George Herbert’s collection of Egyptian treasures which included relics from the tomb of King Tut. 

Herbert, the 5th Earl of Carnarvon, had accompanied archeologist Howard Carter on his famous excavation discovery. Herbert needed to sell his collection to pay for renovations of Highclere Castle, the setting for the PBS television series “Downton Abbey.”

Edward also paid for residential colleges and buildings at Yale, Harvard and other universities. 

Mary’s interests led her to start on grounds adjacent to Eolia a retreat for children afflicted with polio. Now called Camp Harkness it currently is used by special needs children. 

Almost none of the gifts the Harknesses made (more than $2 billion in today’s dollars) bears their name.

Founded in 1918 by his mother and later administered by Edward and Mary, the Harkness family established the Commonwealth Fund, one of the longest running, continuous foundations to improve public welfare.

My personal connection to the Harkness family name came from my mother’s frequent stays at Harkness Pavilion, a private wing of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. It was named for Stephen Harkness, a gift from his wife and son. 

Five years ago Gilda and I visited Eolia on one of our day trips. It was a glorious late summer day, an excursion the coronavirus and an oppressive heat wave have made all but impossible to reproduce. Taylor Swift may make Rebekah Harkness’ sad, troubled life familiar to her fans, but I will always recall the Harkness name with fondness for the care my mother received in its namesake pavilion.

The Harknesses Left an Enduring Legacy

Among my enduring memories from the first several decades of my life are periodic visits to see my mother at what she called her “home away from home”—the Harkness Pavilion at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital. Mom was in Harkness more times than I care to recount. She stayed in the building dedicated to those who could afford private rooms.

The visits to Harkness were never memorable except for two instances. During an early visit, perhaps before I was 10, I peered out a window overlooking the West Side Highway. It was raining that evening. The tail lights from cars appeared like unbroken red lines extending deep into Manhattan.

The second instance occurred during the winter in the mid-1970s. Gilda and I had driven down from Connecticut, arriving after dark.

We parked on West 168th Street near Broadway. We had to walk a long block down to Ft. Washington Avenue plus a short distance to the entrance to Harkness. New York was not the safest of cities back then, particularly the Washington Heights area around Columbia-Presbyterian. I nervously looked over my shoulder every so often to check out anyone who might be following us.

As we headed west on 168th Street I spotted a bearded man in a dark pea jacket with an upturned collar walking briskly behind us. I whispered to Gilda not to be afraid. He was, I told her, one of her favorite actors—Al Pacino— still looking very much like Frank Serpico, the biopic role he played of a New York City policeman/detective who testified against departmental corruption. She didn’t believe me. We debated even as he approached us. As he passed us he asked how we were doing. I replied, “Fine, if you are who I think you are.” He said yes and scooted past as we rounded the corner onto Ft. Washington Avenue.

It took a moment for the moment to register with Gilda, but then she blurted out, “It’s Al Pacino.” She scurried after him as he entered the Harkness Pavilion. Once inside, he vanished from sight. My mother had always said celebrities stayed and visited others at the Harkness. She was right.

All those years going in and out of the Harkness Pavilion I never indulged any curiosity as to its namesake. It took one of Gilda’s many talents to fill in the blanks.

Among my bride’s numerous accomplishments is a knack for planning informative, picturesque day trips. Recently, a scenic tour took us to Waterford, CT, outside New London, to Harkness Memorial State Park (with lunch at Captain Scott’s Lobster Dock on Hamilton Street in New London where locals and out-of-towners line up to savor crustaceans of all types). But I digress, even as my mouth waters at the memory of that succulent meal.

On the grounds of the state park is Eolia, one of the seven homes Edward and Mary Harkness owned. Overlooking Long Island Sound, Eolia was their summer residence. Situated on 230 acres, the neoclassical mansion named for the island home of the Greek god of winds has 42 rooms including 20 bedrooms, 14 bathrooms and 11 fireplaces. Unlike the stately mansions of Newport, RI, Eolia presents as a very livable home.

By now you may be wondering, who were these Harknesses? Why have I not heard of them before? From where did their wealth emanate? First a little tease: In 1918, Forbes magazine ranked Edward Harkness as the sixth richest man in the United States.

His father, Stephen, for whom the Harkness Pavilion was named, was, among other vocations, a banker in Ohio. Twice he lent more than $70,000 to a fledgling businessman who suggested Stephen become his partner. Stephen demurred, not wanting to have any limelight shine on him. He agreed, however, to be a silent partner. Shunning publicity became a family hallmark.

Harkness was the company’s second largest stockholder. The enterprise? Standard Oil. The businessman? John D. Rockefeller.

Edward Harkness’ brothers died, leaving him, after his mother passed away, the sole heir to the fortune. In addition, his wife, Mary Stillman, came from a well-heeled family. Her maternal grandfather owned much of what we now call Mystic Seaport.

The Harknesses had no children. No heirs, unless you consider the citizens of America their beneficiaries, for they truly left a legacy across many philanthropic arenas.

Ever marvel at the wonders of ancient Egypt displayed inside New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art? You can thank Edward’s fascination with Egypt for much of the collection, including artifacts from King Tut’s tomb.

As the story goes, when Howard Carter discovered King Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1922 he was accompanied by George Herbert, 5th Earl of Carnarvon, whose castle we now recognize as the stage for TV’s Downton Abbey. His ancestral home back then was in disrepair. To fund its renovation Herbert offered his collection of Egyptian treasures to the Met. Edward already was a benefactor of the Met’s Egyptian department, so it asked if he would pay for some of the earl’s treasures. Edward replied he would underwrite all that was offered.

Ever been to Yale? In 1930 he gave his alma mater $11 million to build nine residential colleges, this after funding eight residences for Harvard.

Founded in 1918 by his mother and later administered by Edward and Mary, the Harkness family established the Commonwealth Fund, one of the longest running, continuous foundations to improve public welfare.

I could go on but this already is a long post. With the notable exception of the Harkness Pavilion and Camp Harkness adjacent to the state park where Mary first started a retreat for children afflicted with polio and now used by special needs children, almost none of the gifts the Harknesses made (more than $2 billion in today’s dollars) bears their name. Just as they were to John D. Rockefeller, they mostly remain silent partners to us all.

London Calling

Just got back from a week in London to attend the wedding of our son’s first girlfriend last Friday. Not that he was holding a torch, mind you. Dan and Tash, after all, were just months shy of their third birthdays when their budding romance was laid asunder by none other than media magnate Rupert Murdoch. The tycoon shipped Tash’s family back to England so her dad could be a top editor on The Sun, a tabloid newspaper even more racy than The New York Post where he had toiled for Murdoch for 18 months. While Dan and Tash bonded, both sets of parents developed a now 35-year friendship. Dave and Gemma Banks lived around the corner from us on Parkview Court in White Plains. Indeed, the edges of our back yards touched. We met when our first borns were about 18 months old.

I’ve previously written about Dave (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/search?q=dave+banks) so this posting will be about our visit to my favorite foreign city, and not just because I can usually discern what the natives are saying.

I’ve been to London almost a dozen times, for business and pleasure. It is one of the most walkable cities, with each district providing a unique experience. This time we stayed in a hotel in Islington, a borough in the northeast quadrant of London. Islington is undergoing gentrification. Along its High Street (the term used for the major retail avenue of most communities), restaurants and shops abound, though they have to compete for space with real estate offices proffering apartments and homes that, given the usual small size of English residences, would make an observer gasp at the prices. Million, even multi-million, dollar homes were the norm.

Now that I no longer publish or edit a retail industry magazine, I am under no obligation to dart in and out of stores. Yet, England has been said to be a country of shopkeepers, so the pleasure of being served proved alluring. Service levels were extraordinary. In the major department stores of Selfridge’s, House of Frasier and the like, one had to walk through a phalanx of eager sales people, and not just on the ground floor. Even in small shops, like the Ben Sherman outlet in Islington, the two salesmen were engaging and friendly, commenting about the sad state of the NY Knicks but optimistic that Phil Jackson could turn the team around (I said they were engaging and friendly, not sports mavens). 

London traffic is worse than New York City’s. However, during our week-long stay we never observed a single double-parked car. 

Using public transportation to get around London is a pleasure. An Oyster Card allows unlimited hopping on and off the Underground and extensive bus network. Most convenient were digital signs at bus and train stops advising wait times for desired conveyances. Each Underground and bus stop was preceded by discernible public address messages that often included mentions of nearby tourist attractions. 

All seats on the London subway have armrests which struck me as a form of collective weight control. We didn’t see any obese people in London, especially not on the Underground. Maybe the weight-challenged know they would be restricted to seats just 24 inches or so wide. 

I did observe one interesting and perplexing advertisement in the first Underground ride we took. A picture of some businessmen horrified by the prospect of a terrorist attack advocated avoiding trouble by using a teleconference service for their next meeting. Not the most desirable commentary on the safety of London.

Perhaps as a carryover from the days of IRA bombings, I noticed most pubs had no trash bins in their bathrooms. No paper towels, just electronic dryers. 

One other strange pub occurrence. In the pub hosting the pre-wedding get-together for out of town guests the single TV screen featured a show on dogs. Now I know the British love their pooches, but I would have thought a soccer game or cricket match would have been the favored screen fare.

By the way, English beer is chilled, not cold, and not really carbonated, so you don’t fill up as quickly as in American bars.

Here’s another comparison between the Old and New Worlds—security personnel in London were numerous and for the most part seemed to be from the India-Pakistan subcontinent. We were embarrassed by how few American passport control agents handled our flight at JFK. What a poor show of efficiency to the hundreds of foreigners waiting to enter our country. Moreover, the mostly Hispanic agents talked Spanish among themselves. Gilda opined that it would seem to be a violation to speak in a language not understood by the public as the guards could be commenting about people in an inappropriate manner without their knowledge.

Finally, back to the reason for our trip to London. Unlike the outdoor weddings of our two children, nuptial ceremonies in England must be held indoors, with a roof overhead. Tash and Ali exchanged vows in the council chamber of Islington town hall. No religious readings are permitted in the ceremony, nor is the mother of the bride included in the procession. Dave, however, circumvented tradition as best he could. When asked who gives away the bride, he replied, “I do, as does her mother.”

Tash and Ali are a most adorable couple. Like her father, Tash is an accomplished journalist, recently promoted to a lead position for the science section of The Guardian’s Web site. Alister is a makeup artist chosen to be part of the two-man team to create the beast in Disney’s soon to be filmed Beauty and the Beast, to be played by Downton Abbey alumnus Dan Stevens (Matthew Crawley, Lady Mary’s husband). Born in Scotland, Alister wore a kilt. The last time I saw a groom dressed in a kilt was at Charlotte’s wedding to Trey MacDougal on Sex and the City. 

A Fashionista Four Decades Ahead of the Trend

My mother used to keep clothing in her closet for decades, reasoning that eventually all fashion repeats itself. Of course, she didn't always wait for a particular style to return to vogue, but she was correct that designers revive the past. 

So it was with a little bit of a smirky “been there, done that” attitude that I noticed the lead article of Thursday’s Styles section of The NY Times described how blue is the new black when it comes to tuxedos (http://www.nytimes.com/2014/05/22/fashion/for-tuxedos-blue-is-the-new-black.html?_r=0). Yours truly was a fashionista four decades ahead of the trend. My wedding tuxedo back in 1973 was midnight blue, worn with a powder blue ruffled shirt and oversized velvet blue bow tie. 

I wore that tuxedo for more than a dozen years, until the waistline of the pants could be let out no more to accommodate my expanded tummy. I even had midnight blue shoes, a pair of Soldini Italian loafers with tassels I found in Macon, GA, at the opening of an Aim for the Best store. 

You've never heard of Aim for the Best? Not surprising. It was an effort by T.G. & Y. Stores of Oklahoma City, an old-fashioned variety and discount store chain of some 930 units and $1.9 billion in sales, to go upscale in the early 1980s. It was a beautiful store but required more discipline to operate than the good people at T.G. & Y. could muster on a consistent basis. Aim for the Best didn't last too long. For that matter T.G. & Y. didn't last too much longer either, a casualty of Wal-Mart’s conquest of middle America.

I loved those blue loafers even though my boss John made fun of them. After a resoling in the mid-90’s, the shoes felt tight. It broke my heart to give them away. I didn't realize it at the time but my discomfort had nothing to do with the shoes. It was an early warning sign of peripheral neuropathy in my feet.

Getting back to the tuxedo, I found a discrepancy between The Times article and Downton Abbey concerning the timing of when a dinner jacket with black tie and pants supplanted the more formal white tie and tails men of a certain social standing customarily wore in the evening. 

The Times dated the introduction of the tuxedo to no later than 1886, while Downton Abbey implied that a full 30 years later, during World War I, standards of dress became more lax and commonplace (http://blog.blacktieguide.com/2011/11/02/downton/). Personally, my comfort level remains blue, as in blue jeans. Sometimes worn with a casual sports jacket. 

I'm Not Ready to Applaud Ukraine

Have you been following the extraordinary, tingling news from Ukraine? Sounds like the good guys won, at least for now. Yet I am ambivalent. You see, the Ukrainians who have seemingly toppled a government are from the western portion of the country, the descendants of anti-Semitic beasts who aided the Nazi extermination of Jews, including my father’s family in Ottynia in the Galicia region, once considered a central concentration of Jewish life and culture in Eastern Europe.

According to Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal, 1,200 Jews were killed by Ukrainians in the nearby Szeparowce Forest on July 7, 1941, just days after Germany occupied Ottynia on July 1. On August 3, Wiesenthal reported, 45 Jews were shot by Ukrainians in the town. 

Ingmar Oldberg, an associate researcher in the Russia program at the Swedish Institute of International Affairs, wrote in August 2011, “According to Jewish scholars and organizations, the Ukrainian Nachtigall battalion, together with German troops and local Ukrainians, massacred Jews in the first days of July before continuing their march. At the end of the month a new pogrom was carried out in the city (of Lviv), known as the “Petliura Days”, named for the Ukrainian leader who instigated pogroms during the 1919 struggle for independence. Even after Nazi troops retreated toward the end of the war, incidents of persecution by the Ukrainians against the remaining Jews occurred throughout Galicia.”

He concluded his essay thusly: “The Holocaust of the Jews and Ukrainian complicity are still rarely addressed ... The world is still waiting for Ukrainian historians in general to admit that Ukrainians were not only victims, but also executioners. The Jews are waiting for their rightful place in Ukraine’s history and contemporary life” (http://balticworlds.com/ukraine%25E2%2580%2599s-problematic-relationship-to-the-holocaust/).

My Uncle Willy, a survivor of the extermination in Ottynia who hid from the Nazis for several years before being enlisted by the Russian army, related his own story of fear of Ukrainian anti-Semitism. When assigned to a battalion to be shipped out to fight the Germans, he asked for a transfer to a different unit. Why? Because, he told his commandant, his original unit was composed of Ukrainian soldiers. He feared being shot by them because he was Jewish. He asked for a transfer to a Russian battalion. His request was granted.

So no, I am not ready to stand up and cheer just now.

Speaking of Nazis: How’s that for a segue into my next topic, taking a small round of applause for correctly predicting Downtown Abbey’s Lady Edith’s lost-in-Munich-lover had a run-in with Brown Shirted bullies in the Bavarian capital. 

Okay, I suggested he embedded himself with the Nazis to get a scoop for his paper, instead of being assaulted or worse by them, as Lady Edith told her family, but let’s not quibble about small details, nor about my prediction he’d return in time for the birth of their love-child. 

More Kudos: For those who watch CBS Sunday Morning, yesterday’s edition featured a profile of an old-fashioned Colorado newspaper produced by Linotype machine, just as I explained to you the other day how my college newspaper, Calling Card, made it into print. 

From Transit Woes to Nuns to Super Bowl and Downton Abbey

Transportation Woes: Traffic snarled in both directions of the George Washington Bridge during Tuesday evening’s rush hour, another reminder of the troubles people have getting into and out of New Jersey. It’s the latest example of frustration, coming just two days after fans leaving MetLife Stadium in the Meadowlands had their ride home on New Jersey Transit trains stalled for hours, much like the Denver Broncos offense was during the Super Bowl loss to the Seattle Seahawks. 

At least, for now, no one is pointing any blaming fingers at Governor Chris Christie for the latest debacles. But is seems apparent that from here on out any restriction to the flow of traffic will forever evoke thoughts of Christie underlings meting out political payback without regard to the innocents forced to sit in their cars and trucks for hours upon days.

It is hard to swallow Christie’s denials that he knew nothing about Bridgegate. Even if we grant him ignorance of the first day’s congestion on the bridge last September, he cannot be excused for not taking decisive action on days two, three or four. Or for not getting to the bottom of this mean-spirited act. He fostered a climate of retaliation, a small-time Nixon’s enemy list mentality. 

We like it when bullies get their comeuppance. We cringe when they throw one-time friends or colleagues under the bus, as Christie has with David Wildstein, his former appointee on the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, who orchestrated the traffic jams on the bridge last fall in an attempt to punish the mayor of Fort Lee for failing to endorse the governor’s re-election campaign.

Though more conservative Republicans disapproved of his praise for President Obama’s support after Hurricane Sandy, Christie is repaying the favor by hogging the media spotlight. Instead of focusing on some of Obama’s shortfalls, the media looks to the future for personality or scandal stories rather than stories of policy substance. 

Another Transportation Dilemma: Bathroom graffiti ain't what it used to be, it was revealed to me during a quick trip to visit Finley, Dagny and their parents last week. 

In the westbound Charlton, Mass., Turnpike rest stop, one stall had but a single word written on a wall—Bitcoin. With no other words to guide me, I didn't know if the scrawl was meant to praise or damn the virtual money.

I'm conflicted: Gilda and I saw Philomena last weekend. I must admit I came away with very little sympathy for the nuns portrayed in the movie.

Is that what I'm supposed to feel, or should I be more inclined to associate nuns with the loving, altruistic sisters depicted in the PBS series, The Midwives?

Final word on the Super Bowl: Okay, my prognostication was waaaaaaay off. My only consolation is that nobody of sound mind predicted the one-sided massacre.

But I do wonder about the brains behind this sport. As we all know, playing football is dangerous. In an instant, injury can inject itself into a game with the potential to destroy a career. So I ask you, what coach in his right mind (are you listening, John Fox and so many of your brethren) would continue to play his most important player in a game that is beyond reversal of fortune?

Why was Peyton Manning still quarterbacking the Broncos with a little less than four minutes to go in the game and his team trailing 43-8. It wasn't just improbable, it was impossible, for Denver to come back. Why risk Manning’s already precarious health? Someone please explain why coaches do that.

Where is he? Spoiler alert, Downton Abbey fans. I think I've figured out what has happened to Lady Edith's boyfriend in Munich. 

The time is 1922 to mid 1923, the period when Adolph Hitler and the Nazi Party are planning their unsuccessful Beer Hall putsch in Munich in November. It was too good a story for a journalist like Michael Gregson to have passed up. Somehow, he has embedded himself in the conspiracy to overthrow the government. He can't risk letting Lady Edith or any of his colleagues know his plans or whereabouts. 

Eventually he will be reunited with Lady Edith in time to welcome their love child. At least that's the way I would write the plot. Let's see if Julian Fellowes has as dramatic an imagination as mine. (I know I could have searched British Web sites for the actual plot line, but I'm trying to give a surmised opinion on what would happen.)

One more thing. Downton Abbey began its storyline in 1912 when the Titanic sank. Now it's 10 years later. Why hasn't anyone aged?

Mrs. Miniver Visits Downton Abbey

The stunning conclusion of Season 3 of Downton Abbey two Sundays ago left many viewers angry, disappointed and even vowing to boycott the further adventures of the Crawley family as it struggles to cope with an evolving British way of life in the 1920s. 

Count me among those who didn’t care for the (spoiler alert) sudden demise of Matthew Crawley so swiftly after the birth of his son, the future heir of the estate and title, the Earl of Grantham. Knowing, however, that the actor who played Matthew wanted out, never to return, it was a forgone conclusion he would be knocked off before the curtain came down on the third season. Series creator and writer Julian Fellowes had no other choice, though he might have chosen a less dastardly demise.

This being soap opera of the highest caliber one must expect plot twists and cliffhangers to keep the audience guessing and wanting to return for more upstairs and downstairs shenanigans (you can check various Web sites on your own for titillating news about Season 4 plot and casting news). 

That reference to Upstairs Downstairs was intentional. Fellowes has seemingly borrowed liberally from that classic series of British aristocracy and their servants. But what completely flabbergasted me was my discovery this afternoon of his most blatant reincarnation of a scene in the third episode of Season 1 from the venerable Oscar-winning movie, Mrs. Miniver.

In that 1942 movie, just as in Downton Abbey, the small town where the action takes place holds an annual flower show competition. Every year the winner for the best rose is the mistress of the manor, Lady Beldon. The judges choose her again, but this time she is persuaded by her grandson-in-law’s mother to announce another winner, an elderly villager named Mr. Ballard. 

In Downton Abbey, the Dowager Countess of Grantham overrules the judges’ decision to award her once again the first place cup prize for the best rose. She announces the winner is an elderly villager, Mr. Molesley. She, too, was persuaded to do so by her grandson-in-law’s mother. 

(An interesting footnote—Lady Beldon was played by Dame May Whitty; the Dowager Countess is played by Dame Maggie Smith.) 

When the movie ended, I immediately googled to see if others had noted the similarities in the stories. Sure enough they had. When confronted, Fellowes basically shrugged it off. I must admit I was less than happy with this turn of events. It reminded me of when I thought Water for Elephants too closely resembled 1940’s Chad Hanna despite the former’s author asserting she had been inspired by old newspaper pictures of circuses (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2011/01/before-water-for-elephants.html). I guess I’m not too thrilled with the borrowed creative process. Perhaps it’s the journalist in me that disdains any form of plagiarism. 

Yet, as I wrote two years ago, “My friend and former art director Milton says there are no new story lines, just different treatments of the same themes.” He’s right, of course. West Side Story, for example, is Romeo & Juliet, to music. It’s just I wish Julian Fellowes had shown a little more creativity in lifting his flower scene from Mrs. Miniver. 

The Future of Downton Abbey

Spoiler Alert: Having predicted much of what transpired during the recent Super Bowl (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2012/02/bragging-rights.html), I thought I’d take a shot at forecasting the plot lines to next season’s Downton Abbey, the last segment of the current run having been shown Sunday night on PBS. For those unfamiliar with the British soap opera of upper class and servant class mores and lives from before and after the first world war, you might want to skip this item. But for the rest of you who are smitten by the lusciousness and the lasciviousness of affairs upstairs and downstairs, here’s my ouija board outlook for season three:

The action will begin five years later, in 1925. Mary and Matthew will have had a child, a daughter.

Sybil and Branson’s child is a son, making him the sole male heir to the estate. Unless Mary and Matthew have a son, he will inherit the claim to Downton Abbey, a turn of events that visibly disturbs both the Earl of Grantham and Branson. The Earl cannot countenance the thought that a revolutionary, a working class chauffeur by trade, an interloper into his household, would sire the son who would succeed to his title. He is constantly urging Mary and Matthew to get on with it and have another child. They comply, but it’s a girl once more.

For his part, Branson is having difficulty adapting his thinking about class and place in society. He imagines all the good he could do splitting up Downton Abbey into parcels of land distributed to the country folk who live on the land. Sybil is torn between her love for Branson’s ideals and her family’s history.

The Countess of Grantham’s mother (a part already given to Shirley MacLaine) will be on hand to further the debate about regular people being part of the wealthy. She will have lively debates with the Dowager Countess of Grantham played by Maggie Smith.

Bates will be in prison for about five years. My best guess as to how he gets out is that the Countess’ maid, Sarah O’Brien, confesses she felt bad about telling Bates’ wife he had returned to Downton, that she secretly went off to London and killed her by lacing her tea with arsenic. Her confession releases Bates into the loving arms of Anna.

Season three ends as the stock market crashes.