Mourning the Queen

 

My father woke me in the wee hours of the morning, and we sat together on the edge of my bed listening to a crackly radio transmission from England. To this day, I am not sure if it was the wedding ceremony of Elizabeth and Phillip or, a very few years later, her coronation. I rather think it was the coronation, and I would have been thirteen (don’t do the math—I’m old). The coronation was one of the first public events widely televised, but we were one of the last households to get TV—not until Dad wanted to watch the Nixon/Kennedy debates. Obviously, I didn’t really grasp the significance of the coronation, but I knew it was something that Dad, Canadian-born, of Scottish descent, and a dedicated Anglophile, did not want me to miss. Seventy years later, I wish I had paid more attention.

I hardly know where to begin with my thoughts on the life and death of Queen Elizabeth II. The monarchy now is, to so many, an outdated institution with a dark history that needs to be dissolved. On the other hand, its fans are legion—and I am one. The Queen, as its head, has for most of my lifetime been a symbol of strength, of all things good, of the grace and dignity with which one can meet the obstacles in life. And obstacles she has had—with the government of the nation she rules, the private lives of her children. But she always held her head high, and in times of trouble, she reassured us that it would all end well. She said that at fourteen, and she said it at ninety-six.

We all knew she would die. Her health was visibly failing, though up to the end she had a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. Still, the actual news shocked me. It seemed to happen so quickly. Yesterday morning we were told she was under “medical supervision,” and within a very few hours she was gone. I admit to tears and to spending much of the rest of the day watching TV as program after program replayed her life. I never tired of it. I was reminded of the funeral of Princess Diana, when Megan and I were awake far into the morning, watching the ceremonies. I told Megan she’d have to come to Fort Worth to watch the Queen’s funeral with me.

President Biden in his tribute said that the Queen reminded him of his own mother. If he can say it, so can I. My mom believed in ladies, in the quality of being ladylike. She was one of the last to wear a hat and white gloves to church. You did not mention offensive subjects in her presence, and you minded your manners. She herself was always gracious, always kind. And she and Elizabeth had that in common. In a world gone amuck with casualness and disdain for formality and manners, Elzabeth remained a beacon, always wearing a hat and carrying a handbag, showing us how life could be lived with grace. And in a world increasingly beset by the abuse of power and by anger and hate, she showed us a quieter, calmer approach to government. The world is much less for her absence.

I am not sure how I feel about King Charles III or his stated plans to slim down the monarchy. I suspect many, both in Britain and throughout the world, are like me—not sure of his judgment. I know he advocates for causes I am passionate about—the environment and animal protection—but the stain of his first marriage remains. And his mother left large shoes to fill. Time will tell. I thought it interesting to see him this morning greeting crowds outside Buckingham Palace, shaking hands and speaking to as many as he could.

Meantime, I will be watching the pomp and circumstance of the next few days and possibly watching “The Crown.” I’ve seen part but not all. This may have come when I need a break from my own concerns, when I need to move beyond my own small world, even if it is to grieve for a great woman.

God bless Queen Elizabeth. May she rest in peace and rise in Glory. And God Save the King!