The Queen Mother

I never knew either one of my grandmothers…one died the year before I was born, the other within a month of my arrival. The closest person who played that role for me was a warm and loving nurse who worked for my grandfather, and she was a grandmother in all but name.

Upon her death (and burial in our family plot because she was so beloved), I decided that Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother would be a good substitute grandmother, so I began thinking of her as my grandma, on the basis that if much of Britain thought of her that way, one or two of us “colonials” could participate in that fantasy.

never saw her in person, but I read a lot about her, heard stories about her, two of which I’ll tell you in a bit, and, to the best of my knowledge, neither anecdote has ever been published.

Now this may sound silly or bizarre or more than a bit “off plumb,” but I genuinely enjoyed reading about her, watching films and video of her opening this, unveiling that, going into hospital, leaving hospital, accepting bouquets from small children, and smiling, endlessly smiling, and waving, endlessly waving to us.

I worried about her when her grandchildren had marital woes (why did I first type that “martial?”, I celebrated at the royal occasions of celebration, most of which she attended, and toward the end, I was concerned about the impact of the death of her daughter, Princess Margaret, and what it might do to her otherwise indomitable spirit.

When the Germans bombed Buckingham Palace, there was considerable damage. Next morning, the Queen (as she was then) said, “Now, we can look the East End in the face,” a reference to the pasting that part of London had taken from the Germans during the Blitz. Who could not love and cheer and wave back at a monarch like that, one who did not escape to Canada during the War and kept her daughters close to hand?

With her support (and indeed, direction), her husband George VI managed to be a better King than anyone might have expected, and his death, from cancer at a relatively young age, was a terrible blow to her, but she sailed onto the next chapters of her life with the same enthusiasm and energy which had marked all her years.

She loved horses (the late mystery writer Dick Francis, rode for her for many years, and she enjoyed music, poetry, art, and a healthy dollop of gin and tonic, it has been said.

She managed being both royal and human simultaneously, and that is no mean accomplishment.