On my first visit to England - almost too many decades ago, it seems - I met the memory of Beatrix Potter. Meandering in the Lake District, I happened upon "Hilltop," near Sawrey, the first property she bought when she decided to live away from her wealthy family's home in London.
It was a grey rainy day when I visited, and because it was late in the afternoon, I was the only one in the house, about which I don't recall much. But I do remember - vividly - my amazement at the luminous quality of her watercolors. Unlike the reproductions in her books of that time, these pictures just jumped off the page into your heart without so much as a by-your-leave.
On my way back to the car, I asked one of the older women on duty if any of the Royal Ballet film "Peter Rabbit," had been shot near the premises.
"Yes," she said. "As I was coming to work in the coach (bus), I looked out the window and across the road, Frederick Ashton, who was a very tall man, came bounding down the hill as Mrs Tiggy Winkle. I said to the coach driver, "Oh, look, there's Mrs Tiggy Winkle. He seemed quite surprised to see a six foot plus badger in an apron carrying a basket, surrounded by a film crew."
She paused, then added with a laugh in her voice, "You know that man has never looked at me the same way since."
I suppose the books about Peter Rabbit and all his friends were read to me when I was very young - I simply don't remember. But I have never forgot that brief exchange in the Lake District.
That experience returned in a rush recently when I sat down to watch "Miss Potter, a movie with Renée Zellweger in the lead. I had been impressed, but not overwhelmingly, in her portrayals of Bridget Jones. She was nearly convincing, I thought in wrestling the English accent to the ground, so I was not especially sanguine about this attempt.
I have long been a great admirer of small films, especially from the UK, where the rhythms of story telling require of the audience more patience and an open heart, as well as - truth be told - a modest grasp of the history and zeitgeist of the time in which the story is told.
I forgot about Ms Zellweger's accent in about ninety seconds - the same length of time it took Helen Mirren to disappear completely in her portrayal of Queen Elizabeth II. Zellweger is marvelous and is surrounded by a first rate cast.
The conflict in the film between daughter and mother, mediated to a degree by Beatrix's father, and her lifelong commitment to drawing animals and making up stories about them were sufficient to keep my interest, and Zellweger's portrayal of an independent woman struggling to free herself of the Victorian era is compelling.
No robots, no loud explosions, no guns, no violence, and no profanity - quiet enough for you to respond to the story. And if you don't like the story, then just wait for the shots of the landscapes in Scotland and the Lake District.
In its own way, Miss Potter reminded me of "Sweet Land," another quiet film, made here in Minnesota. Both are great ways to spend an evening, especially if you have a ready supply of popcorn. (And if you missed "Calendar Girls," put that on your video rental list too.)
Oh, and don't forget the Kleenex.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
A Home Town Architectural Catastrophe
In the early 1960s, Tyrone Guthrie, the great Irish theater director, arrived fresh from his great success in Stratford, Ontario, where he had created the energetic Stratford Shakespeare Festival. The Walker Art Center gave over some of its property, and local architect Ralph Rapson designed the space around the thrust stage which echoed the design of the outdoor Elizabethan theaters. It was a building whose public spaces were full of light and views of downtown Minneapolis. We were constantly reminded of the beauty of our town, and the transitions from life to drama and back again brought meaning to both experiences.
Five decades later, it was determined (note the evasive use of the passive) that this first space was no longer usable or desirable, and the board and management found a Swiss architect to build them a new trio of theatres. No doubt he and his minions arrived wearing handsome English suits and speaking with attractive foreign accents - it had to be that which helped bamboozle the locals. One hundred and twenty five million dollars or so later, we have three theaters in one building (thrust, proscenium, and black box) and around them is a building so unworkable for bipedal primates that the result is a building which only the spiders who relish the warm metal exterior surfaces in the summer heat can like.
But let me be specific. The exterior of the building is not too bad (well, except for the arachnids), but only the ground floor restaurant has a sign indicating its entrance. The main way to the theatre is not disguised, nor is it obvious. Nothing like a marquee which has traditionally marked the main entry to a theater.
The theatres are on the top floor, accessed by elevators or an escalator which is most reminiscent either of a journey from hell or from the station level at Piccadilly Circus in London. One ascends into what can only be described as gloom but in reality is an unlit lobby. Along the walls are what appear to be black marble benches ,so I guess I shouldn't have been very surprised when the elderly gent leaving the men's room just in front of me took a hard right and banged his leg hard into the nearly invisible marble edge of the bench.
I've been in two of the three theatres, and they're OK. For some reason, the architects provided hand rails along one side of the aisle only, so the aged looking for support will be helped for only half of their theatre going experience. As one who nurtured a deteriorating hip, this decision to ration the hand rails leads to the conclusions that old people are not welcome in the theatre, the architects are too young to be sympathetic to such realities of life. or the architects lacked intelligence beyond their antipathy to the varied conditions which life creates for ageing bodies.
In the winter, there is no skyway to help people from the parking garage across from the theater, but there is a skyway for sets and props. One can imagine what donors must think of this situation - having always to cross a street, often in the dark, and sometimes covered with snow and ice.
Some years ago, there was a play called "Art," about three middle age male friends, one of whom pays a lot of money for a plain white canvas. When his pals arrive to see this new thing, one of them studies it very carefully, then observes, "Well, it's sh*t." (The balance of the play has to do with the re-stitching of the friendship.)
Apparently, no one on the board or staff of the Guthrie stood up and declaimed a sentiment akin to the one in the previous paragraph, and God knows, they should have.
Since the opening, the theatre has added light boxes in the lobbies to dispel some of the gloom, and stainless steel stanchions (how veddy attractive they aren't) mark the corners of the hitherto invisible black marble benches.
There should be sense of occasion in going to the theatre. In our town, what one needs is a sense of a flashlight.
At the most recent performance we attended, we sat in the first row of the balcony in the proscenium theatre and had about as much space for our knees as you get flying economy to Europe.
The Guthrie Theatre is no more - I call the building the USS Poseidon after the film about the cruise ship which turns turtle. Now I look for Shelley Winters every time I walk in the place, expecting to see her face floating somewhere overhead in the gloom.
The moral is that nice suits and foreign accents do not necessarily mean success, nor does a leadership group which is seduced by such superficial amenities. Where, oh where, is Frank Gehry when you need him? About a mile away in one the best museum spaces we've ever had at the Weisman Museum on the campus of the University of Minnesota. Odd that the academics got it right, but the bankers and lawyers and corporate moguls appeared to be paying too much attention to their own bottom lines and got it wrong.
We've had two catastrophes on our river lately. One was the bridge that collapsed and will be rebuilt; the other is a theater which will be an albatross around our necks well past my lifetime - and quite possibly yours, too.
Oh, the horror of it all.
Five decades later, it was determined (note the evasive use of the passive) that this first space was no longer usable or desirable, and the board and management found a Swiss architect to build them a new trio of theatres. No doubt he and his minions arrived wearing handsome English suits and speaking with attractive foreign accents - it had to be that which helped bamboozle the locals. One hundred and twenty five million dollars or so later, we have three theaters in one building (thrust, proscenium, and black box) and around them is a building so unworkable for bipedal primates that the result is a building which only the spiders who relish the warm metal exterior surfaces in the summer heat can like.
But let me be specific. The exterior of the building is not too bad (well, except for the arachnids), but only the ground floor restaurant has a sign indicating its entrance. The main way to the theatre is not disguised, nor is it obvious. Nothing like a marquee which has traditionally marked the main entry to a theater.
The theatres are on the top floor, accessed by elevators or an escalator which is most reminiscent either of a journey from hell or from the station level at Piccadilly Circus in London. One ascends into what can only be described as gloom but in reality is an unlit lobby. Along the walls are what appear to be black marble benches ,so I guess I shouldn't have been very surprised when the elderly gent leaving the men's room just in front of me took a hard right and banged his leg hard into the nearly invisible marble edge of the bench.
I've been in two of the three theatres, and they're OK. For some reason, the architects provided hand rails along one side of the aisle only, so the aged looking for support will be helped for only half of their theatre going experience. As one who nurtured a deteriorating hip, this decision to ration the hand rails leads to the conclusions that old people are not welcome in the theatre, the architects are too young to be sympathetic to such realities of life. or the architects lacked intelligence beyond their antipathy to the varied conditions which life creates for ageing bodies.
In the winter, there is no skyway to help people from the parking garage across from the theater, but there is a skyway for sets and props. One can imagine what donors must think of this situation - having always to cross a street, often in the dark, and sometimes covered with snow and ice.
Some years ago, there was a play called "Art," about three middle age male friends, one of whom pays a lot of money for a plain white canvas. When his pals arrive to see this new thing, one of them studies it very carefully, then observes, "Well, it's sh*t." (The balance of the play has to do with the re-stitching of the friendship.)
Apparently, no one on the board or staff of the Guthrie stood up and declaimed a sentiment akin to the one in the previous paragraph, and God knows, they should have.
Since the opening, the theatre has added light boxes in the lobbies to dispel some of the gloom, and stainless steel stanchions (how veddy attractive they aren't) mark the corners of the hitherto invisible black marble benches.
There should be sense of occasion in going to the theatre. In our town, what one needs is a sense of a flashlight.
At the most recent performance we attended, we sat in the first row of the balcony in the proscenium theatre and had about as much space for our knees as you get flying economy to Europe.
The Guthrie Theatre is no more - I call the building the USS Poseidon after the film about the cruise ship which turns turtle. Now I look for Shelley Winters every time I walk in the place, expecting to see her face floating somewhere overhead in the gloom.
The moral is that nice suits and foreign accents do not necessarily mean success, nor does a leadership group which is seduced by such superficial amenities. Where, oh where, is Frank Gehry when you need him? About a mile away in one the best museum spaces we've ever had at the Weisman Museum on the campus of the University of Minnesota. Odd that the academics got it right, but the bankers and lawyers and corporate moguls appeared to be paying too much attention to their own bottom lines and got it wrong.
We've had two catastrophes on our river lately. One was the bridge that collapsed and will be rebuilt; the other is a theater which will be an albatross around our necks well past my lifetime - and quite possibly yours, too.
Oh, the horror of it all.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
We Are The Common Good
If you've had your television set on lately, you have seen the mangled remains of the I35W bridge over the Mississippi River in Minneapolis, and those images are shocking - just plain shocking.
Attempts to remove the dead from the river continue; the injured are recovering from their wounds. The politicians are scurrying about trying to make sure the responsibility falls elsewhere, even as they contemplate raising the gas tax to begin to go to work on the long-deferred problems on our roads and bridges. It seems politicians cannot imagine the future and always like to forget the past.
As I have thought about this local tragedy, I find that I have two reactions: this was a real test of our emergency services, and they appear to have passed with flying colors. Personnel had been well trained; communications systems worked to plan, and the hospitals successfully met the demands imposed. I guess one could call that an operational/strategic reaction.
The second reaction is harder to write about because it is predominantly emotional. When I think of the young man who helped all those kiddoes off the school bus in a precarious position, I find the tears welling up...or when I hear about the passersby and neighbors who saw what had happened and got involved until the police and fire personnel arrived...or when I saw on television the female fire fighter who went into the water to do a complete check of all the automobiles she could reach and said, "We needed to be sure those vehicles were unoccuplied, and it was just part of the job,"...or when I read about the work colleagues of Sherry L. Engebretsen who died in the collapse and their response to her death and their strong continuing support of her family.
Some of us would say, "Well, that's just Minnesotans for you."
Not true, mostly...not any more.
Like a lot of places in this country, we are a diverse metropolitan area, but we share one thing in common: We have survived Minnesota winters, whether it's just the last one or all the ones since World War II. We understand what it's like to dress like the Pillsbury Doughboy (or Michelin Tire, for you across the pond), We know what it's like to fall on our rear-ends on an icy walk. We share a deep and abiding gratitude for a heating system that works, for a cup of coffee hot enough to throw off a curl of steam, for a sack of sand in the trunk of the car, and for a dog who comes promptly when you've whistled him in from an open door when its 30 below zero (f.).
These are our shared values, so when one of us gets in over our heads, we don't stop to do a lot of analysis, we just pitch in.
And we did. Now, this wasn't Hurricane Katrina or anything like that, but it was more than enough, and we stood up to it pretty well.
The investigation and the inevitable lawsuits will drag on for years, and the politicians will have skedaddled behind the nearest hay stack, but those of us who live here are grateful for the help offered with no conditions, for that was, in its own way, a gift to all of us who live here.
In this sad event we have been reminded that it is the common good which requires our service from time to time. And there was no bickering about differences of color or belief or anything else to impede the decision to act, as there might have been in other parts of the world.
In our sadness for what happened, we are simultaneously reminded of why we live here. Not just the challenges and joys of our winters, but the realization that it's one boat we're all in, and when the time comes, each of us has to be prepared to pull on the oar.
Attempts to remove the dead from the river continue; the injured are recovering from their wounds. The politicians are scurrying about trying to make sure the responsibility falls elsewhere, even as they contemplate raising the gas tax to begin to go to work on the long-deferred problems on our roads and bridges. It seems politicians cannot imagine the future and always like to forget the past.
As I have thought about this local tragedy, I find that I have two reactions: this was a real test of our emergency services, and they appear to have passed with flying colors. Personnel had been well trained; communications systems worked to plan, and the hospitals successfully met the demands imposed. I guess one could call that an operational/strategic reaction.
The second reaction is harder to write about because it is predominantly emotional. When I think of the young man who helped all those kiddoes off the school bus in a precarious position, I find the tears welling up...or when I hear about the passersby and neighbors who saw what had happened and got involved until the police and fire personnel arrived...or when I saw on television the female fire fighter who went into the water to do a complete check of all the automobiles she could reach and said, "We needed to be sure those vehicles were unoccuplied, and it was just part of the job,"...or when I read about the work colleagues of Sherry L. Engebretsen who died in the collapse and their response to her death and their strong continuing support of her family.
Some of us would say, "Well, that's just Minnesotans for you."
Not true, mostly...not any more.
Like a lot of places in this country, we are a diverse metropolitan area, but we share one thing in common: We have survived Minnesota winters, whether it's just the last one or all the ones since World War II. We understand what it's like to dress like the Pillsbury Doughboy (or Michelin Tire, for you across the pond), We know what it's like to fall on our rear-ends on an icy walk. We share a deep and abiding gratitude for a heating system that works, for a cup of coffee hot enough to throw off a curl of steam, for a sack of sand in the trunk of the car, and for a dog who comes promptly when you've whistled him in from an open door when its 30 below zero (f.).
These are our shared values, so when one of us gets in over our heads, we don't stop to do a lot of analysis, we just pitch in.
And we did. Now, this wasn't Hurricane Katrina or anything like that, but it was more than enough, and we stood up to it pretty well.
The investigation and the inevitable lawsuits will drag on for years, and the politicians will have skedaddled behind the nearest hay stack, but those of us who live here are grateful for the help offered with no conditions, for that was, in its own way, a gift to all of us who live here.
In this sad event we have been reminded that it is the common good which requires our service from time to time. And there was no bickering about differences of color or belief or anything else to impede the decision to act, as there might have been in other parts of the world.
In our sadness for what happened, we are simultaneously reminded of why we live here. Not just the challenges and joys of our winters, but the realization that it's one boat we're all in, and when the time comes, each of us has to be prepared to pull on the oar.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Millimeters & Minutes
Today I cannot get what I think is a quote from Shakespeare out of my mind - something to the effect that we all hang on this globe by not much more than a "fragile thread."
Last Friday, the daughter of an old friend was walking along a street in South Africa with her six month old daughter who was in one of those multi purpose baby carriers. An adolescent boy, somewhere in his early teens, on the pretense of wanting mom's backpack, shot the mother in the chest.
The bullet missed the heart by a millimeter and grazed the lung, partially collapsing it, but the mother is now on her way to what we all believe, hope, and pray will be a full recovery physically. Dealing with the emotional trauma will be a great challenge, but this young woman is quite remarkable, and - over time - I have no doubt she will manage this experience effectively.
A millimeter in another direction, and her thread would have broken, but we go on with the expectation that this thread may become stronger because of this experience. The police said the shooting was probably part of a gang initiation and do not expect to be able to find the shooter. But God knows.
Last night I was heading for the concert hall in Minneapolis, and somewhat surprisingly I was late because plans had changed, and I had not been able to be found. I was about to get on the freeway towards the main bridge into the city from my part of the world when I heard on the radio that the bridge had collapsed. You've probably seen this on your tv, newspaper, or heard it on the radio by now.
There were deaths and injuries, but the "first responders" were wonderful, as were nearby bystanders and survivors who rescued others and helped evacuate a school bus full of children.
Had I heard the phone ringing elsewhere in the house and received word of the change of plans, I might have been approaching that bridge about the time it fell into the Mississippi River. I didn't sleep very well last night, and I doubt very much you need an explanation for that.
This morning, I received a number of calls from various parts of the world, and I was grateful beyond words for them.
We are stronger when our threads intermingle - it's easier to move forward, to do what we can, and to help keep all the threads full of vibrant color. Not knowing just when one's thread will break should encourage each us to treat every day as though it might be our last and to leave nothing important unsaid to those about whom we care.
A young woman who survived being shot and those who escaped the falling bridge know this to the marrow of their bones today. The best thing we can do today to understand and to accept in our hearts - as much as we able - what they have learned.
In other words, keep the faith.
Last Friday, the daughter of an old friend was walking along a street in South Africa with her six month old daughter who was in one of those multi purpose baby carriers. An adolescent boy, somewhere in his early teens, on the pretense of wanting mom's backpack, shot the mother in the chest.
The bullet missed the heart by a millimeter and grazed the lung, partially collapsing it, but the mother is now on her way to what we all believe, hope, and pray will be a full recovery physically. Dealing with the emotional trauma will be a great challenge, but this young woman is quite remarkable, and - over time - I have no doubt she will manage this experience effectively.
A millimeter in another direction, and her thread would have broken, but we go on with the expectation that this thread may become stronger because of this experience. The police said the shooting was probably part of a gang initiation and do not expect to be able to find the shooter. But God knows.
Last night I was heading for the concert hall in Minneapolis, and somewhat surprisingly I was late because plans had changed, and I had not been able to be found. I was about to get on the freeway towards the main bridge into the city from my part of the world when I heard on the radio that the bridge had collapsed. You've probably seen this on your tv, newspaper, or heard it on the radio by now.
There were deaths and injuries, but the "first responders" were wonderful, as were nearby bystanders and survivors who rescued others and helped evacuate a school bus full of children.
Had I heard the phone ringing elsewhere in the house and received word of the change of plans, I might have been approaching that bridge about the time it fell into the Mississippi River. I didn't sleep very well last night, and I doubt very much you need an explanation for that.
This morning, I received a number of calls from various parts of the world, and I was grateful beyond words for them.
We are stronger when our threads intermingle - it's easier to move forward, to do what we can, and to help keep all the threads full of vibrant color. Not knowing just when one's thread will break should encourage each us to treat every day as though it might be our last and to leave nothing important unsaid to those about whom we care.
A young woman who survived being shot and those who escaped the falling bridge know this to the marrow of their bones today. The best thing we can do today to understand and to accept in our hearts - as much as we able - what they have learned.
In other words, keep the faith.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Catching A Break
About midday, Islay the Scottish terrier and I went out to get in the car to go to the office. About to put her on lead, I suddenly forgot I had left something on the front hall table, so I turned round, went back into the house, grabbed whatever it was, and went back down the steps....
...where there was no sign of the little black terrier.
This is not the first time in my life such an event has happened because of my own carelesness, and -it's true- I should have known better: A Scot can disappear quicker than you can imagine.
The first thing you do is a collection of stupid things - you check the house knowing full well the dog is not there. Next you wander around the outside of the house baying the dog's name, knowing full well that she's done a runner and is sniffing all sorts of new things, enjoying the sun, looking for birds, vermin, future pals, and a snack or three.
Next I got in the car and drove around with an alleged purpose, in spite of the fact that a small black creature darting about would probably not be trapsing down the bikeway/walkway adjacent to my property.
In the meantime, I was giving myself another in series of angry lectures and at the very same time a trying to will my heart down from my throat into its accustomed position. You know you are not succeeding when the position of your heart interferes with your voice which has suddently become high pitched and very strained.
Finally, I called the local gendarmes and was able to say that the dog had tags galore (she even has a microchip, but that wouldn't help much in these circumstances). The officer who took the call was understanding.
I drove around a bit more, came back to the house for as short period of ritual yelling, then decided to visit "Condo Land" just south of my house. I walked briskly down the path, keeping my braying to what I thought would meet the "good taste requirement" which these communities seem to relish, but again no luck. By now I was seriously vexed with me for my stupidity.
So the trudge back to the house was with a heavy heart, full of fear that some speeding car had taken out my little dog or that she had been captured by someone whom she could never love as much as she loves me (I think. No, I hope.)
About sixty yards from my house, I spied a small black creature sitting and looking at me with moderate interest. "Islay," I called with restrained enthusiasm.
She looked at me with an expression which said, "Bloody hell, now I suppose he'll make a speech, shake a finger, and there won't be any dinner tonight."
We walked together separately back to the front door, and into the house she went. And then I picked her up and gave her a big hug, the first of several, actually.
Some people believe that a dog is a living piece of furniture, something to decorate the place. Some believe that a dog is a member of the family and enjoys all Constitutional rights except the right to vote.
I have always been in the second camp and not always pleased about it, but the companionship of terriers over the years has always been a great solace against the sturm und drang outside my home. Tonight, Islay will lie down next to me with her derriere against my right leg. I shall turn out the light and will slide my hand so that it rests lightly next to the top of her head, and the feeling of gratitude for her safe return will be overwhelming.
No doubt we both caught a break today - lucky just begins to describe it.
...where there was no sign of the little black terrier.
This is not the first time in my life such an event has happened because of my own carelesness, and -it's true- I should have known better: A Scot can disappear quicker than you can imagine.
The first thing you do is a collection of stupid things - you check the house knowing full well the dog is not there. Next you wander around the outside of the house baying the dog's name, knowing full well that she's done a runner and is sniffing all sorts of new things, enjoying the sun, looking for birds, vermin, future pals, and a snack or three.
Next I got in the car and drove around with an alleged purpose, in spite of the fact that a small black creature darting about would probably not be trapsing down the bikeway/walkway adjacent to my property.
In the meantime, I was giving myself another in series of angry lectures and at the very same time a trying to will my heart down from my throat into its accustomed position. You know you are not succeeding when the position of your heart interferes with your voice which has suddently become high pitched and very strained.
Finally, I called the local gendarmes and was able to say that the dog had tags galore (she even has a microchip, but that wouldn't help much in these circumstances). The officer who took the call was understanding.
I drove around a bit more, came back to the house for as short period of ritual yelling, then decided to visit "Condo Land" just south of my house. I walked briskly down the path, keeping my braying to what I thought would meet the "good taste requirement" which these communities seem to relish, but again no luck. By now I was seriously vexed with me for my stupidity.
So the trudge back to the house was with a heavy heart, full of fear that some speeding car had taken out my little dog or that she had been captured by someone whom she could never love as much as she loves me (I think. No, I hope.)
About sixty yards from my house, I spied a small black creature sitting and looking at me with moderate interest. "Islay," I called with restrained enthusiasm.
She looked at me with an expression which said, "Bloody hell, now I suppose he'll make a speech, shake a finger, and there won't be any dinner tonight."
We walked together separately back to the front door, and into the house she went. And then I picked her up and gave her a big hug, the first of several, actually.
Some people believe that a dog is a living piece of furniture, something to decorate the place. Some believe that a dog is a member of the family and enjoys all Constitutional rights except the right to vote.
I have always been in the second camp and not always pleased about it, but the companionship of terriers over the years has always been a great solace against the sturm und drang outside my home. Tonight, Islay will lie down next to me with her derriere against my right leg. I shall turn out the light and will slide my hand so that it rests lightly next to the top of her head, and the feeling of gratitude for her safe return will be overwhelming.
No doubt we both caught a break today - lucky just begins to describe it.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Her Majesty The Queen
Last month, I spent part of my vacation in a cottage near Balmoral Castle in the highlands of Scotland. As you probably know, Balmoral is the Scottish home of Britain's Royal Family, and after surveying the hills and rivers and lochs, you know that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert made a great choice something over a century and a half ago.
During my few days in the area, I was lucky enough to attend church with The Queen, sitting about thirty feet away from her, with perhaps sixty of us in the congregation that morning.
She and Prince Philip often spend time in Scotland outside of the annual Court Visit from August through early October, and in the Spring, she comes for a week and stays in another house on the Estate (opening up the castle is too complex for a short stay).
When I'm in the area, I often attend the service at Crathie Church, a short walk from the front gates of the Queen's Estate; I'd heard that she was "in the village," and I guessed she might be going to church. So on the Sunday morning, I turned up early in the neighborhood, and sure enough there were lots of police constables about, so I knew that The Queen would be attending.
The first constable who stopped me asked what my plan was. I told him to attend the service. He opined that the church would be overflowing with people, and I probably wouldn't get in. This contradicted what I had learned from a previous reconnaissance to Crathie and had chatted up the volunteer on duty.
I walked up the hill and met a second police constable, a youngish woman, who stopped me, and we went through the drill again. Finally, I was able to ask, "Where is the queue for those of us not church elders and not church members?"
She pointed behind me. I looked back and saw no one. She smiled and said, "Right now, you are the queue."
We chatted for several minutes, and a few others - maybe ten arrived with the same goal I had; a quarter hour before the proceedings were to begin, we were admitted. I had been in the church enough to know to head to the far left side as far up as I could get, and I achieved my goal (sometimes it's good to be first in line, but not always). Members of the royal family sit on the right side of the church in a pew perpendicular to the ones we ordinary folk occupy.
We all sat quietly, not trying to be too obvious about checking the Royal pew every minute or so - well, every ten seconds or so. And suddenly, there she was in a long coral colored coat with a matching round-brimmed hat. We in the congregation became focussed instantly.
Reading glasses on, the queen participated fully in the service and occasionally glanced at the congregation, while we glanced at her often, trying not to be too terribly obvious. It was a service of two homilies, one for children, the other for the rest of us, lots of hymns, and a good sprinkling of prayers.
As I looked around the church, I was intrigued that there were more people outside the church waiting for a glimpse as she had arrived and would depart than there were in it.
Just before the benediction, we stood and sang what the program leaflet described as the "national anthem," although it has never been proclaimed as that in law. We call it "God Save The Queen," and to sing it with a handful of others in a small church with the Queen in attendance was an amazing experience.
God save our gracious Queen
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen:
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us:
God save the Queen.
I didn't know all the words, although I probably should have, given the number of times I'd heard it sung. We all sang lustily, to impress ourselves, each other, and her, and I expect we all shared at least a portion of the emotion floating in the sounds echoing in the sanctuary. It might have been just another service for The Queen, but it was very special for those few of us in Her Presence.
I saw her again a half hour later at a concert on the lawn in front of her castle. She is very small, and as I am sure someone in the crowd must have observed - she looks just like her picture. Approaching her car after the concert, she looked around at all of us, from the very young to the very old, from many countries, and gave us all a wonderful warm smile. It was a simple thing, but I think we all accepted it as a great gift on an otherwise gray Scottish day.
After lunch, I repaired to my rented cottage and thought about Her Majesty and all that she has seen, experienced, and survived. My conclusion was to have a wee dram of Scotland's own spirit in her honor, so I did, and instead of the traditional toast "Slainte," I substituted, "God Save The Queen."
Under the circumstances, it seemed like the right thing to do.
During my few days in the area, I was lucky enough to attend church with The Queen, sitting about thirty feet away from her, with perhaps sixty of us in the congregation that morning.
She and Prince Philip often spend time in Scotland outside of the annual Court Visit from August through early October, and in the Spring, she comes for a week and stays in another house on the Estate (opening up the castle is too complex for a short stay).
When I'm in the area, I often attend the service at Crathie Church, a short walk from the front gates of the Queen's Estate; I'd heard that she was "in the village," and I guessed she might be going to church. So on the Sunday morning, I turned up early in the neighborhood, and sure enough there were lots of police constables about, so I knew that The Queen would be attending.
The first constable who stopped me asked what my plan was. I told him to attend the service. He opined that the church would be overflowing with people, and I probably wouldn't get in. This contradicted what I had learned from a previous reconnaissance to Crathie and had chatted up the volunteer on duty.
I walked up the hill and met a second police constable, a youngish woman, who stopped me, and we went through the drill again. Finally, I was able to ask, "Where is the queue for those of us not church elders and not church members?"
She pointed behind me. I looked back and saw no one. She smiled and said, "Right now, you are the queue."
We chatted for several minutes, and a few others - maybe ten arrived with the same goal I had; a quarter hour before the proceedings were to begin, we were admitted. I had been in the church enough to know to head to the far left side as far up as I could get, and I achieved my goal (sometimes it's good to be first in line, but not always). Members of the royal family sit on the right side of the church in a pew perpendicular to the ones we ordinary folk occupy.
We all sat quietly, not trying to be too obvious about checking the Royal pew every minute or so - well, every ten seconds or so. And suddenly, there she was in a long coral colored coat with a matching round-brimmed hat. We in the congregation became focussed instantly.
Reading glasses on, the queen participated fully in the service and occasionally glanced at the congregation, while we glanced at her often, trying not to be too terribly obvious. It was a service of two homilies, one for children, the other for the rest of us, lots of hymns, and a good sprinkling of prayers.
As I looked around the church, I was intrigued that there were more people outside the church waiting for a glimpse as she had arrived and would depart than there were in it.
Just before the benediction, we stood and sang what the program leaflet described as the "national anthem," although it has never been proclaimed as that in law. We call it "God Save The Queen," and to sing it with a handful of others in a small church with the Queen in attendance was an amazing experience.
God save our gracious Queen
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen:
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us:
God save the Queen.
I didn't know all the words, although I probably should have, given the number of times I'd heard it sung. We all sang lustily, to impress ourselves, each other, and her, and I expect we all shared at least a portion of the emotion floating in the sounds echoing in the sanctuary. It might have been just another service for The Queen, but it was very special for those few of us in Her Presence.
I saw her again a half hour later at a concert on the lawn in front of her castle. She is very small, and as I am sure someone in the crowd must have observed - she looks just like her picture. Approaching her car after the concert, she looked around at all of us, from the very young to the very old, from many countries, and gave us all a wonderful warm smile. It was a simple thing, but I think we all accepted it as a great gift on an otherwise gray Scottish day.
After lunch, I repaired to my rented cottage and thought about Her Majesty and all that she has seen, experienced, and survived. My conclusion was to have a wee dram of Scotland's own spirit in her honor, so I did, and instead of the traditional toast "Slainte," I substituted, "God Save The Queen."
Under the circumstances, it seemed like the right thing to do.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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