When I was nine years old, I was completely consumed with the upcoming coronation of Princess Elizabeth. I filled a scrapbook with clippings and magazine stories about the event--a fairytale golden coach, a handsome prince, jewels, and robes of state--my young self swooned.
And when I wasn't swooning or adding to my scrapbook, I was relentlessly badgering my grandparents about getting a TV. No one in the family had one and they were the most susceptible to my pleas. I suspect, my grandmother was also interested in the coming spectacle. And her bridge club would probably be too.
Done. We watched and admired--not stopping to think that what we were seeing was the door of a solid gold cage of tradition closing on this solemn twenty-five-year-old who would spend the rest of her life as a symbol, a figurehead with no political power, a cutter of ribbons and shaker of hands.
I'm not a Brit so I'll not get into the pros and cons of a constitutional monarchy. But seventy years later, I'm still a fan of that seemingly indomitable woman, who, to all appearances, did her duty in the stringent and mostly boring job she inherited. I admire her grace in adversity and her devotion to her role.
And to die in one's sleep, two days after a last formal reception of a new Prime Minister--what a final curtain!
