Carol:
The Royal Ties That Bind
I decided to get up early and whip out this essay so that I’ll have plenty of time to enjoy the Wedding. I recorded the whole thing (on two channels because I want the commentary of the BBC but the clearer images of CNN) and have planned a little morning family get-together to watch it. But, I cheated. I watched the first half hour of it live at 3 a.m. I didn’t intend to, but I couldn’t help it. I blame my sister-in-law, who led me into it. She called yesterday to find out if I planned to watch it live like she was.
Jean and I have a bit of a tradition behind us, you see. Thirty years ago, she was living with us in San Diego County during the week while she worked for Marc as a summer “intern” while she was in law school. It was a great time because I was pregnant, and in between working on cases with Marc she helped me wallpaper the nursery and get the baby furniture together. And, I’m sure it must have been her idea that we watch the royal wedding together…live. The Wedding of the Century with Prince Charles and Lady Diana. It was late July, and we had carried the TV out to the back porch to catch some breeze and relief from the stifling heat.
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| The man on the far right is Princess Anne. |
I admit to having been a Royal watcher long before Jean and I “attended” the wedding of Prince Charles. Living in Canada for 7 years and being just a few months older than Prince Charles, I remember visits of the Royal family to Canada and much discussion among my friends about what it would be like to marry Prince Charles, who would (we assumed) eventually become the king of the United Kingdom but the head of the British Commonwealth, which of course included Canada. Steeped in the royal mystique, raised on Austin, the Brontes and the Lake District poets, I thought more about boating on the Thames with Charles than about cutting ribbons at boat launchings or shaking hands at hospital openings. I know Charles is more stiff than romantic, but I have always had a very active imagination.
So, the Wedding of this Century is over, and the happy couple is waving from the balcony of Buckingham Palace just as Granny Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip did in 1947. Prince Charles will never be King (thank God I didn’t marry him, it would have been such a disappointment), so sometime in the next 10 years Prince William and his wife The Duchess of Cambridge (Kate the Commoner) will stand on the same balcony and wave to the crowds just as Granny Elizabeth II and Prince Philip did in 1953.
All this hoopla and preoccupation with the Royals—is it fading in the harsh light of modern economic woes and international unrest? Well, apparently 750 million people joined Jean and I to watch the wedding of Princes Charles and Lady Diana. Today when the baby I was pregnant with back then and I turn on the television to watch the wedding of Prince William and Lady Kate, we will join a party of 2 billion Royal watchers.
Abso-bloomin-lutely loverly.
(Edited from Megan: Prince Charles WILL be King. As unpopular as he is, the only way he can be passed over is if he abdicates or converts to Catholicism).
Sources:
Image of the Royal Family. Image taken by Man vyi, uploaded from http://flickr.com/photo/35765599@N00/573748521 using User:Flickr upload bot)
Megan:
Leader of the Pack
I was thinking I’d say something about The Royal Wedding ™ but I haven’t seen it yet. My friend Kelly stayed up all night and live-facebooked it. If I was still in England, I would have put on a fancy dress and watched it at a friend’s house, drinking champagne and making fun of the hats. You’d think with my history with that country, I’d have put more effort into watching it live on this side of the pond but honestly I was way too tired. The puppy has suffered a setback in her sleep routine.
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Also: she is disgusting. The other day she brought me a mouse. I posted this information on Facebook, and received a number of comments telling me that I should be proud of her hunting skills, and that bringing me the mouse is a sign of love and admiration etc. But I neglected to mention in the status update that she had not killed the mouse. As with the lizard from the day before, it had likely been dead for longer than she’s been alive. In the desert heat, dead animals dry out and mummify – maintaining their shape, but becoming feather-light as the internal organs shrivel into nothing.
With this mouse, there was a very real risk it had been poisoned and I did not want her to swallow it, so I repeated the convulsive upside-down, Heimlich maneuver I invented when trying to get her to drop the lizard. The very last thing I wanted to do was reach into her mouth and touch the dead thing because I was afraid pieces of it would come apart in my hand. With the lizard, both the head and the tail detached, the head rolling under the couch. I had to sweep it out with a pencil.
After I got her to drop the mouse, I tossed Bella into the house and got a dust pan to scoop it up. I hurled it over the fence, but because of the aforementioned feather-lightness, the dead mouse was picked up by the breeze. It flew into a bush growing next to the fence and caught on a branch by its tail. It is out of Bella’s reach, so I let it be, but it continues to hang in the bush at (human) eye-level, swaying lightly in the breeze like some psychotic dream catcher.
This puppy is going to be the death of me. I have read Cesar Millan’s perfect dog book, and watched countless hours of the The Dog Whisperer. Cesar says if the puppy can see and smell the pack, she will be comforted by their presence. So I lined her crate with my favorite red fleece blanket and invited Milo back into my bedroom room. I know what to do. But at 2:00 in the morning when she is howling, I’m too tired to do the right thing. Incoherently, I encourage Milo to see to his sister/niece. “Can’t you go down there?” I ask him. “It’s your turn.” But he just rolls over on his back and lets out a snore. I wake up hours later on the floor, with my fingers poking through the wire of her crate, and I wonder who exactly is in charge here.
With this mouse, there was a very real risk it had been poisoned and I did not want her to swallow it, so I repeated the convulsive upside-down, Heimlich maneuver I invented when trying to get her to drop the lizard. The very last thing I wanted to do was reach into her mouth and touch the dead thing because I was afraid pieces of it would come apart in my hand. With the lizard, both the head and the tail detached, the head rolling under the couch. I had to sweep it out with a pencil.
After I got her to drop the mouse, I tossed Bella into the house and got a dust pan to scoop it up. I hurled it over the fence, but because of the aforementioned feather-lightness, the dead mouse was picked up by the breeze. It flew into a bush growing next to the fence and caught on a branch by its tail. It is out of Bella’s reach, so I let it be, but it continues to hang in the bush at (human) eye-level, swaying lightly in the breeze like some psychotic dream catcher.
This puppy is going to be the death of me. I have read Cesar Millan’s perfect dog book, and watched countless hours of the The Dog Whisperer. Cesar says if the puppy can see and smell the pack, she will be comforted by their presence. So I lined her crate with my favorite red fleece blanket and invited Milo back into my bedroom room. I know what to do. But at 2:00 in the morning when she is howling, I’m too tired to do the right thing. Incoherently, I encourage Milo to see to his sister/niece. “Can’t you go down there?” I ask him. “It’s your turn.” But he just rolls over on his back and lets out a snore. I wake up hours later on the floor, with my fingers poking through the wire of her crate, and I wonder who exactly is in charge here.
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