Why the Brits Loved Princess Di

While living in the UK back in 2002, we requested and received invitations to attend the Order of the Garter Ceremony on the grounds of Windsor Castle. The invitations came along with a small map. A key indicated where we were to watch the ceremony. The day dawned unusually warm. We drove to the town of Windsor early and hustled Michael along. At almost thirteen years old, he wasn’t thrilled about “seeing history.” He’d had a full year of such parental nonsense, thank you.

We took our spot in line and presented passports and invitation to security. Windsor sits on a hill, majestically overlooking the town of the same name. Thick stone walls circle the castle and its outlying buildings, including the famous St. George’s Chapel where the induction was to be held. We spectators were accorded spots along the route winding from the castle to the chapel. Once inside the grounds we quickly found the small island of grass that corresponded to the number on our map.

And I do mean “small island of grass.” We were located on a berm, a grassy knoll, a small divider in a sea of pavement. There was no seating and no shade. No shelter from the summer heat. And we had dutifully—as suggested--arrived hours early.

The sun beat down on us. Our little spot filled up with more spectators. Soon we were cheek to jowl with hundreds of others “banished” to our tiny patch. There was barely enough room to move. The Brits came well-prepared. They brought folding chairs and coolers of champagne. We (David, Michael and I) didn’t know to do that…and we were parched and miserable. I did my usual survey of ladies restrooms and I’ll grant HRH this: She has the classiest Port-a-Potties in the world. A huge trailer with white siding and gold trim was parked on the grounds just for this purpose. The inside was lavish, and the taps were gold. It changed forever my expectations of Johnnies on the Spot!

Michael was restless, hot and miserable. We were all getting sunburned. We were squished against other people. Finally, he slumped down onto the grass and immersed himself in his Game Boy. So much for introducing him to living history!

I was especially interested in this ceremony because family lore has it that one of my ancestors was a Knight of the Gartner. That explains the blue garter on the family coat of arms. I had grown up being told the story of “Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Ponce” by my maternal grandmother. In fact, during our first tour of Windsor, a docent asked if anyone knew the motto of the Knights of the Garter. I popped out with “Honi Soit…” and his jaw dropped. He said that in fifty-plus years of working at the castle he’d never had a visitor who knew the motto, much less an American!

The Queen's guests began to arrive to take their places inside the chapel. They were foreign heads of state, royalty from all over the world, and relatives of the monarchy. All left their cars and carriages and turned to wave to the crowd, to give us a chance to snap a photo.

Our closely-packed group serged forward again and again, never stepping beyond the roped stanchions that corralled us, but lurching as close to the dignitaries as possible so we could see. By then, we were a pretty smelly, tired, dusty and stinky lot.

After we’d been sitting in the heat for more than two hours, Prince Edward and his wife Sophie stepped out of a new Mercedes limo. Unlike the guests before them, neither Andrew nor Sophie turned to face the crowd. Indeed, they didn’t even acknowledge our presence. Attendants helped them out of the car on the side close to the chapel. With their backs to us, they chatted to each other and greeted the others at the chapel door. Without so much as a backward glance they walked into the cool of the church; they ignored all of us.

“And that,” said the Brit standing at my elbow, “is why we loved Princess Di. Look at him. Hasn’t worked a day in his life. Never has a worry or a care. All he has to do to make us lot happy is to wave—and does he? No. Can’t be bothered. Diana would have walked over and shook hands. She would have smiled and waved and been happy to see us. That’s why we loved her.”

Suddenly, I understood. The rigid class system in the UK is such that commoners can never challenge the accident of their birth. They can never become royalty. The regular “guy” is forever relegated to the small, green patch of grass. He is always on the outside, gazing in at the pomp, circumstance and privilege. All he asks for is a tip of the hat, a wave of the hand, a nod to acknowledge that but for a switch of infants in the crib, that HRH could have been the poor sod out on the grass, sweltering in the heat, and hoping for a good line-of-sight to gawk at the rich and famous.

For more about the Order of the Garter go to http://www.writersworkshop.co.uk/garter.htm

The scrapbook page pictured is one I made from my photos of the day. Unfortunately, because I'm so short and the crowd was so dense, I didn't get many good shots...but it still was a memorable event...for many reasons.

How long did did happily-ever-after last for Cinderella?

This week, I’ve been thinking about Cinderella.

I’ve been thinking about her a lot, wondering how long she stayed "happy" after she landed the Prince and the castle? Was it eternal bliss, or did she eventually go back to worrying about more mundane matters, like pesky royal in-laws, or her pecking order at court? In a real-life example, Princess Diana certainly showed us that sometimes there's nada happily ever after.

By way of background, I should say that, of late, things have been going pretty darned well for me. Maybe not fairy-tale well, but definitely “pinch me—is it real?” kind-of-well.

Here’s a partial list of my current blessings:

My family is healthy and happy (this one has to come first on anyone’s list).
I have several great friends.
I have a new mystery series coming out.
I was recently gifted with a second house, a killer sports car, and some enviable bling.

Life, as they say, is good.

So you’d think that I’d be wandering around the house all the time with a big, goofy grin plastered across my face.

Instead, I find myself scrabbling for things to worry about. Like, how do I guarantee that my second book will surpass the first? Is my college-age daughter locking her doors at night? When is the Big One going to strike California (and what’s the deductible on my earthquake insurance?).

When nothing else works, I’ll watch CNN and fret about global warming, wondering if I should have eschewed my nice little Z4 for an earth-friendlier Prius.

I once read about a study that found that people have a default level of happiness—or unhappiness, whichever applies. This study posited that, long term, a change in an individual’s life circumstances is irrelevant to his or her “happiness” level. Oh, their moods will have ups and downs, depending on unknown and unpredictable factors such as a sudden trauma, or winning the Lotto. But according to this study, almost no matter what happens, most people eventually return to their original state of happiness. I recall the researcher saying that even someone hit by a devastating injury, such as Chris Reeve, probably eventually regained a semblance of his original level of happiness.

That must be why my mind is foraging for things to feel down about: life has removed some of its former obstacles, and somewhere in my brain, a gray cell is itching to even up the score. But from now on, whenever it does that, I’m just going to shout it down. Down, avenging brain cell! Down!

One reassuring thing: Cinderella seemed happy as a person, even before she met the Prince (at least, she was in the Disney version of the story). So odds are that this particular couple did live happily, ever after.

Anyway, that’s the fairy tale.

What about you? Do you have a “level set” of happiness (or unhappiness) that you eventually return to, no matter what brickbats or bouquets life throws your way?

Guilty pleasure of the week: The Biggest Loser

As a former fattie (okay, granted—I still have a ways to go—but at least I’m no longer morbidly obese), I experience a vicarious thrill whenever I watch Bravo TV’s The Biggest Loser.

As I watch a three-hundred person lug to the top of a seven-story tower, huffing every step of the way, a part of me cringes inside, thinking, “How can they put themselves out there like that?” But a part of me cheers them on, and gets caught up in the suspense as they step onto that scale at the end of the week to find out which team lost the most weight.

Confession time

Last year, when the producers of The Biggest Loser tempted the show’s dieters with a malevolent tower of cupcakes, I wanted to throw my diet tools in their general direction, to exact some payback.

So…?

So here’s the question: why am I so drawn to this show? I think it’s because it amplifies the everyday drama of my bathroom scale—Am I up? Am I down? Am I winning the battle? Losing?—writ large. Writ very large.

Fat people, it turns out, are the stuff of prime-time drama. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll sign off with a quote from no less an authority than The Bard himself:

Let me have men about me that are fat,

Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

On the other hand, I suspect that Cassius was a much more dramatic character than the “men…that are fat.”

Food for thought.

Princess Diana's Last Resting Place

A Trip to Althorp…

In many ways, Althorp looks like any other old English estate. As is common, the expansive grounds surround the home so completely that the building cannot be seen from the road. Sheep graze serenely in adjacent fields, part of a 13,000-acre estate. Twin gate houses flank a long alley leading to the weathered stone 131-room mansion. A field facing the gates is set aside for visitors. Cars are parked in muddy, unpaved spaces interrupted by struggling tufts of grass. The day I visited with my friend Venetta the sky was streaked with dark swaths of moody blue, threatening rain.

Signs directed us up the drive, around the side of the house, and into a brick-paved courtyard surrounded by converted stables. One had been turned into a small shop with a big display window. Front and center were leather bound copies of Diana’s eulogy written by her brother.

Venetta and I walked over for a closer look. To our amazement, inside the store stood Diana’s brother, Charles, the 9th Earl Spencer.

Why Prince Charles Married Diana and Not Camilla…

A lot has been said about why Prince Charles was discouraged from marrying Camilla and encouraged to marry Diana. The young woman’s suitability has been much touted: she was a virgin, young, biddable and of good family. But the reason that strikes me as most likely—and I saw proof with my own eyes—was the Spencer family’s good looks.

Diana’s brother took my breath away. All I can compare him to is a model on the cover of a romance novel.

The images of him at Diana’s funeral do not do him justice. Her brother’s features are not perfect, but his coloring is gorgeous and his physicality, well, he’s tall, lithe and well-built. His eyes are an unusual blue, and his every movement is graceful, poetic even. If his sister was anything like him—and I’m sure she was—I can see why the royal family was excited about bringing into “the firm” a beautiful, fairytale princess.

By the way, this idea isn’t original: an article in a UK magazine posited that Diana was selected expressly to bring height and attractive features to the royal bloodline. And that she did. According to the magazine writer, Camilla simply wasn’t good-looking enough for the job.

A Line Omitted from the Eulogy…

Inside the converted stables was a display of Diana’s personal artifacts. Some of her designer dresses and jewels, family photos, her childhood scrapbook and toys, dried petals from tribute flowers, and so on, were arranged in floor to ceiling glass cases. One item of particular interest: her brother’s original draft of the eulogy. (See http://www.spiritual-medium.com/ditrib.htm) In the movie The Queen, Charles, the Earl Spencer, is shown speaking at the funeral with these very papers in hand. His remarks were typewritten--except for a few words inserted by hand and later crossed out right after the part about "thanking God." In that added and omitted phrase, he also thanked Dodi Fayed for making the last months of his sister’s life happy ones.

The Island…

Behind the main house, Diana is buried on a tiny man-made island in the midst of a tiny pond. I suspect her brother gave thought to the thousands of visitors and decided it was best to control the crowds by making his sister’s resting place inaccessible. (The tiny white "spot" in the photo on my scrapbook page is the urn atop her plinth on the island.)

Facing the island is a white stone structure, two stories high, with simple columns and “DIANA” centered under the eaves. Sheltered by the overhang is a large cameo portrait of Diana and a severe black bench.

How isolated Diana is! She’s not spending eternity near her sons. Nor is she buried near anyone who loved her. She’s by herself on the island. Even in death, Diana is alone, a curiosity, a photo opportunity, an outsider, and a spectacle.

Saving Althorp…

A portion of the family home is open to visitors for a fee. Charles, Earl Spencer, lives in the rest of the building part of the year. Venetta and I paid to be herded by docents through a mainly unremarkable old house. Like other old English manors, it must cost a fortune to maintain. Most memorable were the twin staircases mirroring each other and leading from the main floor to the second. At the top of one is a life-sized portrait of Charles, Earl Spencer. The rolled scroll in his hand is Diana’s eulogy. Facing him at the top of the other staircase is a life-sized portrait of his sister.

Shortly before she died, Diana had asked her brother if she could come live in a small cottage on the estate. He told her, “No.”

But Diana has come home. Not to live. Certainly forever. In death she generates the money necessary to keep Althorp in the family for generations to come.