The King's Death

By now everyone in the Western world has heard of the movie “The King’s Speech.”   Yesterday was Queen Elizabeth of Great Britain’s 85 birthday, and in a week her grandson and flag bearer for the royalty will get married in Westminster Abbey.

Helen Mirran got an Oscar for playing royalty in the movie “The Queen.”  Colin Firth scored by playing the Queen’s father.

Growing up in Sliver Lake we didn’t have kings and queens.  We had cheerleaders who got pregnant and football stars that ended up working at Albertson’s.

The closest I got to “royalty” was when my grandmother went on a cruise with Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.  “Their children were very well-behaved,” she told us.

So when I arrived in Sweden for graduate school, not knowing a single person in the nation, I found myself in a monarchy for the very first time.  There were royal residences guarded by Swedish soldiers with shoulder length hair.  And names that I needed to learn.

The king’s name was Gustaf VI Adolf of Sweden.  He was old and beloved.  And he had an interesting history.  His first marriage was held at Windsor Castle and his second marriage was at St. James Palace in London.  These were the days of the royal in breeding. His second wife was the aunt of the present British Queen’s husband, The Duke of Edinburgh.

His son, who may or may not have been sympathetic to the Nazi cause, was killed in a plane crash in 1947.  The King’s grandson, Carl XVI Gustaf became the heir apparent. 

Carl Gustaf met his future wife Sylvia at the memorable 1972 Olympics held in Munich and marred by the deaths of the Israeli wresters.  They fell in love and married.  Their progeny are the next generation of royals.

On September 15^th, 1973, shortly after my arrival at Valhallavagen Fem, the King passed away due to pneumonia. He was 90 years old and his grandson was a young man with a very new and non-Swedish bride.

The power of royalty made itself known to me at that time.  I stood on the street, amongst the mourning Swedes and watched as the funeral procession passed by. 

I had been a bit taken aback at the unrestrained patriotism of Stockholm’s main department store.  EVERYTHING including underwear could be found in yellow and blue with crowns.  Coming from America where we were the scourge of the world because of the Vietnam War and a President like Nixon, it seemed odd to see such unbridled patriotism and confidence in the government.

 Sweden is one of the most egalitarian places I have lived.  But more on that later.

Easter redux

This is a re-post but one I still feel the same about the Easter holiday. I've made a few changes and adds. 

My grandfather was a minister and a quite prominent one at that.  If you google his name—Cleveland Kleihauer—you’ll see that he is credited with (cough) being a mentor to Ronald Reagan.

So at our house, Easter meant several things.  Both my sister and I expected, and awaited, the arrival of the Easter Bunny and the cellophane wrapped baskets that would be sitting at the ends of our matching twin beds when we awoke on Easter Sunday. Somehow, though, this was nothing like the thrill of Christmas morning.

No explanations as to the entire oddity of Jesus dying, bunnies, crucifixion, chocolate and Jesus returning were ever mentioned. But, in return for the Easter Bunny gifts, we were put into the scratchiest, stiff, pastel colored dresses that we’d ever worn. And, almost worse, were the little hats we had to wear.

At Hollywood Beverly Christian Church we were THE GRANDCHILDREN. Our church didn’t DO Lent, Ash Wednesday or Shrove Tuesday.  Just Sunday. Our communion beverage was Welch's grape juice. Women would pinch our cheeks, comment on our dresses and suck up to our mother. My sister and I stood stiffly in white socks and, sometimes white gloves, and smiled. Once home, we were free to explore the chocolate—after my father did the family photographs in the back yard where I could still see the stains from the Fourth of July worms on the bricks.

My mother would switch out of her “church clothes” and begin dinner. Our father would hang up his tie.  My sister and I would eat candy free from the crinoline.

I’m sure this must not have been a good day for my mother. Having worked all week, bought the Easter baskets and dresses and hats, she still had to produce the "Easter dinner."  I wish I could give her a hug of thanks.  But it's too late. 

I’ve never liked Easter, in spite of the candy.  But, I’d rather eat potato chips anyway.

The Funnies

I come from a dying breed—practically extinct-- of children who ate breakfast with their parents at an actual table.  A major part of those meals was spent reading the morning newspaper:  The Los Angeles Times was our main source of information.   I vividly remember my mother, newspaper spread across her face, commenting on Eleanor Roosevelt’s death; telling us what a wonderful woman she was. The bombing of the little girls in a church in Birmingham, Alabama was shared over the same table.  This was how I learned about the world.

The sections of the paper were divided up between the four of us. My father taught me how to read the baseball stats, know the initials “ERA”, “RBI”, and see who would be pitching for the Dodger’s that night all from the sports section.  I learned a lifetime of common sense from reading DEAR ABBY. But, without a doubt, the best part of the paper was the “funnies.”

People of a “certain generation” have their favorites.  I loved the drama of REX MORGAN, MD and the “I’m so superior and all knowing” nose butting of MARY WORTH.   I could almost picture her walking down the streets of Atwater. NANCY and SLUGGO were my best friends, and the war orphan DONDI tweaked my pre-adolescent heart. They even made a movie about that cartoon and by his demise, the orphan from Italy had morphed into being Vietnamese. ANDY CAPP gave me a glimpse of what my future life in Britain would be. There was one cartoon that made me want to change my name. I’m grateful that I didn’t.  Not telling.

I followed the black and white stories with more passion than I did the Mickey Mouse Club, Leave It to Beaver, Bonanza or The Monkeys. And on Sunday’s they were in color.

When today’s newspaper was delivered, something that I am well aware will soon be an anomaly, I went straight to the comics. Now the comics are always in color. The strips that I loved are no longer.

But there is one “comic” that hangs on.  It is the one comic that I never “got.” It was in the LA Times and it is in The Honolulu Star-Advertiser.  But only on Sunday;  same as when I was a child. PRINCE VALIANT never got his hooks in me because I could never buy into the once weekly story,

It ticks me off that there are crossword puzzle questions about Prince Valiant’s wife. And it ticks me off that I don’t know the answer. Give me a question about Kryptonite and I am good to go.