For whatever reason, for most of my life (and hers) I’ve identified closely with Queen Elizabeth II — not because of our similarities, mind you, but because of our differences.  She was ten years older than I and my first clear recollection of her was in June 1953 — the year of her coronation.  She was 27 and I was 17.

I remember sitting on a lawn chair in the yard (it truly wasn’t a “garden” then) of my grandparents’ house in Oysterville, pouring over the June 15, 1953 issue of “Life” magazine. Although she had been Queen for a full year, the coronation couldn’t take place until the mourning period for her father, King George VI, had taken place.  As I read, I wondered over and over how it would be to know from your childhood what role you would play in the future.

I, of course, had no idea of my own.  I had just completed my freshman year at Stanford, majoring in journalism which I liked but… I wouldn’t say I was “committed” to a journalistic career.  I wonder how the Queen felt about her own commitment.  After all, it wasn’t her choice.  Her uncle had opted out.  Would she?

Through the years, my admiration grew — except for the slight glitch when her sister Margaret was not allowed to marry Group Captain Peter Townsend.  Surely the Queen could have interceded.  And, again, her long silence after Princess Diana’s death…  It has taken me years to understand that her reactions (or lack thereof, at least in public) were part and parcel of that steady hand that kept the ship of the realm on course for 70 years.  At what personal cost, I’ve often wondered.

Queen Elizabeth wasn’t a role model exactly.  More… the best possible example of making the most of the hand you are dealt and doing so with grace and persistence, sometimes against all odds.  I’m glad I shared so many years with her — even if from afar.