Way back in the 1970's, when I ran away to get married in Tijuana, Mexico, I cannot tell a lie and say that Her Majesty The Queen was on my mind at all. I was sixteen and impetuous. While she was in Philadelphia, Washington, Providence, New Haven, New York, Boston, and Charlottesville doing her thing, I was most likely on vacation at The Cafe Blase in Provincetown, eating lobster salad on a bed of kale out of a conch shell.
In the 1980's, while Her Majesty The Queen was visiting President Ronald Reagan and whooping it up on the ranch, I traveled to Tortola by plane then ferry. They showed The Poseidon Adventure movie with Shelley Winters. The water was choppy; I got seasick and thought the choice of movie in poor taste. As I unceremoniously threw up over the railing, they abruptly stopped the movie before the ending and put on a tinny version of God Save The Queen. Again, odd choice, I thought and threw up again.
Once on the lovely island, I did what all red-blooded American female tourists do, shopping. However, I hate shopping, was offered some nice weed which I declined and purchased a few postcards. Maybe it was the island breezes that made me giddy, but I decided to send a postcard to The Queen, addressing it:
Her Majesty The Queen
London SW1A 1AA
What I wrote: Madam, wish you were here but I understand you are celebrating your unofficial birthday. Happy Birthday! I have the honour to be, Madam, Your Majesty's humble and obedient servant, moeyz. I included my home address in the USA.
Six months later, I received a terse reply: "Further correspondence, however well-intentioned from a non-British citizen, should be on appropriate writing paper and contained within an envelope. The Monarchy frowns on postcards, however Her Majesty The Queen was amused by the sound of seahorses that you managed to include."
In the 1990's, I traveled to many of the same states in the USA as The Queen, although after writing to her from Tortola had left a sour taste in my mouth (which could have also been explained by the inordinate amount of citrus fruits recently prescribed to combat scurvy), plus I was too busy attending Bible Study Training sessions and/or doing clay workshops with Paul Soldner. In any event, it's doubtful our paths would have crossed and no one was playing God Save The Queen in any aforementioned places I went. Thinking back, there were many hymns in one place and an old radio with the dial stuck on a classical music station in the other.
That brings us to the next century, the 2000's, which were pretty much a blur with 9/11, sinus surgery, "female troubles" of the health nature, plus the death of my father. So in 2007, when Her Majesty The Queen was visiting Washington, Richmond, Jamestown, Williamsburg, Lexington, Louisville, and Greenbelt with President Bush the Younger, I was probably in therapy, physical and mental, or I should have been. I can't remember.
What I do remember was getting a letter from then Governor of New Jersey, Jim McGreevey, one week before The Scandal, in response to some letter I presumably sent to him during my hormonal madness. Oddly enough, I also received a postcard in an envelope with the return address of Buckingham Palace, with a brief note which read, "Heard you were in Alaska. Haven't been there. How was the weather?" No signature, but I heard the sound of seahorses and smiled.