As an addition to my last post on Queen Elizabeth II, I wanted to relay a short tale concerning her place in my family. My grandmother grew up in a very rural area of Nova Scotia, on the tip of Cape Breton Island. Years ago, I joined my sister’s family for a visit to the house she grew up in, long since abandoned. We took our grandmother along, who told us tales of sleeping eight to a bed as kids, of a stern sea captain father who demanded silence at meals, and of walking miles across frozen ponds to a one-room schoolhouse. But where does the Queen come in? When we entered the tiny house, stripped of its furniture and long since empty, there on the wall of the front room was a large portrait of the Queen and her first born. She was that important to the family, and I was thinking, not unlike the portraits of John F. Kennedy, which adorned the walls of my friends’ homes growing up in Massachusetts. Long live the Queen.