The Queen, My Mom, and the Virgin

Reflecting on Extraordinary Women

The Author at Three with his Aunt, Grandmother, and Mom.

My mom and Queen Elizabeth II were close in age. My mother passed away in March of 2021 at the age of 93. Her death was peaceful, and it was reported that the queen had also died peacefully, speeding through this vale of tears into the Glory of the next life like my own mother.

On my way to Sunday Mass this morning I felt the connection between my mom and the Queen and, actually, all the women of my mom’s generation. Through the Great Depression, World War II, and the second half of the 20th century, they and their husbands raised families in the most affluent moment in human history, remaining characteristically humble and hard-working. The loss of a child to pneumonia, a son to gangland murder, and my great aunt gunned down by a jealous husband, were only a few of their sorrows, yet my grandparents continued to dedicate themselves to their family’s success in a new country.

Humility can be born in the midst of great wealth and privilege. For instance, Queen Elizabeth pleading with her father, King George, that she needed to be aiding her country’s war-time effort. He finally relented, and she learned the trade of mechanic, fixing trucks and learning to drive them. She survived the bombing of Buckingham Palace, while my grandparents survived Ohio winters, keeping their children warm and well fed.

Courage can be born from the wealth and love of family with little money and scarce possessions: my grandma keeping to her daily chores after the loss of her husband and continuing to iron and can for other families, managing to save 4,000 dollars, a down payment on their first home after decades of saving. With no hint of shame in his voice, my dad had often described Christmases without presents and the family ritual of going to the basement of the Catholic church to pick out their winter coats from a large pile of hand-me-downs.

It isn’t just the 1950s fashion of lovely curls and waves and the gorgeous dress my mom is wearing in the photo that she shares with the Queen, it’s also their confidence and serenity. Another photo of my mom from the late forties shows her walking home from her job in downtown Cleveland. Mom wears a long coat and skirt just below the knees, and she’s carrying her high heels. She and a girlfriend are in mid-step, looking straight ahead, as if totally unaware of the photographer. The black and white photo shows a few bare trees and a uniform row of homes, yet my mom and her girlfriend smile with ease, as if on vacation, and every bit as poised and sexy as the young Queen of England.

When Elizabeth acceded to the throne at 25, she promised her countrymen to be in their service for the rest of her life. I can see Queen Elizabeth conferring with Winston Churchill, perhaps having tea or something stronger as they digested the worldwide communist threat; her relying on Churchill to wake up the West, the proverbial slap across the back, a clarion call against the new threat to our civilization.

My mom never had to contend with the world’s problems, but she did have to react swiftly when I started choking on a plum pit to the amusement of my buddies. Mom was on the phone, and in one, very smooth motion she told her girlfriend to wait as she held onto the receiver of an old rotary-dial phone and slapped me hard on the back. The pit shot across the kitchen and mom was back on the phone with her girlfriend.

There’s an awful phrase used or implied by some American politicians: the little people--those of us not of celebrity status or wealth (no one is a little person in a country where the sky’s the limit). I sense that the Queen never talked that way of her people. Everyone shared in the struggle and success of England, and to paraphrase a line from John Donne’s poem, “No Man is an Island,” we are all diminished when a single person dies, no matter their station in life.

The greatest generation thrived in a much quieter time. By that, I mean a lot less self-centered noise. Staying young forever hadn’t taken hold of the Queen and my mom’s generation. Their generation also had a profound spiritual basis—the Blessed Virgin Mary. In a quote from archbishop Fulton Sheen in Carrie Gress’s book The Anti-Mary Exposed: Rescuing the Culture from Toxic Femininity, the archbishop says: “Culture derives from woman—for had she not taught her children to talk, the great spiritual values of the world would not have passed from generation to generation. After nourishing the substance of the body to which she gave birth, she then nourishes the child with the substance of her mind.” Gress also quotes art historian Kenneth Clark: Mary “taught a race of tough and ruthless barbarians the virtues of tenderness and compassion.”   

After my grandmother’s stroke, she had each of us kids take turns exercising her stroke-affected arm. By moving her arm gently, and not too fast, and tenderly flexing her wrist back and forth, she gave us kids a brief lesson in compassion before we ran outside and channeled the ruthless barbarians of old.

Feminine toughness and instruction never loses sight of comedy and high mischief, like the Queen’s encounter with a stranger on a hike, and the entertaining conversation that ensued without the stranger knowing whom she was.

In my early teens, my mother once warned me that if I continued to leave heated milk in the pan and not finish it with my cereal, she would pour it over my head someday. Well, that day arrived. At the kitchen table with my friends, I felt a warm liquid running over my scalp, making its way through my thick mop of hair. My buddies laughed and we all jumped up. I yelled something and faced my mom who was smiling. She went about drying the dishes and didn’t say a word. I believe both the Virgin Mary and Queen Elizabeth would have highly approved.

Check out Fred Tribuzzo’s previous columns:

The Open Road

Confronting the Finger of God in 'Twister'