A Royal Wedding

"Are you going to get up early to watch it?" Nancy, one of my co-workers, asked.

It was the upcoming royal wedding between Prince Harry and Meghan Markle, and the group of co-workers answering phones at our end of the phone room had been talking about it most of the morning between calls.

I answered no, 4:30 A.M. was too early to get up for anything not absolutely necessary.

For most of that week, it seemed that everyone was talking about the upcoming wedding. And who could blame anyone? Prince Harry was marrying an American who was biracial, divorced, and had worked as an actress. The last time a British royal married an American divorcee was was King Edward VIII in 1936 ("Cheers, Prince Harry! But the last time a British royal married an American, it didn’t go well."), and it cost him the throne; Edward was given the choice of marrying "that woman," as socialite Wallis Simpson was known, or staying on the throne.

For the record, Edward abdicated the throne and married Simpson, allowing his brother George to become king.

But that was more than eighty years ago. Times have changed. Besides, Harry is officially sixth in line for the throne, after his father, older brother, his nephews and niece. So there is no chance (or very little) that he would be given the choice of love vs. throne.

Part of me wanted to watch the wedding. I'd watched Prince Charles's and Princess Diana's wedding back in 1981, and while I hadn't watched William and Kate Middleton's wedding, I'd seen the photos and news stories in the days before and after. I mentioned that to Nancy.

"Diana looked so scared when she married Charles," Nancy said, and I'd agreed. But while Diana had looked a little unsettled, Kate had seemed joyous. Meghan seemed to be following in Kate's footsteps: happy, confident, excited.

The morning of the wedding, I'd gotten up at 5:00 to make sure my son M. was awake. He works on Saturdays, and usually gets picked up by his ride a little after 6:15. I then went back to bed, with my alarm set for six. (I have to run interference so our black cat, Karma, doesn't make a break for it. While he no longer seems to want to run the neighborhood, he still tries to head for the door, just to let us know he's still the boss.)

After Matt left, I went back to bed. But within half an hour, he was calling to ask me to look up something for him on the computer.

Darn, I thought. No going back to sleep for an hour or so...

By this time, it was almost 7:00, so I stayed up, fixed some coffee, and turned on the TV. The wedding was on, so I watched.

My daughter, M.H., and granddaughter had driven to a restaurant that was going to have a party to watch the wedding. But as luck would have it, the only available table left was outside on the sidewalk - with no chairs. So much for hanging out at the wedding party.

I watched through the lovely wedding (it really, really was quite lovely!), and actually enjoyed it. (Yay, Harry! Yay, Meghan!)

Later, after I'd turned off the TV, M.H. and G.H. stopped by. They'd ended up having breakfast at a restaurant that my other half and I'd eaten at years ago. It had been a nice Mom-and-Pop place when we'd gone there, open until 8 P.M during the week, serving home-style food. Now it closes around 2 P.M. and, from what I'd heard, is not nearly as good as it once was (it's no longer run by the two brothers who opened it).

"How was it?" I asked, when M.H. told me where they'd eaten.

"Not that great," I was told. "The food wasn't all that great, and the waitresses all looked sad."

I couldn't help but wonder why.

But for the rest of the day, while running errands, checking out some art at the Safety Harbor (Fla.) Museum and Cultural Center, where my daughter had sold a painting (yay!!!), and just hanging out, it seemed everyone mentioned the wedding. And while I hadn't planned to watch any of it, I'm glad I got to see at least part of it.

Ed Koch, New York's "Pugnacious" Former Mayor

Ed Koch, New York's colorful former mayor, died yesterday morning.

Okay, part of that might be obvious; if someone becomes New York's mayor, chances are that person is either somewhat colorful or forgotten. It seems to be that simple. Other cities may have mayors whose names most of us are unfamiliar with. But to be mayor in the city that never sleeps, you'd pretty much have to be a colorful character. Even then, Koch seemed to stand out, with his arms outstreched.

I heard of his death yesterday morning on Today, then read about his death in the Tampa Bay Times. The Times article, originally from the Washington Post, caught Ed Koch's essence beautifully. One paragraph from the article states, "'How'm I doing?' the mayor lilked to bellow as he gallivanted up and down city streets, arms raised above his lanky frame, bald pate bobbing. His signature greeting was delivered in a whiny, nasal voice that was as recognizably New York as the screech of an A train."** If that doesn't paint a picture of Koch and the city he was mayor of for three terms, nothing does.

Every time I think of Ed Koch, I'm reminded of my grandmother, especially shortly before she died. This time was no exception.

My grandmother, Agnes Shwedo, died in the late 1980s. She was a character who tended to speak her mind. She was born to Irish immigrants (her maiden name was Kelly), had numerous brothers and sister (all of whom were outspoken, and tended to live long lives), and married my grandfather, the son of Czech immigrants. Both grandparents' parents were unhappy, since they'd wanted their children to marry people from "the old country;" Agnes's folks wanted her to marry a good Irish Catholic boy, while John, Sr.'s parents wanted a good Czech Catholic daughter-in-law.

Grandma outlived Grandpa by twenty years or so. The last few weeks or months that she was alive, Grandma started to go downhill, as so many people do. Dad ended up staying with her for a few nights to keep an eye on her. One night, probably one of the last nights Grandma spent at home, Dad was awakened after midnight by a heavy pounding on the front door. He went to the door, looked through the peep-hole, and saw several uniformed police officers. "What is it?" he asked, opening the door part-way.

"We need to check on the lady here," one officer stated. "She said she's been kidnapped and is being held hostage."

Once the officers were inside, Grandma came out of her room. Turned out, she'd wanted a glass of water, was convinced she'd been kidnapped and was being held hostage, and that she was the Mayor of New York City!

Of course, Ed Koch was mayor at the time, not an elderly Irish Catholic woman. Once the officers realized what was going on ("Yes, of course I know this nice man. He's my son, and he rescued me before you got here!"), they suggested that Dad get her to the hospital in the morning. He did, and within a week or two, Grandma was gone.

Back to Ed Koch's death: I remember hearing all sorts of stories about him while he was mayor, both from news reports and from family back in New York. The Times' headline ("Pugnacious former New York mayor dies") and the accompanying article and photo capture him perfectly, at least as perfectly as a short obit can.

But whether he knew it or not, I'll never forget when Grandma "helped" him run New York, even if it was for only one night.


**Taken from the Tampa Bay Times; the full article ran on page 3A, Saturday, February 2, 2013.