When I was a a kid, I used to love to watch the t.v. show Queen for a Day. I remember turning on the t.v. with its yellow-green screen (supposed to be better for our eyes) and then watching raptly as several housewives were asked to "tell their story" and I believe they mentioned some things that might make their lives easier. This show was the 50s version of reality tv. It was probably the start of my bleeding heart liberalism.
Looking back, I'm surprised I was allowed to watch this show (or any daytime t.v.), but in those early days of t.v., when we only got one channel, I still spent most of my afternoons outside trying to keep up with my brothers or the boy next door. I do remember being horrified by the women's stories of overwork and underappreciation, usually involving many children, not enough money and some presence of a terrible illness, etc. It was a soap opera of a sort, and I had always loved listening to those on the radio. In fact, I'm pretty sure the show was sponsored by "Joy" and "Tide," which would have featured ads with women cheerfully going about scrubbing the dishes, the floors and the family wash, dressed to the nines in a crisp white apron over a "housedress."
The point of the show was to identify the woman with the worst story. This was measured by audience clapping the loudest on the applause-o-meter. The woman who won, would usually weep and blubber as various prizes were revealed from behind closed curtains. As I recall, they won new refrigerators, or washing machines, vacuum cleaners or floor polishers. Maybe they won a trip somewhere, I'm not too sure. I always felt so happy for the winner, but wondered how the others, whose stories struck me as equally terrible, managed to go back to their terrible lives. I think I really would have liked to see my mom on the show, but I knew she couldn't possibly match stories with these women.
All of this came back to me yesterday when I went to Langdon Place to visit my mom. Beside her chair was a headband-like item covered in silver, and with a cardboard crownlike part with silver sparkling tinsel fringing the words "Happy New Year." I picked it up and asked mom if she had gone to the New Year's celebration. She said no, but took the headband from me and said "I like this," and put it on sort of like an Indian headband. I put it up on the top of her head and then offered the mirror so she could see herself.
"Oh," she said, "I like this. I want to wear it."
"Okay," I said, smiling at her enthusiasm. I got her into her wheelchair and we went down the hallway, with everyone we met smiling at my mom and wishing her a Happy New Year. Within minutes she had forgotten that she had the headband on, and would reach up to see what unfamiliar thing was on her head. Each time she would exclaim over it and put it back on. She was in her element.
Down in the special family dining room, we came upon coffee hour, and the women assembled all complimented my mom on her crown. She loved the attention, and wasn't the least bit self-conscious about wearing her new accessory. When we left, one of the women said "Good-bye to the Queen." Mom just giggled and smiled and waved to everyone as we left the room.
She wore the crown all the time we played cards and all the way back up to the 3rd floor. I felt in a small way, she had had her moment as Queen for a Day. As she progressively loses her ability to remember, to converse, to do much of anything for herself, I see her as very like her great grandaughter, 14 month old Ella. And as I ponder this, I think that perhaps Ella gets her cheery, sweet, charming nature from her great grandmother, who always has a smile and a giggle for all who cross her path.
