National Post - The Diamond Jubilee: Our Tribute To Queen Elizabeth II

The Golden Jubilee of 2002, part one:
Christie Blatchford on Her Majestys Opening of a Can of Whupass

The Golden Jubilee of 2002, part two:
Christie Blatchford on our Canadian Queen

Her 80th Birthday:
An Editorial

From the 2010 Royal Tour:
In Ottawa, Her Majesty proves shes still Canadas biggest star

60 Years on the Throne:
Father Raymond J. DeSouza on her noble reign

The very model of dutifulness:
Barbara Kay on Prince Philip

60 Years of Commitment:
Father Raymond J. DeSouza on the Royal Marriage

The Diamond Jubilee of 2012, part one:
Three queens, full of sorrow

The Diamond Jubilee of 2012, part two:
An ode to the monarchy

Oct. 8, 2002

VANCOUVER Let us now call a spade a spade: Elizabeth II is kicking ass on this royal tour.

Only four days into it, and there are already so many Canadians fully tamed and eating out of her hand that at this rate, they may have to send back to the palace for more of those little gloves she usually wears.

Hot on the heels of charming the pants off some rough-and-ready Canadian hockey superstars and 18,000 of their fans at GM Place the night before, the Queen yesterday made what can only be described as a barn-burner of a speech at a prime ministerial luncheon here.

She told a funny, touching story that invoked her late mother, in the way that the recently bereaved do for the lovely comfort of mentioning the one who is gone, and so terribly missed, in this case, the Queen Mother, who died on March 30 at the remarkable age of 101.

In telling the story, her daughter the Queen simultaneously revealed her own humanity, paid homage to the promise and opportunity of this relatively young country without resorting to the easy platitudes of official multiculturalism, and gave evidence that a canny read of the public mood may well be an inherited ability in her family.

I am told of a story about my mother during her visit to Canada in 1939, the Queen, wearing a fuzzy blue checked suit and navy hat, told a packed ballroom at the Hotel Vancouver.

My father and mother were scheduled to visit a veterans hospital in the province of Quebec during their six-week tour. Two Boer War veterans, both of Scots heritage, argued for weeks before my parents arrival.

One said, She was born in Scotland, so I say shes Scots.

The other said, She married an English man, so I say shes English.

They decided to let Queen Elizabeth settle their cultural differences. When the two were presented to Her Majesty, they asked, Are you Scots, or are you English?

My mother paused, and then replied, Since I have landed in Quebec, I think we can say that I am a Canadian.

The Queen was speaking beautifully, as always in both official languages from her seat at one of two round head tables set smack in the middle of the room and spotlit from above.

When she finished a minute later, to prolonged applause, Heritage Minister Sheila Copps, sitting with Prince Philip at the adjacent table, leapt to her feet and sparked the tumultuous standing ovation that followed proof, if any was needed, that given the right example, even a former member of the Rat Pack can behave well.

Among those unfolding long legs and rising to his feet was Dr. Keith Martin, the rather gorgeous Alliance member of Parliament from the federal riding of Esquimalt-Juan de Fuca.

Shortly before the Queen arrived, Dr. Martin, who kindly loaned his copy of the royal luncheon menu to a group of reporters, was doing a little reminiscing of his own. Born and raised in London, England, Dr. Martin said he remembered, as a boy, being taken to Buckingham Palace the outside of it, of course.

The Queen was never there, he said with a smile, surveying the room.

And now here you are, someone said.

And now here I am, Dr. Martin replied. And I had to come to Canada to do it. His pride in the country that made this possible was tangible.

This may be the most magical benefit of a royal tour to Canadians to see their own nation anew through fresh, if also respectively 76-year-old and 81-year-old, eyes.

Over the five decades of her reign, the Queen has been here more than 20 times before, her husband Prince Philip even more often (24 times alone just to hand out gold certificates to winners of the Duke of Edinburgh awards, as he did again yesterday, that he founded). But for all that they are old hands at the Canuck experience, they visit infrequently enough that they are able to see the changes for what they are, not how politicians wish them to be seen.

As the Queen said yesterday, Over the years, I have watched with admiration as familiar European traditions have been enriched by the deep, spiritual cultures of the First Nations and by the entrepreneurial and artistic flair of newer communities, coming together in mutual respect against the breathtaking, wide-open backdrop of the land itself to produce a particular Canadian genius for altruistic openness and reconciliation, for enterprise and creativity.

Why can so few Canadian political leaders talk like this? Why is it, in their hands, that the fundamental egalitarianism of this country the chances offered invariably becomes a tedious paean to diversity domestically and to fence-sitting internationally? Because, of course, they are political animals: They have axes to grind; greasy promises to keep; constituents to woo; elections to win. The Queen has no such worries, and therein lies her value.

She arrived in Iqaluit, in the new territory of Nunavut, with some considerable measure of goodwill a given, but also to a country where a significant majority of the population is in the ordinary course uncertain what are the monarchys benefits, if any. She has done nothing since but build upon that, never setting a foot wrong, while the leading republican, on the other hand, Deputy Prime Minister John Manley, has stumbled from gaffe to gaffe, yesterday saying in the House of Commons, I always thought of the King as Elvis, Mr. Speaker.

She dropped the puck for that ceremonial faceoff the other night as though she has done it a hundred times before; well, as one British royal writer noted, it must have felt a familiar posture for someone who gives the royal Corgis a biscuit now and then.

Everywhere she has gone, and Prince Philip too, they have so put people at their ease that afterwards, they uniformly rave like madmen about them, and many are close to tears, the lesson plain that those with such small social skills wield a big stick.

Even yesterday, as she was leaving the Fairmont Waterfront Hotel (she and Philip must be collecting Fairmont points, for they have stayed only at these hotels) to head to the Hotel Vancouver for lunch, the Queen did the right thing.

At the entrance to the Fairmont is the House of Morgan, where the hotels immense-headed black lab a flunk-out from seeing-eye guide school, where, apparently, he could not contain his natural friendliness and concentrate on the business at hand has the little kennel where, when he isnt greeting guests, he takes his rest.

As the Queen came out, Morgan headed right for her, and she obliged with a pat on that great head of his. Dogs, like small children, have infallible instincts about human beings.

I have no doubt that if Mr. Manley had shown his face, Morgan would have shown Mr. Manley his arse. And who could blame him? The woman has lovely manners and dropped only a puck; Mr. Manley is a boor and dropped the proverbial ball. The choice is clear, to man or beast.