Unless you’ve been hiding out in a cave or been in solitary confinement somewhere, you’ve seen the cute pictures of Prince George in his short pants and knee socks. Even his sister Princess Charlotte has not upstaged him, and he remains my favorite.
I’ll confess that I’ve been as bad as the next one about following British royalty beginning when The Little Princesses was serialized in The Ladies’ Home Journal.
That account, by their nanny Crawfie, was cut short when one of the princesses changed her title to “Queen Elizabeth.” Her story, now available in book form, caused a never to be healed rift with the royal family though it was far from scandalous.
These two views of gentle exemplary standards for royalty sandwich a lot of years of shame, unhappy marriages, and intrigue. There’s been more soap opera than role model in the intervening generation. I’ve read those stories, too, still fascinated by people with a title, but I have not enjoyed them as much as reading about two sisters growing up in a castle where one would someday be the queen.
I’m back to liking the stories of an apparently happy family and the photographs of beautiful titled children. So why am I especially fond of the pictures of Prince George? He brings memories of another cute little boy who spent his early years in France and Belgium wearing short pants and knee socks. His only title was “Army Brat,” but he wore it proudly and well.