The Mythical Queendom of Mine

I shall sparkle!


The Mythical Queendom of Mine


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With all the media foo-foo-rah about folks of every ilk declaring themselves independent of government’s nasty interference, protesting their individual rights and seeking personal sovereignty with the aid of jeeps, machine guns, stashes of ammo and thousands of acres of wilderness playground (set aside by the federal government), I figure it is time to stand up and be counted. I hereby join the sovereignty movement.



For years I have hankered to be a benevolent despot. Therefore, I declare myself Queen of the Queendom of the Sovereign State of Mine. I tossed around a variety of fanciful names for this country I rule, but like my granddaughter surveying her space, I decided “Mine” says it most succinctly. Though my country encompasses a mere two city lots, it is all Mine. My Queendom is small, until it is time to weed in which case it grows exponentially, but ruling it should be relatively simple.



I now have been Queen for approximately five minutes. Nobody has come to challenge my title, to knock me off my throne. Therefore I shall appoint a committee to arrange the ceremony for my coronation. This extravaganza shall include parades, fireworks, a state dinner, balloons, flowers in profusion, red carpets, speeches, accolades, a throne, ladies in waiting, ministers to do my will, visiting heads of state, trolls, magicians, gypsies and a fool. And cake. I shall be bedecked and beribboned in a matchless gown and robe, created by me to reflect my impeccable taste. I shall wear an exquisite crown crusted with the finest jewels. I shall sparkle.



My first order of business will be to write my declaration of independence, construct a constitution and adopt a bill of rights. I’ll appoint a committee of my ministers for each of these mundane governmental-sorts of jobs. Each committee will study similar documents from other sovereign nations (why re-invent the wheel?), pencil in proposed changes, argue over details, order take-out pizza and then table each item to be deliberated afresh at the next meeting.



I have been pondering the design of a flag to fly majestically over my Queendom. What do you think about a cottonwood tree (green leaves) covered with balloons (all bright colors) against a sky (blue with white puffy clouds) and with a ribbon beneath (red) bearing the words “Another Beautiful Day in Paradise ”? And I must have a national anthem, something that reflects my free spirit, perhaps “Fat Bottomed Girls (make the rockin’ world go ‘round)” by the musical group, Queen.



I will need a royal seal for my documents of state. Something large, embossed, official looking with incomprehensible words. I must have a collection of stamps for mailing letters and packages. My mail box out front will serve as the royal post office.



In my country there will be two times, daytime and nighttime, thus simplifying the royal clock, the design of which is evocative of the traditional yin and yang. I decree there will be one season—temperate. My court wizards will see to the details. National holidays will be comprised of my birthday, my children’s birthdays and your birthday. If anybody protests my decrees, let them eat cake.



I must not forget the royal license plate on my royal truck, personalized with my royal likeness, of course. Wait, wait! I had a thought! If I have license plates, does that mean there must be rules for the use thereof, such as “must be attached to the front or back bumper of vehicle”? If there are rules, rules must be enforced. I would need enforcers. And if there are police, it follows there must be judges and jails and punishments. Eww. In my Queendom, I don’t want punishments, I only want rewards. Table that. I’ll figure it out later.



Oh, the untold problems! If my Queendom must have all the above, then how do I pay for such a bureaucracy? Taxes! Ewww. Even more bureaucracy. If I institute taxes, then there will be an uprising followed by revolution. I’ll be beheaded. Skip taxes. We’ll work on that issue later too. Meanwhile, charge it.



Now that I have declared myself a sovereign nation, I must negotiate treaties with my neighbors, the City of Harlem , County of Blaine , State of Montana , the Province of Saskatchewan , et al. What if citizens of these entities, seeking to avoid prohibitive restrictions in their own countries, flee to my benevolent Queendom? I’ll be flooded with refugees. I’ll have displaced persons camps in my backyard. How will I feed them? How will I house them? Oh, the multiplicity of problems!



I’ve got it! I’ll apply for foreign aid!



Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 23, 2011
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Showdown At Sundown

Nothing like a meeting!
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Showdown At Sundown

Nasty Nate, nattily attired in black, from his hat to his boots, swaggers in and leans against the wall at the back of the room. He adjusts his ten-gallon hat, opens his jacket to expose the butt ends of sinister chrome-plated six-shooters, sneers, draws, twirls the pistols, then slams them back into his holsters. He stands, hands on hips, cigarette dangling from his lip, ready for action.

At the front of the room the Councilpersons, all wearing good-guy white hats, cower behind their desks. They glance at each other resignedly. Another ambush by Nasty Nate.

Steely eyed, Nasty Nate peers at his favorite target, Councilwoman Pollyanna Priss. He fires from the lip. “You been playing fast and loose for a long time, Councilwoman. You promised that garbage would be on the agenda tonight. So where is it? I want to see the Garbage Ordinance and I want to see it now.”

“Yeah, he wants to see it now,” challenges Nate’s side-kick, Dolly Doolittle, as she saunters in the door, dressed in low-cut, red frilly dance-hall regalia and joins her partner. Together they insolently twirl their revolvers like gamblers shuffling stacked decks.

Councilwoman Priss sneaks her derringer from her boot and craftily fires back, “The City Council is not at your disposal, Nasty Nate. Garbage will be on the agenda when the draft ordinance is good and ready.”

In response, Nasty Nate and Dolly stomp out a high stepping, synchronized dance number, managing to make it look menacing. Spectators join the leg-kicking, foot-pounding hoe-down.

Mayor Malcolm Muchley bangs his gavel, shouting, “Order! Order!” City hall is in an uproar.

For sheer live entertainment, an action-packed reality show that tops anything you can see on television, nothing beats a government meeting. State meetings, county meetings city meetings, school meetings. Given the choice between watching the insipid offerings of the tube and real live thrills and excitement, town hall should be bulging on meeting nights. It beats flipping channels and you don’t have to fight over the remote. Meetings about bridges, water, sewage, roads and finance. Transfer stations, landfill, recycling, lift stations, sewer lagoons, filtration and chlorination, budgets. This is the real deal. Drama and comedy, outspoken opinion, challenges and defenses, struggles, deadline pressures, and at times, smoke and mirrors. This is good stuff. These folks are into action. They get things done. This is grass roots citizen government, government by the people. It is participatory theatre. When you show up, you are a member of the cast.

Meanwhile, back at city hall, tension mounts as Nasty Nate, whose natural nature is negative, launches a second attack. “What about the #*#%# pot-holes? If I break an axle on my pick-up,” he shouts, “I’m going to sue the city.” He lets out a stream of profanity that would smoke a duck. Folks in the audience huddle behind their chairs, terrified. Suddenly Councilwoman Pollyanna Priss, intent on heading Nasty Nate off at the pass, climbs onto the table. She reaches into her handbag, extracts an ancient blunderbuss and lights the primer. She thrusts her arm into the air. “Let’s raise his taxes!” she shouts.

“Aye.” “Aye.” “Aye.” “Aye.” In quick succession the votes are counted.

Nasty Nate, riddled full of holes, collapses in a heap on the floor. “I’ll be back,” he rasps.

Mayor Malcolm Muchley bangs his gavel, “Motion carried. Meeting adjourned.”

Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Looking Out My Back Door
January 14, 2010
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