The minute we entered San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge I began to tense up. This was Saturday morning, and the bridge was lined up with tourists. If there are delays, this is the place. Fortunately, the day was clear-usually it is foggy and drizzly-and sunny, with perfect visibility.
And now the reason we went down to visit: my grandchild-teen beauty J, her sweet mother T., her husband and son S. with a bag of goodies, and our youngest, not married son B. The old man is my teddy bear hubby. They are all taller and louder than I.
J is thirteen going on thirty, and will end up taller than her mom. She speaks three languages, but not her mother's native Burmese, or my native Italian. She chose to study Chinese and Spanish, practising with no one in particular. In my memoir-yes, you heard correctly, and it is finished and on ice for a while-I am conversing with my grandchild and using a sprinkling of Italian just so she gets the flavor and sound of my language and the lives of her ancestors.
I want her to know how amazing her life is, two worlds, the East and the West had to meet in order for her to be born. It is the story of America, and our family is a prime example. My husband brings the story of the West, the pioneers, grandparents from Denmark and Sweden, treks across the land on the Oregon Trail, growing up on a ranch in Montana.
My daughter and her husband are not pictured above. They live closer to us in Oregon and will be appearing in one of my posts one of these days. Some of you know that they are singers/songwriters/producers/music teachers. Whenever I want to feel uplifted, I go listen to their tunes.
For all the men and sons out there, Happy Father's Day. Share your stories with your children and grandchildren.