It’s Morning in American, Again

As we sat down to breakfast on the first morning of my parents visit to celebrate the inauguration of our next president, Marcel directed the discussion.  Specifically, she directed everyone to tell a story.

She was first and, not surprisingly, her story was all about her.

My wife’s story was next.  Her story wasn’t about Marcel.  I could tell from Marcel’s facial expression that that wasn’t what was wanted so, when my turn came, I made up a beautiful story about my wonderful daughter.

My father was after me.  He could also tell that he was supposed to talk about Marcel.  He couldn’t quite bring himself to full complaince with the unsaid directive, though, so he started a satirical tale about my oldest child.

“Once upon a time there was camera…”

Marcel knew what was up, though, and immdiately cut him off with a curt, “Next!”

My mother, however, had no intention of letting down one of hers.

“Once upon a time, there was this beautiful grand-daughter…”

Marcel, not needing explicit explanation that the grand-daughter being described was her and not one of the two other grand-daughters, beamed like the morning sun!

 

It’s a Beautiful Day

The day after Christmas, we went to my mother’s house.  Amazingly, my non-Christmas clebrating, Jehovah’s Witness grandmother had come to visit bringing a slew of that side of the clan to visit. I couldn’t miss that.

Marcel and, for her first time ever, Tristan got to hang out with many of their paternal cousins.  Tristan tended toward the older relatives who coddled and cuddled her constantly.  Marcel, meanwhile, ran wild with the younger cousins.  This was from the moment we got there and until our last day.

There was some time when we were away from the ruckus, though.  Bedtime.  (We slept at my mother’s house while most of the activity was at my youngest brother’s home.)  But, even then, the fun wasn’t far from mind.

In fact, our first morning began away from the action at my mother’s house with Marcel yelling for me.  She had awoke in a relatively strange bed and wasn’t sure were to go,  so she called for me to come get and guide her.  I walked into her bedroom and told her that she could get out bed and join the rest of us.

You’d think her mood would be frightened or, at least, angry, but it wasn’t.  Instead, she eagerly climbed out of bed and, as she walked to exit the room, kindly informed of what was to come.

“It’s a beautiful day, daddy.”

 

Timeless Wisdom

Despite being one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever known, my mom always had a grounded perspective on beauty.

Perhaps it’s because of what she learned from one the stories of fighting for civil rights in her deep south, hometown.  She, and others, were at a demonstration when a member of the authorities questioned, in a syrupy sweet, Southern drawl, why she had joined the demonstration.

“Don’t you know that we love you?”, he sincerely asked her.

My wife never heard that story but she’s no less grounded.  Whenever I forget myself and praise my daughters about their good looks, my wife is always there to correct me.

“Tell them their smart!”, she scolds.

If my daughters have heard that story or noticed the scolds, they haven’t let on, but I’m sure that they’re getting the message.  For instance, Marcel didn’t hesistate to test out her new safety scissors on one of her braids the other day. One inch less later, my children have proven that they won’t let their beauty get in the way of the pursuit of knowledge.