Three generations of a super family—the matriarch, age 93, plus her daughters, a son-in-law, and three adult grandchildren—invited me to dinner last night. It all, including great conversations, was a delight.
One conversation concerned Grandma’s 1950 engagement and wedding.
Grandma’s health now isn’t as strong as it once was. But she took great, smiling delight last night in being with her loved ones. She answered direct questions and nodded and smiled when she got hugged (a lot). Mostly, as the conversations ran around the dinner table, she watched and enjoyed the good food.
So we spoke about the 1950 wedding. Then our conversation turned to who thinks what about the current Democratic presidential candidates.
Grandma spoke then, quietly but very clearly: “Who was the best man that we had? Recently.”
A granddaughter, thinking that Grandma was going back to the previous conversation, sought clarification: “Do you mean who was the best man at your wedding, Grandma?”
“No, no—” she responded.
One of her daughters knew what she was saying—that she was joining in our talk of politics and presidents. “Do you mean Barack Obama, Mom?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”