A March to Remember

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The forecast was rain. But we marched anyway. To commemorate the coming 100th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide, my husband, two daughters and I marched across the Golden Gate Bridge yesterday.

I first thought: maybe we’ll catch a cold, one of my family’s biggest avoidances. Maybe we’ll be utterly exhausted, with the rest of our busy schedule that we crammed this into, flying in from San Diego and back in one day. Maybe — this wasn’t such a good idea.

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A Song Through the Ages…

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One of my dearest memories of my paternal grandparents was when their son — my father, a writer, teacher, radio host and speaker — bought a high-end microphone for his recording work. He first tested it on his family, gathering us around in his den to speak and share. We three young sisters just loved hearing our own voice and being zany, knowing we were going on tape. My parents, as always, were the anchors, the bookends, narrating and undergirding this and so many other memories.

And my grandparents decided to do what they always liked doing: sing a song.

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