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.
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.
We were in San Francisco for meetings and a speaking engagement this weekend. Then my husband and I took an extra day to just relax, something long overdue for us (thanks to some angel babysitting by my folks). It was a breath of fresh air and a much-needed break during a pretty stressful time. A little Valentine’s Day dinner, a little sleeping in, a little walking and exploring. Heaven.
But seeing the city I love — perhaps as much as my own hometown, since San Francisco was also home for me at one time — did two things for me this weekend.