pride and joy

Had he been alive to see my sister (the one my bambini call "Annie" in place of "auntie", followed by her given name) all dolled up for a formal dance last weekend at the Newman Center (i.e. Catholic student center) of her university, I'm sure my maternal grandfather would've cried tears of joy just like the ones I saw in his eyes the that afternoon she made me a sister as we camped in the hospital waiting room with several other close family members and friends.

My grandfather would've turned 100 years old yesterday.  That's right: he was born in the wake of the Titanic disaster.  He died in his mid-eighties when I was in high school and she was just a baby, so he didn't get to serve my baby sister Total cereal with a side of Oreo cookies on the mornings after a sleepover at my grandparents' house like he had done for me when I'd had sleepovers as a young girl.  Come to think of it, I don't even know if she likes Total cereal.  I'm fairly certain she likes Oreos (as do my elder lad and I).

He may have only gotten to know her as a baby, but she was his "pride and joy", a description he'd used with me many, many times, and one I'm happy to share with her.  As the only children of his daughter (an only child herself), we were the lucky beneficiaries of lots of grandfatherly doting and the subjects of extravagant bragging. 

We celebrate my sister's birthday today, and we honor the memory of the six-foot-four man she might've called "Bum-pa" as I did at a very young age had she had more time with him.  His heart was as big as he was tall, and he gave away so much love in his long life.   She is following suit, giving generously of her love.  Because of that, her many accomplishments, and the lovely young lady she is, "Annie" would surely hear no end of his praise were he alive to give it.  Even though he isn't here in person to tell her so, I'm sure she is still his pride and joy.