Made me smile.
This is probably the point at which I should mention grandparents. Those in their 20s and 30s today have the experience of knowing and, usually, loving their grandparents for most or all of their adult lives. Today, college graduations, weddings, 30th birthday parties, Christenings, brises — these sorts of events are regularly blessed with multiple Grannies, Papas, Yiayias, Zaides, Nanas, Nonnas, Omas, Abuelitos. They stand up; they take bows. In the true fabric of experience, this is not some invisible stitching.
I am 40, and that’s how it has been for me. My mom might be 68 and still killing it wild-style at Zumba, but that is much less impressive to me than my grandfather, who was born in Dublin’s Jewish ghetto in 1908, became a union leader who saved hundreds of people from displaced-person camps after World War II, never met a plate of full-fat beef brisket he didn’t like and passed away with most of his marbles only last month, at nearly 105 years old.