My Dad and his wife came to visit. I wasn't surprised to hear him say he wanted to fly half way around the world to see me, my husband, and his grandchildren. I was surprised when he actually showed up. He hadn't traveled but a few hundred miles from home in over twenty years. I thought he was done with road trips and distant vacations. Nonetheless, he told me on the phone that they were ready for a transatlantic flight.

It wasn't entirely unexpected, mind you. It had been planned. There was a flight number and an arrival time, hotel reservations, and a few "when in Rome, do like the Romans" bits of advice through email, but to see him actually show up at the airport, well, it was a shock. I knew there would be some nice moments; day trips to castles and a few museum visits. But to be honest, I'd only met his new wife once before and it wasn't like the whole fam damily was flying over to fill every corner of my home with kids and food and family gossip. It felt awkward, and I wondered if we'd have anything to talk about.

I hadn't anticipated the impact their arrival would have on the troops: my kids. It was two weeks of glory for my children. The goldmine that is my father's storytelling hurled forth the very best jewels and gems from decades and decades of family history, some from before he was born. The children couldn't believe the authority with which he spoke and his knowledge of a time so distant and of people so completely unknown to them. They would later tell me it was like The History Channel and Comedy Central all rolled into one. The same children I couldn't get to be still from the first time I said, "Pick up your toys!" to the last time I said, "Sit up straight, you're in college now!" were right on some unseen cue taking the same positions as I had years ago: elbows on the table, chins in hand, eyes wide so as not to miss a single syllable. And laugh, my goodness did they laugh. And it was fresh laughter, not the knowing guffaws of me and my siblings.

Oh, we enjoyed the stories over and over, but our laughter wasn't new. We laughed because we knew what was coming. My children, however, were bellowing a genuine, singularly united, "I've never heard anything like that before in my life, oh, my sides!" kind of laughter. Their giggles and hoots made them seem young again and my Dad younger. They couldn't wait to hear the next story as much as he couldn't wait to tell the next story. It was the same loving, life-giving exchange I'd been privy to throughout my entire childhood, with one exception: my children had not broken bread at a different table than the big people and then scooted in to the dining room in hopes of negotiating a seat in the main hall of this most-anticipated family event. My children had front row tickets.