I was standing on the edge of the lake when I heard Clara’s voice. She was treading water a couple dozen yards from shore, chatting with a girl who she’d just met, when the breeze carried her words to me.
I heard her say, “My Dad is famous for his storytelling, his books, and the way he yells at Donald Trump on the internet.”
I may not be famous, but that’s okay. I was still thrilled. I’m not sure which if those three things made me more proud, but I know this:
Years from now, when she looks back on this period of our country’s history, she won’t be wondering where I stood when an incompetent, racist, self-serving President did so much damage to our nation.
That might be the thing that means the most to me.
