Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson. . .

As mother-in-laws go, you have to about the coolest. You were the one sitting by you daughter’s husband when he found out he was going to be the 44th President of these United States. The picture was priceless. I had just found out for myself, so seeing that gentle squeezing of hands at a monumental second in our common history made me laugh with sheer happiness.

I had expected the returns to go on for far longer than they did. We seem to have grown used to contested elections. If you had any reservations or doubts about the outcome, you didn’t show it. You seemed to be recognizing what you thought was inevitable.

I’m a political hound, and could talk for hours about how winning North Carolina sealed the deal. Pennsylvania and Ohio didn’t hurt. At 11:00 pm central time on the dot, the second the polls closed on the west coast closed, everyone called the election.

And there you were.

I don’t know what you said to him, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it was something as simple as “That’s done. What’s next?”

I grew up in Tennessee during a time when people of color were not granted the simple right of dignity that is inherent in being human. We didn’t have “colored” drinking fountains, but we might as well have. I never understood why my little black friend, Joseph, couldn’t come over to our house because of what the neighbors would think.

His family was warm and gracious to me. I just wanted to return the favor.

All these years late your daughter looks beautiful. The yellow suit treats her well. It’s stunning, in fact.

She carries the quiet dignity that I’m quite sure that you taught her. The dress only accents it.

Both you and your daughter are mouthy, and I like that. I’m not real good with holding my tongue, either. Not if I think something needs to be said. Saying what’s on your mind is better than carrying around a bag of resentment, most times.

Mrs. Obama, nee, Robinson runs a tight ship and speaks her mind. That speaks volumes about you.

So here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.

Ku-ku-ka-chu.