Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Today is Bastille Day in France; and, given the state of Franco-American relations, I doubt Tom Brokaw, Peter Jennings, or Dan Rather will mention it on their broadcasts. Historically, however, Bastille Day symbolizes the French Revolution and the overthrow of the French monarchy, just as the Fourth of July symbolizes our own revolution and the overthrow of the English monarchy.

I love Bastille Day for a variety of reasons, most of them non-political. I studied French in school for six years and enjoyed every minute of it. In fact, the State of Arkansas awarded me a certificate for being the best French scholar in high school in the entire state.

Bastille Day was also my grandmother’s birthday. She was born in 1891 and died in 1987. I never asked if she felt her day was more special because she shared it with the French, but I always thought it was cool.

After Grandma died, Bastille Day became a celebration between my second son, Keith, and myself. By this time, he too had taken six years of French and had spent one academic year in France as an exchange student. His fluency put my Arkansas certificate to shame.

For two or three Bastille Days, Keith and I stole away from our other obligations and family members to have a quaint little dinner in a bistro and practice our French. There we giggled at reading the menu; enjoyed the red, white, and blue of the French flag that graced the table; and shared secrets about what we wanted to be when we both grew up.

We’re almost grown now. Keith lives in New York City with his partner, Chris. And I live with my partner, Earl, in St. Joseph, Michigan. Neither of us has much opportunity to speak French these days, so I’m taking a moment to pull up old memories in honor of Bastille Day.