I remember my grandmother taking me and my sisters to the Steel

The words of Jill Biden shimmer with the golden light of memory: “I remember my grandmother taking me and my sisters to the Steel Pier in Atlantic City. We would watch the diving bell and see the diving horse leap into the pool. We would take the bus there, and I just smile thinking about all of us running around the pier on those days.” Though spoken of a childhood past, these words reach beyond nostalgia; they remind us of the power of family, the enchantment of shared experience, and the way in which joy, once lived, continues to shine through the corridors of time.

To speak of a grandmother is to summon the archetype of the elder—guardian of tradition, preserver of memory, giver of gifts that are not of gold but of presence. In every age, the elder has been the thread that binds generations, passing wisdom not always in stern lessons but in simple acts: the journey to the market, the walk to the river, or, as here, the pilgrimage to the Steel Pier, that wonder of the American seaside. In Jill Biden’s remembrance, the grandmother is not only family, but also guide, leading the children into a realm of marvels and laughter, giving them stories that would outlive her own days.

The Steel Pier, with its amusements, its flashing lights, its spectacles like the diving bell and the legendary diving horse, becomes more than a place of entertainment. It is a temple of childhood wonder, where the ordinary bus ride transformed into a journey toward the extraordinary. The children, wide-eyed, beheld sights both daring and magical—animals leaping, machines plunging beneath the waves, performers defying gravity and fear. These images carved themselves into their spirits, not because of the spectacle alone, but because they were experienced together, as a family united in awe.

History, too, offers echoes of this truth. Consider the ancient Greeks, who brought their children to the great amphitheaters, where dramas of gods and heroes unfolded. The plays themselves were grand, but the true inheritance lay in the shared memory, the family sitting together beneath the sky, experiencing one story as one people. The Greeks understood what Jill Biden’s recollection makes plain: that it is not merely the event that endures, but the bond forged by sharing it.

The smile she recalls in the present is not small, but a sign of the eternal flame of memory. The children who once ran upon the pier are now grown, scattered, changed by time. Yet when she summons those days, they live again. This is the alchemy of memory—it gathers the past, presses it like a flower between the pages of the soul, and allows its fragrance to be breathed anew. What is lost is never wholly gone; what is remembered is never fully lost.

From this remembrance arises a lesson for us all: do not underestimate the power of simple days. A bus ride, a pier, a grandparent’s hand, siblings running in laughter—these may seem small in the moment, yet they are the seeds of joy that grow into mighty trees of memory. In the end, it is not possessions but moments that endure, not wealth but togetherness, not luxury but laughter.

Therefore, let us take action: bring children, friends, and loved ones into experiences that stir wonder. Visit places of beauty, even if simple. Walk together, talk together, share a spectacle, however humble. For it is not the grandeur of the sight, but the presence of love that etches the memory. And when you are older, may you, too, smile at the thought of days when you ran, unburdened, through the world with those you loved.

Thus, Jill Biden’s memory is not hers alone—it is an inheritance for all who hear. It calls us to honor our elders, to cherish our childhood, and to treasure the fleeting days that seem ordinary but are, in truth, the jewels of eternity. For when we remember, we do not merely look back; we breathe life into the sacred truth that joy shared is joy eternal.