The questioner, dressed in Cardinal colors, was waiting with us for a table at Guido's "On the Hill" in St Louis. It was the bottom of the ninth inning of a cold drizzly game and the home town team was losing. Lots of drenched fans were bailing out and showing up for warmth and really good Italian. The waiting room was crowded, noisy and the air was close. Sitting tranquilly in her young aunt's lap atop a bar stool was Amelia, her blond ringlets perking up in the humidity, eyes following the commotion, one arm linked into her Meme's. Botticelli could never have captured her.
She had been up at 6:00, rode in an stroller three rainy miles through Forest Park with an adoring throng of thousands, been handed through the arms of countless relatives, entertained and amused all her admirers and now was hosting a late evening supper. This was a big day for a two year old, but there was not a murmur.
" This is Amelia," said one of the cluster of folks in raincoats and bright blue green "Team Amelia" tee shirts. "She has a team because she was born three months early, the size of this beer mug and look at her, SHE'S PERFECT!
Love!
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