A Toast to My Grandfather

Imagine the most insanely electric variations of orange, blue, green and red adorning the walls like they were pulled right out of a Crayola box on fire. Add extra large mirrors with golden scrolled frames, supersized stretched canvas paintings and light fixtures dripping like a Quinceanera.

When the louder than life Frank Sinatra momentarily stops blaring, you can hear the sound of your feet on bits of hard wood with every other step muted on worn oriental rugs.

In the winter, you wouldn’t believe the basking indoor temperatures.

Plaques from the Rotary, black and white photos of old Southern fundraising events and the WWII days, and statuettes of Buddha and trinkets of unknown origin line nooks on the desk, wet bar and mantles.
The smell? Pipe tobacco. On a good day, cigars.

I know, it sounds like an obnoxious combination. But it’s my grandfather’s house, and if you could see it, you would swear an interior designer had something to do with it.

The markings of a distinguished 94 year old gentleman pervade every swig of Baileys and coffee, every well earned hum and every gaze at the still chess set in the corner. It’s time. A life lived to the fullest, rounding the corners to the home stretch. Rest. At last.