When my grandfather passed away, I was seven. I don't have many memories with him except for a few. My grandfather resided in Santa Barbara, California and we to visited him quite often. I rememeber the house vividly - the stairs spiraled around the foyer and were carpeted in a dull mint green. The backyard was small and green with tons of lavender, which attracted bees that I was sacred of. My grandfather didn't have a TV. He never decorated for any holidays, so the house looked the same year after year, and season after season. My favorite part of his house was the office. There was one large desk in the center with no computer. To the left there were inset shelves with lots of classic model cars in immaculate condition. He also had a tiny plastic RAV 4 eerily similar to the one in the garage. My grandfather also had a large replica of the bomber plane he flew training for the war. The room was painted white with one large window and no dust. Erik and I used to look at all of the cars in awe, and then my mom would call us to the kitchen and we would sit and eat and drink iced tea.
Now, a baby blue replica Cadillac convertible sits on my white desk, a constant reminder of my grandfather.