Heirlooms

How to describe Pop?

Pop was my dad's grandfather, my great grandfather. I never met him. He died before I was born, but one of my earliest memories is of him, of sitting on a bench in a train station next to a man telling me he's my great grandfather. I've seen pictures of Pop, and I'm pretty sure it's him in my memory. That memory might just be there because of the world of stories about Pop that live on.

Pop spent most of his adult life working in glass. He was kind of a rennaissance man, so he applied himself to several trades; he worked at a specialty bookbinding house for a while, he painted, he etched glass, he cooked. He invented the ravioli recipe my family traditionally makes for Christmas dinner every year. When my father was a teenager, Pop took him and his cousins on trips up to NYC, down to Trenton, to Boston, to Washington, D.C., and cultivated a real love of travel in them. My mom describes him as the most complete gentleman she ever met.

I've always liked the stories about Pop. Like I said, I never met him, but since I became an adult, I've always felt like some part of him was a part of me.

Today, I got home and found an unexpected package at my door. I opened it, and found these inside:



These were decorated by Pop. He etched the Rs onto them (R for Rossi, of course). They are the only two left in the world, and my father gave them to me, because he said my Christmas gift this year reminded him of Pop and of the spirit of experiment, invention, and artistry that Pop had.

I can't think of a time I've felt more honored. I can't think of a gift I'll cherish more.