Oh, how I miss the Cape...

I remember simpler times at the side of my grandfather, M. Prescott, always with a croquet mallet in his hand, as we'd perambulate the waterline of his Cape estate as the dusk fell upon another perfect day with my "pee-pop."

Mater would urge us inside of the solarium to enjoy the last few ergs of savored sun-borne succor, as the adults would tink glasses of tawny port together. My pater would suggest a game of baccarat for the adults as darkness set, and we children would escape to the rumpus room for a spate of quiet journaling, lying on our stomachs. Then, pee-pop would come in to the Rumpus room, brass buttons on his navy-blue blazer glinting in the low light, and invite we children in front of the hearth for a rousing story session about how he and his father laid the first railroad tracks into the southern tip of Florida.

After dinner of rare roast beef with horseradish sauce, the men would sip brandies and smoke hand-rolled cigars, and we young boys would marvel from afar, waiting to vie for the day when we could join pee-pop, pater, and uncles N. Gareth and U. Stanton in their discourse.

Of course, days were filled with croquet, squab-hunting, and excursions down to the marina to sail his yacht, the Lady Cakebread, with Baxter, pee-pop's boatswain. Ah, those heady days of yore, when we all wore the family tartan and our crest, sewn onto the breast of our blue blazers.