Cigar Ashes and an Old Trailer

​Grandpa and Grandma Gig spent many summers of my childhood living in a tiny travel trailer in our yard.  It was egg shaped and had one door.  The bed was to the left of the door under the sloping ceiling.  It was shielded from the living area by the closet and some sort of a tiny galley.  To the right of the door was a table with bench seating that could be transformed into a bed.  The walls were wood paneling of some sort.  There was a lingering, stale, closed-for-months smell that never seemed to go away.  Looking back, I suppose they did little other than sleep in the trailer spending the days in the house with us.  Two special memories of those days bring feelings of warm nostalgia to my heart. 
 
On late summer evenings my siblings and I would race to the open second floor windows just as Grandma and Grandpa Gig were leaving the house.  We would yell, “good night”.  They responded, “sleep tight”.  To which we yelled, giggling with delight, “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”  
 
The second memory, the one initiating this walk down memory lane, is cigars.  DH was describing to me the smell of the cigar smoked by an elderly man he had driven home, and I was transported to that trailer, a four-year-old sitting on the bench, feet swinging, watching my Grandma fuss about the small living area.  On the table is an ashtray with the remnants of an abandoned cigar, a perfectly formed cylinder of ash.  And inquisitive me poking a finger into the ash fascinated as the cylinder disintegrates into a formless heap.   
 
I cherish the memories of summers spent with Grandpa and Grandma Gig.  I have no profound insights based on these memories.  I share them to remind you and me to be thankful for the people who helped shape us into who we are today.  God, thank you for Grandma and Grandpa Gig.
 
BTW -  The name is really Gigee but what child doesn’t make up pet names!