A long strange trip...

The door swung open and I glanced up from wiping the bar. This was an unusual view for me; usually Mike or Jake was on this side of the bar, and I was the one coming in the door.

She was carrying three things: A purple cane, a flat cloth bundle called a mesa, and an air of quiet authority. A wide rainbow ribbon hung around her neck, and I got instantly that it was what it looked like: a vestment.

"Gimme a glass, Bear." That was all she said, but the look on her face spoke volumes. I dug back in the Good Stuff cabinet. Dalwhinnie 15, no, Glenlivet 16 Nadura, no, aha. The Corryvreckan. Named for a famous Scottish maelstrom, I knew it would appropriately reflect the whirlpool of thoughts in her head. "This'll do it, lass." The Scots brogue always came out at times like this.

Nobody really noticed the appearance of the Corry, but between the way she carried herself and the emotions pouring off her, the bar went quiet. Someone was at the Line, someone had something to Say. The people Listened as she spoke quietly but clearly.

Except me... I was lost in my own thoughts. I knew her grandfather had not been well. I had not met the man, but I knew they had been close... and if one's progeny was a test of one's character, this gentleman had passed with flying colours, given the lady before me. I was sad not to have met him.

Being on duty, I couldn't share in the toast the usual way, but I cracked open a bottle of Highland Spring and poured myself a glass of Scots bubbly-water... next best thing to aqua vitae, for sure.

She finally stopped speaking for a bit, composed herself, and said, "To Grampa!" Down the hatch with the smoky brew, and into the fire with the glass. **CRASH**

I thought, as my Voss glass was in mid-air, that it might take more than one dustpan to sweep out the fireplace tonight...

... and went to join the hug-pile collecting around her. Bartender or not, *that* I could do.

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lisakit's grandfather was 84.