One of my fondest memories of my grandfather occurred during one of our visits up North to Victoria, Canada. It was my mom, Nate, and I who were there to spend time with Grandma and Grandfather. The three of us had gone on an exploration through downtown Vancouver, and made a significant stop on the sidewalk in front of a street band. They were Irishmen with Irish spirit in their songs and in their instruments. Their charm and rhythms were so contagious that it very much became an atmosphere that we wanted to keep with us always; in our pockets, in our suitcases, through our ears, and in our heads. Resulting in a purchase of a low-quality, burned edition the band was selling behind them on a worn tabletop. The music was especially endearing to my mom, Nate, and I because after that performance we would drive back to Victoria, home to our grandfather, an Irishman; straight from Ireland who ate a baked, whole potato every chance he could. Now once we returned back to the house we found a CD player, brought it into the kitchen, setting it on the breakfast table and pressed "play". Realizing what he heard were fiddles and Old Irish tunes, my grandfather began to jump and dance in the kitchen. His spirit was entirely lifted. He became a tangible image of what those band members might turn out looking like years and years later. He then, opened the freezer door, pulled out a vanilla ice cream container and ice cream cones from the cupboard and started scooping ice into two cones. For myself and Nate. He filled the cone to the very tip, making sure not a single hollow pocket without ice cream remained in the entire cone. It was the heaviest cone I had ever held, and knowing that it was filled with sweet vanilla ice cream made me float with happiness. We sat there in the kitchen, Nate and I, eating ice cream, listening to Irish tunes, and watching our Grandfather, an Irishman dancing. Everything was so good.