Growing up, a staple accessory on my family’s coffee table was a large piece of cut glass with a pattern of flowers and stars that seemed far too pretty for its purpose: holding my parents’ cigarette ashes and cigarette butts.
At the time, my parents were heavy smokers, and at least one ashtray was in several rooms in our home, as well as the garage and basement, including souvenir ones that my paternal grandparents brought back from yearly trips to Las Vegas.
After my parents quit smoking cold turkey for good, I don’t remember what happened to the other ashtrays, but that pretty cut glass one remained
