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More Than a Tribute: Learning to See Through My Grandpa's Eyes When I began recreating my grandfather Robert George Etienne's paintings, I thought I was simply honoring his memory. Instead, I discovered something much deeper. Each pastel drawing became an opportunity to slow down and notice the thoughtful choices he made as an artist—the play of light on a kitchen pot, the delicate blues of summer hydrangeas, the warmth of a fresh-picked peach, and the vibrant colors of a simple bouquet. Along the way, I realized that the greatest inheritance he left me wasn't his traveling easel, his oil paints, or even his artwork. It was the ability to find beauty in ordinary moments. This video is an invitation to remember someone who shaped the way you see the world and to reflect on the creative legacy that lives on through each of us. Happy heavenly 100th birthday, Grandpa. 🎨 Original painted artwork by Robert George Etienne 🖍️ Soft pastel recreations by Jackie Morreale 🌐 View Robert George Etienne's tribute art gallery.  82 acrylic paintings by my grandfather, Robert George Etienne, and 4 re-creations in pastel Remembering Robert George Etienne Through his Art By Jackie Morreale Every artist leaves something behind. Sometimes it is displayed in galleries, sometimes it hangs on the walls of a family home, and sometimes it lives through the hands of someone they inspired. My name is Jackie Morreale, and I'm the host of Wisdom for Wannabes. This is the story of my grandfather, Robert George Etienne, through his art. This past Thursday, we celebrated his heavenly hundredth birthday. Many people knew him as a World War II veteran who earned a purple heart, a husband, and a father of eight children. But to me, he was Grandpa, and Grandpa was an artist. Grandpa had a gift for finding beauty in everyday moments. He painted peaceful seascapes, flowers, fruit, simple scenes from didn't need grand subjects. He saw beauty in the ordinary. Before he passed away in 2024, Grandpa gave me his travelling easel and oil paints. After his passing, my grandmother, Mary Etienne, shared part of his painted plate collection with me. Those paintings became a connection to the artist that he was. To honor Grandpa for his heavenly hundredth birthday, I decided to recreate four of his original acrylic paintings on plates in my own medium, soft pastels on paper. They are not exact copies, they are conversations across generations.
1: RED BOUQUET The first one is drawing grandpa's red flower bouquet. Before I even started, a gust of wind knocked over the heavy Lenox glass pitcher I was using to hold the flowers. It shattered across the wooden floor. After cleaning up the glass, I ended up cutting my left hand. So yes, I literally bled for Grandpa's bouquet. It isn't my favorite flower drawing but I love it because sitting there recreating grandpa's work, it felt like he was with me. It became another special memory.
2: BLUE HYDRANGEA The second drawing that I attempted to recreate was Grandpa's Blue Hydrangeas. Growing up in Long Island, New York, I remember seeing these beautiful flowers everywhere during the warmer months. Grandpa's painting immediately transported me back there. Simple joy of noticing something beautiful.
3: HIERLOOM TOMATOES Drawing Grandpa's heirloom tomatoes. This painting was the one that made me appreciate Grandpa not only as my grandfather but as a true artist and creative genius. Grandpa grew heirloom tomatoes in his own backyard. He loved gardening, and I remember him always making tomato soup. Those memories are so him, but when I created this painting, I discovered something deeper. I suddenly saw the artist behind the image. The painting is simple, quiet, almost understated. But the more I looked, the more I noticed. The way the tomato reflected off the pot, the shape of the handle, the strong perpendicular lines between the wood grain and the way the light created depth and balance. What looked like a simple painting of a tomato was actually a lesson in composition, observation, and restraint. After all these years, he's still teaching me how to see.
4: PEACHES Part 4, drawing grandpa's peaches. Peaches and nectarines are my absolute favorite food to eat, which makes this painting especially meaningful. There's something magical about a fresh picked peach. The soft texture, the sweet smell, the first bite filled with summer. As the warm oranges and golden colors, I wasn't just drawing fruit. I was remembering: imagining the taste, the smell, and the feeling of those moments again. That is the gift of art. It allows us to revisit the people and places we love, no matter where they are.  Robert George Etienne original acrylic art next to Jackie Morreale's re-creations in pastel on paper IMAGINATION EXERCISE: As you look at these paintings, I invite you to imagine stepping into one of grandpa's scenes. Imagine walking through a summer garden filled with blue hydrangeas. Feel the warm breeze. Notice the colors. Imagine reaching for a peach fresh from the tree, feeling its soft skin and tasting the sweetness of summer. Taking in the beauty of something simple. --- IN LOVING MEMORY: This is what grandpa's art gave me: a way to pause, a way to remember, and a way to feel connected across time. My grandfather's paintings remind me that creativity is one of the greatest gifts that we can pass down. An artist's life does not end when they are gone. Their vision continues through the people they inspire. Every time I pick up my pastels, I think about my grandpa. His easel, an actual palette, his paintings. His way of noticing natural beauty. And now his art continues through mine. Happy heavenly 100th birthday, Grandpa! Thank you for your service. Thank you for your creativity. Thank you for teaching me to see the world a little bit differently.
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Sometimes the best vacations aren't the ones that take us far from home; they're the ones that remind us how much wonder has been waiting nearby all along. In this Wisdom for Wannabes blog voice note reflection, Jackie Morreale shares one of her favorite days of the summer: a family paddleboard adventure from Phil Foster Park to Peanut Island in Palm Beach County. What started as a simple staycation became an unforgettable journey filled with stingrays, tropical fish, sandbars, houseboats, unexpected kindness, one spectacular wipeout, and a reminder that life rarely follows the straight line shown on a map. The episode concludes with a 2-Minute Imagination Exercise: Your Seaside Odyssey, inviting you to picture your own island and reflect on the adventure you've been waiting to begin. Favorite Quotes: - "The map shows a straight line. Life rarely does." - "Sometimes the easiest way forward isn't paddling harder. Sometimes it's simply realizing that you can stand." - "We weren't really paddling to Peanut Island. We were practicing what it feels like to begin something we've never done before." - "Sometimes staycations are the best vacations." - "The greatest adventures begin with one simple question: 'Do you think we can make it?'"  Jackie Morreale with snorkel gear on her Peanut Island Odyssey
Peanut Island Odyssey By Jackie Morreale I would love to tell you about one of my favorite days of summer. We're not talking about an expensive vacation. It wasn't a cruise, although there was water involved. It was a staycation that turned into an Odyssey. Our mission was simple: Take one very well-loved paddleboard from under the bridge to another island in Palm Beach County, which called Peanut Island. Our paddleboard has seen better days. It's teal, as you can see, probably about four or five years old. Every foam pad on top of it is peeling from years of adventures. We strapped two dry bags onto the front of the board, one with food and drinks, the other one had towels, goggles, and snorkels. We made one promise before we left: 'Let's try our best not to flip the paddleboard.' Which, if you've ever tried balancing two children - one being an energetic little boy who loves doing backflips, and one adventurous daughter - two dry bags, and one determined mom on a single paddleboard, it is a pretty ambitious goal. The adventure started before we even touched the water. We carried the inflated board toward the beach until a lifeguard stopped us. 'You can't launch here,' we heard. Launch. It was such a funny word for putting a paddleboard into the water. It kind of makes you feel like you're preparing for an official boat launch, or maybe even a spaceship. So we carried our little spaceship further down the beach, past the snorkelers, past the white buoys, until we finally reached a place where we were allowed to begin. The moment we climbed aboard, all three of us, stable on one paddleboard, someone snorkeling nearby looked up at us and casually pointed beneath our board. He said, 'There are stingrays under you.' There they were. Just gliding. Quietly sharing the water with us. Nobody panicked, we simply smiled and kept paddling. Soon we reached the boating channel. The current was against us, and boats were moving through at 5mph. The three of us were moving considerably slower than 5mph. It felt like every paddle stroke gained only inches across this boating channel. One small motorboat slowed down and patiently waited for us to cross, which felt like forever. But that simple act of kindness somehow made me even more determined. Eventually we reached the houseboats. Not boats that look like boats, boats that looked like actual houses, little floating neighborhoods with windows, tiny boards tied beside them. Then something unexpected happened: The water became so shallow we could simply step off the paddleboard.
The water was crystal clear, warm, and turquoise. We walked in two feet of water. We laughed. We pulled the paddleboard across the sandbar together. And we found that sometimes the easiest way forward isn't paddling harder. Sometimes it's simply realizing that you can stand. When the water deepened again, we climbed back onto the board one by one without tipping it over. Back into the current. Back toward the island. Back on our mission. I paddled. My daughter used her hands behind me like an extra engine. My son jumped into the water and kicked underneath the board, to become our motor. Everyone helped. By the time the beach was finally in clear sight, we were exhausted. So we started counting. It was 41 more strokes. Forty more strokes... Thirty more... Twenty... Ten. And finally, the nose of the paddleboard touched the sand on this beach that is Peanut Island. Our Odyssey mission was complete! After an hour and a half, we had made it. The dry bags had stayed dry, and we went exploring underwater.  Mission complete! We made it to Peanut Island on the paddleboard. We drifted past needlefish. We floated beside boats that had arrived there the normal way: with motors. We reached the rocks near the inlet. It felt like swimming into another world. Schools of angelfish, clown fish, bright tropical fish of every shape. A lone barracuda quietly passing by. And my personal favorite, the blue-green parrot fish. So beautiful. Their scales shimmered with every color of the sea as they happily munched on sargassum floating nearby. The same seaweed that people, including me, complain about on the beach at this time of year, was a feast for them. It's funny how perspective changes everything. Around 6:30pm we looked at each other and realized: If it took us an hour and a half to get here, we should probably head back home. The return trip began slowly, really slowly. was paddling as hard as I could while my legs dangled in the water and we barely moved. Then another paddle border glided effortlessly past us, standing, relaxed, looking like she hadn't even broken a sweat. So I called out, 'How are you going so fast?' She smiled and said, 'Pull your feet out of the water.' I folded my legs on the board very carefully as to not rock the boat, literally. Suddenly we were flying! Well, flying for us. We moved pretty quickly. We stopped for pictures on the sandbar. We were brave enough to take out my phone and laughed and did cartwheels and had a blast. It was beautiful. We were back in the two feet of water sandbar paradise. A sunset painted the sky. We could see the beach under the bridge just ahead. Everything felt easy. Only 30 minutes of rowing this time. The current was with us. But maybe... too easy. As we approached the final channel, I folded my legs back into that same position, boarding the boat as to not rock it with all three of us and the two dry bags, which are still dry.  Back on the sandbar! Right before... Then... wipe out! All three of us tipped over. Our two dry bags, now suspended completely upside down by these things, were half in the water. A mask floated away, snorkels drifted. It was chaos. My incredible kids went into rescue mode immediately, swimming their hearts out, treading water, pushing the paddleboard upright with all their might, retrieving everything that floated away. We didn't lose a thing, although the dry bags were definitely not dry anymore. I refused to check on the electronics until we were safely back. When we finally reached the shore, it ended up that the key worked, the phone worked. Everything was heavy. Everything smelled like seawater. Our souvenir from our Peanut Island Odyssey, and somehow everything was perfect. We just had an island adventure. Later that evening after packing away the blow up paddleboard and rewarding ourselves with giant ice cream sundaes, I looked at a map and I realized something: From the park under the bridge to Peanut Island is less than a mile as the pelican flies. It doesn't look very far, but maps don't show:
The map shows a straight line. And life rarely does. Sometimes we look at someone else's success and think, 'Well, they only had to go a mile.' Maybe. But we have no idea what currents they paddled against. Looking back, I realized we weren't really paddling to Peanut Island. We were practicing what it feels like to begin something we've never done before.
Maybe that's how every worthwhile adventure works. 2-Minute Imagination Exercise: Your Seaside OdysseyToday I'd love to invite you on your own 'mental' seaside journey. Close your eyes. Imagine warm sand beneath your feet. Hear the rhythm of gentle waves rolling onto the shore. Feel the warmth of the sun on your shoulders and a soft ocean breeze across your face. In front of you waits a paddleboard. Maybe it's brand new. Maybe it's scratched. Maybe it's exactly the one you're carrying through life right now. It's enough. Take one deep breath. And step onto the board. Feel it gently rock beneath you and begin paddling toward your own island. A dream you've put off. A painting you're looking to create. A book waiting to be written. A conversation you've needed to have. A healthier version of yourself. As you paddle, notice the current. Instead of fighting it, simply keep taking the next stroke. Notice what appears along the way. Perhaps a stingray glides peacefully beneath you. Bright tropical fish remind you that beauty often hides below the surface. A stranger offers exactly the advice that you needed to hear. A gentle breeze reminds you that you don't have to do everything alone. And if somewhere along your journey, you fall into the water... Smile. Sometimes it becomes your favorite part of the story. Now imagine arriving at your island. Step onto the warm sand. Take a deep breath. And look around. Notice what you've discovered, not just about this place, but about yourself. Sometimes staycations are the best vacations. Sometimes, the greatest adventures begin with an old paddleboard, two kids, two dry bags, and one simple question: 'Do you think we can make it?' That's all an Odyssey really is. Have a wonderful day!  Morreale Peanut Island Snorkel Crew Summary Jackie Morreale shares her journey of celebrating success, facing failure, and the lessons learned about preparation, resilience, and community. This episode emphasizes that failure is a stepping stone to growth and the importance of lifting others as we climb. Topics:
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Chapters: 00:00 The Day After My Biggest Success, I Failed 00:20 Thank You, Wisdom for Wannabes Community 01:09 YouTube Silver Creator Award Celebration 01:54 I Failed a $200 Fitness Certification Exam 02:20 Shout Out: School of Rock 02:32 Shout Out: Lucie Pierro & Breathe Music Vocal Collective 03:12 Preparation Isn't Punishment—It's Protection 04:32 Wisdom from Pilot Johannes Schwab: Confidence Through Discipline 05:09 Respect the Process 05:31 Imagination Exercise: Picture Your Finish Line 07:30 My Son's Lesson at the Finish Line 08:16 Wisdom from Educator Dr. Roy McGriff: "Lift as You Climb" 09:02 Final Thoughts & Thank You
Failure is a Teacher! Finish Your Race, & Lift As You ClimbBy Jackie Morreale The day after I celebrated one of the biggest accomplishments of my career, I failed. But not in the way you would think. My name is Jackie Morreale, and I'm the host of Wisdom for Wannabes. First, I failed to say thank you. Thank you to every person who has watched an interview, listened to an episode, subscribed to the channel, left a thoughtful comment. Last Sunday, my family and closest friends gathered to celebrate the arrival and opening of the YouTube Silver Creator Award for Wisdom for this channel. Woohoo! This award represents one year of my life fully devoted to interviewing remarkable people. Taking a leap of faith that the wisdom shared through those interviews would somehow reach the people who need it most. Every conversation teaches me something new, and those thousands of quiet hours have become this very public milestone. The award may have the Wisdom for Wannabes name on it, but it belongs to every guest who trusted me with their story, and every person who believed those stories were worth watching. Before I tell you about my second failure, thank you, thank you. Thank you for building this community with me. Thank you for being here. Then, on Monday, I failed a test. I sat for a group fitness certification exam, and I failed, with flying colors. The exam cost about $200, but the real cost was my pride. The truth is I convinced myself that I didn't need to study. Twenty years ago, I was a certified personal trainer, group fitness instructor, spinning instructor, Zumba instructor, Pilates instructor, yoga instructor, you name it. I assumed that all that experience would carry me through this exam. It didn't. I learned that experience might be valuable, but preparation is indispensable. For a few days, I was disappointed in myself. My daughter even reminded me that I wasn't acting myself after I got the results. She was right. Failure has a way of shaking our confidence before it strengthens our character. A week later, though, I realized something inspiring: I learned far more by failing than I ever would have by passing. If I had passed without studying, I would have walked away believing that preparation wasn't necessary. Instead, failure reminded me that every worthwhile goal deserves our full attention. It humbled me. (continued below)
Ironically, another experience from this year taught me the exact opposite lesson. I auditioned for something that genuinely scared me: a singing group. Unlike the fitness exam, I prepared. I signed up for lessons at a local school called School of Rock. Shout out to all my teachers at the School of Rock. You rock! I joined a group Breathe Music Vocal Collective. Shout out to Lucie Pierro and all the folks in the Breathe Music Vocal Collective. I practiced scales, lip trills, breathing exercises, harmonies, and vocal technique. I surrounded myself with singers who were more experienced and better than I was and am. I became a beginner again, open to anyone and everyone's skills. I gained wisdom and practiced skills that I hadn't used in years. And the audition went well. (Yay!) The difference wasn't talent; the difference was preparation. A few days later, on the 4th of July, my family and I decided to celebrate by running a 5K before watching the fireworks. My nine-year-old son has always been the strongest runner in the family, but this race was different. He hadn't been training consistently, the weather was brutally hot, and in hindsight, eating a hot dog before a 5K race probably isn't the best decision. Around mile two, he started hurting. He wanted the race to be over. I slowed down, and I held his hand. Reminded him that he'd already done the hardest part; that we were closer to the finish line than we were to the start. I told him to picture the finish line, to imagine all the spectators cheering for him, and to remember how lucky he was that his body could carry him forward. How lucky we all are, in fact. Little by little, his stride came back. He found another gear. He crossed the finish line one second ahead of me, very happily. Watching him struggle, though, reminded me that preparation isn't punishment; it's protection.
Preparation doesn't eliminate challenges; it gives us the strength to meet them. One of my podcast guests and very good friends, Johannes Schwab, a pilot from Austria, shared something I will never forget in his interview. He studied so thoroughly for his aviation exams that by the time the test day arrived, he wasn't worried about failing. He had prepared beyond what was required. The 5 Ps – prior preparation prevents poor performance. That's confidence that can only be earned through discipline. There's an old saying that what people see in public is simply a reflection of what happened in private.
Those invisible moments are where success is actually built. Failure reminded me: Respect the process. The next time I walk in to take that exam, I won't assume that my past accomplishments are enough. I will walk in overly prepared. Not because I'm afraid to fail, but because I've learned what preparation really means. It isn't just passing a test; it's about becoming the kind of person who earns the result (continued below) Imagination Exercise: Finish Your Race, Lift as You ClimbA simple imagination exercise. It might help you get to the finish line. Let's close our eyes for a minute. Picture your own finish line. Maybe it's the exam that you've been studying for. Maybe it's an audition. A presentation. A race. A business that you've dreamed of starting. A book that you're writing. Artwork you're creating. Or simply becoming a healthier, happier version of yourself. Now imagine you're in that last mile of a race. Your legs are heavy. Your breathing is louder than the crowd. Your mind whispers, 'You've done enough.' Then another voice answers, 'You've already come this far.' You're no longer standing where you started. Every practice session, every early morning, every page you studied, every mistake, every failure, every time you got back up... they have all brought you here, to this moment. You look ahead, and the finish line is finally in sight. You can hear the announcer calling names. You hear cheering. Now imagine that every person lining the course knows exactly what you've overcome to get here. They know the setbacks no one else saw. They know the mornings that you didn't feel like getting out of bed but did anyway. They know about the failures that taught you. They know the dream that you almost gave up on. They're cheering anyway. Not because you're the fastest, but because you didn't quit. Your stride gets a little lighter. Your shoulders relax. One more moment of courage, then you cross the finish line. Someone reaches out a hand. Maybe it's a volunteer; maybe it's the exact encouragement you needed at exactly the right time. Take a deep breath. Feel the gratitude. Feel the relief. Feel the quiet confidence that comes from doing something hard. Then notice something else. There are still people out on the course. Some are smiling, some are wondering if they're going to make it. Without thinking, you turn around, you go back toward clap, you cheer, you hold out your hand. You tell them exactly what someone else once told you: ‘You've got this. Keep going. I'm here if you need me. I believe in you.’ At that race finish line, that's exactly what I saw my son do. After finishing the race, exhausted, the announcer said, 'Somebody shake that young man's hand.' A woman stepped forward from the crowd; she smiled, congratulated him, and shook his hand. A few minutes later, after he'd caught his breath, he walked back to the finish line. Not to race again, not to celebrate himself. To congratulate other runners as they crossed. He offered high fives, he shook hands, he cheered for people he'd never met. I don't think he realized it, but in that moment, he stopped being someone who needed encouragement and became someone who gave it. Watching him reminded me that maybe the finish line wasn't the destination after all. Maybe it's the place where our next responsibility begins. One of my earliest podcast guests on Wisdom for Wannabes, Dr. Roy McGriff, an educator and sixth-degree black belt, shared a phrase that has stayed with me ever since that conversation: ‘Lift as you climb.’ That's what preparation is for. That's what failure prepares us to do. Not simply to collect another simply to pass another test, but to become the kind of person who reaches back, extends a hand, and reminds someone else that they can do hard things too. So, prepare, study, practice, and fail. Try again and cross your own finish line. Then turn around, someone else is still out there. You didn't need someone to carry you this time, but maybe someone else needs you. 'Lift as you climb.' Have a wonderful day and thank you for showing up for Wisdom for Wannabes. Shout-Outs in this blog article:
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Jackie MorrealeJackie writes from her own experiences and reflections on her journey in seeking wisdom, creativity, spirituality, and life in general. This is "putting thyself out there" at its finest. 
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