Ever get smells stuck in your head? in anticlimatic

My grandmother’s house smelled like 1940s linoleum, ancient cigarette smoked wallpaper, thrift stores with mostly old wool items, and a distant whiff of moth balls with cabbage. An extremely unique, extremely aged scent- baked right into the bricks themselves. She had a back porch that was technically indoors, but there was never heat. So when you would visit here there was always this brief expectation after walking through the back door to be inside, but cold darkness would swat you instead. It made the warmth on the other side of that inner door all the more comforting.

She died unceremoniously several months or maybe even a year after I had seen her last. Saddens me to think of now, especially considering how much time I did spend there when I was a child, and later a teenager. She only lived a block from my parents, who I saw every week at least. But she had kind of grown mean, and the last few attempts I made to visit turned me off to doing it again. Kind of on me, I feel.

This evening while walking down to see what the lads were catching at the base of the river, it dawned on me that I’d never smell that house again. It was sold to some young rich folks who made it their own. Yet I can remember that smell as clear as if I was there.

I don’t know why the place haunts me so today. I have a number of core memories- small and specific places my mind glances over when it reaches back to paint a quick mural of the entirety of my life and all the meaningful points within. One of those places is her dining room table- round and large- at night, during the holiday season. I remember smelling that smell and looking out the window into the winter darkness. Not out, exactly, but at the reflection of the room behind me. All colorful twinkling Christmas decorations blurry and split against the reflecting glass.

Eventually made it to a bar and had a beer and a sandwich. A large group of people a generation or so younger than me sat together and had a pretty good time right next to me. I was alone, so I listened in a bit on what they were talking about. Just normal stuff, stuff I remember discussing with groups of people in similar bars once upon a time.

At a certain point lives diverge so far, and aging wreaks such havoc, that those bonds of group fellowship are broken down and folks splinter off to their eventual ends. The world of young people is like this completely different world, and a temporary one. You are a part of your own, briefly, and then off you go and it’s another group of people’s turn to have the town. I remember drifting from bar to bar to coffee shop to art gallery, knowing everyone working everywhere, knowing most of the patrons, and half of the people I’d pass on the street. You’re really in it together, as young people.

But older people? Fuck, who cares about older people? There’s no script for them. I really miss the magic of knowing so many people. I miss that feeling of being connected to deep and beautiful tendrils of the species across different individuals and families that welcomed me in.

This window bothered me on the way home, just after dark. A grow light was on, and I could see all kinds of plants and heavy moisture built up on the glass, blocking most of the view inside. It triggered an odd memory of another kitchen, so long ago. Summer. A hippie’s kitchen, somewhere. A boomer still in child bearing years. Cozy, but…strange too. A spirit of pre dawn darkness, morning news on low in the background, and the smell of school.

Last updated April 23, 2024