Grandma's House

I put the unopened pack of cigarettes to my nose and sniffed. Suddenly, unexpectedly, a lump welled up in my throat and my eyes filled with tears. The scent was not tobacco, as I had thought it would be, but rather the smell of a house – my Grandma’s house.

Grandma’s house did not smell like an old person’s house. It didn’t smell particularly clean, but not dirty, either. It wasn’t musty unless we were in the basement. It smelled old even though it was built in 1964, probably owing to the old stuff moved from one old house to another through the years. Great-grandpa, who all of us kids called “the Old Grandpa,” lived with Grandma and Grandpa in the years preceding his death, and his old stuff was there, too.

I think these cigarettes must have belonged to the Old Grandpa, because to the best of my knowledge neither of my grandparents smoked after they moved into their retirement home – their dream home. They were in a woven cigarette case seemingly made especially to hold that particular pack of cigarettes. They had been placed in the case with the expectation of smoking them later, but clearly that expectation had never been fulfilled by the owner, whoever he or she may have been.

It's strange how things can take one by surprise. The smell of Grandma’s house swept me immediately back to my childhood, and the days spent walking around her house, getting into all kinds of things, some of them mischievously, and never hearing a sharp word from my Grandma. Grandpa sometimes scolded us, but he never raised his voice. I guess it’s different with grandkids.

Grandma didn’t keep house very well. She was an excellent cook, loved to garden, sew, crochet, and make things. She was always making at least 10 different things, all at the same time, and her back room was literally crammed with project materials of every kind. Hobby Lobby could have opened a satellite store in her house. My sister and I frequently made things. Christmas ornaments, book marks, all kinds of things – and whenever we asked, Grandma’s response was always, “Sure.”

Grandma’s house was a happy place to be for me. It was like another home because we were there so often. As a teenager and young adult I didn’t go there as often as I should have, and I regret that. Don’t most people regret some of the choices of their youth? When we moved Grandma out of her house and were readying it, so we thought, for sale, I felt sad. Mom said it was because it felt like another home, and in many ways she was right. It was a place I could always be whenever I wanted to. During my parents’ health food kick that lasted maybe a month, I asked to go to Grandma’s house a lot.

My uncle lives there now. I’d love to go to what is now his house, and look around the basement for other things that I might like to have, but I don’t want to intrude. It just seems weird to say “Hey, I know we’ve hardly talked in several years, but can I come into your house and wander around the basement?” So instead, I will keep Grandma’s house locked in my memory, to be opened unexpectedly by things as unusual as a pack of cigarettes.

I miss you, Grandma.