They’re tarring the roof of the Westman Centennial Auditorium. I bike past it every day on my way to work, and again on my way home. It’s actually on campus, so it’s near enough that I can smell the tar from my office if the windows are open.
I don’t like the smell of tar. I don’t think I’m alone in this. But I’ve noticed, the last couple days, that when I’m still about a block away, it doesn’t quite smell like tar. It smells like the grease my grampa Hrushowy used on his tractors.
Which makes me think of the farm, and about my grandparents, and all the happy memories well up.
