Scent and memory

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.

Grandpa and Grandma