“Cant’cha smell that smell?”

Yes, I did go through a Lynyrd Skynyrd phase in adolescence. I can only stomach a couple of their songs now. Other bands I periodically loved: The Doors (I’m still okay with some songs, but is there a worse voice than Jim Morrison? Besides Ke$ha), KISS (much like their list of decent songs, a very short phase), Phish (not sure how I avoided suicide without the help of marijuana; really? 15 more minutes of that same chord?), and Caedmon’s Call (contemporary Christian band, think Jars of Clay only whinier).

I guess these were all attempts to ‘be different’. But by so attempting I chose to listen to the same bands all the other ‘different’ kids listened to.

Back to smells; I’m reflecting on my seven mile run last night. I can remember a variety of smells; which is impressive if you know how badly my nose functions.

1)       Dryer sheets: I’m always surprised at how strong the smell of laundry can leak out onto the sidewalks in the morning or at night while I’m running by.

2)       Donuts: When I run by a donut shop, my heart skips a beat. I am passionate about donuts. Cream-filled long johns, iced jelly filled, chocolate iced, or your standard glazed; I love them all.

3)      Cigarette smoke: I wonder if smokers realize how strongly their smoke permeates everything around them. I ran by a house last night where they had left clothes out on tables from their yard sale. I could literally smell the clothes while running by. 

4)       Car exhaust: I hate when I run behind a car and get a breath full of the exhaust. If I remember, I hold my breath until I’m out of range.

Then there’s the old house smell from a run three or four months ago that I can’t forget. As I was making my way down Warren St I passed an old house and I caught the faint smell. It made me feel nostalgic, but I couldn’t immediately identify the connection. I don’t know how to describe the actual scent, but a mile or two later connection dawned on me. It was the smell of my great-grandmother’s house (Grandma Edith). It’s not a very strong smell. Back in the days we used to spend there, I don’t remember noticing it. Was it the smell of old people? Or old house? Or something else? I’m not sure, but I was taken back to that house in Indiana when I caught the scent.

I remember the old wood, warped wood floors and the rugs. I remember the screened in porch, NASCAR always on tv, the cracked sidewalk in front and the metal handrail leading to it that we used to jump on and slide down, the small backyard where we played wiffle ball, the old record player where I hid my brother’s baseball glove and forgot about hiding it for months until Grandma Edith called and told us where she found it. “She found his glove… it was in the record player.” Mom said. “Oh yeah, I hid it there.”

If I could sum up that house in one word, it would be cozy. I wish I had taken the time to visit more often in the final years of Grandma Edith’s life. I miss that place, its smell, and my sweet great-grandmother.

Now I know where my next running route will take me, right by that old house on Warren St.