And speaking of smelling...

I am not a sentimental person.
"Uh, Carrot? What does that have to do with smelling?"
Hold on, eventually I'll get there.
I'm just bad at titles.
Anyhoo, like I said, I'm not a sentimental person.
When my grandma died, I got one of her bathrobes, and a frilly purple/neon orange apron.
I got rid of them.
When my other grandma died, I got her china.
I gave it to my sister.
When my sister gifted me my great aunts roll top desk with a hutch, I gave it to my other sister.
I used to like antiques.
I can't stand them now.
I guess I just don't like old things really.
That brings me to my house.
I live in my grandma and grandpa's house.
Originally built in '39, it was moved up the hill when the mall came in (in '59) and a basement and more rooms were added.
It's old.
"Let me guess, your house smells."
You are good.
It smells.
My nephew came in one day and proclaimed that my house smelled like "dead bones".
I don't think it's that bad.
But it does smell.
In the summer, when it gets warm, it really smells.
Did you know that smell is a memory trigger?
When I walk in my kitchen, it smells the way it did when my grandma was in it.
When I go in the basement, I can smell my grandpa.
When I go up in the attic, it stills smells like it did when we used to go up and get canning jars for my Grandma.
When my uncle died a month ago, I was thinking of a picture that exists of him holding me in the doorway of this house.
He was dressed as Santa Claus, and I was in my Polyester Snoopy dress.
I thought to myself,
"I never ever EVER would have imagined me living in this house one day."
and then I got the impression that my Grandma made sure I got this house.
I'm not sure why.
Maybe I cleaned it so much growing up, she figured I knew how to handle it.
No idea.
But lately the smells in this house have been strong.
Really strong.
Enough to make me appreciate living here.
Because I never really did before.
Oh yes, I appreciate having a house to live in, I just imagined at this stage in my life I'd be living in a new house, with new carpet, and nice landscaping, in a nice new neighborhood.
But, as many of us know, our lives do not always go the way we plan them, do they?
Sometimes we are handed things, and we don't know why, or if we even want them.
I now consider myself lucky.
Lucky that the same ants that harassed my Grandma, now harass me.
The same dry grass that adorned her front yard, now adorns mine. (Even after being replanted 5 different times.)
The same hyrdrangea, the same camelia bush, and the same roses that she pruned, I now prune.
I do laundry in the basement that she did laundry in.
I wipe the same kitchen counters she wiped.
I put things on the cutting board my grandpa put his pan of oatmeal on.
At any time, I can go up in my attic, pull out the yellow shag carpet square, sit on it, and look up at the roof and see things my grandpa hung there.
I can smell my grandparents anytime I want to.
No one else has that, but me, and my family.
And that?
Is special.



And maybe a tad weird, but I don't care.