It sort of smelled like warm beer on a hot summer's day and the scent, acting so much like a snapshot, made me stop dead in my tracks. It took me back to the summers of the 80's when shoulder pads and leg warmers were acceptable fashion choices and I was just a tomboy with dirty feet and short hair. My brother and I spent a lot of time with my grandparents (R), it seems. It was probably owed more to the fact that my parents needed a cheap babysitter and we were the only grandchildren in a 3000 mile radius that lent itself to the companionship I found with my grandfather than anything else.
There were summers spent at a small camp ground with a fishing hole and a rusty swingset; nights by the campfire and inside a rather cramped camper where the dining table would magically transform into a bed at just the right moment (aka my bedtime). There were lazy weekends when I would get up early - when everyone else was still warm and asleep in their own beds - and ride over to my grandparent's house on my bike to browse the Sunday comics or have grandpa fix a flat tire. There were Saturday evenings when my grandparents would have dinner parties or maybe it was just neighbors stopping over to say hello, regardless, I would stay quiet and out of the way by looking through dusty picture albums stored underneath living room chairs, brushing my fingers over old pictures of my dad when he was my age.
Then, there were the days I would spend with my grandparents - spaghettios for lunch while we watched Wheel of Fortune; playing dress up in my grandmother's sheer lacy curtains that transformed into an ideal wedding dress even as they hung from the window; an old 50's style hoop skirt discarded from my aunt that became the real treasure I found in the attic; stands for my paper dolls crafted by my grandfather's hands; singing Amazing Grace with my grandfather as he soaked his tired worn feet and as I pretended mine were just as tired, just as worn.
I lost two of my grandparents before I was old enough to form any real memories of them. My grandfather (R) died when I was 7, my grandma when I was 20. I lost all of my grandparents at an age when no child should be confronted with the burden of death or the ache of loosing someone close. I remember their funerals with a vividness that still haunts me; the smell of the flowers, the feel of the plush red carpet underneath my mary janes; the outpouring of quiches and casseroles; the whisperings of pain and loss; the silence that seems to envelope all as they confront their memories and their own mortality.
And everyday I wish they were still here. That pain never goes away, it's just dulled by time and the realization that there is a life to live. But sometimes I get a whiff of my past rather through a smell of warm beer on a hot summer's day or through a tattered photograph that brings the past to the forefront and makes me realize how lucky I was for 2 years, 5 years, 7 years and 20 years to be able to hold on to those that I have now lost.
Memories of places so far away and a long time ago.
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