I was addicted to tobacco for many years. Gave it up finally in 2002. Have been addicted to coffee now since I was about nine years old. Yep. Nine!
Recently, I was sitting on my porch as I almost always do in all kinds of weather, having my first morning coffee. And, as I generally do, I inhaled deep draughts of the SMELL of coffee before I take that first delicious sip. I love the smell probably more than the taste.
A moment later, below me, on the neighbors porch, I heard that distinctive scratch of a striking match and in a moment, up wafts that lovely whiff of a freshly lit cigarette. Even now, ten years later, I love that smell.
I wondered why that is. I think I know. I link both those smells with my grandfather, Grandpa Jones. It was his morning routine too — though not on my lovely apartment deck. He got up earlier than everyone else and I would creep down their creaky old stairs to find him in his white cotton undershirt and work pants belted too high up on his waist, sitting at the little white formica-topped table (with the gold flecks in it) in my grandmother’s bright yellow tiled kitchen. He would be quietly fiddling with his “weather band” radio looking for the local report to determine if today was a fishing day or a fixin’ day. I didn’t care. It was fun to tag along with grandpa whether we were fishing or taking something apart on his workbench. But the smells! That’s what I remember even today. Grandpa’s freshly lit Pall Mall cigarette and his steaming, creamy coffee! Oh sure, I remember the early morning light on his full head of snow-white hair and the scratchy whiskers he rubbed on my cheek when I climbed in his lap of his long, lanky six foot+ frame. But I remember that sweet smell of burning leaf and brewed goodness with a clarity that I remember nothing else.
My grandfather lost his ability to do any of those things. Alzheimer’s robbed him of the ability to fish, fix, fiddle with the radio. He also sang a deep melodious bass in the church choir, recited endless funny nursery rhymes to us as children, and played the mandolin. None of the man I recall remained in the end.
I was out of the country when he was robbed of these joys and he died soon thereafter in a nursing home where my grandmother and aunt had to place him because they could no longer care for him at home. This gentle man reduced to behaviors and outbursts that none had ever seen from him before. Gratefully, I never saw or experienced that Grandpa Jones.
My Grandpa Jones for me is forever that sweet smell. He is evoked for me every morning over coffee and my neighbors cigarette.
I’m walking in this years Alzheimer’s Walk to End Alzheimer’s for my Grandfather. And for my grandmother and Aunt who struggled so hard for so long to care for him. I’m walking for all the other families and caregivers. Because I still can.
