As the holiday season is quickly upon us again my mind takes me back to last Christmas season. To my memories of our annual family gathering on my Mom’s side. We had gathered at a local church hall. As with most families in our area it was no longer possible to gather at someone’s house as we once did. You see, both my Mom and Dad come from families of nine children each. As you can imagine, that as time has passed and each child married and had kids of their own and so on you don’t need a degree in higher math to see the exponential growth in our lineages.

As usual we had a carry in dinner or as we say in these parts, supper. It goes without saying that when my Mom’s side gets together no one goes away hungry. There were main dishes and sides of all kinds. My late Grandmother was a talented cook, who while not a master chef at a five star restaurant, could whip up some of the most delicious homemade meals imaginable. From what I can tell she passed this skill down to her children who both male and female have the ability to cook.

After enjoying our meal we huddled around the tables in small groups to visit. Stories were shared about our many adventures growing up and the many fond memories associated with them. Many happy memories were shared about our times growing up where we got to spend time at our grandparents house. As I look back and if my memory serves me correctly my two brothers and I would make our weekly or bi-weekly trek to Grandpa Lengacher’s house with our Mom during the summer. My Mom’s sisters would be there and of course my cousins would be also. While the ladies did what ladies did back then, we kids would have the farm to explore and hopefully not get into too much trouble.

I still remember the trips to Grandma’s house. Mom would pack us into our big old green boat of a car and we would head out across the dusty gravel roads. We couldn’t wait to get to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in the center of the county. As we passed Amish homesteads with clothes hanging out to dry, horses and cows in the pastures munching grass would barely give us notice as we drove by, leaving dusty entrails behind us like an earthbound jet as we headed for our destination. Once at our destination we would pile out, looking for our cousins, ready to share in the adventures that were sure to come our way that day.

While there are many things about those days that I could share and may in the future, there is one thing that came to me that night as we shared our stories – the smell of Grandma’s house, especially the basement. Before we go any further let me explain something about me. I have a what I call a tactile memory. I don’t know if that’s a scientific term but it’s what I like to use to describe how my mind stores my memories. If you are ever around me you and watch me eating something new often times my first reaction will be to sniff it. This gives me a precursory idea of what I am about partake of.  This tactile memory also causes me to not want to let go of physical items in my life that have a memory attached to them. While my amazing wife has the ability to remember things that happened to her simply by accessing her mental hard drive, my simple brain needs a physical item at times to trigger these memories.

But I digress, we can talk about how my mind works at a later date, back to my Grandmas house. While there were many pleasant smells which I associate with her house such as the myriad baked goods and bread stuffing at the Sunday dinners just to name a few, there is one that still stands out to me the most .  In fact, as I type this, if I close my eyes I can almost smell it again. It was their basement. When you entered the house through the front porch you were immediately in the dining room. At the back of the dining room was a small door which lead to the basement.

When you opened this door and began to descend the simple steps you were hit by this unique smell. Calling it a smell almost paints a bad picture in your mind. It had an earthy, wood smoked tinge to it. It was the byproduct of the many butcherings and meat prep that had taken place in this basement. You see, my Moms family would gather at times as a family to butcher hogs and beef. The meat would be prepped in the basement. Many a steak, hamburger and pork sausage were stuffed on the tables and counters in this small, simple space. The sausage would be cooked in a big iron kettle over an open fire outside and brought into the basement where they would be packed in large, lard filled crocks. When the grandkids would visit we would be allowed to go down to the basement with a fork in hand and dig through the lard looking for that buried treasure of pork sausage to be heated up and enjoyed as treat.

Looking back at my childhood brings back many fond memories. At the time I don’t believe I really appreciated the many experiences that I was allowed to be part of. We didn’t always have a lot but what we did have was family. As I sit here pecking away at the keyboard I am glad to have been born into my family and for the many experiences we had and continue to have. Let’s take time today to reflect on our past and try to regain that sense of our heritage.

I don’t know about you but I’m suddenly getting an urge for some fried bacon………..