Isn't it strange...

...the things that jog your memory? Scientists say smell is the strongest trigger sense. Even if I think of a memory through a flash of colour or a snippet of a song, inevitably, the lingering smell of that memory is the last and most stubborn recollection of all.

Thinking about this after spending the past few days helping my Bettsy and her man renovate their first home. I've been stopping over after work, munching on snacks and listening to music as we roll paint on the walls and tape baseboards.

I volunteered to putty in all the holes and dents along the walls, which were many. (Apparently, a band of wild apes wrestled with each other wearing steel-toed boots. There's no accounting for the sheer volume of damage, otherwise.) As I spent the hours scanning the walls and digging my trowel into the plaster, I couldn't help but be reminded of my maternal grandfather, and how my simple actions mirrored his--long ago as they were.

My grandfather was an incredible man, about whom I plan to one day write more than a simple blog entry. My favourite childhood memories relate to the time I spent with him and my grandmother in Quebec.

But I digress.

Grandpa Williams was a plasterer who built his own home and ran his own company, building many homes throughout Montreal. This was the East, before sheetrock walls made home renovations a cinch. This was a time of laths, crown mouldings and decorative flourishes around ceilings. My grandfather was an artist, not only in his work, but in his life. Filling nail holes at my friends' place suddenly became an image of my grandfather, the artisan, deftly creating something clean and beautiful with the same tools.

Even though he retired during my lifetime, I never remember him wearing a shirt that wasn't flecked with plaster. I remember his strong, dark fingers, stained with paint, as he doodled on the newspaper he always read at the breakfast table. I would sit quietly in or near his lap, nibbling on my toast. I'd inhale the scent of plaster and Colt cigarellos (wine-tipped) in silent worship.

As I finished helping last night and made my way home, my mind smelled faint cigar smoke with a hint of sweet wine. And as I drove home, I smiled.