Nostalgia

By Stephanie Linehan

Nostaglia

Driving into Wisconsin Rapids is a very distinct smell of the paper mill. A place my grandpa worked at for many years until his retirement. I thought every kid was gifted reams of paper from their grandparents on a regular basis. We always had loads of paper to color and create with. A fine, appreciated memory, that’s for sure. Grandpa worked so hard and saved so much, my college roommate once asked me if he was the president of the paper mill.

The smell of the mill lingered as we drove through town onto Highway 54 towards their place. A long, dirt driveway lined with tall evergreen trees. Trees sometimes thinned out by the mill. A plot of Christmas trees growing right off the highway. A warm house ahead. Every improvement crafted and made with my grandpa’s own two hands. Walking in, another familiar, warm aroma to trigger numerous Thanksgiving meals, grandpa’s stovetop popcorn, grandma’s oven roasted nachos and her homemade stuffing, Coast bar soap smell from the linen closet, freshly laundered bedding, Point beer, and playing cards. That mix just draws me in and makes me feel welcomed, loved, and safe.

I remember grandma’s kisses being sharp and her calling me ‘Stephie.’ I remember her buttered toast and orange juice in amber glassware. And the coffee - cream and sugar. Hers in a regular mug, mine in my tea cup. Ingrained in my memory forever.

Take me back. I love life and going forward; making memories; growing and learning. But I get so lonesome, so nostalgic for what was. I miss what was. I miss the tradition and the people who started them. I yearn and seek. I replay, revisit, recall, and remember. I search up, flip through, and pour over. In fact, if anyone can pin down a white, bristle hairbrush similar to the one my grandma had and my mom with her own as well, I will forever be grateful. Last I heard, Avon sold them. ;)