the smell of paint reminds me of my grandfather
my mother’s father, he was a painter
paint cans were everywhere, in all of if his three garages
and cats
so many cats, kittens and dogs
he always had at least one German Shepard, purebread
for a while, he even had two, more than once
but the second ones always drowned in the river down behind his land
he gave every dog he had the same name
Skippy, but pronounced with a french accent, it sounded more like Skapay
for him, they were irreplaceable
he loved feeding the lil kitties, they didn’t have any names, there were to many
fresh milk, fish leftovers, cat food
he would make thin thin crepes that we’d eat rolled with fresh maple syrup
as we sat on the picnic table on the rooftop of his home
I don’t remember how we got up there
in the afternoon we’d pick strawberries and rhubarb
and he had a speedboat, that I learned to steer
he taught me how to fish a carp, and kill an eel
how to drive a motorcycle, a snowmobile, and ATV’s
I learned to always look behind me when I back up, so I don’t end up in a country ditch
he wasn’t very happy that time, but I learned
he never let me drive the Caddy
but I learned to drive on two-way, narrow country highways in the dark of night
and how to catch fireflies and swim across a lake even if it took me an hour and I was scared
he made my life better, because he loved life
and taught me to love it
and he taught me to love God, and pocket juices
grape flavored plastic pouches that we’d stick short white straws into
and how to dance, for no reason but for the joy of it
as the teapot warmed on the iron stove/fireplace in his basement
the old kind, where you couldn’t see the logs but felt their heat
he played the guitar, or the banjo or the piano,
while I danced my 5 year old heart away to old gospel and country tunes
when we’d arrive from the 8 hour drive, we’d lug our suitcases in, bringing the snow in with us
he never minded, and the tiles in his house were always warm on my feet
losing people close to us, reminds us of the good memories with the ones already gone
i never did get to say good bye to him
but in my adult years I’ve learned
to slow down long enough to hold the hands of those we love as they move on
it leaves us fragile, to losing the ones still here
but experience has taught me to gently feed stray cats
dance with abandon whenever you can, and enjoy thinly rolled crepes
sing comforting songs to those who suffer
and to smile at the scent of paint