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I caught a whiff of a something in the air and suddenly my olfactory senses were tingling with memories. Whatever or whoever it was, it smelled like Uncle Frank. It was an outdoorsy smell and sometimes it’s the seats in my husband’s truck that evoke the memories. A mix of gasoline, sweat, dirt and maybe a hint of wood shavings, too.

It reminded me of rides in the front seat of his old truck. Trips to the dump and fishing trips, with a bucket of shiners sloshing in the back. Ice fishing in the winter and pole fishing in the summer. Homemade root-beer and dried apples for snacks at the table in his cellar – that’s where all the fun happened, down in the cellar by the wood stove.

My one regret is that I didn’t visit him often enough towards the end and I never got the chance to introduce my husband to him. They would have gotten along grandly, I know, and I’d like to think that Uncle Frank would’ve slapped him on the back and approved of the ring that Ty put on my finger later that summer.

It’s funny how smells bring back memories.

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