perfumeThe other day we went to an estate sale. Now, I’m not a garage sale aficionado, as some. I’m more of a drive by lookie-loo. You know the type that drives slowly by your sale and decides if they see something cool or not before they stop. The one that blocks traffic and then waves thanking you for your patience. Yeah. Sorry. But this one intrigued me. It was a house that had been owned by the same family since 1911. I just knew there’d be some neat stuff and maybe a typewriter for my husband’s collection. So we packed up the family and headed out.

When I’m in an older space, I can’t help but imagine all that went on before me. I wonder about their children, what they did for a living, their hopes and dreams—their deaths. In this particular house there were a bunch of oscilloscopes, vacuum tube testers, and lots of electrical equipment. There were two old portable army phones—the kind they’d take out into the field—that must have weighed twenty pounds (can you imagine carrying that along with your pack through the mud and muck?). And hundreds of old photos. It seemed so sad that one hundred years of history was being sold off for ten cents apiece like that.

Upstairs we found racks of clothing, a complete library of older books (my personal fascination) and bottles of old perfume. Now, I’m someone very effected by smells and sounds. I unscrewed the lid of one of these bottles and was instantly transported back to my childhood. It smelled like one of my grandmas (I have four parents, and was blessed with many)—or maybe my godmother. I couldn’t figure out which one. But I got teary holding that condensed flowery yellow liquid under my nose. I immediately wished I could talk to those women again, ask them more advice, get more bony hugs—beg for chocolate chip cookies. I wished my kids could have known them, baked with them, or done crafts with them. They had so much knowledge to share.

I take great comfort knowing that those ladies all knew my Lord, so I’ll get to see them another day. But, still, this side of waiting can be hard. Tell me, what kinds of things trigger memories in you? Is there a particular thing that transports you back to a day long ago? I’d love to hear about it.

What readers are saying about Jasmine: “This book is one I will long remember, and I’ll remember Jasmine and the women she helped. I’ll wonder what they are doing and how they are…The story is that real.” If you’ve got an e-reader pop over here and follow the links. And once you’ve read–please review! Thanks.