A Certain Smell

My cousin Julie lives in Santa Rosa, California. She lost her home in the California wildfires. She and her husband escaped in their pajamas. Everyone is fine, but everything is gone.

"Our house had a certain smell to it," said Jennifer Pierre in an article in yesterday's Washington Post. Pierre's house was also destroyed in the fire, even though houses another street over were spared. A sudden shift of wind.

"It was our house. When you come home it has that smell. How can I replicate that smell for my kids. Or is it gone forever?"

When I read this I thought of Suzanne's friend Katie. One day Katie walked in our house — this has been years ago now — took a long whiff and said, "Your house smells like ... West Virginia!" Quickly realizing that this might not have been a compliment, she added that it smelled like West Virginia in a good, spending-a-week-in-a-cabin sort of way. I laugh about that still. What it meant to me was that the house smelled musty. But musty or not, it was one of the few times I heard anyone directly address the aroma of our house.

What would I do if it was gone forever? How can we comprehend the enormity of it all?

In another excellent Washington Post article on the fire, the author Michael Carlston wrote:

We're trying to function, but it's difficult when you lived in one world, and now it's totally different. There's before, and there's after. My wife and I are two active and directed people, but we find ourselves sitting and staring in confusion. When everything is lost, what do you do? What are the rules?