Dusting off a memory

🌾Dusting off a memory

It’s funny how certain smells can bring back the past in an instant — lilacs in May, burning leaves on a cool October evening, or even something as simple as grain dust. Every time we go out of town we drive past a grain elevator, where the smell of grain dust carried by the south wind triggers that memory of growing up in Alexandria.

That dusty, earthy smell always brings me back home -- the New Farmers Grain elevator where Dad spent his working life. And like his dad before him, he worked grain elevators. For our family, grain dust wasn’t just something that clung to clothes; it was part of the rhythm of who we were.

Dad walked the six blocks to the elevator every morning, no matter the weather. He’d walk home for lunch, then back again, and during harvest season we often didn't see him until long after dark. I didn’t think much of it then — that was just what dads did — but looking back, those long days were the backbone of a small town’s economy. He was 6'1", steady, and dependable, the kind of man who fit naturally behind the scale desk, weighing trucks as they rumbled in loaded with grain.

I loved going down to the elevator. That place had its own ecosystem: grain and feed signs hanging on the walls, stacks of seed and feed bags in the back room, sparrows darting in and out of the bins as if they were part of the crew. And always, always, the smell — grain dust hanging in the air like a memory waiting to be triggered decades later.

Dad would bring home old grain reports that were blank on one side. To him, they were scrap paper. To me, they were the perfect place to write out baseball statistics, lineups, and imaginary box scores. I probably wrote out a whole season’s worth of games on the backs of those reports. What a thoughtful gesture it was for dad to bring me those sheets.

Every year the elevator sponsored “Supersweet Day,” when farmers came in for refreshments, snacks, and a look at new products and order seed. It was part open house, part community gathering, part sales pitch for the next year’s crops. As a kid, I didn’t care about any of that — I was there for the cookies and the chance to wander around the elevator like I belonged there.

And in a way, I did. That elevator was as much a part of my childhood landscape as the school, the church, or the ballfield. It was where Dad spent his days, and where I learned that work wasn’t always glamorous but it mattered.

So when we leave town and the wind carries that familiar grain‑dust smell, it’s more than nostalgia. It’s a reminder of where I came from, of the men who shaped me, and of a small South Dakota town where the elevator wasn’t just a building — it was the heartbeat of the community.