A creaky screen door leads to the old shop where my grandfather used to work before I was born. Two stories high and old as my grandmother’s house, the shop eventually became the general meeting place for friends and family to visit, and will always be to me like a sanctuary for childhood entertainment. In the back of the shop is where my grandfather worked as a carpenter. And even though I never had the opportunity to meet my grandfather, I can still almost see him working in the sawdust filled room.
The walls of the shop are rustic, and almost breathe a creaky sigh when the wind blows hard against its ancient walls. A bell rings as soon as you enter through the screen door, almost as if you are entering a real shop. However there are no cashiers or products to buy in this shop. Rather, the building is one large room that is filled with ornaments, pictures, knick knacks and items collected over the span of my mother’s childhood. A dusty record player sits in the corner, right beside an old-fashioned chalk board displayed for me and my sisters to draw on.
The shop has a musty smell, but one that is more sweet and moist. While this smell is often associated with rooms and objects left un-used, to me the stuffy smell is one that encompasses nostalgia—which will always linger in the air when I visit the shop. Indeed, the shop has seen many years, from the early days of my mother’s childhood to the reckless years of me and my two sisters. The shop is located at the end of my Grandma’s drive way, and is simple in structure – almost looking like a small replica of my grandma’s house.
The taste of the shop is pink peppermints, which were always put out in antique candy dishes right beside the famous guestbook where guests would leave their comments before they left. In reading through the guestbook, I can almost hear the familiar voices of the characters that have passed through the shop. I can see my own hand writing evolve – from large swirly letters to more tidy and organized sentences.
A swing is tied up to the rafters of the shop, close to the front and floating right above a large area rug. I still remember when my dad installed the swing just for me in the shop. Although there was a swing tied to a large apple tree outside in the spacious backyard, which I frequently would spend my afternoons, the swing in the shop always called to me. Despite being inside, even on hot summer days, there’s nothing like the feeling of leaving the door to the shop open, letting the breeze flow in and to swing on that swing. The rope which ties the swing to the rafters is coarse and thick, with sharp straw-like bristles that would dig into my flesh as I grasp on to the rope. Swinging back and forth, back and forth, creates a rhythmic squeaking in the ceiling above.

Visiting grandma’s shop stirs up the senses as much as it stirs up memories and stories of summer’s spent at grandma’s. I cannot imagine the shop being different – it would not be the same place without its creaky walls, musty scent and antique items which are displayed on its walls. While there are many places that to me are like sanctuaries – Grandma’s shop will remain my favourite.