Smell can really take you back in terms of memories.

The smell of fresh-baked bread might remind you of being a child, sitting in your mother’s kitchen.

The smell of grease and motor oil might remind you of your grandfather’s garage.

The other day the smell of newsprint took me back – back to being a kid, when I trudged up and down the streets of my Barrie neighbourhood, delivering The Advance.

I caught the memory-generating waft while fetching the daily paper from the bottom of the driveway.

I was pulling the paper out of the plastic bag, halfway back to the house, when the smell hit, reminding me of my days as a paperboy.

Back then the newsprint smell permeated the bag I used to carry the papers, published by the same company I would work for full-time years later. The smell – along with the ink – got onto my hands as well.

For a long time, delivering papers was a pretty good way to spend an hour after school. I didn’t even mind the smell. Delivering gave me time to think – think about this and think about that. I noticed stuff too. What neighbours kept their lawn nice. What family bought a new car. Who had a nice dog and who…didn’t.

And the money my paper route generated wasn’t bad either. I don’t remember how much I made, but I know it was enough to catch a flick at the Imperial Six on Dunlop Street a couple times a month. I could also pay for my own hamburger deluxe at the Woolworth’s nearby.

The worst time to deliver papers was when it rained or was really snowy. The cold wasn’t so bad. You could always bundle up. But walking in the rain or snow was kind of miserable.

When I asked if I could have a paper route, my parents agreed on one condition: they did not have to help.

“It’s your job, not ours,” they said.

And for the roughly three years that I had the gig they were true to their word – except for one really, really, really snowy night. Both my mom and dad came out and helped. After we ordered a pizza and watched Full House. Why I remember it in such detail is beyond me but I do.

The summer before I went off to high school I ditched the paper route. It wasn’t cool to be a paperboy and be in high school.

I’ve told my paperboy story to people over the years – I think I even wrote about it in an earlier installment of Open Notebook, but last week the memory came floating to the top of the pile of stuff that’s in my head. And all because of a smell. The smell of newsprint.

Now whenever I smell must and mould I’m reminded of my time as a Royal Canadian Army Cadet. All of our field equipment had this incredibly musty aroma. God help you if you had allergies.

Campfire smoke reminds me of being a child. We had a weekend place near Parry Sound and every Saturday night we had a campfire.

Peppermint and perfume remind me of my grandmother. She liked both.

And so it goes – smells generating memories.

A good thing if you ask me.

Michael Gennings is community editor for The Stayner Sun and The Wasaga Sun. Feedback is welcome at mgennings@simcoe.com.