My dear sweet Grandma. I think she must have had a horribly disabling fear of moths. Maybe it was too many showings of Mothra, I don't know. Poor woman. But growing up she used to keep moth balls in her house. I think she must have had them sprinkled around liberally because very often food that she brought to us would have a rather strong odor of moth balls. I suppose it kept the moths out of the soup. More likely she stored them near the food wraps, but at this point, who knows? It's been a long time and I like to let my imagination run wild sometimes. So I picture them scattered throughout the cupboards, in the bowls, in the refrigerator, under the toilet seat.
And the moths - well, in my memories they beat their soft dusty wings and their feathery antennae on every window, trying to get in, kept at bay only by the overwhelming fumes billowing out. Should one happen to sneak in through an open door and flutter threateningly, it would be repelled almost instantly by a yellow noxious cloud of MOTH REPELLENT MOTH REPELLENT MOTH REPELLENT (do you hear the deep loud echo? Do you?)
But I exaggerate - I doubt that my Grandma had an all-consuming, fear of moths. Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure it was just a disabling and irrational fear of holes in her collection of woolens. (Can I say that with a straight face? Collection of woolens? It makes me want to giggle).
But in all seriousness, I have many many fond memories of my Grandma and of spending time at her house. And it isn't overshadowed in the least by clouds of noxious fumes, futiley beating dusty wings, killer moths or woolens so full of holes that Swiss cheese makers would be proud. Not at all.
Now, the dark, grapey smell of the basement where wine-making went on is another story altogether.