Letting sniffs of the world take you back to childhood.
Joseph Mackareth
There is a certain alchemy in aromas. Everyone knows how marvelous the world smells right after it rains. So full of promise, just the right mix of cleanliness and earthiness fills the air. How about the summery goodness of fresh-cut grass? Cut grass is a powerful scent, capable of eliciting a guaranteed response from humans, a deep inhalation and a smile.
Do you ever catch a whiff of something and suddenly, you’re 10 years old again? I am amazed by the power of fragrance to teleport me back to summers long gone. When my lilacs start to bloom, I am back on my great-grandmother’s porch, hidden by ancient lilac bushes that were taller than the porch roof line.
You could spend all the time you wanted on the porch enjoying the lilacs’ pungent perfume, but you had to be doing something useful while there. If you were awake and not in the middle of eating a meal, you’d best be contributing. My great-grandmother ran a tight ship. Her house had no indoor plumbing, no luxuries, but it was spotless and it was decorated simply and beautifully. There are decorating magazines galore now that espouse the style Grandma Rose perfected through necessity. I learned how to embroider pillow cases on that porch. I learned how to graft fruit trees on that porch. I learned what “home sweet home” meant on that porch.
How about roses? Old-fashioned, heady, heavy-blossomed roses, puts me in a pretty little sleeveless, white eyelet dress when I was six, being threatened with all kinds of trouble if I got so much as a hint of dirt on me before we got to church for my children’s choir recital. My favorite song in our repertoire was “This Little Light of Mine.” I could belt that ditty out with gusto. But who decided that we should all wear white? Silly adults.
I do not know why they even make white clothing for children. I know it’s popular for fancy-shmancy family photos, but honestly it’s just so impractical. Dressing kids in white duds is like putting a target on them for every drooling dog, face-wiping cat, jam splatter, dust, finger print, juice box explosion disaster on the planet.
Personally, I was defenseless against it all. My mother took to standing me in the middle of the living room with my arms crossed until everyone was ready to get in the car. I would have done better wrapped in cling wrap and peeled on stage at the church right before the performance. I was truly what my grandpa called a “mud magnet.”
Another powerful scent memory for me is triggered by watermelon. When watermelons were ripe, there would be one chilling in a tub of cold water on the porch at least twice a week. After supper, Daddy would cut the watermelon into canoe-size wedges and we’d sit on the porch steps, letting the juice and seeds spill where they may. I still eat watermelon and cantaloupe with a sprinkle of salt, just like my whole family did. After the watermelon, the tub of water was splashed on the steps to dilute whatever sticky melon mess was there. Truth be told, it might have been more appropriate to throw the water at me than at the steps because I enjoyed my watermelon to the point of wearing it.
After the watermelon feast came the hunt for fireflies. Everyone got a mason jar which we hurried to fill, the golden glow bringing magic to a darkening yard. I’m not sure that parents today would hand a glass jar to their kids and direct them to run around in the waning twilight, but using unbreakable Tupperware seems the wrong choice, too. So the aroma of watermelon is forever associated with running through the grass, barefoot, sticky with melon pulp, and delighted to be in a cloud of fireflies.
Smoke. Oh, the tang of meat submitting to the grilling or smoking process is a ticket to ride back to my early teens. Church fundraisers consisted of chicken grilling next to ears of sweet corn, all slathered with someone’s special secret recipe sauce. Stands were set up at stop signs so everyone driving by would smell hot chicken and buy bags of food. It was an efficient way to raise money, since absolutely no one could resist. Most cars were not air conditioned when I was growing up and the chicken sold itself, barbecue sauce beckoning through open windows better than any Madison Avenue advertising. If you still had chicken for sale by 1 p.m., you were doing something wrong, wrong, wrong.
Unusually hot, humid summers meant that a hog or two succumbed to the heat despite all precautions, and impromptu pig pickings would occur. Once the dearly departed pig had spent the night smoking in a pit, the call would go out to bring side dishes and show up at somebody’s farm. Seventy or so people would descend and turn old doors thrown on top of bales of hay into a buffet table worthy of the gods. Sweet smoke. I am 13 and sitting on the grass under a catalpa tree with a paper plate full of porky goodness and potato salad.
Honestly, I am grateful for this ability to teleport to my younger days via my nose. It’s my only body part that remembers my youth. My knees keep trying to convince me that I’m 100, and my ears are entrenched in the kingdom of “what?” But to be carefree and full of summertime joy, all I need do is stick my nose in a lilac bush. It’s magic.
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