Making Scents of It All

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of sunny weekends at my grandmother's house on Kingston Pike. A stately brick mansion, with scads of bedrooms, sitting rooms, dining rooms, living rooms, bathing rooms, closets, a massive attic, an art studio, gardens galore...

and a POOL.

This was the pool where I first learned to swim. I know this because there are all kinds of pictures of me as a baby, then a toddler, then a gap-toothed kid; always with my dad, and always in the pool. So many great memories - sometimes it's good just to stop and smell the chlorine.

I do love all of my old pictures, but as I get older, it's become apparent that there is another special way to revisit the past. Sounds crazy, I know, but I treasure the smells from my life.

Along with the pool-y smell, the scent of my grandmother's boxwoods, marigolds and spearmint are stored in my mental scrapbook among my most beautiful memories. Honeysuckle? My own childhood back yard.

Jungle Gardenia was my mom's favorite perfume; this intertwined with her Marlboros to produce a cloying fog that still hangs in her scarves. My dad smells like the ocean and Nicorette gum and leather - reassuring and strong.

Polo for Women reminds me of trying so hard to fit in during the debutante and sorority phase.

Suntan lotion makes me think of a thousand happy memories on the beaches in Florida; also, there is a unique and happy smell associated with Disney World and the souvenirs from there. If you've ever been, then you know what I mean.

Funnel cake grease? The 1982 World's Fair. Brut cologne? Back seat regrets. Wood fires and hickory smoke? Several years' worth of barbecue contests and loads of fun. Fresh pine? The long-ago Christmases with real trees and the real Santa.

Many years later, I found myself cradling my baby boy, breathing in his freshly-washed hair and getting a glimpse of peace. My husband came in, took him from me and kissed him. I said, "ok, give me the baby back now", to which he replied, "wait a minute, I'm not finished smelling him".

It was at that moment, of course, that the baby let go of an explosive fart. "I'm done smelling him now", said the Mister, handing him back to me.

Olfactory memory. Priceless.