#74 - The Scent of Memory

The Scent of Memory

12/2/05 (#74)

In the early '70s, my folks used to go to cocktail parties. I have always loved the phrase "cocktail party"---it sounds so grown up, so urban, even cinematic: sophisticated people saying charming things over a soundtrack of jazz, laughter and ice clinking in glasses. Somehow, folks standing around drinking gimlets at a cocktail party seems vastly more exciting than folks standing around drinking Hamms from the can at a mere "party". (Though by 11:00 PM, I'm sure the differences between the two rooms are minimal.) My parents hosted them as well, an occasional opportunity for us kids to practice our stealth, sneaking behind chairs and under tables to the kitchen where we could sneak a capful of Gordon's gin and wonder what transformation occurs during adulthood that makes paint thinner a drink of choice.

I have a wealth of memories of my folks getting dressed up for such a night: earning a quarter by shining my dad's shoes with the heady fumes of Kiwi oxblood polish; getting into my pale-blue pajamas and bumping down the hardwood staircase one thumping step at a time; pretending to shave with my dad's razor, cutting my face, and trying to explain to Mom that I sliced it on the smooth, rounded tile towel rack (yet she didn't believe me---imagine that); the general hubbub of mom and dad crossing the hallway between their room and the bathroom, the four kids skittering across their path as we ran between the den and the rest of the house.

Yet despite this scenario unfolding dozens of times over a few years, these memories have played a child's game of pigpile in my brain, melding into a single scenario: a several-minute one-act play that takes place in that dreamy time just after dusk but before it gets genuinely dark, an unwatched TV droning in the next room, and the intoxicating whiff of perfume that permeated the air as Mom applied the final touches before heading out for the night. The play inevitably ends with the arrival of a faceless babysitter and the departure of my parents, the living room retaining the perfume's sweetness as I watched the avocado and wood-grain Ford Country Squire wagon drive up Autumn Lane.

The scent of perfume in the house wasn't a rarity---with four young children bereft of clever Christmas gift ideas, perfume made a perennial appearance under the Christmas tree during that decade, often with company from other bottles. (I suspect that, 30 years later, Mom is still sitting on a stockpile of Charlie.) But Mom had her everyday perfume, and her special occasion perfume. The special perfume was vaguely familiar yet somehow mysterious, the scent of lilacs drowned in alcohol. It transformed her---an olfactory metamorphosis that changed "Mom" into "Helen".

As a memory trigger, none of your five senses offer as fast a ride into your subconscious as the proboscis highway. (I think I learned this from an episode of M*A*S*H, and while I'm not certain if Dr. Sidney Friedman spoke in scientific absolutes, it sure seems true.) A whiff of cold fresh air that clings to a dog when he comes in from the yard that sends one back to a distant autumn day; the wafting scent of Campbell's tomato soup that conjures a snowy winter memory; the intoxicating mix of grass clippings and gasoline that hurtles you through time to some sunny summer long ago. Momentary time capsules, packed with colors and textures and details, all available with twist of the cap on a Grape Nehi or the first chew of Bazooka Joe bubblegum.

Flash forward 30-odd years, Stephanie and I getting ready to go to a party while Sage flits about explaining her evening plans to the cats and dog. (Fortunately, our cats enjoy imaginary tea.) As I walked by the washroom, I was stopped and shaken by one of those overwhelming, light-headed sensations that come when a memory arises so powerfully that it pushes the present tense right out of the brain: It wasn't the scent that my Mom wore, but it was Steph's special event perfume, a distinctly different scent than the one she wears regularly. (If she wears any at all.) It was just after dusk but not quite dark, an unwatched TV droned in the other room, and for a few seconds I was 6 years old again, full of wonder and anticipation.

Sage is three years old, and I wonder if a similar pigpile of scents and sounds are amassing in her psyche. I hope so---memories are so wonderful to own, and as I grow older, access to the vast mental filing system in my brain is spottier than it used to be. Once upon a time, I felt like I could remember everything I had ever known without prompts. These days, I have to rely on external triggers: a picture of my first grade class that ignites a chain of synapses in my head and culminates with the smell of white paste (and Timmy Porrier eating it like ice cream, with a ruler for a spoon); Seeing my birth certificate from Sturdy Memorial Hospital and the ricochet of thoughts stops at my elementary school art teacher and the big blue basement room in which we crafted hand-print Thanksgiving turkeys for our refrigerators at home. (The hospital was across the street from Bliss School---that was enough of a trigger.) I want to fill Sage's head with inexplicable links, so that orange Lifesavers remind her of dogs riding in Volvos, and orange walls make her think of Zeth and Betsy, and the whiff of a familiar perfume at dusk reminds her that life---all of it---is memorable.

©2005 wpreagan