In a vlog I did yesterday, I mentioned that I “absorb” what I see, hear, touch and smell. I thought later that “smell” was a weird thing to say, but then I gave it some more thought. I AM very impacted by smell.
Back in the day when life was normal and I went into stores, if they sold tires and I got within an aisle or two, the smell would give me an instant headache. Art would always say, “I don’t smell anything.”
When we planted roses or when the gardenias or jasmine were blooming, I could usually smell them from across the yard. He couldn’t smell them unless he was right on them. When we would work in the yard, we would both get a little “ripe”. I would come in and immediately want to shower because I felt stinky and dirty. He would sometimes get ready for bed afterward without showering and I would remind him he was a bit “aromatic” and he would always say “I can’t smell it.” I think he thought I was nuts.
When I’m in public and a man passes with nice smelling cologne, I always find myself turning around as if I have no control. A wonderful smell is so attractive to me. Maybe something IS wrong with me.
A year or so ago, my daughter, Heather, was telling me that her doctor mentioned to her that women should never bathe their private areas with perfumed soaps or body washes….to always use Ivory soap. Since then, I always have a bar of Ivory in the shower in addition to my body wash.
This morning as I was showering, I reached for the Ivory soap and began to rub it between my hands to start a lather and the fragrance reached my nostrils. Suddenly I was on my Grandma Davis’ back porch where she lived in Archdale. There was no running water or bathroom in the house for a long time, but they eventually ran a faucet of cold water onto the back screened-in porch. There was a large old farm style sink there that had a round enameled metal pan always sitting in it. We would turn the water on, fill the round pan, reach for the Ivory soap that Granny always kept there, and would wash up. That smell this morning transported me back to that porch.
Since there was only an outhouse and no indoor bathroom, when it was warm enough, Granny had a big galvanized tub that she would sit out in the back yard.
She would fill it with water and she would bathe us kids in it…numerous grandkids all in the same bath water…one after another…sometimes two at a time. The water would be cold, but that old Ivory soap still lathered up. The scent was still the same. Other times we “bathed” in less conventional ways.
I’m soon going to be 72 and was pretty young when Granny lived there, but in those days there were actual “chain gangs” that came along and cleared the ditches out along the road. I remember being so scared as we watched guardedly from Granny’s front porch. These were “bad guys”! They might come and get us. I think Granny loved the fear we felt because it kept us still and quiet…we didn’t want the “bad guys” to see us. When they finished and moved on down the road, the ditches were always free from trash, weeds and grass…just smooth North Carolina red dirt shoveled out like a big red tube. THEN IT WOULD RAIN!
When it began to rain in one of the traditional North Carolina downpours, the ditches weren’t able to accommodate the rain water quickly, so the water would get to be a few inches deep. Oh my gosh! Instant swimming pool! We kids would ask for permission to go “swimming” and Granny would come to the edge of the yard to keep an eye on us. We would strip to our underwear and slip into the water. I can literally still feel the soft mud, squish up between my toes. It was warm and silky and the smell was so earthy.
Later Granny and Grandpa moved to another place…again, no bathroom and only cold water coming into the tiny kitchen. I loved to go there and spend the night (except for having to use the outhouse which was on the other side of a creek that had to be crossed on a couple of planks Grandpa had put in place).
The house had essentially one room with a “lean to” type room added for kitchen space and a room that had later been added for a bedroom. Grandpa had a bad back and slept in the main room on a cot with a piece of plywood underneath a thin mattress. Granny had a feather bed in the bedroom and I slept there with her when I stayed over. It was heaven!
There were so many wonderful fragrances in her bedroom. There was an old wardrobe or armoire that held Granny’s quilts, her embroidery fabrics and threads, and her few clothes. There was also a small chest of drawers to the right when you stepped down into the bedroom. The top drawer of that chest was magic!!! In that drawer Granny had the beautiful cobalt blue bottle of Evening in Paris perfume and a small bottle of Jungle Gardenia.
Every time I spent the night I requested the “privilege” of having Granny take the top off of each bottle while I took a quick sniff. Their fragrances were so sweet yet strong. I felt honored. The interesting thing was, I NEVER remember Granny wearing perfume. I suppose she always saved it for the special occasions that never came.
She always smelled of her long dark hair that she wore in a braid which she twisted around in a little bun and secured it all in place with brown tortoiseshell-colored combs and hair pins. I still have some of her hair pins and combs and for a long time I could still smell her hair on them.
Granny also often smelled of whatever delicious dish she had cooked. She was an amazing cook. I loved to watch her as she created her magic at her green and white wood burning stove. The smell of the burning wood mingled with the aroma of the food she cooked was always tantalizing.
I still have distinct memories of her making blackberry dumplings on that stove. They weren’t made like pie or tart type dumplings. She would cook up the wild blackberries we would pick around the edge of the fields and add spices and sugar. The pot of goodness would start to thicken and she would get out her wooden dough bowl. I would hop down from my viewpoint on the chair she placed for me by the stove to watch as she cooked and would run to the table. Watching Granny make dough for biscuits or dumplings was always a “show”.
She would dump flour in the bowl, and dig out the center so it looked like a soft, white volcano. She would then reach into her tin of lard and grab a handful. She would dump it in the hole of the volcano and begin to pull in bits of flour from around the hole and mix it with the lard that she squished through her fingers. The lard and flour would come oozing out from between her fingers like long, fat white worms. She would then grab a bit more flour from the side and squish again. Then she would add buttermilk into the volcano and mix it all into a lovely dough. She then took that dough and would pinch off pieces of it and drop it into the bubbling blackberry mixture on the stove. I could hardly stand the wait for the dumplings to cook in the hot, bubbling deliciousness.
I also remember the fragrances of helping Granny can peaches. She and Grandpa would get bushel baskets of peaches and we would sit under the big oak tree outside. It was always hotter than a firecracker, so the only break from the heat was in the shade of that oak while praying for a breeze.
I was always a skinny kid and so Granny would have me sit on the grass next to her as she sat in her chair. She had a big white enamel coated pan that she would peel the peaches over. She would remove the pit, cut the peach in half and hand each half to me. My important job was to place the peach halves into the jar, making sure to use my little hands to arrange the peaches as she directed so we could get as many peach halves in each Ball canning jar as possible. From time to time she would cut a sliver of a peach half off and give it to me to eat. My hands, arms and face were sticky with peach juice and I was a happy camper. The smell of peaches, the smell of the grass and the smells of summer in the breeze were an amazing combination that 60 plus years later still takes me back to sweet memories with a grandmother that was on this earth for far too short a time.
I treasure all of those fragrances and the memories they stir. Isn’t it sad that there is no way to really truly share them fully? It’s not like a picture you can show someone later, but something that sits in your heart and mind, until a sweet breeze touches you and brings it all back.
