Scents of a Woman
By Rachel Morrissey
aaaa" od
chocolate, pleeth."aaaa"Will that be all?" aaaa"Yedth." aaaa"And what can I get you?" the waitress asked my grandma. aaaa"Do you have chili?" my grandma asked. I wanted to shrink under the table. aaaa"For breakfast?" the waitress asked. aaaa"Yes, and extra salsa," said my grandma. The waitress nodded and went to take the order to the cook. aaaa"If you wanted somedin spicy, why didn't you just order a mexi-omelet or somdin?" I chided, sniffling. Going to breakfast with my grandmother has always been an embarrassing experience. |
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aa | aaaaSince
I was about eight years old, whenever we visited my grandparents,
we would always go out to breakfast at a waffle house or a diner.
It was a treat when I was eight. By college the novelty had worn off.
Now it was just what it was. aaaaOn that day we were at the ex-Country Kitchen. I don't know the name now. I used to love that diner. It was on the highway and always had lots of truckers stop in with sports caps in blues and browns, with red and yellow logos sporting some company's name. Of all the breakfast |
| haunts,
it smelled the best. It always had coffee brewing, giant cinnamon
rolls cooking or maple syrup dribbling off a plate onto some counter.
In the afternoons, the coffee was still brewing, but the cinnamon
rolls had transformed into baked apple or banana-cream pies. However,
I had a cold and was rather grumpy. aaaa"I wish I could smell thad coffee," I said. aaaaMy grandma said, "It must not be very strong, anyway. I can't really smell it. Do you need a tissue?" aaaa"No, I have one," I mumbled. "Well, I am glad we came here instead of to the Yellowstone Diner. It always smelled like a school cafeteria. All bleachy and pukey." I had recently read an article in the paper about how there is a special part of the brain that recognizes bad smells. It said it was probably a safety warning: normally things that smelled bad were toxic or dangerous. I am now convinced that the cafeteria ladies were trying to poison us. The article also said that the reaction was only slightly blocked by a stuffy nose. As long as I couldn't smell anything good, I was glad I didn't have to smell anything bad. aaaa"I never noticed the smell," my grandma responded. "I just thought it was cleaner there. And they have a very good chili." aaaaTo be fair, my grandmother has a very good reason for wanting to eat chili and salsa in the morning. According to my mother, grandma always liked spicy foods, but in her thirties, she worked for a company that produced computer chips and dealt in fiber glass. While working, they didn't bother to issue nose or mouth protectors to keep the dust from the employees. My grandma breathed in the dust for about fifteen years, and it has ruined her sense of smell and her sense of taste. Now she likes extra-spicy foods. Chili, with salsa, still had some taste, along with some very strong cheeses. aaaaRealizing this, I changed the subject of the conversation. But I continued to wonder what it would be like to have your sense of smell so deadened. There were good things, like that part of the brain that detected bad smells was not so overworked, and you never had to smell bleachy, sawdusty cafeteria food again. But you would miss an awful lot. aaaaOver Thanksgiving, I was watching Martha Stewart's "Living". Martha was preparing for Christmas. She and some "friend" were displaying the various ways to package pomander balls. They took oranges, stuck them with dozens of cloves and doused them with cinnamon, lavender, and a variety of other holiday spices. As I was watching, my brother was reheating the candied yams and stuffing from the day before, and my mouth began to water. I sat down to a plate with the reheated delights and continued to watch as Martha lit what seemed to be a dozen different candles and explained some of the principles of aromatherapy. aaaaThere was a eucalyptus candle that helped clear your mind, a vanilla candle that gave you comfort, and some purple candle that calmed you down. There was even a candied yams candle, which probably made you hungry. It was big business in a bottle. aaaaNow, Chanel has known for years that nose-pleasing is a big business, as well as Sure, Right Guard and several other companies owned by Mennen. However, Martha wasn't selling sweet smells that day. She was selling memories. aaaaSo I have an idea for Martha: tailor-made candles. Fit the candle to the memory. I am not talking about a simple cinnamon candle to remind us all of Grandma baking snickerdoodles. I am talking about custom-made memories to smell the actual day when those cookies were made. If I were to order tailor-make candles, they would be black cherry tobacco, musty wool, and sawdust & greasepaint candles. aaaaSmoky black cherry. That is what my father's pipe smelled like. He would take me downtown to the little tobacco shop where there was a variety of dried leaves in corked glass jars. In the display window, there were several very pretty pipes, but none like my dad's. His was a good solid polished ruddy-brown. Since I was not an expert at pipes, I don't know out of what wood it was made. As we smelled the delicious aroma of the several different tobaccos, my father would eventually ask for the pot of smoky black cherry and would fill his pouch with it. I loved the tart smell of the black cherry. Its aroma soaked into my fathers clothing. Even his sweatshirts smelled of smoky black cherry. aaaaDad doesn't smoke now. My brother, Mike, suffered from allergies, and every time he went near the lighted pipe, his eyes would swell and water. So, my dad gave up smoking. A few years ago though, I was cleaning out our basement and arranging the things in neatly packed and labeled boxes when I found the pipe. It still smelled of the black cherry tobacco, although a little mustier, and memories of the tobacco shop flooded back. aaaaMusty Wool. My cheek scratched against it as my grandpa pulled me into his big tummy and hugged me good-bye. It was always hard to say good-bye to grandpa. He would hold you tight while you breathed against his wool sweater. The hot moisture from your breath condensed after what seemed like the bearhug that would never end. Then he would rub you with his three-day stubble and kiss you on the top of the head. aaaaHe died on June 5, 1990, the day of my high school graduation. It was his third heart attack. He had on a wool sweater. It is in my trunk at home. aaaaSawdust and greasepaint. It was May. I would arrive early for rehearsal everyday. I was playing the role of Yente in "Fiddler on the Roof". The stage was empty for the first two weeks, then suddenly, pieces of set began to appear. It was quiet as if something were waiting to happen. And it did. aaaaHis name was Brock. He was in the chorus. He was fast becoming a yuppie, even at eighteen. I was just sixteen. We were talking backstage in the scene shop before a dress rehearsal. We talked a lot. He introduced me to the political writings of Ayn Rand, and I shared the wit and humor of Jane Austin. We went to libraries and coffee houses and considered ourselves future intellectuals. We were young and a bit ridiculous. aaaaThe scene shop was cold with a gray cement floor and it smelled like fresh wood shavings. I don't know how it happened, but I remember knowing it would happen. I don't think it is possible to not know that you will be kissed. People always say it comes as a surprise, but I never have been surprised. Right before this tender awkward moment of adolescence, as he leaned in, I smelled the greasepaint on his face. aaaaWe lasted through the summer. We played in Showboat. I was Julie, he was a chorus member again. Then he went to college in Virginia. The last I heard of him, he was living in a commune in Montana. Yuppiehood didn't last. aaaaI still like to get to the theater early and sit on the empty black stage. There are other memories there, other worlds that I have lived in and other people I have been. Sawdust and greasepaint are addictive. aaaaWe
all concede that it would be sad to be blind or deaf, but we never
think how it would be to go without a sense of smell. I think that
would be tragic. Never to smell the brown sugar in chocolate-chip
cookies baking in the oven, or to smell the overdose of Old Spice
on a young man's jaw when he takes his first date to a dance. What
a dull two-dimensional world. So flat.
aaaaSomeday,
I will need a candle that captures chili with extra salsa in a diner
on the highway. I can burn it when I have a cold. It will be novel.
I hope to not need it for awhile though. |
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