The Memory of Smell

I was sitting in Panera  having some lunch and minding my own business when all of a sudden a very familiar smell enveloped me.  I looked up to see an elderly lady sitting at a table beside me. She was eating her bowl of soup and minding her own business but I was no longer able to mind mine.  She smelled just like my Grandmother.  Isn’t it funny how something as simple as a smell can instantly transport you to another place, another time?

White Shoulders Perfume & Dusting Powder. Pink containers in a pink box. It was my Grandmother’s signature scent for as long as I can remember.  For her birthday every year, it gave me great joy to go to the fragrance counter at McAlpin’s Department Store and pick out a gift set containing a bottle of perfume and a box of dusting powder.  The case was just my height and I searched until my eyes landed on the pink prize. She always seemed surprised and immediately sprayed herself generously.

The powder puff with its pink satin ribbon seemed as big as my face and I was entranced with its feel as well as its smell.  I sprayed and puffed each time I went into her bathroom (which was also pink in every way).  I wonder if we had to drive home with the windows down just so my mother could breathe? 

 I am grateful. Grateful for a Grandmother who loved me and accepted my gifts with love.  Grateful for her life spent working hard for her family. Grateful for the things I was allowed to do with her that I was not allowed to do at home.  I am grateful for the memory of smell and for the dear lady at Panera who reminded me. I hope she has a granddaughter.

The Picture Box

     I have always loved photographs.  One of my favorite childhood memories is sitting with my grandmother and going through her picture box.  I would sit beside my grandmother with the box in my lap and we would look at every picture while my grandmother told its story.  If I was really lucky my mother and her youngest sister would be there to chime in and sometimes argue over details forgotten by one of them.  I felt included in a life that existed before I did.  To know my grandmother as a young woman and my mother and her siblings as children was a wonder to me. I cherished those pictures with all of my heart.  

     When my grandmother died I am not sure what became of the picture box (a bedspread box from Sears & Roebuck with yellowed masking tape on the corners).  I can only assume that the pictures were somehow divided among my aunts and uncle because most of them are still among family. Even without the photographs, the memories are clear - theirs and mine.  I hope one day in the future, I will sit with my grandchildren as I hold photograph after photograph and tell them the stories that make up our family.

Life Is Just So Daily

I am not certain where this phrase originated but it has been living in my head for a long time. Some people experience this statement as a negative one, feeling that life is monotonous and without joy. I think it means that real life is in the everyday things we do and experience. The sunset. Noisy family breakfasts with everyone talking at once. Late night talks with your teenager. The feel of sand on your feet. Pancakes shaped like Yoda. The rhythmic breath of a sleeping baby. The sound of pen on paper.  Everyday things. Extraordinary things. This is the good stuff, folks. Let’s pay attention.

Waiting

Who says teenagers don't love their Mama's? Every morning at 8:00 my youngest and I meet on the bottom step and wait for the bus.  This has been our habit since he was about 10 years old. Now that he is 15 (can that possibly be true?) he doesn't need me to wait with him but I still do. It is comfortable. It is calming. It has become a necessary part of our day. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don't. It's all ok. It is a daily reminder of how important we are to one another. It simply makes us happy.

Why in the world would I write a blog? First of all, who in the world would want to read it? I have an ordinary life and write ordinary sentences. There is nothing to look at here, folks... but I am intrigued. I follow several bloggers and read them nearly every day. They claim to have ordinary lives too, but day after day I am drawn to their lives & their words. Perhaps our lives are only ordinary to us because we are in them every day and cannot step outside of ourselves to see the big picture. I don’t know. Will people care if I have a bushel basket full of unmatched socks and would rather read a book than match them? I think part of the allure of blog-following is being able to peek into the lives of others without getting caught. We measure ourselves against others and when we find someone who is like us we are relieved that we are not alone. When we find someone who is not like us we can perhaps learn something of ourselves from the differences.