Smelly Memories

I’ve been thinking about smells today. My main character in Glass Houses spends time coming out of a coma and is tickled when the whiff of her mother’s stale coffee breath is the first sign that her sense of smell is returning. All she wants to do then is smell and takes a good drag on a host of items from her mother’s handbag. But it’s an old book which she stays with for the longest. The pages squeezed against her nose remind her of childhood memories – good and bad.

When I was growing up my father often had a book pressed to his nose. First-hand, and he wanted to imbibe the book’s newness, the printing process, the excitement of the story to come. If it was old, a good inhalation took him back to night time reading under the covers with a torch. That’s what he told me anyway.

I am not as cultured as my main character or my dad. If I’m asked what smells conjure up my early years then I am compelled to mention Shock Waves hairspray. My friends and I used to buy huge bottles of it from the ‘cheap shop’ (we didn’t have pound shops then) and I don’t particularly remember noticing the smell at the time. I was far too busy back-combing and choosing the most appropriate ribbon or netted scarf to lose in the tangled pile of hair to notice.

But when my children happened upon a bottle a few years ago, I couldn’t get enough of it. You’d think it was Chanel no. 5 – which takes me back to my twenties but that’s another story. One puff of the horribly environmentally unfriendly aerosol and I was back with Madonna and the school disco on Wednesday nights, even though I wasn’t allowed to go until I was in the third year - year nine to the uninitiated – much to the outrage of my friends. I’m not sure I was that bothered, more worried I wouldn’t know how to dance when I got there. It took me back to boyfriends and Adam Ant and make-overs with Rachel which would take us all day just for the before-and-after photos. Where did we get the time? 

It took me back to my yellow bedroom, to tennis in the garden which was way too small and to the breeze block garage we painted white one year much to the total humiliation of me and my three sisters, broadcasting to all our friends our parents’ embarrassing flirtation with the Mediterranean. Oh the shame of the white garage!

But most of all the smell took me back to the holiday in Majorca when my five foot four grandpa with size three feet drove us to the airport and had to take my hairspray home again because they wouldn’t let it on the plane. He hadn’t got a bag with him and we were amused at the prospect of him walking through the airport back to the tiny car (in which we’d crammed six of us including the driver) with an excessively large tin of pink hair spray; particularly as he only had one of those white rings of hair which orbited a bald head. He died soon after the airport lift. This tiny man with a huge bottle of hairspray is one of my last memories of him and it does make me smile.

My bottle was definitely pink!
Thanks to Helen nee Dion for
remembering the name :)

So, what I want to know is, what is it that takes you back? What’s that smell which propels you into your past? Is it a book or is it something less cerebral? Please share! 

Oxygen Tank

Through the wonderful world of Twitter, I met Thea Atkinson recently who writes psychological and historical thrillers with a deep and dark exploration into the human spirit. She has no less than five novels published on Kindle available at Amazon, BN, Kobo, Diesel and Smashwords. 

We decided to ‘guest post’ on each other’s blogs and Thea’s going first. Please take a look at her thought provoking musings on ageing – you’ll be digging out your photo albums!  You can read Thea’s own blog and find out more about her books at http://theaatkinson.wordpress.com/ 

Me, I’m guest blogging over there on 13^th June but I’ll remind you before then, don’t worry…

The ever-present hum of an oxygen machine fills in conversational gaps as Stan, a retired light keeper, and I sit in the bedroom he calls home. I sit on his bed holding his photo album while he and a small black poodle occupy the Lazy Boy chair. The summer sun hasn't yet set past the one window that filters light in on both of us. Even in the limited daylight, he looks weary, aged more than his cropped, white hair should allow.

We've both lived in the same community our entire lives: one historically dependent on fishing for survival. While he experienced our hometown through whatever light his small beacon managed, I've grown up in an age where every house has at least one car, one television set, and a phone that can easily call for pizza delivery.

I know my town has a history. That's why I've come; I fancy I can capture Stan's stories before they're lost. He catches me off guard by telling me about a circus ship that caught fire here in the harbour.

As he describes the event, the noise of the animals, the licking of the flames against the wooden hull, he struggles to pull in air from the oxygen tank and I imagine the elephants, the lions, the tigers onboard doing the same. 

I wonder how something so extraordinary could pass through a few decades and become an unknown entity to a new generation. A bit of history disappearing like condensed breath. I wonder what else I don't know....what I've forgotten.

As he drags in a breath and the oxygen machine gives a metallic exhale, he strokes the poodle curled on his lap. We look at his pictures of the town’s past. Besides being faded and brown, they're unfamiliar. Almost all of them are of boats. I point to one in particular, and he fumbles to take it from between its plastic sleeves. It's of his father's vessel, from when he ran passengers from Killam's wharf down to the MarkLand Hotel.

I know Killam's wharf; I've walked it. I replace his photo with an image of my own. I walk in my mind, over its wooden slats and smell the salty air. I remember standing beside the recent gazebo addition during SeaFest celebrations. Strains of popular music filter into the image from the memory of the live band that played. It's a good memory, a recent one. But it was with the knowledge that the historic property wasn't always historic. Once it was practical.

And what of the hotel he mentions--one that had to be reached by boat. I think of the main hotel now -- Rodd's Grand. An image creeps into my head of the red brick shell, the exterior, electronic marquee, the dining room bustling with waitresses hurrying to serve coffee. I think of the bar just around the corner from the dining area and the popular music it plays. Those images flip through my thoughts like Stan's photos, faded yet present.

He shows me the CNR station from July 28, 1916, tells me how the circus sometimes came by train and that he would jump in the dorey and row up underneath the station to watch them unload the animals.

Ah, yes. The train station. I study the photo and the odd look of it because the people are dressed differently. My mind takes me to the station of my youth and it overlays the photo of a station past. I traveled to University many times by train. The station of my day offered travel by bus too, and I'd expected a terminal like in the movies--with rows of seats, luggage everywhere. It turned out to be a cubbyhole. But it still had that sense of impending change--at least, for a young girl who got homesick just standing there waiting to leave town and family.

A few years back, they tore that station down, put up a Wendy's and Tim Horton's. Of course, to honor the era before, they styled the restaurant after an old-time train terminal.

Although I try to keep up with Stan and the shots he shows me, I can't help mentally wandering through my town, through my childhood, my present, and comparing it to his.

My Yarmouth has cars in every driveway. I realize his boyhood home had no driveway. He'd lived in a tiny lighthouse on a bit of land on the edge of an island: the Bug Light, it was called, remote enough to require dorey travel because it was dependent on the tides.

I think of how I hate to get into my car in the dead of winter and wait until the engine heats up enough to blow warm air onto my frigid fingers. I don't want to think of living in a beacon so small its only well for water in the winter is the dorey that caught snow as it fell.

The photos spark something within me. As my memory travels the main street, ducking into the drugstore, the magazine shop, Stan continues to flip his pictures. He's meandering down the path of memory, pulling me along with him through sepia images.

Stan mentions ships powered by sail. There are photos of schooners from the '30s loaded with salt and coal. I'd never before imagined that town supplies would come by boat. There are delivery trucks for that. He talks of lighting the darkness with kerosene, banging on bells to warn the boats.

If I close my eyes and pretend I'm not sitting in an ever-darkening room with the noise of an oxygen machine, I can actually begin to imagine a stormy coast lit by a red light. If I let my memory slip back to my childhood, I can actually hear the foghorn. At least we have that in common: remembering the long-abandoned horn.

I suppose technology has improved things, saved lives, but I miss the horn. It occurs to me that I never realized it had stopped calling to the fog until just now.

I try to jigsaw together his pieces of history, his photos, into my present and sometimes into my recent past. Sometimes it's easy. Other times, I shake my head in disbelief

My hometown bustles with impatience; it can't wait to grow into a city's shoes. His Yarmouth is younger than mine, it's a town made possible by a pinprick of light through foggy darkness. And yet, our community is the same community. Mine exists because of his.  

The sun sets further. The brief orange light against the wall has changed to a dull gray. It matches my mood. I feel I've lost something and only just rediscovered it. Stan is oblivious. He flips page after page. Photos move like a mini movie, but disjointed and silent.

The poodle stirs. I realize I've been sitting hunched over myself far too long, trying to make out faded photographs and the cadence of his words through the rhythmic inhale and exhale of his machine. I stretch. So does the dog. It peers through pebble eyes at the man whose white hair contrasts so nicely with the darkness of the room. Stan adjusts the tubes that supply his lungs with oxygen.

Through the guise of photos, I have been given a lesson. I've learned that this, my present, will one day be my past. I want to savor it. I want to breathe in Yarmouth, as he does, and capture it.