Honeysuckle

Freddie is drifting to sleep as I sit in the dark living room looking out over the front of my grandfather's property.  As a child, I spent so much time here.  Now, I'm lucky to get back once a year.  This has been my first trip back since my cousin Beverly's wedding 3 years ago.  In that time she's bought a house, had a baby and has another on the way.  Things change and move forward even when you're not present.

The big picture window in the living room looks out over the porch to the front yard and gravel drive.  Long ago, between the two giant evergreens, there was a hammock.  We would wrap ourselves in it and spin until we were sick.

There was a pool where a shed stands now.  My grandmother taught me to dive in that pool.  My uncle tossed us through the air in that pool.  My cousins and I would make whirlpools and play Marco Polo and float and splash and fight and giggle.

There was a porch swing out there, over to the right.  I remember sitting there with my mom as she explained to me that my dog had been put to sleep after being hit by a car.  I think that was the first time I understood the finality of death...that Smokey wouldn't be back.

On the left side of the porch is some lattice.  It's still there.  What's missing is the honeysuckle.  The smell wafted across the porch and into the yard.  That smell still takes me right to that green wooden porch, my spindly legs dangling off the side.  We'd pluck the flowers from the vine and inhale the sweet aroma as the velvety white petals tickled our noses.  Once the scent filled us to our toes, we'd pull the stem from the bottom and drip the sticky nectar on to our tongues.  Just a small, fleeting drop, but the sugar filled our cheeks and warmed our bellies. 

I can hear the distant echos of laughter as we run through corn fields, feed chickens and race horses.  I can feel the vibrations of a tractor through my feet and the sting of scratches on my bare skin from the hay.  I can smell the honeysuckle and stare up at millions of stars, unpolluted by city lights.

And in a moment, I am back...in a dark living room, the only sound -  the steady breathing of my sleeping boy, who sometimes smells just like honeysuckle.

The Scent of a Woman

I don't remember her like I remember my other grandmother.  The one I've dreamed about and the one who bought me banana splits.  However, there are certain things that I can attribute to her.  I think of her every year when I place 15 hand made, personalized ornaments on my Christmas tree.  She taught me how to dive when I was 8 or 9.  I still can't swim, but I can dive - both backwards and forwards.  I'm pretty sure she's the first person who made me a peanut butter and pickle sandwich - hey, don't knock it until you try it. Those are all just little snippets.  I don't have the deep, broad memories that I have with my other Grandmother.

But there is one thing that immediately brings me back to that tiny little kitchen in that old farmhouse.  Her scent, heavy and thick, hung in the air.  It was rich and indulgent.  I could walk in the door and that scent would fill me up.  So powerful that it tingled my taste buds.  I could close my eyes and savor the creaminess pouring into my belly, feel the smoke burning my throat.  It would surround me and stay with me long after I had left her.  It clung to her always.  No shower or swim or hard day's work could erase it.  The perfect mix of her vices - coffee and cigarettes.  The warm, bold aroma of her most recently brewed pot swirled sweetly with the harsh smell of the freshly burned tobacco.

I loved that smell.  To this day, I still love that smell - but it has to be just the right concoction.  Too much coffee and it's just coffee.  Too much cigarettes and I hate it.  Neither of the smells independently do anything for me.  But the combination of the two, in just the right amounts always makes me smile.  For a fleeting moment I can hear the rough smokiness of her laugh, feel my small fingers inside her weathered hand and remember the woman she was before she was gone.

This post was written in response to a prompt at the Red Dress Club: This week's assignment was to write a post about a sound or scent that brings you right back to your past.