It comes through loud and clear, just as a voice easily crosses the water – the memory of a scent, of smell and all that it evokes.
How clearly I can recall the smell of fresh yeasty breads and pastries in that black panel truck of the Cushman Bakery as it pulled up to our house every Saturday morning. My Mother would send me out to the truck where the jolly uniformed driver would help me select the items I’d been dispatched to collect. There, lining the interior of the truck, were the boxes of chocolate éclairs, sugary cruellers, giant oatmeal cookies, or cupcakes with thick buttery frosting. There were pies, as well as soft, white, doughy rolls or black pumpernickel loaves. But that smell, that overwhelming scent of goodness accompanied by the resulting good mood in my mother’s kitchen, I can conjure up so richly still.
In keeping with the theme of food is the smell of pizza baking in large ovens on a summer’s evening when the seasonal pizza take-out window would be open in our tiny village. That flavorful smell would drift on the breezes and reach our noses as we sat on the porch listening to Ma’s records while eavesdropping a bit on the next-door neighbor’s heated conversation. For five cents, you could get a big, thick, cheesy slice. If we had the money, I’d do the running.
There was Besse’s Fish Market, long gone now, but remembered for that scrumptious odor of frying clams, fish, and French fries. A pint of clams and fried potatoes today is viewed as a dangerous meal choice, but back then it was the preferred choice when Dad’s wallet was thick. All the way home, as the grease soaked through the thin cardboard boxes and paper bags, my legs sprinted and I’d arrive on our doorstep winded, but so very happy.
Saltwater taffy being pulled by the electric taffy machines displayed in the window of the seaside shack known as “Kenny’s” was as mesmerizing to watch as the hot candy smell was mouthwatering as it oozed out from the cracked walls. They also made flavored popcorn bars in harlequin colors no kid could resist.
When you entered the fresh fruit and vegetable stall owned by a person simply called the “Greek Grocer,” the first thing you’d smell was the enormous juicy watermelon slices sitting in a tray of ice – another five-cent treat offering cool refreshment on a humid day, but now just a lip-smacking memory to be recalled 64 years later.
There were other smells from village streets that were less pleasant, but nonetheless memorable, such as walking by Sammy Queen’s barroom or the Union Villa. The mixture of spilled beer, cigarettes, and sweat linger in the mind by way of the nose. A blind person wouldn’t fail to know their position if standing near one of these venues; the sounds from within would add to the knowledge, for if you were a regular at one bar ‘where everybody knew your name,’ you wouldn’t frequent the other. Your stool was always waiting.
Suntan lotion and seaweed, even the heat rising up from the pavement on a hot summer’s day, are memories seated deep within my mind. It’s the smell of being young with a body that obeyed every command like running full-out into the cold ocean water or diving off the raft. Yes, feeling the eel-grass tickle your torso as you opened your eyes underwater looking up towards the surface and feeling so very good about it all because living was forever and always and fun.
Nothing felt better or smelled more of comfort than the talcum powder received as a Christmas gift, applied after a warm, luxurious Saturday night bath. Born into an age when daily showers or baths were unknown, those weekend soaks were a treat.
As a small child, bath time was playtime, with warm water reaching high to the collarbone. As I matured, it was the pleasure of easing into the steaming water, lying back as the household sounds ebbed away, floating legs as if in the ocean – oh, the simple joy of cleanliness and privacy. The bath was always followed by a dusting of talcum powder from a Bakelite container which held a fluffy, pink, powder puff. The silky smoothness of the puff and the delicately scented powder are a powerful childhood memory that all would be well, in spite of threats otherwise present.
Avon lipstick – bright red and thick with a perfumed fragrance you won’t find today in cosmetics – was a favorite of mine. Sometimes for fun my Mother would dab a tiny bit on my lips and show me how to blot it leaving a kiss outline on the tissue. The smell would linger on my mouth for hours as I pretended this or that fantasy, longing for the day when my pocketbook would hold my very own lipstick. Such things a child believes are important for a time.
I clearly recall bacon crackling in the pan announcing Dad was up, fueling his body for the day of work ahead and that soon he’d be calling from the bottom of the stairs that it was time to “Giddy UP!” I’d prepare the coffee and toast for Ma and deliver it to her bedside to encourage her to join the world of the living, if just for the day. Coming home from school later that day, the smell still hung heavy in the bedroom.
Fresh laundry … nothing smells better than fresh laundry that has been dried in the great out-of-doors. One of the few chores I didn’t protest against as a kid was hanging the laundry out and bringing it back in at the end of the day. The backyard was a spider’s web of clotheslines strung high above my head requiring tippy-toes. I’d pull the line down and pin the items in that precise way Ma taught me. Those rules of laundry management were a trademarked skill she only seemed to possess. At the end of the day, I’d bury my face deep into the folds of soft sheets and towels breathing deeply, so very deeply, filling my lungs as if my life depended on that smell of clean air, ocean, and home.
(In memory of Priscilla Lorraine Billard Newell (1923-2014), whose love of Onset was the narrative of her life.)
By Marilou Newell
