Childhood Memories

Have you ever experienced this?  You are doing something completely out of the ordinary and, suddenly, a memory is triggered, and you are transported to another time or place?  Figuratively, of course.

With the change of seasons, I hauled out the electric blanket that spends the cold months on my bed.  Just for good measure, I added a nice thick but lightweight quilt.  

As I climbed between the covers that night, I was instantly reminded of staying at my grandparents’ houses.  Both grandmothers had high beds that small grandchildren almost needed a ladder to climb onto.  And, when you finally got settled underneath the stacks of covers, it was nearly impossible to move!  As I lay in my own bed now, I had that same feeling.  Not of being drowned beneath the mounds of blankets but of the wonderful security I always felt as a child.  

Lying there, reminiscing, I thought back over the years that I spent with my grandparents.  I had them for such a short time, but the quality was enough to last me.  I was loved.  There is no other way to say it.  My grandparents indulged me as only grandparents can and, when my Papa died, my childhood slowly began to slip away.  Grandparents are so important to a child.  We do not always recognize their value and give them the kudos they deserve.

I went to sleep, cuddled up under my comfy blankets, thinking of the people who now live only in my mind.  But, as I considered my childhood, I was struck by all the things that will trigger a memory.

One that takes my right back to first grade is the smell of paste.  Not that gue in squeeze bottles or glue sticks but that nasty old pot of white paste that was used a long time ago.  If I ever get a whiff of that stuff, I am immediately taken right back to that room where I spent my first year of schooling.  

I recall everything about it.  Where it was located in the outlay of the building, where the desks sat, where the bookcases were, everything.  I remember that the boys and girls had separate playgrounds (supposedly because the boys were too rough for us gentle little girls!) and that we came together to share the limited playground equipment for a few minutes before having to go back to our work inside.

Crayons cause the same reaction in me.  The smell of a box of those lovely colors transports me back to a time when coloring a piece of paper was the most important thing I had to do.  I was a good colorer and I spent a lot of time doing it!

I love to spend time in lumber yards because of the memories they bring to the fore.  My father always let me tag along when he went shopping for items for a building project, so the smell of raw lumber, nails, and paint always takes me back to those times with my father.  I was a daddy’s girl, so I have fond memories of any time I had him to myself.  He taught me so many things about life; fairness, personal integrity, that your word should be as good as gold.  I have tried to live up to his example, though, I fear, I have fallen short on many occasions.

When I smell the sweet, clove scent of real, garden-grown carnations, I immediately think of my diminutive grandmother.  Every year, she raised them in her little front yard, bounded by the quintessential white picket fence.  She grew all sorts of flowers, but I adored the smell of the carnations, sweet and spicy.  They were frilly and petite, just like her.  I never smell that wonderful clove scent without her image coming to mind.  

Not all scents made a good impression on me and they do not elicit pleasant memories.  I was a sickly child and, therefore, spent a lot of time in the company of doctors.  The smell of certain disinfectants and medications take me right back to that time in my life when I wasn’t sure I would ever be well again.  This is probably where my aversion to needles came from; constant finger pricks, constant blood draws, constant shots.  Nasty, nasty medications.  Even the memory still makes me gag.

When I see a newly cut hayfield, I recall how I learned to drive.  In the hayfield, driving the truck while the ‘men’ loaded the square bails on the back.  It was a while before I realized that everyone didn’t learn to drive this way!  And that not everyone grew up somehow already knowing how to drive.  To me, it was second nature.  

Bay Rum aftershave reminds me of my grandpa.  Musk, of my husband.  And that sweet, cloying aroma of cheap perfume that that one woman from church always drenched herself in.  I’m sure she loved it, but it made breathing difficult for the rest of us!  

Do you see the pattern here?  Scent is my greatest memory trigger.  It only takes a whiff of something to transport me.  Freshly baked bread, Mama’s quilts, cigar smoke, Grandpa’s juicy fruit chewing gum…  My life is full of pleasant memories.  What kind of things brings back pleasant memories for you?