If I had two loaves of bread,
I would sell one and buy hyacinths,
for they would feed my soul.
(Mohammed)
The hyacinths are in bloom. My neighbor, Diane, whose intelligence is matched by her honesty, admired them, and so I offered to cut some for her to take home. “No thanks. They smell better outside than inside,” she said.
Fragrance outdoors can be overpowering indoors. Illustration: one winter I decided to fill a large bowl with paperwhite narcissus bulbs and force them to bloom. When I shared this with my non-gardening friends, they accused me of being violent. “How the heck is that violent,” I asked. “You’re forcing them,” they said. We’ll have a lesson on forcing bulbs another time.
Where was I?
Back to that bowl of narcissus on the table. Next to the couch. One night I went to bed at my usual time and my husband stayed up until his usual time. After midnight, he woke me and said, “I smell burnt rubber in the living room, and it’s making me sick.” I followed him downstairs, and began checking outlets, extension cords, smoke alarms, and recently burned candles. My nose led me to the source: the paperwhite narcissus, now in full bloom. I asked him to stick his nose in the blossoms and inhale. He made a retching sound as he grabbed his sides.
I gently moved the retching husband aside, grabbed the bowl and placed the narcissus outside. The husband went back to reruns of Gunsmoke – I went back to bed.
Every new scent creates a deep-rooted connection with the present or resurrects a memory. Scent: a portal to the past. Buried deep in our subconscious, scent converts present to past – and returns lost loves.
Almonds & Gasoline
My grandmother kept a bottle of Jergens lotion under her kitchen sink, and every night after washing the supper dishes, she would apply Jergens to her hands and arms. That distinct almond scent brings her back. To conjure up my grandfather, I head to the nearest gas station. He dispensed gas and stories for 60 years on the corner of Highway 60 in Mountain Lake, Minnesota. Everything he touched smelled like gasoline.
Because I didn’t drive much last year, I went to the gas station one day just to evoke him. As soon as I began pumping gas and the fumes hit me, there was “mein Grossvater.” His subversive smile. I could even hear him ready with a story in his English merged with his mother tongue – Plattdeutsch – the low German his grandparents brought over from their Mennonite village in Russia.
Spring scents open that portal to the past. I enter. Each new scent summons a memory. Now is the time to feed my soul. Now is the time for sensing over doing. To take in the scent of self, of others, of life.
Recent rains have distilled the lilacs to an intensity that returns my long-departed grandmother to my side on one of our prairie walks. Lilacs transport my husband back to his childhood, too. He recants getting off the bus and smelling something that brought a rush of happiness. Lilacs.
They’re the best antidepressant I know.