Celebrate scents memory
I watch our grandgirls carefully raking leaves to form a small, colorful hill in the middle of our bright green (chemical free) lawn.
They race toward the mound, streaming hair aglow in the sunlight—all long legs and pumping arms and breath escaping in steamy puffs.
The older one gets there first, churning her legs in air above, then collapsing in a heap, while the the little one skids to a stop before the pile, then jumps as high as she can into the middle landing on her bottom, then falling straight back as though into a pool. The sisters lie staring up at the sky, fingers touching, satisfied smiles lighting their faces.
I am with them, experiencing their pure joy.
They are mesmerized by cloud patterns, catching their breath, when I notice something else. It is the smell of burning leaves wafting over the fence between our house and the neighbor’s.
In a matter of seconds I am hurtled from western Washington to a quiet street in a town north of New York City.
It was in the days before “play dates.” After school, kids were told to “go out and play,” and we did so within whistling distance, if not calling distance of home. Today you might contact the authorities if you saw three eight-year-old girls playing out of sight of adults on the edge of a dark woods. Back then being corralled in a backyard was “for babies.” After age seven, kids roamed the neighborhood on foot and bike and wandered into each others houses as though they lived there.
On this day, two friends and I, dressed in our usual after school outfits—plaid skirts, sweaters, knee socks, saddle shoes and wool coats, played in the leaves, hurling them into the air, then standing under the cascade; or making up our own version of “Freeze Tag,” where you unfroze someone by touching her with a leaf. But even with the running, our hands are numb and faces red with the cold.
I don’t know whose idea it was to start a fire, but I doubt it was mine since I had the reputation even then, of being a “Goodie Two-Shoes.”
But whomever was responsible for the brainstorm, I undoubtedly contributed a matchbook to get things going, since I almost always kept several in my pockets. Those were the days when it was considered the height of rudeness not to provide ash trays and matches on every table in the living room. My parents brought home an unending supply of the small artistic treasures from restaurants and hotels. And if they had a problem with my lifting the ones I found interesting, they never said anything.
In any case, we had leaves, we had matches, but we were smart enough not to simply drop the matches into the pile and see what happened.
We formed rocks into a circle, added in some leaves and then lit them.
We were so excited when it caught you would have thought we had invented fire!
Then, one of the girls, Peggy, to whom I passed on the hated bologna sandwiches forced on me most days for lunch, and who was the only overweight girl in our class (probably my fault), had a brilliant idea.
She ran to her house and down into the basement where there was chest freezer, returning a few moments later with a frozen peach pie.
We balanced the foil tin on rocks and and stuffed leaves under it, then tamped down the top crust and watched in fascination as the peaches melted and bubbled while the aroma of the baking pie mingled with the smoke.
We let the fire die and the pie tin cool before scooping the gooey delight into our mouth with dripping fingers.
I’ll never forget the taste of that pie, sweet with sugar—and victory. We knew that there probably was something wrong with what we had done and that we should have felt guilty. But we didn’t. I only remember feeling thrilled and powerful.
When someone’s mother called, we threw dirt on the ashes before skipping home as innocently as if we’d been sitting on Peggy’s canopy bed whispering silly secrets.
There is no real drama to this story. The fire didn’t blaze out of control (luckily) and we never told our parents. Nothing happened that makes it especially remarkable and yet…
…as I sat watching our granddaughters 57 years later, a whiff of smoke yanked me out of the present and swept me back into a memory I didn’t know I’d kept.
Living in the moment requires my full attention and it is where I am delighted to spend most of my time.
But a memory unexpectedly awakened is a gift I will never take for granted.
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Note: I wrote this blog post while participating in the SocialMoms and Seventh Generation blogging program, for a gift card worth $50. For more information on how you can participate, click here.
Also, FYI, Seventh Generation has created a line of dish liquids featuring natural scents from real lemons, clementines and lavender. Seventh Generation’s Natural Dish Liquid scents come from fields not factories, and honor the careful hands that cultivated them. In honor of the launch of this line, you can Enter to win a trip to Italy, France or Vermont
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Lynn Colwell and Corey Colwell-Lipson are mother and daughter and authors of Celebrate Green! Creating Eco-Savvy Holidays, Celebrations and Traditions for the Whole Family, and founders of Green Halloween®.
