Our five senses are magical creatures indeed. They are the generators and keepers of some of our most intense memories. They are the mechanisms by which we time travel. They reside within us, but often do their things with or without our consent.
For example, there are certain smells that never fail to take me back to other times and places. For a few years in Connecticut, I lived very close to the Avon Cider Mill. Every fall, the entire town would smell of apples. Somehow that smell always made me feel safe and cozy and yet surrounded by crisp, cold, invigorating air. It’s one of the many reasons that fall is my favorite season.
When the Maxwell House Coffee plant in downtown Jacksonville was grinding coffee beans, the whole downtown area would smell like coffee. You actually felt perky just by breathing the air. I was heartbroken when that plant closed down. Ironically, I’m not a coffee drinker, but I do love the smell. (I feel the same way about beer, now that I think about it.)
On the other hand, the entire city of Jacksonville rejoiced when the nearby paper mills shut down. (Well, the mill’s employees were upset, but I’m sure that once they moved on with their lives, any nostalgia was short-lived.) The stench seemed to permeate every nook and cranny of that city, and it was nauseating, so employees probably sweated it out of their very pores.
Slightly further south, in St. Augustine, the tap water always smelled of rotten eggs due to the sulfur. When city hall turned on its sprinklers to water its beautiful landscaping, I tended to detour well out of my way to avoid the odor. I wonder if the water still smells like that there. If so, I feel sorry for anyone who calls that city home.
When I miss my sister, I can almost taste her apple pie. Lemon drops remind me of Mystic Seaport, because I’ve never tasted better lemon drops than the ones I had there. Pomegranates conjure up my mother, and whenever I open a sardine can, my grandmother pops out, like some sort of a Danish genie.
When I need comforting, I close my eyes and remember how it felt when my little dachshund, Quagmire, would curl up against the small of my back, all warm and furry. There’s nothing more delightful than the crackly sensation of throwing yourself into a pile of leaves. And every time I swim, the water gives me a full body embrace and reminds me of simpler times.
Everyone has songs that transport them, and I’m no exception. And while I can no longer remember my mother’s voice, I can still hear this one horrible high note she would hit while singing one particular hymn. It will always make me smile.
Even utter silence evokes a memory. I didn’t know I was experiencing such silence until I was at the highest point in Mesa Verde National Park, and a raven flew past at a distance. I could hear its very feathers beat the air. It was profound.
Pansies, forsythia and pussy willows remind me of my mother. Irises remind me of my favorite uncle. Bubbles in tar remind me of the projects we lived in when I was 5 years old. I’d sit on the curb and pop the bubbles, come home, and infuriate my mother because tar would be all over my hands.
Our five senses can be the stuff of nostalgia or the architects of distress. They are the emotional equivalent of a jack of all trades. They are the epitome of diversity and wonder and complexity. They are the lenses through which we see the world. They are, perhaps, our most precious gifts.
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The View from a Drawbridge 