The nose knows and remembers—Monday Memories

When I walked into Panera’s this morning something smelled like creamed chipped beef. That transported me back about 60 years when Mom used to take about 4 oz. of chipped dried beef, mix it into a white sauce and serve it on toast, usually for lunch, for four hungry children. I made it a few times when I was first married, but I don’t believe it was a hit.  I guess you have to have been there to appreciate how wonderful that tasted. Or Mom’s magic fingers.

That started me down memory lane (which has gotten rather short lately after blogging for 10 years) thinking about other smells/odors that dredge up long forgotten memories in no particular order.

Cigarette smoke mixed with Dad’s Old Spice after shave.  My father stopped smoking in 1949, which enabled him to live to 89, much longer than 2 of his younger brothers who developed cancer, but it was not an unpleasant smell, although hearing him cough in the morning wasn’t nice.

Fresh sheets dried in the open air clothesline in the back yard. No artificial laundry softener can match this.

Wet puppies/dogs.  We didn’t have inside pets, so the dogs needed to be towel dried even to come on to the back porch.  Face licks went along with this as did doggie breath in the face.

Leather saddle being pulled off a sweaty horse. It’s like perfume if you like horses.   Closely related to the manure/fresh straw smell at Ranz’s horse and cattle barn where I played.

New school books, tablets and pencils in the fall.  I’m not sure what happened when all our books started being printed in China, but they just don’t smell like they used to.

Mom canning green beans. I sure didn’t like to pick or snap them, but the cooking and canning and the beautiful arrangement on the shelves are sweet to remember. She was safety conscious and we children did not do the hot, dangerous jobs.  No accidents that way. I was about 18 before I canned anything (watermelon pickles).  Did it once, and decided that was enough.

Fresh lumber from one of Mom’s projects.  My dad didn’t know which end of the hammer to use, but my mother was very handy and did a lot of shelf building and remodeling. We children got the scraps to play with and build things in the basement.

Fuel oil. My father was meticulous about his appearance, and immediately would take off his cover-alls and bathe and shave when he got home from work.  If we said his work clothes smelled bad he would say, “Smells like money to me.”

A new box of crayons.  I don’t know what made them smell so good, perhaps the anticipation of a new art project. Or perhaps something illegal now?

Musty smells of packed away toys (from an earlier generation) at my grandparents’ homes. My mother’s parents had a specially designed window seat for toys from the home Grandma designed around 1910.  According to Mom, she was rather lax about housecleaning and her children were allowed to keep their projects on the floor for weeks. We weren’t.

A room after it was freshly wallpapered by my mother. She was very good at this, and after watching her do it many times I decided I never wanted to work that hard.  Although I did wallpaper my daughter’s bedroom when she was a baby.  I put her in the playpen so she could watch me.

Freshly baked cinnamon bread on Sunday morning. Both my parents grew up with home baked bread and lots of real butter, and thought store bought was better, but occasionally we would be treated with the “real thing.”

Chlorinated water at the swimming pool in Rock Falls.  When we lived in Forreston we were bussed to Rock Falls in our summer recreation program for swimming. We rode home on the bus wrapped in wet, smelly towels.

The space heater warming up the bathroom for bath time. As it heated up, there was always a pleasant burning smell; the bathroom was toasty.

Apple sour cream pie for my birthday.  Actually, it always smelled wonderful, but we children chose what dessert we wanted for birthdays, and this was, and is, my favorite. No one, not even me or my daughter or nieces (who all make fabulous pies) can match my mom’s pies.

Garden soil on freshly pulled carrots or potatoes. Again, my mother was a gardener; I watched and decided it was way too much work, although I did have a small garden one summer when we lived on Abington Road.  My son is a wonderful gardener and even cans salsa, pickles and tomato sauce.

Sweaty football and basketball players as we in the stands rushed to the field/floor after a victory.

Basement with damp laundry hanging to dry.  We children did the hanging, not the laundry. I was about 13 when Mom got a clothes dryer.

Hot sheets from a mangle.  We didn’t have one, but JoElla’s mom did and I used to watch.

S’mores around the Girl Scout campfire.  Possibly the finest tasting dessert for a kid.

Mom’s Cody face powder. When I opened her dresser drawer after her death, there she was.  I asked Dad if I could have it, and he gave it to me.

My trombone.  Closed case odor can get a bit strong.

Turkey/gravy on mashed potatoes in the school cafeteria.  There wasn’t much turkey, and in those days schools used government surplus.

Pine tree needles and damp earth at Camp Emmaus (Church of the Brethren) and White Pines State Park (both in Ogle County, Illinois)

Wet homemade mittens with wool linings. The outside fabric was a heavy red fabric, like sail cloth.  The inside was my father’s cut up wool Marine uniforms.

Burning leaves at the curb in the fall.  Most communities don’t allow that today, but nothing smells more like fall than burning leaves and everyone did it.

Mom’s coffee breath and wool bathrobe.  This was only on Sunday.  All other days she was up, dressed and buzzing around by the time I got up. Sunday she would be sitting at the table reading the newspaper, drinking coffee, and munching her favorite breakfast—sharp cheese on toast.