Scents and Memories

Isn’t it funny how the faintest scent can send you back in time to a singularly beautiful, long-forgotten moment?  Once such a moment is brought to your recollection, it is hard to let it go…

I had just stepped out the door to take Shiloh for an evening walk. The air was crisp and as clean as a looking glass. We walked about a block before we could see stubbly hills, which we love to explore whenever possible, looming in front of us. Suddenly, my nostrils welcomed a faint ribbon of smoky scent and I was instantly reminded of the snowy winter mornings of my childhood. The closer I came to the rolling sage-brush hills, the stronger the scent became. I looked around for the tell-tale stream of curling smoke rising towards the sky, but there was no sign of smoke or haze anywhere. The air was as clear as a polished button in every direction. Still, the mysterious scent grew stronger and more potent as I walked.

I inhaled more deeply with each breath, and long-lost memories were suddenly flirting with the corners of my recollection. By the time my feet left the blacktop and stepped onto the crunchy dirt path, I could see my childhood bedroom in my mind. I welcomed the memory like a refreshing burst of mountain air and allowed the scent to sweep me back to the home I loved so much.

It was a cold winter morning. It had taken me a few minutes to work up enough courage to throw the mountain of covers off of my gangly body and touch my bare feet to the chilly carpet. The wood-burning stove was located on the very opposite end of the house, which meant that the bedroom I shared with my five sisters was icebox cold every winter morning.  Mother made sure we had plenty of blankets to keep us well-insulated during the night, and because we had to sleep two-per-bed, we always had another person’s body heat to help keep us warm as we slept.

We never had the courage to leave our cocoons of warmth until we could hear dad in the living room, tossing slices of wood into the fire and crumpling up old pieces of newspaper to use as kindling. Sometimes we could hear him encouraging the tiny flames with warm breath from his lungs, and other times we could hear the whooshing of the hand-held bellows as he pumped its contents into the glowing pile of smoldering paper and wood. Within moments, we could hear the deep hum of the fire as it lit up the stove’s belly and radiated its impressive heat into the room. It was only when we heard these unmistakable signals of warmth that we would courageously dart from our beds to the living room while our nightgowns or silky pajamas flapped against our thin, cold-pricked legs. Of course, we had to make it past the freezing linoleum-floored kitchen first, but as soon as our feet hit the carpet of the hallway we knew we were moments away from blissful, bone-warming heat.

I never thought about the steel-gripped cold that dad had to face every morning in order to warm the house for the rest of us. It wasn’t until later that I realized he was showing us how much he loved us by carefully nursing that tiny fire to health day after day. 

As our shivering bodies soaked up the heat that leaked from the smooth black surface of the stove, we could almost feel tendrils of smoke weaving through our tangled hair and filling up the cold emptiness of the room. I miss everything about those mornings: the sweet, smoky fragrance of burning wood, the way my nightgown felt warm against my legs, and the feeling of togetherness we all shared as we huddled in the warmth of the fire and each others’ love. All the while, the snow lay in silent, soft bundles outside our living room window and marveled at the simple joy radiating from that tiny home.