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Long ago some author convinced me it was nearly impossible to remember a scent. I thought myself rather special, therefore, because certainly I could pull them from that card catalog in my cranium and enjoy them once again. I shall try not to lay too much blame on that writer, for I may have misunderstood, and plenty of readers may look upon my monthly dose of dribble as second-grade hogwash!
All this to say, oh what joy, brought to us courtesy of the olfactory. My most recent of countless experiences came on one of those unseasonably warm early spring days. It was one of the first times this year that I could work in the yard in a t-shirt; I thought it proper to douse myself with spray-on sunscreen as I waltzed out the door. An aside: are you aware of this stuff? I was not, until just a few years ago. Lotion proved such a mess, amid the hair of my arms, along with the stains it left upon my sleeves and collar. But this aerosol? A joy! A greater one, yet, for the fine folks over at Coppertone have seen to it that it smells just as it ought. That first spring squirt of canned chemical compounds? They took me back!
There I sat on the tiny beach at Oxford. Have you been there, yourself? I’ve not stood upon it since Reagan was in the White House. I wonder if it still looks the same, namely, pebbled with sea glass? Sitting upon that sand, a little black Panasonic transistor was tuned to WCEI. They were playing “Morning Train” by Sheena Easton. The sun was warm on my back; what I didn’t know about life greatly outnumbered what I did know. Ignorance is bliss? I suppose that made me one very happy young man.
I thought of other days when suntan oil filled the air, for a time our favorite spot was Trap Pond. I thought it novel that I should climb out of the water and find my legs green with algae! The feminine among our party were likely not so amused. Those outings were brought to an end the day my youngest sister stepped on a piece of broken glass. A thought just came to me: surely some of that old bottle remains there still, under those waters. Might it now, over forty years hence (checks and double-checks against his age...gulp!) have itself turned to sea glass?
Other summer Saturdays found us at the community pool in Cambridge. Tall for my age, but never that fond of swimming, I mostly just hung out in the shallow end bouncing along on my knees. One day, too close to the edge of that concrete vessel and mouth wide open, I managed to chip a tooth. Another time a younger girl came along and teased me. “Hello, LITTLE boy!” For decades now I have wondered, just what would her reaction have been if I stood up just then? I was perhaps a foot, maybe two, taller than her. Ah, as far as she ever knew, I was just an awkward...and short...kid.
Speaking of awkward, one day I was sent by my mother to grab a drink from the snack bar. For some reason, lost to time, I decided maybe a hamburger should also be ordered. I went back to tell Mom, and she kindly let me know this wasn’t in the plan. The trouble? That guy behind the counter? If you were the casting director for some big Hollywood movie and you needed a tough-looking guy, maybe 40-ish, the sort who would pummel snotty-nosed kids into the ground...well, you’d get this fella. My mother to the rescue, once again. She went and canceled the burger, so her milquetoast of a son didn’t have to.
Oh, those days visiting Ocean City, dousing vinegar on Thrasher’s, standing on the shore and feeling your feet sink under you. Digging in the sand and finding a little crab. The feel of the hot, dry sand further from the water. Having lunch at that pizza place on the boardwalk; playing Whack-a-Mole or riding some ride at Trimper’s. The sound of the crowd; kites in the air. Mom, Dad, my sisters. Life would always be this good, right?
All there; like a treasure chest, opened all to rarely. The key? This time, just that bit of oil, coconut I suppose. Yesterday? While I cannot exactly return to thee, I can stand here and watch, from the sidelines. The good news? There’s plenty left in that can.
