Nothing productive happens here until this homage emerges:
Today is the 92nd anniversary of Mama's birth. She arrived in a little house on River Street in Franklin, Ohio, and lived in a succession of those houses along the Great Miami until the Great Depression and her parents' divorce kicked her out into the work world. At the age of 12, she had to leave her mother and school to keep house for her father and two brothers.
Ten years later, George swaggered into the lunchroom where she worked, hoping for a 7-Up to ease his hangover. He liked her cooking, and she liked taking care of him, so they got married and knocked up, all in the same day.
WWII took them to Sandusky, where he made bombs, and their baby girl died in Mama's arms. Against doctor's advice, she conceived and carried me while working at an NCR plant in Dayton, where I was born. The doctor was late, and the nursing sisters held Mama's knees together to prevent the birth.
I was nothing like the beloved baby I replaced. I was exactly like George, who kept on drinking and 17 years later wound up dead as a direct or indirect result. All that was left for Mama to do was to send me through college and, she prayed, into marriage.
Mama spent most of the rest of her life riding herd on another drunk and taking care of her little house. That was about all she cared for, staying in her home, the last one my father had built in the 1950s. She accomplished her goal. In late May 2006 on Thursday afternoon, feeling faint, she lay down on the floor and pressed her emergency call button. She died in the hospital on the following Sunday morning.
Happy Birthday, Mama. I miss you so terribly.
Thus we continue, along the lines of the
Nostalgia is in Fashion post I wrote a couple of days ago. In it I failed to mention that it appears that Garrison Keillor and I also wear the same style Sacony running shoes, red with a silver stripe.
I'd been thinking about the Baby Boomer generation sliding into the time of life when we treasure nostalgia like Van Tassel's memoir, and how the sense of smell stirs memories so well. In the last month I've noticed at least two creative endeavors that take advantage of olfactory stimuli: an opera staged in New York City, I believe, and an installation in an art gallery in Oceanside, CA.
Here's my proposal: a scratch 'n' sniff book of Boomers' remembrances, reminders of fragrances along with the events and places of the past. There was a certain "little old ladies' hanky drawer" smell that I would love to experience just one last time--it was a combination of orris root, lavender, and ... what? The stink of Armco's rolling mill on a stagnant, humid summer morning. Apple Blossom toilet water for little girls (
Hello Kitty® of the 1950s).

Words and photographs can recreate many details of those memories, but nothing stirs up how we feel about them like the smells. That is where we live, in our emotions. Yes, I saw and heard, touched, kissed and smelled my mother as she lay dying, but that memory is meaningless. When I catch a whiff of Coppertone® and the tang of ocean air, I am right back on a certain Florida beach with Mama, enjoying a Christmas vacation. Happy.
Labels: books, nonfiction, writers, writing
Listen to this article