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Age: 66-75

Red Rock Country

 If you breathe deeply when you are in red rock country, you can smell geology. The smell of millennia, of ages old. The smell of dust and bones and the span of wing tips over boulders red as hunger, heavy as memory.


You don't hold your breath among all that sandstone, that sage and pine and sycamore. You breathe your own life into it and remember a time before and your remembering sets cottonwood leaves atremble and lifts through the clear air to blue sky. 


That sky is how the name turquoise came to be. This is what they called azure. It is lapis at mid-afternoon and sapphire near evening, before the lavender, the orange sherbet, the magenta so deep it has a sound.


You hear big cats growling and imagine bears in caves where there are none. The hissing of snakes, the translucent skin of scorpion. It is your longing for something you once knew.
You gather fallen leaves, thread brown pine needles in your hair, stow broken rocks like dried scabs in your pocket and search for signs of recognition.


"Do you feel home here?" you ask your sisters. "Yes, yes," one says. The other is gazing at blocks of red rock, stacked as if by a god who lives close to the ground, whose blood is clear rivers, whose heart you beat when you walk upon it. 


Your sister is imagining building her own red clay walls. She will line them with quartz, she says. She is talking to God.

- Judy Reeves

A Desert Morning: One for the Nose

In the summer of 1950, we lived on Poppy St. Neighborhood kids rode bikes past bright patches of California poppies that proud neighbors had planted. In the August fog, poppies smelled like cut cucumbers on newly cut grass, the same scent as wet afternoons in Houghton Park, our bike destination. The park, over 30 acres and just outside the Long Beach central district, was scratched by miles of bike trails into the bush.


Sandstone channels cut through the night-blooming perfume-rich jasmine. Bike rides through the flowering bushes meant well-scented eight and nine year old boys who reeked of perfume, but who hadn't the faintest idea what that suggested to their mothers.


My mom said: "Son, who have you been seeing at the park?" Then, she smiled. "The smell on your shirt is a sure give-away. You better throw it in the wash."


"Yuck," I said.


In early October that year I would leave the jasmine of Houghton Park. Sadly, Mom had lost a two-year baby boy to leukemia two years before. Dad wanted to get relief for her from the city and its memories. He looked at property in the desert: abundant, cheap and far away. We ended up with an old fruit and date shop in a distant desert town, Cathedral City. He said we would like it, though it would take a little getting used to. 


Here, Mom would be able to empty herself of grief.


About 100 miles from the perfumed bushes of Houghton Park was a desert hole, our new home. It was October and it smelled dry to the bone. While my city park began its mornings in fog, the desert would only now begin to shake off the residual heat of sun-embedded stone. It would be a month before I could smell the moisture in the fall air. 


Our new home, ten miles and twenty years south of Palm Springs sat in a settlement called Tramview, a 100 yard stretch of asphalt called Highway 111, a mile west of Cathedral City and the Whitewater River wash. In late September when we arrived with our 25-foot trailer, the asphalt began to scream heat as early as mid-morning. Early on, I stood out on the asphalt highway at high noon and looked toward Cathedral City. I saw a shimmering mirage past the wash on the edge of town. I imagined a hot steam iron rose in the air, the smell of Highway 111 at noon on a September day.


I brought my bike from Long Beach. I did dry wheelies behind dad's shop, but didn't dare ride into the snake-filled hills behind us. In the city my buddies and I used to chase squirrels up trees with our bikes. In the desert by myself, I chased jackrabbits into holes that pocketed the desert floor. In the city, a squirrel might mess up and lose the chase. Not a chance with Jack, the Rabbit, as I called him. He was sleek and quick. 


Often, Jack came to sniff around the shop where dad sold an odd mix of grapefruit and nuts. That October afternoon, I saw Jack snooping around the date crates. The sweet, sticky residue of the Deglet Noors had captured him, lured him out of his hole, teased him into making the big dare. He glanced at me. I grabbed a branch from the creosote bush. 


"Catch me if you can, Mr. Boy”, Jack sniffed. 


I flailed the branch. He hightailed it past a creosote bush, past the ocotillo, past the smoke tree, past the tumbleweed that suddenly snapped its roots and rolled toward Highway 111. Fat chance the weed would make it intact across the road. This was October, the beginning of tourist season and the cars steadied into a stream from mid-morning on. 


Jack was long gone into the bush. 


It was late afternoon now. He'd be back at night but by then, Dad would have secured the date crates in the shop. No dessert for Jack.


The sun slipped behind Mt. San Jacinto, the peak that rose from the desert floor to crest on a razor precipice. The sun abandoned the place completely about seven o'clock and left little moisture to reconstitute itself. By morning the dry, vacant air of the previous afternoon would become cool again to emerge as a catalyst for the aromas imbedded in the desert floor. 


In yesterday's heat, Jack's scat dried odorless but regained its pungency through the night. 


At sunrise, the prickly pear flowers perked up, suggesting how seductively sweet its bulbous fruit would be. The purple verbena became freshly cut daisies sprouting from a vase on the dining room table. The sagebrush, not really sage, smelled of Thanksgiving dressing.


But the morning air also brought a stench, a definite stench that pervaded the desert, stretching from our 1940s trailer house to the sand hills across the valley. A visitor might have pointed to our outhouse, just behind the shop. But, no, the morning dew securely contained that odor and left it to bloom in the late afternoon sun. 


The odor of distinction came from the gangly creosote, its branches and shiny leaves, which were the size of fly's wings. Its glistening, olive-green leaves stuck to my fingers and left a strongly scented resin that permeated the air, always in the morning hours, but especially after rain. The gnarled, gray, sparsely foliated offshoots branched out like lightening from a plasma ball. I had used one of its branches to threaten Jack, long-gone.


The creosote bulb produced yellow flowers almost all year round, but primarily in spring, followed by a silver-furred round berry, easy to pick and adventurous to chew. The silver fuzz ball, dainty and cute, was nothing but a beast that harmed. Jackrabbits survived its sting when eaten, but, strangely, mountain goats and sheep did not. Sheep died; mountain goats staggered off to find a place of rest to relieve the pain. Dumb cows, however, were smart enough to ignore it. 


When planted in a garden with abundant water, the creosote bush reached twelve feet in height, but why would anyone want to unleash this noxious beast? 


The creosote was a bad neighbor. Root the creosote next to a healthy plant at its peril. The foul-smelling greasewood, another of its names, does not tolerate company and, if the company overstays its welcome, pain and suffering, if not death, followed. I knew a man up in Cathedral Canyon who grew large creosote, near which thrived his treasured boxwood hedge. The creosote suffered the hedge for five years. Then, the once healthy boxwood became yellow and sickly. Its neighbor, the creosote, remained green and triumphant.


Desert rains pumped up the pungency of the resin. Rain was so rare that anything associated with it was memorable. Get close to an old telephone pole and smell the real creosote: acrid, a little gassy, like melting tar. The pole won't evoke memories. But creosote forges indelible ones. They pervade the desert landscape and, as all noxious creatures, call attention to themselves: the smell of burnt resin, the hard sticky touch of their leaves or their gangly body, branches electrified.


For some, the desert is nature in its purest state. The primeval forest, however, reeks of decay in its fecundity. Dead fish and seaweed putrefy the beach. The desert, by contrast, is pristine, clean, and brisk in the winter, white hot in summer. It is nature in its Edenic state without the sin of human flesh, a place where human flesh does not survive the summer, anyway. 


But that is not our Eden; it is Satan's and his viper's.


At first whiff after a rain, the smells of the desert seem pure, then fall into an aroma of decay. The scent attacks nostrils with hot resin irritation. The creosote deadens feeling, yet makes vulnerable the sinuses and stings them with a scorpion's hook.


The purity of a summer morning breeze, hot, pristine, skin boiling is cast against the acrid bitterness of a bush. 


As a Boy Scout, I encamped one night under the stars next to large creosote. I could not sleep. While the jackrabbits foraged on the desert floor for crickets, I fidgeted. I inched my sleeping bag north a few feet, then east, then west to escape the smell. 


I could not rest. 


Creosote was everywhere. 


I could not find a place to hide. Jack's hole was too narrow.

When I returned home, my mother thought I was sick.

- Don Mayfield


The Smell of Religion

When I was a kid, our family belonged to East San Diego Presbyterian Church. Going to Sunday services made me admire my shoes. Black patent Mary Janes. There wasn’t much else to look at. Sometimes I gazed at the tall brass pipes of the organ, but I soon wore them out as a topic. 


I smoothed my dress over my knees and felt like a frog in taffeta. I entertained myself by watching dust motes drop in slo mo from the high ceiling. Halfway down, they disappeared and reappeared through bands of red, green, and blue sunlight churched by the stained glass windows. The specks fell softly with the cachet of a secret in plain sight, and they explained the dry scent that sighed through the sanctuary. 


The highbacked, dark-wood pews smelled of corners: right angles harboring mites and must. Their cousins, the hymnals, smelled the same. This fit the songs. We mouthed the words, verse after verse, wishing for salvation.


Flowers were laid out in tall vases on either side of the altar. Sprays of pink gladioli, yellow-orange alstromeria, white carnations, magenta stargazer lilies backed by ferns. Outside, in the world, blossoms typically opened and spilled their sweet scent like wanton barmaids. But in church, flowers stalled out and festered, drowning in their own water. 


Since ceremonial food had been promised, I hoped that delicious smells were on the way. But at communion, the wafer erased itself. We had been told that it was Christ’s body showing up as bread, but where was the loafy smell -- that scent of yeast that made a person feel expansive and worthy of butter and jam? Likewise, the odor of the little tippance of communion wine danced for an instant and then evaporated too. 


From the parishioners rose the faint smell of humans scrubbed presentable: Lifebuoy soap, Brilliantine hair pomade, Aqua Net hairspray. A nip of Old Spice. Sometimes a wisp of perfume slid by that was more Saturday night than Sunday morning: White Shoulders, Hypnotique, Primitif. 


But in the summer, since air-conditioning was not, we suffered. Most people didn’t trouble themselves with that newfangled antiperspirant stuff. So we smelled. But being Presbyterians, no one spoke of it. At the end of the service, we stepped out into superheated air with the scent of abraded iron. Families drove straight home, where parents threw off their shoes and put their feet up on the hassock, fanning themselves with a pleated section of last night’s Evening Tribune. Kids kicked up a wet grass and mud smell in the backyard by chasing each other with the hose. 


But except for hot-weather sweat, Presbyterianism didn’t smell much. Scent felt excessive. Foreign. Papist.


In a short romance with the Catholic Church, I attended mass with a circle of black lace bobbypinned to the top of my head. But Catholic-smell shocked me. Ecclesiastic candles swooned everywhere, waxing the air -- a thousand tiny fires burning like Saint Teresa. Incense smoked down the aisle in steaming metal pots swung by altar boys. This was not democracy. It was a monarchy of scent and everyone knelt to it. 


And, whenever we smell something, we feel it before we can think about it. Maybe that’s why smell tells us where we belong. I eventually found my sanctuary in the piney Sierras, and most of all, in the fresh scent of the sea.

- Anitra Carol Smith


What’s that Smell?

Corner markets were common in San Diego in the ‘40s and ‘50s. Whether you were a kid or one of those high schoolers that people had started calling “teenagers,” those little stores were the “go-to” for Babe Ruths and Hershey’s candy bars, for Orangeades, Cokes, and Pepsi Colas. 


So, walking home after school from Hoover High, my friends Shary and Jackie and I would stop in at a little market on the corner of El Cajon Boulevard and Copeland Avenue. It wasn’t a place you’d notice, but it offered some groceries and household supplies and the only things that we cared about: candy and soda. 


The owner always frowned to see us coming through the door. But then, all teenagers were suspect in those days. At thirteen or so, a kid fell hard from the grace of being indulged to the shock of being persona non grata. After all, people never knew when teenagers might undulate their hips to the rock and roll music played by that Elvis fellow on the Ed Sullivan TV show. Or a teenager might roll up a pack of Lucky Strikes in the short sleeve of his white tshirt, so that any time, he could pull out a smoke right in front of you. Teenage girls? They might slip that extra candybar in their purse when you weren’t looking. Or give you sass. They might even end up PG, if you know what I mean. 


But even though the owner of the corner market wasn’t happy to see us, we liked the place because we could depend on it. Sometimes we might change things up by getting a Heath bar instead of a Babe Ruth, a Delaware Punch instead of a Coke, but the beauty of that little store was that it never changed. When we walked in, we knew there’d be the dusty-clean scent of the bags of flour, the faintly salty scent of Ajax and Bon Ami cleaning powders. When we pulled up the lid of the red metal Coca Cola chest to plunge our hand into the cold water for a soda, a metallic, icy scent would escape. 


Until one day, everything changed. On that hot afternoon in late spring, the screen door thwacked closed behind us as usual. But then a smell hit us that was so horrible that we could not at first take it in. We tried not to breathe. It seemed to be everywhere: between the aisles, on the floor, on the cans of Spam and Borden’s Eagle Brand milk. We wanted to back out the door. We wanted to make a run for it. But that would be rude. We didn’t look at each other. We reached for our candy bars, our sodas, though the scent lay on them like a bad joke. We handed over our money. 


But as we were leaving, Shary had to ask, “What’s that … smell?” 


The owner snapped, “I disinfected the floor with vinegar.” 


We burst out the screen door, exhaled and took big breaths. We knew we would never trust the place again.

- Anitra Carol Smith


Crayons

Sunshine streams cross the table
Home sick from school, I sit alone
Mouth filled with tart and tangy orange taste 
baby aspirin slowly melting
Box of crayons spread before me
All the colors just for me
Blues from day to midnight dark
Greens from lawns to sea
Intoxicating waxy smell entices
No need to share or squabble 
A remembrance like a lovely painting
Contented child lit by sunshine, 
Waxy crayons and perfection.

- Mary Anita WINKLEA