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Gender: Female

No title - this represents a collective memory

I find I tend to relate olfactory memories to experiences where smells act as triggers , sometimes visual experiences evoke olfactory memories and sometimes a sound can evoke an olfactory memory as the sensory experiences all seem to link back to a holistic sensory memory of all that I remember about something ...


The song ‘new york’ makes me recall my father’s cigarettes, his bourbon , Worn ( burgundy ) leather and the times spent with him at the jazz 100 club in London

The sight of climbing roses makes me think of freshly mown grass. Petrol-the lawn mower and suntan oil, as well as my mothered gardening gloves and the sweet sharp smell of the home made lemonade age maid the slightly musty smell of the wicker pic nic basket and the fresh linen smell of napkins. 

Oil smells of the garden shed and magazines and sun loungers - from the shed !
Going to the beach is the radio the picnic rug - smelling of cigar smoke or pipe tobacco - sweet tobacco as my grandad smoked in the shed!


Summer is baking , patchouli, strawberries, sweet oil- like Hawaiian tropic suntan oil my mum used- cliff Richard songs she played as well as leather and deep tones of jazz melodies and toasted almonds and copper whisky in crystal tumblers with clinking ice and smells of the sea and salt if you laid back on the blanket and closed your eyes in the sunshine - then cucumbers tomatoes and cheese from salads ...

- Nathalie Elwood

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

Loves Me All the Time

A sailboat slides by on the bay. The smell of oily Sea and Ski suntan lotion fills the air. It’s a hot summer day and the Kona Kai Club bustles with adults, teens and tots. I’m in trouble. My brother hit me and I had to chase him around the pool and my dad yelled at me to sit down. I knew running was against the rules, but I couldn’t help it. I cried and said I wanted to go home but Dad said no. Now I’m glued to my towel, it’s too noisy and too hot to sleep and I just want to escape. 

My stupid brother does a cannonball into the pool and splashes me. He bobs up, sticks out his tongue and crosses his eyes. I don’t take the bait and he finally swims away. I check Dad who’s lighting a cigarette, sneak away and tiptoe along the concrete over to the deserted Children’s Pool in a shady corner. 

The sun sparkles off the turquoise circle through tall palm trees. My small feet wade down the steps to the center of the pool and I bend my knees so that the cool water comes almost up to my chin. The sharp chlorine smell tickles my nose and I know if I dunk my head under and swim around for a while my blonde hair will turn icky green again. 
I clap my hands twice and swish them through the shiny blue water. Then close my eyes and begin to sing one of my father’s favorite songs. 

Sugar in the morning. Sugar in the evening. Sugar at suppertime. 
Be my little sugar and love me all the time.

As I turn in slow circles, the metal drain massages my bare feet and my voice echoes off the edge of the pool. When he sings that song to me, I know he’s happy. If he hasn’t had too many beers and isn’t slurring his words, I believe that he really does love me all the time.

I repeat the song again and continue in circles until I hear his voice call, “Jilliebeaner, it’s time to go!” I look up and see he’s smiling at me holding my towel open and I know then the words to the song are true.

- Jill G. Hall


Simple Man

Salt of the earth Southerner. Drag racing enthusiast. Bearded since 1972. My father. 

When he held me my head laid on his collar bone. Beneath his beard his neck was always freshly shaved. Creamy wafts of sweet soap and musk: Barbasol shaving cream. I loved the smell so much I would take the small puffs that remained on red, white and blue can and wipe it under my nose leaving a white mustache. As it dried the scent faded to a cool soft wisp. 

He has chewed tobacco since the age of 15. My parents promised one another to quit their tobacco habits when they got married. It’s the only promise my father hasn’t kept. Kodiak Wintergreen, the green and black can with a grimacing bear. Mint with wet tobacco overlaid with notes of spit, tar, and black licorice. His spit cups were not to be knocked over. Resting on his collarbone the creaminess of the Barbasol mixed with the harsh tobacco spearmint together creating a scent that is greater than itself. It's the essence of a way of life, a place that is home.

- Jeanette Price


DIRTY

Grandmother’s house

Circa 1812

cellar

dirt floor

scary

open door

odor was a strong wall

reek

coal bin

stinky

root cellar

mice

funk

monster furnace.

 

Do we dare

go down there?

 

- KIT CROUCHER