Tag Archives: memories

Basking in Bamfield, BC

travel

There are vacations , and then, there are experiences of a lifetime. Joining my friend Dorey and six of her other buddies for a stay at Outer Shores Lodge in Bamfield, British Columbia to celebrate a “landmark birthday,” is definitely in the latter category.

We sort of knew what we were “in for” – beautiful scenery, excursions on the water, some cultural and marine biological learning, and – maybe best of all – someone was going to cook for us. But I don’t think any of us were prepared for the superlatives that filled in those basics. Spectacular scenery, amazing excursions, unforgettable learning experiences, and – definitely best of all – having a superbly talented chef and her staff serving us three mouth-watering meals a day (plus bonus happy hour snacks with a view!).

For four days and four nights we reveled in this utopian dream. We forgot that it took us at least five conveyances and two days to get there. We forgot whatever it was that we left behind at home (work? families? obligations? what??). We almost forgot our own names at times I think. We definitely lived in and for the moment, tried everything (well almost – no dips in freezing cold water for me thanks!) And didn’t regret any of it. (mmm, for me, maybe regretting snorkling in a wet suit – not my sport for sure!)

We didn’t need to stray far from the lodge for a lot of action. A bear sauntered through the orchard, and even around the rocky tide pool one morning. The resident bald eagle flew from one group of evergreens to another regularly. Hummingbirds flitted around the feeders and the bright red fuchsia flowers. (The fuchsia bush was right next the the hot tub. Nuff said.) And every night we were treated to a lovely sunset from the bluff above the lodge.

But we did venture out for many adventures. Kayaking, twice. To the nearby beach once. On a picnic to a further island, during which we sighted seals and oyster catchers, and a thrilling, bumpy ride over the waves to even further islands another day, where our group saw a humpback whale, among other things (thanks to the keen eye of our guide/lodge owner Russ).

It was our special privilege one day to be spirited down a spongy, magical rain forest trail to the archeological site of the traditional summer home of a local First Nations community, the Huu-ay-aht. Our guide, Qiic Qiica (aka Keats), not only related the story of the remnants of the buildings, but drummed and sang for us, and his young niece danced, while we perched on rocks on the gorgeous isolated beach near the settlement.

When our four days were up, and we had to face the long trip home, it was quite traumatic. We certainly didn’t want to leave. A week after departing, we are still expressing wonder and gratitude on our text chain. Experiences like this don’t just happen, so we all thank the staff and co-owners of the lodge for making this such a memorable one. (Read about some of them here.) We also have to profusely thank Dorey’s friend and lodge co-owner Becca for all she did to make this trip so special. And of course Becca and Russ’s son, Dylan (who is wise beyond his years but as delightful as any eight year old boy at the same time.) And Simon, who seemed to be everywhere doing everything, from helping in the kitchen, to guiding our kayak expeditions, to dredging up sea cucumbers and sea urchins for our inspection.

It’s hard to pick just a few photos to try to sum up our time in Bamfield, but here’s an attempt. If you ever have a chance to travel to Outer Shores or some other similar destination (I’m sure there are some out there, though we think this was the best ever!), jump on it, even if you have doubts.

An informative sign about the small hamlet of Bamfield greeted us at the dock after our two-hour van ride over the mountains and through the woods. (Several people said it reminded them in many ways of the town depicted in the by-gone tv show, Northern Exposure, but in a good way.)

You know you’re in for something special when this is the path you take to get there.
Here’s the lodge from the water just to give some perspective.
The first day we got there, we set off after lunch to Brady’s Beach, a not so long walk from the lodge. Some brave souls even took at plunge in the (rather frigid) water, but beach combing and dipping my toes in was fine by me.
Our intrepid kayaking “pod.” We saw a baby bear and an eagle on our first trip out.
The approach to our guided tour of the First Nations archeology site. These figures are replicas of a pair of carvings depicting the first man and woman. The originals are apparently being repatriated to the community soon.
Keats points out a remaining corner post of one of the structures of the village.
Drumming, singing and dancing on the beach near the village site.
Winding down after a day of activity was easy with appetizers and wine on the back deck facing the inlet!
And we’re off! Though this view makes it seem as though we were in a small inflatable, it is actually a pretty substantial rigid-hull boat, but it packs a wallop riding the waves!
It doesn’t get fresher than this. The huckleberries gracing this panna cotta, were picked by Dylan and Simon for our eating pleasure earlier in the day. Sorry, bears.
Speaking of bears… maybe this one was looking for his lost huckleberries?
Becca, who is a marine biologist, gives us a primer on bull kelp. (The bulb holds enough noxious gas to knock out a chicken?!)
Sigh, is all I can say.

Let Us All Eat Cake

food, ,

I’m not sure I trust anyone who doesn’t like cake. Sorry, that is just how it is. So, when I was thinking about a new blog topic, I thought of occasions past, captured in photos, and my mind went immediately to cake. (Especially since I had already written about noodles.)

Do all families have a “signature cake”? I suspect many do. Ours, going into its third generation, is a sour cream coffee cake with nuts, which is equally good for breakfast, a mid-morning or afternoon snack, or for dessert. It’s buttery, cinnamony, and just totally delicious. It is known by the name “Jewish Nut Ring” in our family, although we are not Jewish, and I think that my mother got the recipe from a women’s magazine, probably sometime in the 1950s. Our recipe is very much like this one but we would never, NEVER add raisins or chocolate chips as suggested here, and ours includes walnuts, not pecans, and involves pouring melted butter on top before baking. My mom had a special round pan for this (now my sister has it), but I found a suitable one years ago at a yard sale for just this purpose.

Do all families also have signature birthday cakes? I know many who do. My sister’s was a white cake, baked in a rectangular baking dish, split in half and spread with apricot jam, reassembled and coated generously with whipped cream. I think it fell out of favor some time ago. Mine is a keeper – the Chocolate Pinwheel Cake, very much like this one, which has been tracked down to a 1954 recipe “courtesy of Baker’s Chocolate and Carnation Evaporated Milk,” two of the main ingredients. So, though I never asked her about it, is likely to stem from my mom browsing through those women’s mags again.

Our version, passed down through a series of hand-written recipe cards and pieces of dog-eared note paper, has an important difference from the above recipe, in that the filling has a healthy (or unhealthy) dose of instant coffee instead of more chocolate. And, really, more chocolate is not what is needed in this cake. Swirling an unadulterated, and almost obscene, amount of pure melted semi-sweet chocolate into the batter to make the “pinwheel” design is the key methodology. When it cools, it forms an intense, crunchy chocolate orgy, which is offset somewhat by the fluffy, not too sweet mocha filling.

Various other cakes have come and gone, witnessed by this little parade of photos, but these are the two with the most memories and staying power. It’s no wonder, as they are delicious, but also evoke special times in the kitchen and at the table, sharing sweet moments bite by bite. I’d love to hear about other cake memories!

The classic nut ring. My mother, sister and I have made hundreds of these over the years, and my daughter is the third generation baker in possession of the recipe.
One of the many Chocolate Pinwheel Cakes, and since this is not my cake plate (or my countertop), I think this one was made at my sister’s house. The cake assembly is tricky, as it involves cutting the two rounds in half each, to make four layers, with scrumptious filling in between each and around the edges. You have to pick the prettiest “swirl” for the exposed top layer.
My sister doesn’t bother with standard women’s magazines, she subscribes to Bon Apetite and Gourmet…and often finds complicated recipes that we need to execute during the holidays. The inside of this cake, made by my daughter M.E. (who is a really good baker) was even more complex than the Pinwheel cake, with a layer of cake filled and rolled into a big round. That’s why she’s looking so satisfied with herself for pulling it off!
Maybe baking complicated cakes rubbed off on her at a young age, after being impressed by her mother’s (somewhat amateurish) rendition of Mickey for her second birthday?
Doubt if I will try this one again, but I was inspired when I read a book that had the recipe included. You, too, can read the book and recreate Burnt Sugar Cake with Maple Frosting at this link! Or just bake the cake if you don’t have time to read the book. (It was an okay book, though, but the cake was better than the book, in my opinion.)

Indiana Adventure I: Adze the World Turns

Indiana adventures, Uncategorized,

On a recent trip to Indiana, my old stomping grounds (from starting grad school in 1977 to leaving for a job at the Smithsonian in 1987), I had many adventures with my dear friend and fellow “wander Indiana” enthusiast, Peggy Sailors. I will report in a series of scenarios and photos!

Adventure #1 was a trip to Terre Haute to attend the “Art of the Adze” exhibition curated by colleague Jon Kay, the State Folklorist of Indiana. I had once held this position for a couple of years in the early 1980s, but he’s really done a much finer (and longer lasting) job of it, I must admit. He and his intrepid research assistant, Katya Chomitzky, curated this lovely exhibition on wooden bowl hewing (AKA “chopping”). They had planned a “Chop In” or “Chop-a-Thon” featuring a gaggle of wooden bowl artisans, which we could not miss.

This event took place at the otherwise tony small art museum, the Swope, in the middle of downtown Terre Haute. Just a wood chip’s toss from quiet galleries featuring works of Grant Wood, Edward Hopper, and Andy Warhol, among others, the din of the the chopping of three generations of bowl makers rang out joyfully. A museum volunteer gamely tried to contain the chips (which fell “where they may” and defied staying on the tarps that had been laid down to protect the floor) with a broom.

Present in spirit, and in memory, was the Father of All Indiana Bowl Choppers, Bill Day, from West Lebanon (may he rest in peace, though maybe he’s chopping bowls beyond the Pearly Gates and driving St. Peter to distraction?). Peggy and I had interviewed Bill and visited with him and his wife Marion while working on a state-wide crafts exhibition called “Materials at Hand.” (More about that at a later date, as it really bears a revisit.)

Bill was a short but powerful retired farmer, with a distinctive high-pitched scratchy voice and an even more distinctive laugh (something like the braying of a donkey combined with a buzz saw maybe?). He honed, so to speak, his already wide knowledge of working with wood into a second career of splitting logs for fence rails. Then, when Marion brought home an old wooden bowl from an antique store, he pondered how to make such a vessel. After perfecting the method (which requires hewing large pieces of green wood with a series of adzes) and making a noisy mess in their house, Marion shoed him out. He rented a small former utility building in “downtown” West Lebanon, dubbed Bill’s Chop Shop.

Bill’s work earns a prominent place in the exhibition, and his memory is well preserved by the older current choppers in attendance a the Chop-In. It was gratifying to hear them speak so fondly of Bill and his work, his generosity of spirit in teaching others, and his time as resident bowl chopper at the Indiana State Fair’s “Pioneer Village.” And also to see that the “art of the adze” is being passed on down the generations. (The youngest chopper in attendance at the event was a strapping 15-year old.) And to see that several women have found their way to bowl chopping, too!

Check out the exhibition and Chop-In!

Peggy (right) and me (left) pose in front of the sign that pays homage to Bill Day and even mentions us!

The sounds and sites of the Chop-In! Featuring in this grouping, the Ruble family, led by patriarch Keith, who succeeded Bill Day as chief bowl chopper at the State Fair. He taught his sons Andy and Luke and daughter in law Kasey, all seen (and heard) chopping here.

Choppers assembled to exchange info and get their photo taken in the gallery. Youngest chopper, Luke Boyll, is in right forefront with his teacher/mentor Blaine Berry.
View of exhibition showing in forefront some excellent examples of Bill Days work. (These were loaned by Peggy!)
Terre Haute, as it says on this historic marker, is located at the cross-roads of America, as this historic marker tells us. This spot being the crossing of US Highway 40 and 41. Which just goes to show that Indiana is at the center of all good adventures…so tune in next time for more!

That was Just Jan

memories, ,

I learned that my friend and colleague Jan Rosenberg had died from another friend and colleague, Sue Eleuterio, in a text about a week ago while I was having an otherwise happy day with my daughter who was visiting for the holidays. M.E. didn’t remember Jan too well, but here they are, in the only photo I could ever remember taking of Jan (at left, at a conference in Bloomington circa. 1992, Jan at right, long time secretary of the IU Folklore Department Velma Carmichael at the left).

When someone dies, you always immediately think of the last time you spoke to them. I called Jan around Christmas, and after playing telephone tag for awhile as we often did, we connected and chatted about her research, her book currently at the publishers, and the next thing she wanted to do. And about how hard going to dialysis a few times a week was for her but how nice the drivers who took her there were.

Lately, our conversations started as strong as usual, the same old Jan, a mixture of complaining, complimenting, laughing, and talking seriously about our work as folklorists. But I could tell that she was getting tired when she started not making as much sense, admitting to not having a lot of stamina. That final call ended abruptly when she said “she had to go.” I assumed she would call back at some point in the future when she felt up to it. Should I have tried to call her again later to make sure she was okay? Probably.

What’s the next thing you think about when someone dies? When I thought about Jan, I remembered that we had not seen each other very often, usually at American Folklore Society meetings where we’d steal away for coffee or, for her, a beer (in my memory, she rarely ate a decent meal, so lunch or dinner were usually not on the docket). She did visit us back when we lived in Olney, Maryland, staying for several days while she did research at the Library of Congress. (She had driven in her white truck with her dog, whose name I don’t recall. I don’t recall where she was living at the time, but it was a far piece. She didn’t like flying.)

I remembered the many long phone calls over the years, during which we usually hashed over the state of Folklore and Education endlessly. Why were folklorists always “reinventing the wheel” of folklore and ed? Why was something so obviously important (and with many historic antecedents, as Jan had documented over the years) still ignored by most mainstream educators? What could we do about it, if anything?

I recall one phone call, which lasted most of the way between Arlington, VA and Harrisburg, PA where I was driving to a Middle Atlantic Folklorists Association conference. So, at least two hours, which was common. I don’t recall everything we were talking about, but it certainly made the drive more fun, to have Jan there virtually in the car with me. There was no such thing as a short phone call with Jan.

I recall, when we did get together in person, she smelled like the heavy smoker she was. I remember her laugh, which was hearty and frequent, even when being expressed more in exasperation than mirth, and usually ended in her smoker’s cough. She had a deep sense of the irony in things. She cut to the chase. She was kind, curious, fiercely loyal to her friends, compassionate, and stubborn. Quirky, individualistic, and very much her own person.

Her expression in this photo is a little hard to read. A bit of amusement, a bit of tenderness, a bit of uncertainty. That was just Jan.

Rest in Peace Elinor

Elinor Belanus, ,

Since mid-November, it’s been a rocky road for our small family. While my brother in law, Bob McFadden, was in home hospice in Hilton Head, SC, my mom had two trips to the Hilton Head hospital. Bob passed away on December 2. Mom rallied a bit, able to come to my sister’s home from the nursing home for Christmas Eve via wheelchair van.

It was clear, though, that she was in decline, very frail and not taking pleasure in much of anything. I went home after Christmas, but was back for Bob’s memorial service in mid-January. The plan was to stay through my mom’s 96th birthday on January 28, but it became even more clear that she was not doing well, staying in bed almost exclusively and increasingly confused and in pain.

I stayed, and my sister and I went every day to visit, often finding her sleeping fitfully, or just plain knocked out by the strong pain killers she needed to make her some level of comfortable. On her birthday, we brought her favorite Chinese take-out and a decorated cake; she spent the day in a semi-stupor and didn’t get to enjoy any of it.

She lasted almost another two weeks, tenuously holding on to life, passing away finally on the morning of February 7. So sad, but finally at peace.

She was not always the easiest person to love, but we did regardless. She will be remembered for her sense of humor (sometimes a bit bawdy); her colorful sayings, many of which I find myself using as they are so ingrained; her love of cooking and food, which was hard to see her deprived of when she started losing her taste buds and desire to eat even the most tempting dishes; and her feistiness in general. She was mentally sharp up to the later stages of her decline.

Here are is a slide show with some fairly recent photos from my digital stock; there are so many more from the days of print photos of course which I will get around to digitizing some day maybe. I may do another blog later that delving into her earlier life, as I whiled away hospital hours during her first stay by doing a recorded interview. Hours of memory cannot be condensed into a few words or photos, but it helps to share some of this with friends. Cherish your loved ones, for all their faults, all the days of their lives.

  • Collage using some of over 100 cards she received for her 95th birthday. Some of you might recognize the ones you sent!
  • She loved her seafood, including the lobster special at Reilly’s Pub.
  • On her 90th birthday, we gave her 90 presents!
  • Granddaughter Mary Elinor (M.E.) Francis enjoyed learning about her mom’s early exploits through photos.
  • A visit to DC before she stopped traveling much; M.E. in full teenage mode.
  • Hilton Head “bestie” Betty Sebastian, her next door neighbor, was her game and pizza might buddy while they still lived in their homes.
  • Decorating Christmas cookies was a holiday ritual.
  • The cookie master.
  • Flower arranging at her assisted living facility was a hit. She did have a flair for it.
  • A cookie decorating session in assisted living which I masterminded.
  • M.E.’s high school graduation in 2009.
  • A trip with my sister to St. Augustine, FL when she was still able to travel.
  • She loved presents, giving and getting. A happy holiday moment.
  • Hamming it up for the camera. Bye, Mom!
  • At the “home nail salon” with M.E. as the nail technician.

Memories of My Father

childhood; stuff; family, ,

My father passed away when I was 13. It was a bright spring day in April, and I had been on a 4-H trip to a furniture factory or something. I suspected something was wrong when some friends of our parents came to pick me up at the parental meeting point after the trip.

The days leading up to the funeral are a blur, but at the viewing or after the service (not sure which) I remember sitting next to a schoolmate who had also lost her father. The only thing I can recall about our conversation was speculating together about what they did to tomatoes to make ketchup thick. Was it flour, other thickener, some kind of cooking magic? We couldn’t decide.

I like to think my father would have enjoyed that conversation. Not only did he love food (which one can see in the photos) and my mother’s cooking, but he enjoyed discovering things. No one could not disturb him, or even get his attention, when he would sit down in his easy chair to read the Reader’s Digest or another monthly publication.

Many of my best memories of my father revolve around food some way. I remember his pride in growing vegetables, first in our expansive New Jersey backyard and later when we moved to Vermont and had an even bigger space to plan out and tend. I hated pulling weeds and picking beans, but I learned a lot from those early gardening days, and honor that practice with my own vegetable garden, though it is not nearly as large and productive as my memory of his. But my husband and I are particularly fond of growing tomatoes.

He also loved hunting and fishing, and brought wildfowl and fish back to my mother – a city girl who did not always appreciate trying to figure out what to do with the spoils. If I am remembering this correctly, in the fall there would sometimes be dead ducks hanging upside down on the clothes line.

I’ll have to ask my mother (who in her early 40s had to become mother and father, and has been a widow for over 50 years). My sister, college-bound at the time, also had to grow up a lot faster than she might have, and chose to attend a college closer to home. We’ve never talked about that period right after my father’s death much. We should someday.

One of my favorite memories of my father was one night, after he and my mother had purchased one of those gadgets that sliced vegetables, probably “as seen on TV” or advertised in the Sunday paper or a magazine. It purported to slice anything with neat, picture-perfect precision, even ripe tomatoes.

I’d gone upstairs to bed, but was woken by very loud laughter in the kitchen. My mother and father were putting the slicer to the test with ripe garden tomatoes, and it obviously was not living up to its hype. I am not sure if I snuck downstairs to see what all the hilarity was, or if my mom told me about it afterwards, but apparently tomato mush was everywhere. Being frugal, I am sure my mom made tomato sauce out of it the next day.

She could have made ketchup, I suppose, but that was the job of the Heinz company. And, if she had, there would have been no mystery to discuss, to soothe my profound loss.

Our family in our New Jersey living room. I’m the little one on the right.
My father in his young, non-double-chin days on the left, and with my mom at some beach or other on the right. That’s a (backyard) farmer, or fisherman’s tan if I ever saw one!

(Musing) On the Rocks

memories, rocks,

In lieu of having anything even vaguely exciting to blog about lately, I decided to riff on some rocks. This came to mind when my husband and I took at walk around a Falls Church neighborhood one afternoon this week and noticed more than one group of painted rocks. This seems to have become a pandemic pastime far and wide, which even my 95-year old mother expressed interest in trying recently.

This made me think about rocks in general, and the many rocks that I may have encountered in the past year or so. So, naturally, I went to my Google photos and searched “rocks” to see what the algorithm would come up with. Mostly this involved photos of rocks in parks in Pennsylvania, where we spend a lot of time this past year. Pennsylvania, as I have mused in this blog in the past, is full of rocks.

Among the photos on rock themes, however, a few popped up that really reminded me of the sense of loss of the past one year+, some of it having to do with the pandemic, but some of it having to do with some dear friends we lost this year to non-pandemic illnesses.

And so, I offer a small photo essay on rocks, loss, remembrance, and hope for a better rest of the year and years to come.

Easter themed rock garden in Falls Church invites people to take/add a rock (or shell?). Painted rocks are popping up all over the Northern Virginia suburban landscape.
Another group of painted rocks at a local park. Not so curated but fitting for the setting!
When one has a lot of rocks in one’s garden they must be put to good use. There’s never a dearth of rocks to hold down garden cloth in our Pennsylvania garden. This is the start of last year’s garden. The tomatoes did well but those brussell sprouts never thrived I fear.
Travel with buddies was a big loss this year. Arlene and I missed out on a lot of ginseng fieldwork and its associated adventures in the Appalachian mountains, such as this one in the Great Smokey Mountain National Park in summer 2019.
I was most saddened by this photo of Steve and our friend Tarik, who passed away suddenly this past year. As a prelude to our trip to Mexico, we visited with him and his family in the L.A. area, including with his daughter Madeeha who lived with us while interning at the Smithsonian. Our families have become fast friends and Tarik’s loss was a real blow for everyone who knew him.
I like the idea of being commemorated “on the rocks.” I have no idea who this gentleman was but the location of the plaque is near our cabin in PA at The Pulpit, where hang gliders and parasails launch in good weather.
Rock graffiti on the banks of the mighty Potomac, below Chain Bridge. Nuff said.

Bagpipes and Big Wet Rodents: Expect the Unexpected at Cowans Gap

#Pennsylvania State Parks, memories, ,

As I pulled up to the parking lot nearest the tiny beach of Cowans Gap Lake for an evening swim, I thought I heard bagpipes. In nearly thirty years of coming to the lake to walk, swim, boat, surreptitiously pick apples, and otherwise commune with nature, that was a first.

Cowans Gap is our default Pennsylvania State Park. Located about six miles from our cabin atop Tuscarora Summit, it offers year-round recreation. Sandy beach without jellyfish and sharks – though maybe a few stray Canada geese – boat launch and rental, and, most used of all by our family, a one-mile trail circumnavigating the lake.

We started coming to the park when visiting my (then boyfriend, now husband’s) friend John Small, who lived nearby. I recall, though he doesn’t, talking about our future on the one occasion I talked him into renting a paddle boat. (He’s not a boat person, and I now know it must have only been true love which drove him to acquiesce.)

Several years later, we introduced our baby daughter to the joys of walking around the lake on a cold February day. Not sure she was convinced then, but when she got older and we had built our cabin, many more weekends included a walk around the lake. We formed a ritual which included: 1. Always turn right from the parking lot and walk across the dam first. 2. Pitch a good sized rock off the dam aiming at the stream below. 3. Stop to walk out on the small fishing pier to look for fish or other wild life (salamanders, newts, etc.) 4. Skip stones at the shallow spot near the island. 5. Have a stick race at the bridge.

Over the years, we encountered many wonders walking around the lake. The eerie sound of ice cracking in a spring thaw. Exploring the contours of the lake bed the year they drained it for dredging. And once, while walking around the lake after dark (which they don’t let you do anymore now), a perfect luna moth glowing green in the moonlight.

But, I had never heard anyone playing the bagpipes before, and thought I might be imagining those faint but distinct notes of Scotland the Brave and Amazing Grace. To make sure I wasn’t going crazy, I asked some other beach-goers, and they heard it too. The music brought back memories of my one and only trip to Scotland in 1988, and another bagpiper playing the same tunes when we visited Loch Ness.

When I got home, I looked up the events page of the park to see if they had scheduled a program of bagpipe playing that evening. But all I found was an upcoming program celebrating Big Wet Rodent Day. The wonders of Cowans Gap never cease.

M.E. does not look all that thrilled at her first walk around the lake.
When Steve’s cousins visited, a walk around the lake was mandatory.
A few years ago, our friends Alex and Anastasia got married in the lakeside pavillion.
Fall glory, looking down on the beach from the overlook.
Even the starkness of winter brings its own beauty.
I guess not!
Moonrise. Nuff said.

Encountering the Ghosts of the Past

childhood; stuff; family, Hilton Head Island, memories, ,

Last week, my sister and I embarked on the task of cleaning out my mom’s condo.  Mom is now in assisted living, and has everything she needs in her one large room.  (“Needs” and “wants” might be different things… let’s say, she has everything that could possible fit there and then some.)  So, the accumulated remaining possessions that were left in the closets, under the beds, in the cabinets, on the shelves, in the drawers, on the walls, were left to be dealt with.

This is not our childhood home, but the retirement home of my mom.  Still, some of the items dating back to our childhoods made it to this location, in a couple of enormous boxes in the corners of the spare bedroom closets.  These brought back memories, mostly fond and but some not-so-fond.   From my old report cards (which recorded your height and weight back then along with your academic achievements) I was reminded what a fat little kid I was.  Our old slightly beat up Madame Alexander dolls reminded me how I once shamelessly abused my sister’s doll by cramming corn flakes into its eyes.  A tiny set of metal pots and pans reminded me that, as children, we had a functional small electric stovetop – how many times did we come close to burning down the house with that beast?

We kept a few of the items that we just couldn’t part with – my sister took, among other things, the pancake pitcher and griddle, and we vowed to make pancakes served with sausages, maple syrup and applesauce at Christmastime like our Dad used to for dinner sometimes.  I took the family photos in various media – slides, loose snapshots, arranged in albums, framed.  We brought more small knick-knacks and mementos to my mom. But many of the items will find new homes via the many boxes we donated to a charity shop, or, if they were too far gone, have been deep-sixed in the dump.  It’s just the way of things.

It was sad, and exhausting, and frustrating, but we got through it, with the help of some friends and our husbands.  Ghosts have been encountered, dispatched, and banished along with about a ton of stuff.  The memories remain.

Smells Like Memories, or, The Nose Knows

smells,

Some smells bring you to a different time and place.  Some smells can even change your life course.  Breathe deep and read on.

I was fighting a cold recently and tried some Vicks Vapor Rub to clear out my sinuses.  (I’ve had the same little jar of Vicks for at least twenty years, it doesn’t take much to do its job.)  The smell of eucalyptus and whatever else they put in there (menthol? I can’t read the ingredients any more on my jar) immediately brought back the memory of my mom slathering the same gooey pungent muck on my chest, and placing a very warm washcloth on top, when I was a kid.  Comforting, if a little uncomfortable, but a smell that brought the warm feeling of caring and love along with it.

The evergreen, resiny smell of a Christmas tree brings back memories of cheerful holiday times, and up to a week ago there were still cut trees littering the streets waiting for recycling pick-up.  I sometimes break off a branch of one on my way to the Metro in the morning, and just indulge in some post-holiday nostalgia sniffing.  I even stripped a branch a couple of times and put the needles in an open jar for a sort of homemade aroma therapy.  (I am thinking twice about this practice, though, after my husband pointed out that a dog had just peed on our own curbed tree last week before it was picked up.)

The smell of lilacs always reminds me of the big bush behind my beloved early childhood home.  In the same spirit as trying to preserve the Christmas tree smell, I used to pick the flowers and put them in a jar with water to make my own lilac water, dabbing it on as perfume.  Trying to capture spring in a bottle and keep it close to me.

I was doing some research on the National Heritage Fellows, in preparation for writing some features for our July/August guest edited issue of FACES magazine for kids 9 – 14.  (Shameless plug, sorry.)  I read the story of one of my favorite Fellows, Mike Vlohovich, an amazing boat restoration expert and man of the sea, who won the award in 2016.   He tells the story of studying to be a priest when he was younger, having received a calling.  He was walking in the garden of the seminary, and smelled the morning coffee.  The smell brought him back to his days on fishing boats, of the coffee brewing to wake up the early morning crew and keep them sharp for the difficult job in often dangerous waters.  He realized that he had another calling, back to the sea and ships.  (His version of the story is much better than mine, but you get the idea.)

Next time you smell a smell that brings you back into another time and place, go with it.  Linger over your memory.  It might change your life, or it might just bring you to a different, and hopefully better, place for a few moments.