Ten Distinct Smells

As instructed in my prompt, I went for a walk (accompanied by my little Penny Lane, of course) by the bay in Edmonds and the ferry terminal. I thought finding ten distinct smells would be tough, but discovered, once I paid attention, it was easy peasy. Paying attention; always the hardest part of any assignment, regardless of its nature.

The briny water is, of course, the first scent to astound the senses the moment I step out of the car, either tugging Penny along or barely keeping up with her pace. The ocean scent is one I welcome, bringing me memories that go long and far into the past, moving me right up into the present. 

Digging for clams from a very young age at Copalis Beach, summer after summer, getting our limit of 15 clams per family member per day, then having to eat them all winter long in various forms of recipes my mother so lovingly tested on her three guinea pigs, Dad, my brother and me. With many other changes his birth would allow, we quit those family adventures after my younger brother was born. I need to save those details for another story and hope I'll have a chance to get to it one day. 

Other memories this scent instills are boating, camping, beachcombing at Dash Point as a kid, and in the early '90's at Shark’s Spit on the BC Peninisula, with many places up and down the timeline and coastline. From the Atlantic to the Pacific, north to Alaska and Massachusetts, South to the Caribbean and the beaches of Mexico’s Riviera, the salty air of Denmark.

Perfume! Almost an assault while walking along the strand, yet pleasant in its own way… motherly, sisterly, womanly. Patchouli quickly creates an image of a long-ago boyfriend of my daughter. Although I don’t know if Travis actually wore patchouli, whenever I smell it, he comes to mind, a young man who embodied the spirit of a ‘60’s hippie more than the originals, with his long, tangled hair, penchant for radical politics, and riding his bicycle up and down the steep hills of Queen Anne.

Someone lights a cigarette, and I cross the path where the atmosphere changes so immediately that brine and perfume are wiped out in a sense of love and hate. I cannot stand the smell of secondhand smoke, and yet, and yet… there are times when I get the scent of that freshly lit cigarette, and it brings back the days of my own personal addiction. I had a lot of affection for my little kit of Marlboros and lighters. I kept a carton in the freezer and opening a new pack was akin to a distinct euphoria. I miss it... in my dreams. I know what smoking did to me; it affected my lifelong health. If I were ever to pick it up again. It will kill me. It's been 20+ years, and I can't believe I loved it as much as I did.

Coffee, as we walk by the espresso bar, where people are ordering lattes and such, along with ice cream and pastries. Nothing clings to the air quite like coffee brewing. I started drinking coffee when I was about 4 years old, in a tiny cup with its matching saucer. I still have it to this day, a baby shower gift from one of the Danish ladies I grew up with. My first coffee drinks were mostly hot milk, with a little coffee to flavor. As an adult I varied between drinking it black and undiluted, to absolutely destroying it with cream and sugar. I drink tea now but occasionally love a cup of well-prepared coffee. My Danish grandmother pressed upon me how important it was to always have the pot on, ready to welcome visitors. I’ve missed that treasure of a woman for 59 years now; I was 17 when she passed. I've never known anyone to make people feel as welcome as Myrtine Grove did. 

Ah, the odor of sunscreen. Coppertone from those early days of bronzing and bubbly skin, and years later the pink-tin-bottled stuff we sprayed on my grandkids. I had an allergy to parabens and UV filters that burned my skin more than the sun ever did. I eschewed sunscreens and now we’ve learned the spray remedies weren’t too healthy either, giving kids respiratory reactions. 

I get depressed at summer's end when my skin turns back to its natural glaring white, after tanning naturally to a golden brown.

Kiawe burning (pronounced kee-AH-vay); kiawe grilling of salmon especially. I never smell Kiawe without recalling my first encounter on the streets of La Conner, Washington. We used to drive up there, wander the galleries, drink and eat too much and stay in fine places like The La Conner Inn, Hotel Planter, and Wild Iris. The Tulip Festival that started in the mid-80’s was often a draw for us, as well as the migration of snow geese and trumpeter swans. The streets of La Conner still smell like Kiawe, especially when tourist season kicks in. In later years, we boated up the Swinomish, and coming through the passage, I sniffed the air like a dog for that familiar delicious smell. 

Meat, beef, or steak, which is different from the above Kiawe, in the sense that there is a distinct odor to a fire lit under red meat, and the spices and herbs that entice the appetite. These odors permeate the air from the many restaurants in Edmonds and the waterfront we walk. I love my steak and, as recommended by my doctor, eat steak about twice a month. I rarely order it out, as I can do real justice to a Porterhouse or Ribeye all on my own and it's a lot cheaper, too. Red meat is a complete protein and provided essential amino acids to repair and build muscle. It's a rich source of iron, zinc and Vitamin B12. 

My fondest memory of eating steak is Las Vegas, a few years ago, with my youngest daughter, when we sidled up to a bar and ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. It was a self-taught lesson in having whatever we wanted and at the moment we wanted a heavy pour of pinot noir and a filet mignon. Each.

Broken ferns. They give off a very specific scent. Green, earthy, the forest floor, scattered with the detritus of the eroding and waste of the forest, the darkness of a walk in the woods, all the sounds that accompany... creaking timbers, multitudes of insects singing, thumping, tweeting, whistling. Birds: goldfinch, sparrow, junco, nuthatch, stellar jay, and owls aroused by the invasion of domesticity. I grew up surrounded by conifers and was either marched through fern laden woods with my dad or the Girl Scouts. 

Mixed in with all these smells, I come upon, or it comes upon me, the humid closeness of Ariel, the detergent that is so prevalent in Mexico. A family walks by and the softness of this clean and hugging scent brings me back to my Lavanderia Pulpito, the drop-off/pick-up laundry I owned in Puerto Vallarta. Many years ago. Someday a story about that, too.

My dog goes with me just about everywhere. Sometimes she smells like me; the lotion I’ve just put on my hands or the squirt of perfume I sometimes wear. Penny Lane, my 6-pound chihuahua-mix, loves her baths in the kitchen sink and for a couple days following, she smells of clean doggy shampoo. But usually... she has her own smell, something like a mix of buttered popcorn, vanilla, and cheese. Ha! Sounds awful, doesn’t it? It’s so perfect, you have no idea until you give her a cuddle.

So, there you have it, the acute recall of the olfactory sense. 

Part of this assignment is to describe the "barren patch in my own backyard" and what I would fill it with (anything I want.) My barren patch is the sorrow of loss. It clings to me all the time, though I keep it well hidden. What would I fill it with if I could? Mostly the babies I lost, I think. If I had a child for each time my womb began to fill, I'd have eleven sons and daughters. And... a complete family would fill my barren patch, something I've felt robbed of, even as hard as I tried to create a whole and thriving unit. 

As we age, losses build up; you never get used to losing someone, especially the young ones. I have lost people who are still alive, and that's the hardest. Maybe I'll go into this in some later blog. That's enough for today.

These isn't fancy writing, just words pulled out of one of the five senses, a writer's best friends. 

Thanks for reading.

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76

The number has multiple meanings. It’s a Lucas number, which is similar to the Fibonacci sequence, howeeever... not being a math enthusiast, other things come to mind for me:

Significantly, especially these days, is the Spirit of ’76, the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Last June 2024, I was in Philadelphia, where that amazing treasure of history was signed by the esteemed Founding Fathers of our Democracy. 

There’s also 76 Trombones (The Music Man – Meredith Wilson), where Harold Hill does his best with the townspeople of River City, Iowa, to help them visualize their children playing in a marching band to dissuade them from the pool hall and inevitable juvenile delinquency. 

76 gas stations get a pass, because who wants to think about gas prices these days?

 

John Stanley, John Carl, Margo Jodyne

September is a month with a lot of meaning with birthdays in my life. Many friends, including two, share the day of my birth.

My brother was born on September 9, three years my senior. 

My first husband, John Stanley, two years older than me celebrated on the 17^th, the day before mine (he usually forgot mine, one of the casualties of that marriage.) 

My husband, Breeze, passed away on Sept 11. And, of course, that date is unforgettable for everyone. 

Breeze

September 21 marks the last day of summer/first day of fall, always a tough time for me, having had too few walks on the beach, lazy days in the sun, dips in the lake.

Thank you for all the birthday good wishes today, counting over a hundred so far and it’s not quite noon, as I write this. I am blessed.

Onward. There are things to do, places to go, people to meet. No matter the age, I will always be young at heart (as long as I avoid mirrors and reflective windows.)

Thanks for reading

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Am I Foolish?

This came about from a writing assignment. I need to get back into blogging. This is a good place to start.

Am I foolish? Sometimes I act the fool to learn. I let someone think I have not gathered all the information I need about some certain subject and then I let them school me. Do I then, in turn, school others? Yes, indeed, I do, and my fault is to always make sure I have my data correct. Because… we are living in the age of misinformation. Or disinformation, if you will. But what I learn from others... that's what I carry with me. That's what allows me to weigh decisions, opinions, attitudes.

This past week I walked by sea and lake water. These feet are old, and legs not as steady as they once were. In the past, able to climb around like a wiry primate, I am slowed down and must pay attention now. My little dog wanders aimlessly at the end of her leash and I am also responsible for her. A huge responsibility for a six pound dog. Watching my step and being aware of my surroundings is a huge task.

The access at Richmond Beach is not an easy one; I am on private land apparently as I approach a small sea wall (not small to me) and setting my dog down, I find footholds and things to grab onto. I step over, on and around large pieces of driftwood that heavy storms have shoved towards the shore. My dog waits patiently until I am stable enough to grab her off the wall.

This is not a task for closed eyes, but we do find a log to sit on and there we meditate, my little dog in my lap and trembling at the noise of the incoming tide, the ferocious water crashing on the rocks. The smell of brine, that noisy tide, the cry of gulls overhead. This is peace for me.

Foolish is not the girls down the beach, barely clothed, sipping their wine, smoking cigarettes and dashing in and out of the water. This is the opposite of foolish; it is living. It is finding the moment, the place in time and space, the memory of a day. Just as my dog and I are doing, balancing what we can do and what we need to be cautious about. The sky turns pink, eventually crimson and then the waves are creeping closer to our feet. The girls down the way grab their blanket, towels and belongings and we listen to their whoops and cries as they laughingly make their way to higher ground.

I’m taxed to share who I teach and who teaches me. I have tenants who I am not just a landlady, but a counselor, a shoulder, a friend. There is a ten-year-old girl, of whom I am in charge on a thrice weekly basis. I do learn from all of these wise souls. This last Sunday at the lake, I brought a newfangled disposable grill, with coals that would be ready in 20 minutes. We were excited to roast wienies on it and had all the fixings, buns, mustard, ketchup, pickles. We lit it and I put the timer on for 20 minutes. It died. 

It was a terrible death because it took with it the hot in our hot dogs. My 21-year-old granddaughter Mila worked for an hour with that damn grill. She does not give up easy. It was a disappointing outcome, but a great observation for me. I admire her consistent persistence; she’s had it from the beginning. I’m not one to give up easy and can be like a dog with a bone, depending on the situation, but Mila makes me feel like a slouch at times. That’s a good thing. Learning from those younger than us might be a struggle for some older folks. 

I love that I am surrounded by young people who can teach me.  

Thanks for reading