Lauren Denton
Scent can be a kind of memory, right? There are a few scents wound so tightly into the fabric of my life, a faint whisper of them can send me cartwheeling back into the past.
One of my most powerful, vivid scent-memories is that of my Papa’s bathroom. I know it sounds crazy, and a little gross, but stick with me. My mom’s parents lived out in the country, in a tiny town north of Mobile. My brother and I spent a whole lot of time out there when we were kids. Our whole family did, really. It was one of my very favorite places to be, and even now, when I think of heaven, I hope there’s some version of Mema and Papa’s house there.
At some point during my early childhood, my grandmother decided she and Papa needed separate bathrooms. (They also had separate beds, a la Lucy and Ricky.) So my grandfather lovingly added a second bathroom onto their bedroom, and their hall bath, which had previously served both of them, along with my mom and sister when they were growing up, became just “Papa’s bathroom.” I don’t know what Mema used to clean it or if she had a secret stash of potpourri somewhere, but it always smelled so clean and refreshing, like sunlight and fresh breeze filtering through an open window.
I can’t pinpoint the specific scents that made up that particular bathroom smell, but all these years later I can suddenly catch a whiff of a certain candle or soap and it’s like I’m back in their house again, walking down the carpeted hallway toward the sweet, pink-tiled bathroom at the end. The gauzy café curtains flutter in the breeze and through the open windows I can hear crickets in the trees, Papa working on some woodworking project in the garage and something simmering on Mema’s stove in the kitchen. My mind settles on that red dirt road, the well-worn trails through the woods and the stone path leading to their cozy back porch and warm kitchen. It feels like coming home again.
I started thinking about these scent-memories because I recently spent a cold, windy weekend at my family’s condo at the beach. We’ve been vacationing at this particular spot for the last 30 years, so suffice it to say, it looms very large in my memories, and at the end of every hurricane season, I’m full of thanksgiving that it has survived. This particular weekend trip was the first time I’d been down there since the end of last summer, and the third time since my mom passed away.
I was nervous going in, wondering if our little haven would smell different — if it would no longer smell like her. Similar to how my grandmother could somehow make that hall bathroom smell so good, I never could quite pinpoint what my mom used to make the spaces around her smell so good. At the beach, it’s always been a mix of her spicy, woodsy candles, sunscreen and fabric softener. Unlocking the door that Friday afternoon, my knees almost went weak when the scent hit me. It was just the same, exactly as it was supposed to be.
And it was the same outside, too. There’s a particular scent that hits you as you round the corner of the buildings and take the wooden walkway down toward the river. It’s the brackish water — part Gulf salt, part river fresh. It’s the wet roots of cordgrass and needle rushes that grow along the marshy edges of the river. It’s the scent of blue herons and seagulls, crab traps and pinfish, chlorine and Coppertone. And even on that chilly February afternoon, the smell was there, reminding me that though seasons change and people change, some things don’t.
When I was in high school, my best friend and I would lie on our backs at the end of the dock at night and look at the stars. Back then, the river was much quieter and darker — no fast boats slashing down the river with thumping music and neon lights. No tall, glittering condos obliterating the light. It was just two kids in the dark, looking up at a universe that seemed impossibly large, dreaming about the future. Every time I walk out on that dock now — inhaling the same smells, looking out at largely the same view — I think of the two of us, marveling at a future that seemed as vast and mysterious as the nighttime sky.
All these scent-memories take me back in time — as far back as early childhood when I romped in the woods out in the country, and as recently as last spring when my mom sat on the front of our boat and laughed in the sunshine — and I’m thankful for them. And I remind myself to be thankful for the scents of my life today — this sweet, hairy dog who needs a good washing, my ten-year-old after she comes in from playing hard outside, my thirteen-year-old who loves scented lip gloss and fruity shampoo and the lingering aroma of a spaghetti dinner as our family winds down at the close of another day.
When I’m not writing about my family and our various shenanigans, I write novels and go to the grocery store. You can find my books in stores, online and locally at Little Professor Bookshop. You can reach me by email at Lauren@LaurenKDenton.com, visit my website LaurenKDenton.com or find me on Instagram @LaurenKDentonBooks or Facebook ~LaurenKDentonAuthor.
