Sensing September

I am a person wrought with countless sensory memories.

Sun-Ripened Raspberry bath products from Bath & Body Works always conjure up general memories of our first year or so of marriage. Someone had given me a gift set with bath gel, soap, lotion, etc., in that scent, and I used it sparingly so as to make it last longer (we couldn't afford such luxuries). This served to create raspberry memories of newlywed bliss. In order to preserve the magic, I avoid using these products. Now, any time I want to be taken back to those early years, I can simply take a whiff of Sun-Ripened Raspberry and be transported to 1999.

During food science class years ago, I was sent to work in a kitchen lab I had never used before. There was a distinctive odor coming from the sink that was bugging the heck out of me because I just couldn't remember for the life of me what it smelled like. Finally, it occurred to me late in class that day that it smelled like kindergarten. (No idea what must have been wrong with that school building for it to have smelled like rotten sink odors.) I have very few memories of kindergarten, but that sink took me back to blue tiled walls in the long, big hallways of Dripping Springs Elementary School.

When I was a kid, I went to the grocery store with my dad every Saturday night. About the time I was old enough to go to summer camp, I became more interested in loitering in the shampoo aisle than in the junky grocery-store-toy aisle. Sometimes I would spend my dad's whole shopping trip smelling every shampoo I could reach, reading labels, considering prices. (This period launched a lifelong habit of label reading and product comparison.) Eventually, I would present the chosen shampoo and its conditioning partner to my dad for purchase approval. Finesse shampoo always makes me think of the time Adele Munoz came to spend the night, along about the fourth grade. Miss Breck brings back memories of my senior year of high school when we would break a sweat during show choir practice, and my classmates would comment on the pleasing fragrance of my hair. On and on go the aromatic memory triggers.

Though most of my sensory memories are cued by aromas, some are brought on by sounds or flavors or even atmosphere.

The sound of cicadas always means summer to me.

The song "Dreams" by The Cranberries is my college freshman year, spring semester. 1996.

A really close, smooth shave reminds me of Mia Pelt, my college freshman roommate, who let her leg hair grow all winter. When she finally shaved for springtime, her legs were remarkably smooth...smooth like a baby's bottom.

I made a pizza this week, and the flavor of it brought back memories of morning-sickness survival. (I got through the early weeks of my pregnancy eating Triscuit crackers and homemade tortilla pizzas.) I must have used Contadina tomato paste with italian seasonings back then.

Today I opened the windows in my kitchen to let the smell of scorching sugar escape (long story). It was a lovely day, and the evening was cool, so I left the windows up. As nightfall approached, I could plainly hear the crickets humming peacefully outside, while the room filled with the soft, cool, slightly damp night air. And suddenly it felt like September at Mema's house, eating supper at the coffee table, watching TV...circa 1985. My grandfather was a stickler about not running the air conditioner unless it was incredibly hot outside. So at the earliest signs of Autumn weather, we made use of the screen doors. By September, we were already in school, so I would have spent the better part of the afternoon doing whatever piddly homework had been assigned in Houghton-Mifflin Spelling (that, and watching reruns of Mickey Mouse Club--the original, with Cubby and Annette and Jimmy--Welcome to Pooh Corner, Wonder Woman, and Dukes of Hazzard). After dark, some time would undoubtedly have been spent flicking the screen door to annoy the gnats who mysteriously filled 80 percent of the holes only during that time of year. (I always found their practice fascinating.) Mema would have made some vegetable soup or something (probably about the time I was busy watching a Bosom Buddies rerun). I would sit on the floor beside the coffee table (in that way that only children can contort themselves) and eat my soup (careful to pick out the tomatoes) while watching Growing Pains or Who's the Boss. And the background for all of what I never knew would become cherished childhood memories of Autumn was the crisp night air dancing through the screen door, accompanied by crickets a capella.