I was probably about five years old and sitting on the steps of my grandparents’ house in Omaha the first time I noticed the smell of fresh mowed lawn. My mom’s parents loved me fiercely; I was the only grandchild they ever had. I loved them back, but was often bored when visiting them. The closet of toys only occupied me for a time, so I sat on the steps a lot and wished for trees to climb, chickens to feed, cats and dogs to play with, and the smell of horse.
Grandpa was a fun-loving guy who loved to joke and play games with me but he worked all day at an office. Grandma and Mom were all about shopping, which I hated, and still do. On Saturdays, Grandpa mowed his lawn, washed the car, and polished shoes for church on Sunday. This was all new territory for me. We didn’t have a car to wash, or a lawn to mow. Dad just cut the weeds around the house with a scythe when they got too tall. We didn’t go to church, or even town very often, so shoes didn’t get polished much.
As an adult, I’ve always been the resident lawn mower and the smell of fresh cut grass invariably takes me back to Omaha. New mown hay is even better, a mix of sweetgrass, meadow mint, clover, and other things, that puts me on a tractor in the home meadow. (My nose and I travel a lot.)
There’s a ton of memory in our yard. When I mow around chokecherry bushes, their sweet perfume takes me to the banks of the Middle Loup where we used to have picnics. We had a yellow rose bush on the home ranch. The one by our garage brings memories of my dad’s knack with growing flowers, and Bruce’s mom, who cared for this one. The iris bloom profusely, reminding me of my brother-in-law, who gave us the bulbs.
Memory is strongly connected with our senses. What perfume did your mom wear? Evening in Paris, for mine; White Shoulders, for an aunt. Chili bubbling on the stove: that would be Dad, his was the best. Chicken and noodles: my foster mom, where I boarded to go to school. Cinnamon rolls: my best friend’s mom. This is how memorable hers were. When their mom died, her daughters had a fuss over who got the cinnamon roll pan.
When thunderheads build on summer afternoons, I’m in a hammock with Mom, picking out shapes in clouds. She thought the white ones looked like a bowl of popcorn. A particularly intense sunset prompted her to ask, “How’d you like to have a dress that color?”
When sweet clover is in bloom, I breathe deeply and want to hang out the car window and drag my hand through it. Mom was always yanking on my belt; afraid I’d fall out. Neighbor kids and I would stop and sniff wild roses as we walked of an evening, picking up pretty rocks. We even braved the stinkweed when it bloomed, using the pods as “green beans” in our mud pies.
Slow down. Don’t hurry through your day. Notice the places you can go just by following your nose.
Meet me here next week and meanwhile, do your best. Somebody might like it.