I stare at the corner of the living room and consider
whether or not to put up a Christmas tree this year. The kids are grown and
gone, my husband doesn’t care one way or the other, and I will be the one
untangling lights and complaining about how they never work from year to year, even
with all those guarantees that if “one-goes-out-all-stay-lit.”
I think about the times I’ve walked into a room and thought
how silly it looked to see a tree all bedazzled there inside a house. But all
it took was one whiff of that balsamy scent to transform that quirky conifer into
a memory trove of times past:
There was the Christmas we forgot to cut the bottom off the
tree before decorating it, so when our friends came over, we held it up—baubles
and all— while Bob crawled under and sawed away.
And the Christmas in Guatemala when we stuck some branches in
a jar and gathered round with our little Mayan friends.
Or the time my brother came home from the service and we lay
under the tree and giggled and poked at packages like we had when we were kids.
Most of all, I remember my mom’s trees all draped with so
much tinsel you could hardly see our plaster of Paris handprint ornaments. She
wouldn’t let us throw the tinsel on the tree, but made us hang it piece by
piece. We all walked around with glittery socks and sweaters for weeks. I can
still feel that agony of anticipation, waiting to see what would be under that
tree Christmas morning. I can still see my parents’ expressions of pleasure at
our delight.
“Let’s go get a
tree,” I say to Bob.
We go to a nearby stand and I bury my head in the branches.
“They don’t smell,” I say. “The trees at Whole Foods smell.” Bob has no comment.
Whatever I want to do. Buy or wait.
Whole Foods is on the other side of town. I’m impatient. Maybe it will
smell when we get home. We buy the tree. The attendant cuts the bottom for us,
removing that sealed off portion that has allowed the tree to stop leaking and
retain moisture in its needles.
After our yearly, brief discussion about fat colored lights
(Bob) or a gazillion clear ones (me) Bob goes off on an errand. I string lights
(clear) and deck out the tree. Sure enough. Fancy as it is in all its finery, even with a
fresh cut bottom, my supposed-to-be-fragrant Fraser doesn’t smell. No aroma of
forests and earth and Christmases past wafts around the room.
Too late, I realize something I’ve known intellectually. The
emotional memories are in the scent. In fact, the association of smells with
people, places and events is such a powerful way to release memories that
caregivers are encouraged to stimulate people with dementia by having them
smell memory- evoking scents. Conjure up for a moment—campfires, Coppertone,
cookies in the oven and yes,
Christmas trees.
What are your special scent related memories? I’d love to hear
them. Thanks for stopping by. I’m off to buy some tree oil or candles. Just
hope they don’t smell like a pine cleaner that I associate with bus terminal
bathrooms!
Blessings because you belong to a Living Hope!
Marcia
