A collection of essays, outdoor adventure stories, ruminations, wordplay, parental angst, and blatant omphaloskepsis, generated in all seasons and for many reasons at 64.8 degrees north latitude

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

You Stink

“Mmmmm….”  Molly burrowed into my lap, long legs tucked against my stomach and face somewhere in the vicinity of my armpit.  She sighed happily.  “I love how my mama smells like mama,” she said.

I stared down at her. She smiled back up at me beatifically.  I quickly calculated when I’d last showered.

Having determined that it had been within the last 24 hours, I felt at least marginally exonerated.  Ok, so by the standards of Middle America – and most other people who think that running water is not optional – I wasn’t 100% clean, but I didn’t actually smell, did I? 

Except that, of course, I did.  My daughter had just told me so.  Moreover, I was fairly sure I did not smell like soap, or shampoo, or deodorant, or flowers, or chocolate chip cookies.  I smelled like mama. 

Probably, I thought, I should change my shirt.  But I had a kid on my lap, and when not inhaling my armpit aroma, she was reading aloud Mr. Putter and Tabby Clear the Decks.  I didn’t want to miss a moment of the action; who knew what Mrs. Teaberry’s good dog Zeke might do next? 

I considered telling my daughter that, her complimentary tone notwithstanding, people aren’t supposed to smell, and that both the smelliness itself and the act of commenting on the matter are generally considered gauche.   At almost the instant the thought crossed my mind, I recalled learning the same lesson myself, at roughly the same age that my twins are now. 

It was Christmas.  For weeks, a brown-paper-wrapped parcel emblazoned with lots of little Queen-of-England stamps, fascinating U.S. Customs stickers, and indecipherable postmarks had been squatting in my mother’s closet.  Granny always sent her gifts early – Thanksgiveing-early – perhaps based on the assumption that postal technology was still somewhere in the speed range of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria.  However, in my mind, this was exactly the way parcels should be mailed, because Granny could do no wrong. 

When I visited Granny at 3 The Crescent, Tunbridge Wells, Kent I entered a magical world in which milk came in bottles with the cream floating on top, homemade baked goods and fizzy lemonade were considered an important afternoon meal, and everyone’s voice sounded a bit like my Mummy’s.  Granny was willing to play infinite games of Eye Spy and Parcheesi.  She had a vast, ancient, important-looking metal biscuit-tin full of Cadbury’s chocolates -- in sumptuous varieties unknown on our own side of the ocean.  She let me trail her around her lush garden with a tiny watering can, and she allowed me to shell peas more delicious than any pea that had ever before graced my plate.  At Granny’s house, the bathtub had feet and the towels were pre-warmed. At Granny’s house, I was allowed to operate the Lettuce Spinner, and the spinach was magically delicious.  Thus, the opening of the Granny Parcel was imbued with weeks of pent-up anticipation and long-distance adoration.

From amidst the glittering scattering of sweeties in the box, I pulled out a soft Christmas-wrapped item with my name on it.  My name!  Carefully, I unSellotaped it.  The paper fell away to reveal a hand-knit sweater.  Now, normally, clothing was no more thrilling to me than it is to any red-blooded six-year-old.  But this was a special sweater, a sweater made by the marvelous age-spotted hands of Mummy’s own Mummy.  I pressed it to my face.  I inhaled deeply.  “It smells like Granny,” I sighed.

My family’s less-than-positive reaction to this statement took me by surprise.  “Granny doesn’t smell,” snorted my big sister.  My mother, more gently, tried to explain the finer points of scent-related etiquette: namely, that according to the official rules of polite society, no one smells.  Ever.

Except that we all do.  We smell.  Telling me it wasn’t so didn’t make it not so.  Telling Molly the same thing now, as she snugged herself down in a book-and-mama lap-sandwich would only be hand-me-down disingenuousness. 

Officially, sight and sound are the channels by which we humans communicate, educate, and interact with the world.  Sniffing things is deemed animalistic -- and heaven forbid that anyone notice that humans are, in fact, animals.  We try to sidestep our distaste by claiming to have no ability in the realm of aroma-detection.  Granted, we’re not bloodhounds.  But plenty of studies show that humans are far more nose-gifted than we care to admit.  Via t-shirt-sniffing alone, a typical human can easily differentiate her own scent, or her lover’s, or her child’s.

Of course, most people don’t take up shirt-sniffing as a hobby.  Nor are they willing to crawl around with their faces half an inch from the sidewalk or press their noses to their friends in order to prove a point.  Richard Feynman, however, had no such qualms.

As well as being one of the most brilliant physicists of the twentieth century, Feynman enjoyed a plethora of quirky and iconoclastic pastimes.  One of them was smelling.  At parties, he liked to figure out which beer in a six-pack had been touched by whom, using his nose alone.  (I’m never even half that interesting at parties, regardless of what percentage of the six-pack I’ve personally touched).  But he wasn’t really trying to demonstrate that his ability was superlative.  He was trying to show than anyone can do this, if they have the right warp on life, and cheerful disregard for anything approaching “company manners.”

I didn’t start reading Feynman’s popular works – the aptly named “Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman” and “What Do You Care What Other People Think?” until junior high, when he leapt to the spotlight because of his astonishing and damning demonstration, in the wake of the Challenger disaster, with an O-ring and a glass of ice water.  Long before then, in the wake of realizing that ones grandmother is not supposed to have an aroma, I’d tried to take anti-nasal injunctions to heart. 

Like the good little social-rule-learning child that I (mostly) was, I internalized the tenets governing which smells were considered terrible and unmentionable (anything poop-related, for starters).  Oddly, it was ok to mention non-biological odors that were, to me, much yuckier than poop or sweat: gasoline, Windex, oven cleaner, and most perfumes.  At the same time, I didn’t entirely let go of my faith in my sense of smell.  The school milk, back in those days before magically Ultra High Temperature pasteurized dairy products, was sour about 10% of the time.  I got in the habit of sniffing before sipping, and became something of a lunchroom expert in the subtleties between fresh, on the edge, and seriously nasty beverages. 

I also learned that although smell seemed like a big part of the world around me -- filling me with emotions ranging from doctor’s-office-antispetic-trepidation to dry-leaves-soft-hummus-joy-- there was a limited vocabulary to express this richness, and an even more limited context in which to use it.  The Crayola box might offer fifteen words describing different shades of blue, but I had no adjectives to properly describe the mingling pre-dinner scents of slightly burned garlic, bubbling minestrone, and brownies in the oven.  There were no words for the smell of the dampness that precedes springtime, the reek of overheated tar in a July parking lot, or the licked-clean scent of a cat’s fur as she purrs on the bed.

I liked sniffing fruit too.  I still do.  How else can one reliably judge a fine, ripe melon?  A good pear has an aroma to be reckoned with.  Apparently most Americans rely on sight to choose their tomatoes, apples, and oranges, which means that we are offered fruit that are round, shiny, brightly colored, and taste like Styrofoam.

I was secretly thrilled when, in junior high, one of my more radical hippie teachers instructed us to examine soil samples based on not only texture and color but also odor and flavor.  He wants us to eat the dirt!  Everyone expressed overblown horror at the thought, and decided that of course it must be a joke.  A few boys tried it out, with exaggerated bravado.  I tried it out with excited curiosity.  The earth tasted the way it smelled, loamy and complex.  Not good, precisely, but fascinating.

At about this same junior-high age, all my compatriots started to have much more interesting odors, shifting from the warm-skin uncomplicated-sweat milk-and-peanut-butter scents of childhood to the tangy whiff of pheromones and angst.  This was definitely in the do-not-mention category.  My mother bought me deodorant.  I’m sure she didn’t tell me that this was shameful… but I was pretty sure it was shameful.

It was at around this time that I discovered Feynman.  I was fascinated by his writing because I was fascinated by physics, but I found that his take on other aspects of life was equally riveting.  He cracked safes, played the bongo drums, and won a Nobel prize for his work in quantum electrodynamics.  He was, above all, someone who refused to believe something was so simply because that was what everyone else believed.  And, of course, he liked smelling stuff.

I will not, alas, ever make any fabulous discoveries in the field of particle physics, but I can still aspire to be an oddball scientist.  In this spirit, who am I to undermine my kid’s appreciation of one of her fine and subtle senses?   If I loved the smell of Granny when I was a first-grader, who am I to say that mama-scent is icky? 

We have only so much time to soak in all the nuances of our information-laden world, and a scent can be worth a thousand words.  In addition to the mundane usefulness of telling us whether the cantaloupes are as juicy-delicious as we hope they are or warning us away from the bench that is newly painted, odors are deeply emotional and achingly evocative.  They can send our minds whirling back to the mud-puddles of childhood.  They can imbue a sweater with memories of a grandmother a year unseen and an Atlantic Ocean away. They can conjure joy.  And they can whisper to us with poignancy, fondness, tenderness, or frank allure: you are my beloved.  Beauty resides not only in the eye of the beholder, but in her nose as well.

In my lap, my child turned a page of her book.  I pressed my face to the top of her tousled head, and kissed her. I considered good manners and propriety.  Then I unconsidered them.  “I’m glad my Molly smells like Molly,” I told her.



  1. Thank you for this. I still know (and love) exactly how my Grandma smells. Highlight of visits as a child was going in her room to smell Grandpa's bandana drawer. :)

    1. Ha! It's good to know I wasn't the only grandparent-sniffing child. My granny died about 15 years ago. The photo with this piece is, of course, my kids unwrapping hand-knit sweaters from the Christmas package sent by my mom. Mmmmmmm.