“Scent is the strongest tie to memory.” — Maggie Stiefvater
The other day, I was flipping channels and caught a showing of one of my favorite movies, “Auntie Mame.” It was the 1958 version with Rosalind Russell. I’ve always been a huge fan of Ms. Russel ever since she co-starred with Cary Grant in “His Girl Friday.” Between that and the comic books of Brenda Starr: Girl Reporter that my father bought for me, how could I not wind up writing for a newspaper?
In “Auntie Mame,” Russell plays an eccentric single woman in New York City who finds herself the guardian of her brother’s child. It’s a fantastic movie with fabulous clothes, jewelry, scenery, and furniture. Made in the 1950s, it’s full of mid-century modern everything. Watching it, I noticed something I’d not seen before. In one part of the movie, Russell gifts her housekeeper a bottle of Shalimar, which I now know is the “Montre” or “Watch” style bottle. I recognized it immediately because my mother had a bottle of it on her bureau. Once I was in high school, and going to dances and on dates, she would let me use some of it. That’s when I became a big fan of perfume.
With my first bottle of Chanel No. 5 when I was fifteen, I felt like a grand lady, swooshing around in my Gunne Sax prom dress, smelling good and wobbling on the high heels I insisted on wearing. To this day, the scent of Chanel No. 5 brings me right back to prom night.
That’s how scents work in the brain. Somehow, in all the neurons and brain cells, a scent that we’ve experienced before taps into a memory. Everyone knows that feeling when a particular smell wafts through the air. Sometimes, it brings a specific memory; other times, it’s just a whiff of something familiar but hard to pin down to a time or place.
I also liked a scent called Opium. It was spicy but low-key. They stopped making it for a while but have since re-released it. Sadly, It’s different, somehow. There is a hint of it in my memory, combined with bubble gum and a bit of Old Spice that I think one of my dates wore, but it’s fading. That’s the problem; once they stop making a certain fragrance or it gets redesigned, we can also lose the memories we associate it with.
It’s more than just perfume, though. When I lived above a sub shop in Swampscott, the big fan from their kitchen would blow pizza and steak bomb scents out over my staircase. There were many nights when I just followed my nose and got a slice or a sandwich because nothing I could cook would ever smell and taste as good as the food that was right downstairs.
Even though they don’t have them anymore, Fenway Park’s popcorn funnels had their own unique smell. Not just the buttery popcorn, but the cardboard megaphone-shaped container had its own unique scent that was more than just paper and ink; I’d know it anywhere. The same goes for every time I smell bacon cooking. Even though I cook it in my oven when I make it, I swear there is still a hint of my dad’s cast iron pan, a whiff of the leaky gas stove we had when I was little, and an undefinable smell of the clean, but tattered old dishtowels we’d use as pot holders and to blot off the grease.
These smells always take me back. That new car smell reminds me of the seats in a friend’s truck. It was old, but he kept it shiny and clean. I always know if there is a snowstorm on the way because the air has a metallic smell when snow is coming. It’s hard to explain, but if you know, you know. It differs for everyone, but certain smells take us back. The salt in the air near a beach, the first time the lawn gets mowed after a long winter, and the rubbery smell, when you pump up a bike tire, are all stuck in our brains, and all it takes is a quick waft of scent and the memories come flooding back.
Enjoy them, and let the air around you be filled with the happy times of days gone by.
Brenda Kelley Kim has lived in Marblehead for 50 years and is an author, freelance writer, and mother of three. Her column appears weekly.
