Scent and Sensibility

Growing up, I was prone to falling for older men. I was surrounded by three older brothers and their male friends so as a young girl I enjoyed the thrill of chasing them, trying to kiss their ankles before my brothers told me to beat it. My first crush was Davy Crockett, a la the live Disney version. What can I say, I was a worldly, sophisticated four year-old? That coonskin cap...

When I was fifteen, however, I fell hard for two older men. One was a sophomore to my freshman, the other was considerably older but both wore the same intoxicating scent: Tommy Hilfiger's, Tommy.

The sophomore crush came first. We were in a school play together. We played a married couple onstage and joked about orange juice offstage. You know, your standard star-crossed lovers thing. I didn't realize I liked him until the play was over and his absence in my life became palpable. I missed my funny friend. The only tangible thing of our ill-fated (one sided) love was the lingering scent of his pleasant cologne splashed in my memory.

"My first crush was Davy Crockett,"

To escape the painful longing I experienced from the sudden separation (and the fact that he had a girlfriend), like my answers to most problems, I turned to books. One book in particular. That's where I met the other man. He was dark and brooding. He had a tragic past. He was intensely passionate. He was British! The tips of his hair weren't frosted. He was perfect.

Of course, he was older, much older. Roughly a hundred and fifty years older.

You may have heard of him. Mr. Rochester? Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester? Cue Roy Orbison growl.

I have no recollection of how I got my hands on a bottle of Tommy but I did and proceeded to soak my entire copy of Jane Eyre in a dramatic attempt to wallow in my lost love. I was Jane-Mr. Rochester was my bleached blonde, Backstreet Boy singing, sophomore paramour. Whenever I turned a page I got a significant whiff of him. Some might say an overpowering whiff, like my cousin, who I lent my book out to later. The more I read, however, the more Mr. Rochester became the object of my affection. It didn't take long for me to replace my affection and association with the boy who wore Tommy cologne to a fictional, wealthy British landowner from the Victorian era. Teenage love is a fickle thing.

"He was British! The tips of his hair weren't frosted. He was perfect."

Even to do this day, when I revisit Jane Eyre, one of the greatest novels ever written and certainly more than just a love story, I get a ghostly whiff of Tommy. My sense memories still strongly associate the scent with the words found in the book. I certainly don't spritz my Kindle with cologne.

The human senses are exhilarating and influential. My stomach flutters when I hear an early Coldplay song, bringing me back to the time my husband and I were dating. When I smell orange blossoms, I'm transported to my grandmother's backyard at Easter time. Books are no exception.

While clearing out boxes, I recently came across two particular books that shook me in an unexpected way: Doggies by the great Sandra Boynton and The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry, and the Big Hungry Bear by Don and Audrey Wood. These books transported me back to a particular time, to a specific moment of motherhood.

When my children were babies it was not a particularly happy time for me. My twins were fussy, I had postpartum depression and my mother passed away. When my third child was born (all three kids born within two years) my husband left for military training that lasted eight months. My children's early years are one's that I associate with anxiety and loss.

"Even to do this day, when I revisit Jane Eyre, one of the greatest novels ever written and certainly more than just a love story, I get a ghostly whiff of Tommy."

And yet happy feelings found me as I poured over the books. Memories of reading these words to my young ones came flooding back. I could feel my lap full of squishy and squirmy babies. I could almost touch those chubby, soft cheeks against my eager lips. I remembered how reading time was a moment of calm and peace in an otherwise tumultuous day of tantrums and teething. In fact, I read those two books so much because they brought peace to us for a few moments each day.

I have beautiful moments with my young children, even if they are moments. For a woman who wishes her early memories as a mother were happier ones, I'm tremendously grateful to be reminded that.

Just another reason why books are essential to the soul.

Also, my taste for older men eventually waned. I married a non-brooding, non-bleached man who is three months younger than me. I do like it when he wears Tommy though.

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