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By Tom Boggs

The Lord gave us certain senses, and we ought not to take ‘em for granted, and ought to enjoy every sense of the word while we’re down here in the world.

My youngest grandson, Jackson, and I were headed to church quite awhile back, and I just mentioned that his papa had lost my sense of smell.  Without hesitation, that boy informed me, “Well, Papa, that could be good or it could be bad.”  He was right on both counts, but I figure it’s more bad than good on account of how I love to smell fresh perked coffee, or the inside of a new car every six or seven years.  

As boys my brother and I were prone to run in the rain, and that rain had a smell of its own, just like the blazing fireplace in the living room on Christmas morning. I can’t begin to name the different fragrances of Ma’s flower gardens or the scent of most any meal she fixed for her three “boys.”  Talking about cooking, Daddy would get up ahead of Billy and me before a hunt, and he would fix breakfast.  I can smell the burnt toast right now, and in my mind’s ear I can hear him saying, “C’mon, Boys, burnt toast is good for you.”

Join me in this paragraph as we  just get a whiff of early scents from younger days:  Chalk dust in the classroom, smoke from a fire breathing railroad steam engine, vanilla flavoring , sun dried sheets, the smell of a wet dog, bar be que ribs cooking, Mama’s perfume.  (Y’all go ahead, and keep jotting down stuff on the subject.  You’ll enjoy it.)

I can vividly remember the manly odor of our sweaty practice football jerseys, but then my mind shifts to Friday night, and that clean smelling game jersey.  Made you want to go out, and knock somebody’s block off.  Only trouble was the other team also had clean game jerseys, and they also had knocking blocks off on their minds.

I’m looking at a picture in my office of several of us parachuting out of a C130 military aircraft, and I swear I can smell that parachute harness right here and now.  Sorta like a game jersey.  Also reminds me of the camaraderie of military service and a football team.

My outside refrigerator at the farm died a long time ago, and when I discovered it, the freezer full of fish had turned mighty sour, but as I cleaned out that mess, hauled it off to the woods, and washed my cooler, I had to chuckle at what Jackson had told me.  Yep, this was one of the good times of not being able to smell, just like when I happened to see Bear, my yellow lab, pounce on a polecat.  I didn’t have to get a whiff.  I knew what it would have smelled like from earlier days.

You know, I sometimes think I’d like to smell Clorox. Ain’t that funny?  Shucks, I honestly could stand the stench of a polecat, if not too close.

My last paragraph for this week  takes place in Rome, Italy, where several of us got stranded on the way back to the states from a military conference.  I drew a bath in the antique looking hotel tub, and as I got into the tub, my mind raced across the ocean to my little wife, Alice Ann.  Somebody had earlier put “Skin So Soft” in the tub, just like Alice does.  Home right there in my heart on account of my smeller which was working that day.   SNIFF, SNIFF.

Tom Boggs is a columnist for the Demopolis Times and a native of Marengo County. His column, “Days Gone Bye,” appears weekly.

 

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