Olfactory

    In a drugstore recently I found myself in the sunscreen section.  Trying to decide which brand to purchase, which brand offered the best SPF coverage, what is the best SPF, etc. suddenly seemed an overwhelming task.
    First thing I want to mention is that it's amazing the imagery that a simple sniff of suntan lotion can conjure up. Just a tiny whiff of the coconut can instantly produce grainy sand between your toes, transistor radios, and salty air.  And if one is really lucky, one might hear the repetitive crash of the surf, or even the sounds of shrieks of a roller coaster nearby on the boardwalk.
     If your suntan lotion fantasy is lucky enough to include said boardwalk then your memories could be brimming with cliche beach snapshots. That nearby boardwalk represents distant fun, and heady sugary smells that hang in the air like a sweet dense cloud.  The clickety-clack of the roller coaster on the wooden tracks or the piped organ music from some cheap ride can be heard in the air.

   Lost in thought, I suddenly looked down at my watch. Running late,  I put the cap back on the  Hawaiian Tropic lotion and made my way towards the front of the store.

Wonderings. . .

    I can't look at my grandmother's or my great grandmother's silver and wonder not just what this beautiful, delicate piece of silver was used for, but also to imagine who might have held this piece last, and where were they? Or even what was the occasion?
    Lucky enough for me, I have my grandmother's mahogany pedestal table from the Empire period.  I love having a holiday meal at this grand ole regal piece of furniture, and to peer at my own immediate family sitting across from me, and think, "Oh how I wish my grandmother could see me now!"  Or,  "I sure wish she could meet Emma and Max."
   I think she would love that her table made it all the way to California from North Carolina and that it is the best-not too mention most finely made piece of furniture I own.  I think she would be happy that we gather around it, sharing good times, and making memories.
   Now I set the silver down lovingly.  I imagine a bygone time with ice boxes and pie safes.   I think of ice tea, and suppers in the middle of the day, and I smile contently to myself.

Detours

 "Everyone knows exactly what they want to study.  Everyone knows exactly what they want to major in, and even what career they want,"  my son confidently told me.  "I have no idea," he lamented.  "I would just waste your money," he spoke softer now.  My son was explaining why he did not want to go away to school this year. We had spoken passionately about this many times. As usual I knew nothing of his experience. Holy smokes!  My experience was over thirty years ago. My college dilemmas were nothing like his. I knew nothing. Everything now was completely different.
    I searched his face, and knew it was time to take a break. As I quietly closed his bedroom door I padded down the hall and remembered my own senior summer. Lately, my mind had wandered to my own major and concluded that I probably should have been an art major.  I can only imagine what path my life had taken had I followed something I was good at, something I loved, or even something that came easy to me.
    Nooooooo- I was raised in a "Pull yourself up by your bootstraps," mentality.  In my family, my father's mantra was basically,  "One must struggle," "One must be hard on oneself," and of course,  "One must take risks."  These thoughts were somehow ingrained into us.  So, somehow I ended up as a freshman with a major that I guess I enjoyed but  it was also so hard for me.   Combine that major with living far away from home, performing daily, being critiqued consistently by peers and professors- it  simply spelled a recipe that quickly wreaked havoc on my self esteem.
   However, I did survive.  I need to remember that. I smiled slightly at that memory.  And like Dorothy Parker quipped, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger."  My bare feet curled up the carpet at the end of the hallway and I glanced wistfully down the hall at his closed door. I could almost smell the frustration on the other side of that door.  I turned back, headed down the stairs, with the knowledge that my son is destined for his own share of detours.  And that is more than okay.