The Memory Scent
With my Little Butterfly more and more inclined to entertain herself or have friends over for a visit I am no longer in as much demand. I find myself completing my daily chores in less time and though I relish the free time to do as I please there is always this nag in the back of my conscience that there are other chores that need attending to and only get bigger if left any longer. So I decided to be responsible and all grown up and despite the dreary wet weather begin a good old spring clean. So for this week I have been wiping mould and dust off windows and window sills, dusting pictures, clowns and knickknacks, disinfecting bath, basins and toilet, moving the heavy furniture and vacuuming in the places unseen and employing much elbow grease scrubbing from the walls and furniture the etchings of my rather artistic Little Butterfly. I have emptied cleaned and repacked shelves, draws and cupboards and accumulated a number of rubbish bags worth of junk to be dumped. I’m not sure how it is that I even managed to fill one rubbish bag because we’ve only been in our new home for just on six months and I brought no junk with me. But never the less there is again space provided for the next period of junk collecting.
Today I began the next phase of “Operation Spring Clean” in my “office.” Being the spare room it is generally the room where everything that does not have a home yet gets dumped. It is the place where I spend time at my computer writing my blogs and poems, talking to my friends and family scattered haphazardly around this ever shrinking world on “Skype,” “MSN,” “Facebook,” or email. It is where Pierre does his daily regimen of sit ups, leg ups, push up and any other type of ups he can think of. It is Butterfly’s playroom where she scattered her toys in the hopes of tripping me up. It’s a busy room and it’s a mess. Not knowing where to start I opted for my Kist, the lid a gaping hole spilling over with blankets, sheets, table cloths, towels, Butterfly’s old clothes and other things I have collected over the years that hold many precious and old memories for me. So with a sigh of determination and a Butterfly’s willing assistance I began the process of empting and repacking my most precious possession. It sent my mind travelling back in time as I was reminded of so many things. My Kist, passed down to me from the only Gran I had, is inlaid with camphor wood and as old as it is it still gives off the smell of camphor. It is a smell I associate with so many of my memories of Marnie. It is a smell I recall when I wear her eternity ring or the heart pendant I so adore. It is a smell that reminds me of her musical jewellery box she used to let me play with. The smell that transports me back to her flat in Pietermaritzburg and the little shop she owned with my Grandfather and of the rain rattling on the tin roof of her house on a sugar estate in Tongaat. When I smell the camphor wood I can hear her singing or laughing, I remember the stories she used to tell, how she loved her family and been surrounded by young people. But most of all I remember how loved she was, it was impossible not to love her with her wit, her sense of humour and the way she enjoyed living. So there I was tearfully packing the memories of my life back into my favourite memory when I decided to pack it in for the day and spend the rest of the day creating memories with my Little Butterfly.
As I sit here typing I am reminded of another smell that triggers memories for me, the smell of tobacco smoke. My Oupa smoked a pipe for many years and when I remember him I remember that smell like there is someone in the room smoking that same tobacco. I remember sitting on the floor at his feet while he spoke to the grownups and his hand absently played with my hair. I can hear him talking about the war, about his family and his faith. I can feel his beard scratch my face as he would kiss me goodbye or hello, the strength with which he gripped my hand the last time I saw him and I know how much he loved me and all his family.
How blessed I feel as I wipe tears from my eyes yet again, I have a treasure trove of memories packed safely and securely away especially for me. Memories triggered by the pungent smell of tobacco smoke or the fading scent of camphor wood of two of the most precious people in my life whose blood now runs through the veins of my Little Butterfly.
Today I began the next phase of “Operation Spring Clean” in my “office.” Being the spare room it is generally the room where everything that does not have a home yet gets dumped. It is the place where I spend time at my computer writing my blogs and poems, talking to my friends and family scattered haphazardly around this ever shrinking world on “Skype,” “MSN,” “Facebook,” or email. It is where Pierre does his daily regimen of sit ups, leg ups, push up and any other type of ups he can think of. It is Butterfly’s playroom where she scattered her toys in the hopes of tripping me up. It’s a busy room and it’s a mess. Not knowing where to start I opted for my Kist, the lid a gaping hole spilling over with blankets, sheets, table cloths, towels, Butterfly’s old clothes and other things I have collected over the years that hold many precious and old memories for me. So with a sigh of determination and a Butterfly’s willing assistance I began the process of empting and repacking my most precious possession. It sent my mind travelling back in time as I was reminded of so many things. My Kist, passed down to me from the only Gran I had, is inlaid with camphor wood and as old as it is it still gives off the smell of camphor. It is a smell I associate with so many of my memories of Marnie. It is a smell I recall when I wear her eternity ring or the heart pendant I so adore. It is a smell that reminds me of her musical jewellery box she used to let me play with. The smell that transports me back to her flat in Pietermaritzburg and the little shop she owned with my Grandfather and of the rain rattling on the tin roof of her house on a sugar estate in Tongaat. When I smell the camphor wood I can hear her singing or laughing, I remember the stories she used to tell, how she loved her family and been surrounded by young people. But most of all I remember how loved she was, it was impossible not to love her with her wit, her sense of humour and the way she enjoyed living. So there I was tearfully packing the memories of my life back into my favourite memory when I decided to pack it in for the day and spend the rest of the day creating memories with my Little Butterfly.
As I sit here typing I am reminded of another smell that triggers memories for me, the smell of tobacco smoke. My Oupa smoked a pipe for many years and when I remember him I remember that smell like there is someone in the room smoking that same tobacco. I remember sitting on the floor at his feet while he spoke to the grownups and his hand absently played with my hair. I can hear him talking about the war, about his family and his faith. I can feel his beard scratch my face as he would kiss me goodbye or hello, the strength with which he gripped my hand the last time I saw him and I know how much he loved me and all his family.
How blessed I feel as I wipe tears from my eyes yet again, I have a treasure trove of memories packed safely and securely away especially for me. Memories triggered by the pungent smell of tobacco smoke or the fading scent of camphor wood of two of the most precious people in my life whose blood now runs through the veins of my Little Butterfly.
My Tribute to your "Marnie"
ReplyDeleteThe most amazing person to touch my life and leave HUGE footprints that are hard to follow.
What comes to mind when I think of my Aunty Marie is humility, happiness, unconditional love, graciousness and ever caring.
These are just a few wonderful memories she left me. When we were young our Mom and Dad lost their business and from living on a farm we had to move to Durban to a tiny flat. Mom and Dad had to go to work, so during our holidays we were taken care of by Aunty Marie and Uncle Mac. ALL FOUR OF US and sometimes cousins, Tony and Elaine would join us, making it EIGHT kids to spend the most wonderful holidays, filled with lots of laughter and love. At night we would always sit at the dining table, all of us, and be dished up with a healthy plate of food and chat and laugh, then go through to the lounge and sit by the fire and listen to guitars being played and sometimes have sing-a-longs. I always remember as a child wanting Aunty Marie to sing, cause my goodness, did she have the most beautiful voice!!! Us younger kids used to sleep together in a room which resembled a dormitory. This made going to bed such fun and I remember when I was scared (as I often was), going to sleep in between Aunty Marie and Uncle Mac and they would make me laugh. I remember too, Aunty Marie would call me to come and look out for Uncle Mac who used to come home on his horse for lunch. She was truly excited about seeing him and at night she used to make herself look pretty for his homecoming.
In my later years she left me with many happy memories when we were privileged to have her come down to the coast to spend time with us. She was a Mom to me, and a pleasure to have. We always had a "spot" at night and re-lived some of our past experiences, always the happy ones. She made such an impression on me with her ever-caring concerns for everyone else and never indulging in the "poor little old me" syndrome. My children and Peters children and some of my dear friends were very privileged to have had her touch their lives.
I have been truly blessed to have had her in my life and will hold the memories and lessons she left me, with a huge amount of gratitude.